Port City Black and White

by Gerry Boyle

  “What’s going on with that baby?” Shardi said. “The one they can’t find. I saw your name in the paper.”

  “We’re still looking for him.”

  “Well, I know I’m not a cop, but I think somebody stole him.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh yeah. I know these people—I used to take care of the granddad—they’re from the West End. They’re, like, wicked rich, even though they’re practically my age. They paid, like, forty thousand dollars to adopt this little girl from South America. Is Guatemala in South America?”

  “Central America, but close.”

  “Right. So I’m thinking, there must be people out there desperate for a kid who don’t have forty grand. What do they do?”

  “I don’t know,” Brandon said. “What?”

  “Maybe they just take one.”

  “Could be.”

  “I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often,” Shardi said, “the way babies are left lying around.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “’Cause people who are desperate to have a kid, they’re not necessarily in their right minds.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I been thinking about this. All you gotta do is grab the baby and take off. Who knows who anybody is anymore? This guy moved in next door to me and my fiancé. He says he’s from Tennessee or Arkansas or one of those states. Divorced and his kids are grown. But who knows?”

  “I guess you don’t.”

  “I mean, it’s not like you can ask for an ID,” Shardi said. “He could’ve escaped from a penitentiary, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Could be.”

  “So with this little baby here, I’d look for somebody who just picked up and moved out of state.”

  “Not a bad thought.”

  “Not to tell you how to do your business.”

  “No, that’s fine. We’re looking for suggestions.”

  “But how many people around there are leaving? In that neighborhood, I mean. You could investigate that.”

  “Right.”

  “All they gotta do is take the kid someplace where nobody knows them.”

  “You’ve thought about this,” Brandon said.

  “My fiancé and me, we’ve been trying to have a baby.”

  “Really.”

  “We don’t have forty thousand dollars lying around, so we’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”

  “You’re not thinking of stealing one, are you?” Brandon said. He smiled.

  “No, but I gotta say, sometimes it pisses us off, these other people, pumping out kids like rabbits.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And then they don’t even keep track of them. I mean, how do you lose a baby? I’m sorry, but jeez—”

  “I know.”

  “Unless he was stolen.”

  “By someone who doesn’t have forty grand,” Brandon said.

  “Doesn’t really narrow it down, does it?” Shardi said. “I mean, in terms of, what do you call them—suspects?”

  And then Shardi’s phone rang and he was outside, fighting off the urge to call Mia and say, “Nessa’s doing it again.”

  “The guilt thing,” Mia would say, as she had a dozen times.

  “Yup.”

  “It’s understandable.”

  “Yes, it is. She’s responsible for the death of her own daughter, her only child. If it hadn’t been for Nessa putting in the drug money, the boat wouldn’t have sailed, my mom wouldn’t have died, I wouldn’t have been raised by a drunk.”

  “You turned out okay, Brandon.”

  “Dumb luck. Well, anyway. I’ve vented. Now I think I’ll go to work, nail somebody’s ass.”

  “Take a deep breath.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Yes,” Brandon always said. He lied.

  Kat met Brandon in the parking lot before they started their five to midnight shift. The lot was crowded, people shifted from the overnight because of the missing baby.

  “You okay?” Kat said, her eyes searching Brandon’s for clues.

  “Fine.”

  “I mean, you know these people on the Eastern Prom, right?”

  “Yeah. Mia’s a little shook.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re holding it together?”

  “Not a problem.”

  They started walking, both carrying their gear, leather creaking. “I hear the deceased was a hard-core dirtbag,” Kat said.

  “Professional. From New York.”

  “Musta thought Portland, Maine, was full of a bunch of hicks, there for the taking.”

  “Instead he gets popped by a woman who’s into yoga and sushi,” Brandon said.

  “Ha,” Kat said. “How’s the sushi shooter doing?”

  “What you’d expect. Second-guessing the hell out of herself.”

  “Could I have just fired a warning shot? Could I have just run for it?”

  “Right.”

