The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  I almost shouted. “Then this is an FBI matter!”

  “Michael,” Rafe said, calmly, smoothly, brushing the air with a gentle hand as if stroking an unruly pet, “it isn’t kidnapping when a natural parent takes a child along when they take off.”

  “This is a case of child abuse, Rafe. Possibly sexual abuse!”

  “I understand that,” Rafe said, his voice tightly patient, “but Louise Evans never filed charges of any kind against her husband, before or after he ran off. Nor has she filed for divorce.”

  “Goddamnit. So what does that leave her with?”

  “You,” Rafe said.

  * * *

  —

  As if I were dealing a hand of cards, I tossed a photo of rugged, weak-jawed Joe Evans onto the conference-room table; then a photo of blond little Maggie, her mother’s cute clone; then another of the family together, in what seemed happier times, unless you looked close and saw the strain in the faces of both adults.

  “Sweet looking child,” Dan Green said, softly, prayerfully.

  Dan, not yet thirty, was the younger of my two partners, a blond, mustached, good-looking kid whose regular features were slightly scarred from a fire an arsonist left him to die in. He’d lost an eye in that fire, too, and a hand; a glass eye and a hook took their place.

  “Right now,” I said, “she’s very likely enduring hell on earth.”

  “Sexual abuse at any age is a tragedy,” Roger Freemont said, taking Maggie’s photo from Dan. His deep voice was hollow. “At this age, no word covers it.”

  Roger, balding, bespectacled, with a fullback’s shoulders, was the rock of Tree Investigations, Inc. He’d been my husband’s partner in the business; like Rafe Valer, Roger had worked with Mike in the Detective Bureau.

  “I accepted a retainer of fifty dollars from Louise Evans,” I said.

  The two men gave me quick, searching looks, then shrugged and gave their attention back to the photos spread before them.

  “Of course I did that for the sake of her self-respect,” I said. “She works at a White Castle. She had two hundred bucks she’d saved and wanted to give it all to me.”

  “Fifty bucks will cover it,” Roger said.

  “Easily,” Dan said. “So—where do we start?”

  “They’ve been gone five months,” Roger said, “and that’s in our favor.”

  “Why?” Dan asked.

  Roger shrugged. “He’s settled in to his new life. Enough time has passed for him to think he’s gotten away with something. So he gets careless. Enough time has passed for him to start seriously missing family and friends. So he makes phone calls. Writes letters.”

  Dan was drinking this in.

  “Evans has a big family,” I said, referring to my notes from several conversations with Louise. “They’re a tight-knit working-class bunch. Two brothers and three sisters, all grown adults like Joey. One brother and two of the sisters live in the area—Hammond, Gary, South Chicago. Another brother lives in Dallas.”

  “That sounds like a good bet,” Dan said. “I bet Joey’s deep in the heart of you-know-where.”

  “Maybe. He also has a sister in Davenport, Iowa.”

  Roger perked up. “What is that? A three-hour drive?”

  “Around,” I said.

  “Close to home,” Roger said, eyes narrowing, “but far enough away.”

  “Where do we start?” Dan asked.

  “You’re going to go by the book, Dan. And Roger—you aren’t.”

  Dan said, “Huh?” while Roger only nodded.

  I assigned Dan to check up on Evans’s last place of employment—the steel mill—to see if Evans used the place as a reference for a new job; ditto Evans’s union—that union card would be necessary for Evans to get a similar job elsewhere.

  “If Evans wanted to drop out,” Dan said, “he wouldn’t have used the mill as a reference, or maintained his union card…”

  “Right,” I said. “But we can’t assume that. He may not be using an assumed name. Maybe he’s still living as Joe Evans, just somewhere else. Also, Dan I want you to go over Louise Evans’s phone bills for the six months prior to her husband leaving. Find out what, if any, out-of-town calls he was making.”

  Dan nodded.

  “Any credit card trail?” Roger asked.

  I shook my head no. “The only credit card the Evanses had was an oil company card, and Louise received no bills incurred by her husband after he took off.”

  “Any medical problems, for either the father or child?” Roger asked.

  “No.”

  “Damn,” Roger said.

  “Why ‘damn’?” Dan asked him.

  “Prescription medicine would give us a trail,” Roger said. “And we could check the hospitals and clinics in areas where we suspect they might be staying.”

  “They’re both in fine health,” I said. “Except, of course, for whatever physical and mental traumas the son of a bitch is inflicting on that child.”

  The two men shook their heads glumly.

  “Roger,” I said, “you talk to Evans’s family members—his father’s deceased, but mother’s still alive. She may be the best bet. Anyway, after you’ve talked to them all, keep ma under surveillance. Go through all their trash, of course—phone bills, letters.”

  Roger nodded, smiled a little. This was old hat to him, but Dan was learning.

  “Better cook up some jive cover story, for when you talk to the family,” Dan advised him. “Don’t tell them you’re a detective.”

  Roger smirked at him. But he let him down easy: “Good idea, kid.” There was no sarcasm in his voice; he liked Dan. “I’ll tell ’em I’m trying to track Joey down for a credit union refund. They’ll want to help him get his money.”

  Dan grinned. “I like that.”

  “Make it fifty-dollar refund check,” I said.

  “I like that figure, too,” Roger said.

  Dan made it unanimous.

  * * *

  —

  Three days later, we had something.

  It hadn’t come from Dan, not much of it anyway. The by-the-book route had only confirmed what Missing Persons found: one day, Joe Evans quit and took off, abandoning if not quite burning all his bridges behind him. His boss at the steel mill had not been called upon for a reference, nor had his union card been kept active. And his friends at the mill claimed not to have heard from him.

  “None of his pals saw it coming,” Dan said. “Or so they say.”

  “What about the phone records Louise provided?”

  Dan checked his notes. “Joey talked to both his brother in Dallas and his sister in Davenport, a number of times in the six months prior to his disappearance. They’re a close family.”

  “Which sibling got the most attention? Texas or Iowa?”

  “Iowa. That’s where little sister is. Agnes, her name is. He must’ve called her twenty times in those six months.”

  Roger fleshed out the picture.

  “They’re a close family, all right,” he said. “Even when a business-like stranger comes around with fifty bucks for their brother, they clam up. Nobody wanted the refund check except the gal in charge—Loretta Evans, the matriarch, a tough old cookie who could put the battle in battleaxe. Come to think of it, she could put the axe in, too.”

  “She took the check?”

  “She did. And she mailed it out the same day. I saw her do it. Speaking of mail, I checked trashcans all over Indiana, feels like. I got to know the Evanses better than the Evanses know the Evanses. I could save ’em some money.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They should share a copy of the National Enquirer. Just pass one around, instead of all picking it up.”

  “Speaking of inquiring minds, what did yours find out?”

  �
�Exactly what it wanted to know,” Roger said. “The family seems close in general, but in particular, they seem to want to keep in touch with Agnes.”

  “Joe’s sister.”

  “His baby sister. She’s only twenty-two. Anyway, they been calling her a lot. All of ’em.”

  “Interesting.”

  “There’s also a bar in Davenport, called Bill’s Golden Nugget, where they call from time to time. Maybe she works there.”

  “It’s a lead