  “World’s a better place without that scumbag,” Kat said.

  “You and I can see that. Hard for Lily.”

  They buzzed themselves inside, started down the corridor. Kat said, “There’s a story up online in the Tribune.”

  “Didn’t see it.”

  “There’s pictures. Lily something-or-other consoled by her friend Mia. You conferring with detectives at the scene.”

  “Great.”

  “How’s the boyfriend?”

  “Winston seems to be handling it better than Lily.”

  “ ’Cause he’s alive,” Kat said. “Not in the trunk of his car out by the interstate, bullet in his head.”

  “If that doesn’t make your day,” Brandon said.

  They were upstairs, hit the squad room. Other cops were getting ready. Dever looked up from the bench, said, “Hey, Blake. Came in off duty just to get your picture in the paper?”

  Brandon didn’t answer.

  “You giving autographs?” Dever called after him as Brandon went out the door, headed for the briefing room, Kat beside him.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I know I’m not supposed to work alone,” Brandon said. He paused.

  “Spit it out, Blake,” Kat said.

  He did: the stop at Granite Street, the Ottos thinking about moving out, Fatima and the shabah, her hearing the baby’s ghost.

  “Gonna come back to bite you, sketching around off duty,” Kat said.

  “Yeah, well . . . kind of hard to just turn it off and on.”

  “It’s a job, Blake.”

  “Right. But aside from that?”

  “These people,” Kat said. “They’re from a completely different culture. It’s like dogs, you know. Dogs can hear frequencies people can’t hear at all. These Africans, the traditional ones, they’re, like, spiritually tuned in to a whole different world.”

  “So you believe in ghosts?”

  “Sure,” Kat said. “Do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  “Nothing I can’t see,” Brandon said.

  Perry gave them the latest on the shooting. They wanted to know who Gayle had seen in Portland, where he’d made the delivery. Perry said to put the word out on the street.

  He paused, the cops fidgeting, picking at radios, pepper spray, Taser guns. They looked up as Chief Garcia walked in, O’Farrell behind him. The cops were still. Garcia, in suit and tie, stood erect, his face stern. He let the silence hang. Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

  “Bottom line, folks: Babies do not just disappear,” Garcia said. “Not in this city. Not on my watch.”

  He paused, looked from face to face. “So he is somewhere. Dead or alive—I want Lincoln Anthony. His smiling face or his remains. I want to know how he left the apartment that night. I want to know who is responsible. And we will put that person or persons in jail.”

  Another pause.

&nb
sp; “I want your A-game, gentlemen and ladies. I want you to put it in a gear you never thought you had.”

  Garcia moved back as O’Farrell stepped forward. He said a detective division task force had been established. He pointed to a stack of paper on the desk, a ream of flyers with a photo of Lincoln. They were to grab some on the way out, distribute them around the city.

  “Blake and Malone, see me before you leave.”

  O’Farrell stood back and the cops got up, chairs scraping. Brandon made his way through to the front, saw O’Farrell leave the room, followed him. Kat followed Brandon. In O’Farrell’s office, they watched as the chief detective flung a clipboard onto his desk. He turned.

  “Blake,” he said. “Tell me about the Eastern Prom shooter.”

  Brandon did: Lily’s regrets, the weight of the whole thing hitting her.

  “No surprise there, though I gotta tell you, lady oughta get a medal. World is a better place without that dog turd in it. She shouldn’t lose a minute of sleep over him.”

  “Sometimes it’s not that easy,” Brandon said.

  “So any indication it didn’t go down the way they said it did?” O’Farrell said, head down as he shuffled papers on his desk.

  “Not really. Not that I can tell.”

  “Fine. We got enough problems.”

  From behind Brandon, Kat nudged him.

  “The baby, sir,” Brandon said, and O’Farrell looked up. Brandon launched in, told him about the Ottos, Fatima, the ghost.

  “They got all kinds of superstitions, these people,” O’Farrell said. “Back in their country, somebody feels some bad juju, they pick up and move the whole goddamn village, goats and all. You hear about the albinos? They kidnap ’em, cut out their organs to make magic potions.”

  “That’s mostly in Tanzania,” Brandon said.

  “We’re not talking about that kind of stuff,” Kat said. “We’re just talking about traditional-belief sort of thing, the spirit world.”

  “Hard enough dealing with liars,” O’Farrell said. “Now we’re supposed to listen to people who hear ghosts.”

  He picked up the phone—their dismissal. Kat turned to leave. Brandon started to follow her, then turned back.

  “I talked to someone today who had a theory,” he said.

  O’Farrell was still holding the phone, ready to dial.

  “Who doesn’t?” he said.

  Brandon told them what the woman at the nursing home had said.

  “So the Sudanese people,” O’Farrell said. “We see if they have Lincoln, trying to pass him off as an African.”

  “Or we see if the biker dude has a sudden influx of cash,” Kat said.

  “Like what? He put an ad on Craigslist?” O’Farrell said. “One kid, slightly used. Raised by a crackhead.”

  “The child has value,” Brandon said. “This woman was right about that.”

  “The dad,” O’Farrell said. “He hired somebody to grab him. Only thing that makes sense.”

  “He seemed pretty truthful when we had him in the car,” Kat said.

  “Operative word, seemed,” O’Farrell said. “Detectives are gonna hammer the players a few more times. Pass out the flyers, guys. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  They did, all over Parkside: Granite, Sherman, Cumberland.

  They handed out flyers with Lincoln’s photo to everyone they saw, people staring at it, saying, “So that’s the baby, the one that’s gone.”

  They stapled the flyers to poles, a few trees, the wall outside the Granite Street community center. They talked to old people, college kids, junkies, prostitutes, a guy in a Yankees hat who asked if there was a reward.

  “Yeah,” Brandon said. “You get to be a decent person.”

  And then they were back on Granite Street, in front of 317, sitting in the cruiser, drawn like moths to a light.

  “What now?” Kat said.

  Brandon shut off the motor and they got out. “I want to hear the ghost,” he said.

  He led the way. There were lights on in the first-floor apartment, TV glowing in the first-floor flat, lights on at Ottos’. Chantelle’s windows were cold and dark.

  Kat went first up the stairs, thinking it would be better for a woman to knock at the door. They stopped at the Ottos’ apartment, stood in the hallway. Listened.

  They heard hip-hop music. Soft voices. A motorcycle passed and then it was quiet. Kat knocked.

  After a minute there were footsteps. They waited. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. Kat said, “Mr. and Mrs. Otto? Fatima? Samir?”

  But it was Edgard who opened the door three inches, said, “Yo, my father’s working. Come back in the morning.”

  “Is Fatima here, Edgard?” Brandon said. “We just need to talk to her for a minute.”

  Edgard turned his head and Kat pushed the door open.

  “Hey, you can’t just walk in here, not without no warrant,” Edgard said.

  “Just here to talk,” Kat said, and stepped in, Brandon behind her. To their left was a couch. Fatima was curled up on it, feet tucked under a blanket, sweatshirt hood pulled up.

  “Fatima,” Kat said. “We need to hear the spirit. The shabah.”

  Fatima turned to the wall, shook her head.

  “She’s kinda freaked out,” Edgard said.

  “Did you hear the spirit tonight?” Brandon said.

  She nodded.

  “Where, honey?” Kat said.

  A motion of the head, toward her bedroom.

  “Please, can we just check it?” Kat said.

  No answer, taken for a yes. They crossed the room, Edgard behind them. Kat opened the door and they stepped into the dim light. There were futon mattresses on the floor. Brandon closed the door, Edgard on the other side.

  “You ever hear it?” Brandon said.

  “Shit, no,” Edgard said.

  They waited.

  “Maybe it’ll come if it knows we’re here,” Kat said.

  They stood. On the other side of the door, Edgard coughed. They heard another voice, Samir, saying “Whassup?”

  “Five-Oh,” Edgard said. “Looking for Fatima’s shabah.”

  “You kidding me?” Samir said.

  And then it was quiet again. They listened. The room smelled of musky perfume. Brandon was thinking of the trade routes through North Africa, from the Red Sea into Sudan, Egypt, Tunisia, Morocco, across to Spain. It was spices and perfume, and—

  They heard it. So faint they thought they might have imagined it. Then again.

  A baby crying.

  “Holy crap,” Kat said.

  “It’s downstairs,” Brandon said.

  They turned, yanked the door open, strode past Edgard and Samir, Fatima, still on the couch.

  “We heard it,” Kat said, and then they were out the door, down the stairs, outside into the driveway. They turned, looked at the house.

  “I’ll take the biker,” Kat said.

  “I’ll take the ladies,” Brandon said.

  They rapped on both doors. There were lights on in the Youngs’ apartment, a dim glow in Cawley’s. They rapped again. Brandon said, “Police.” Kat said, “Portland PD.”

  The Youngs’ door opened a crack and Annie Young peered out. Brandon saw the neckline of a bright blue bathrobe, a flowered flannel nightgown.

  “Miss Young,” Brandon said. “Brandon Blake, Portland PD. May I come in and talk to you and your mother?”

  “But it’s late,” Annie Young said. “We’re not dressed.”

  Dressed enough, Brandon thought. He said, “It will only take a few minutes.”

  The door closed. Brandon heard her shuffling away, then talking. Getting her mother’s permission?

  He’d raised his hand to knock again when the shuffling came back his way. He stopped and the door swung open. Annie Young stood there in matching slippers. “Mother’s in her chair,” she said, and she turned and walked into the apartment.

  Brandon followed. And heard it again.
r />   A baby crying.

  He strode after her, saw Mrs. Young from the hallway, sitting in her chair, her bathrobe and nightgown a rosy pink.

  “Mama, it’s Officer Blake. You remember him. From the problem upstairs?”

  The baby cried. Brandon turned. Saw the baby—on the television.

  It was sitting on the lap of a tired-looking mother dressed in ragged clothes. The mother was sitting on the steps of a shack.

  “Grapes of Wrath,” Annie said. “It’s one of Mama’s favorites.”

  Mrs. Young turned to Brandon.

  “They find the child?”

  “No,” Brandon said. “Not yet.”

  “Probably better off, if they’re going to give him back to that drug addict.”

  Brandon looked at Annie. She put a finger to her lips, shook her head.

  “Mrs. Young,” Brandon said. “Have you watched this movie before?”

  “I got it on Netflix,” Annie said. “We can keep it as long as we want.”

  “So you’ve watched it more than once?”

  “Better than the smut they have on television now,” Mrs. Young said. “Don’t dare to turn the thing on after eight o’clock. Except the Red Sox. My husband and I used to watch the Sox. For him it was the Sox and his ham radio. Didn’t see the fun in that, buncha strangers jabbering away about the weather in Iceland or some dreary place.”

  “The movie,” Brandon said.

  “Yes.”

  “You watch it late at night?” Brandon said.

  The baby cried. The weathered mother turned away from the camera and held it to her breast.

  “Most nights, lately,” Annie said. “Mama’s been congested. Makes it hard for her to sleep.”

  “The baby cries a lot on there?” Brandon said.

  “He’s hungry,” Mrs. Young said. “They were poor.”

  Brandon took a last glance at the room, the television against the wall directly under Fatima’s bedroom. The shabah had been part of the cast, along with Henry Fonda.

  Annie followed Brandon out, her slippers shuffling.

  “I haven’t told her about Chantelle,” she said. “She seemed almost cheerful today. I didn’t want to spoil it.”

  “She doesn’t watch the news?”

  “Not lately. She says it’s depressing.”

  “Ignorance is bliss,” Brandon said.

  “She’s eighty-three years old. I think she’s entitled.”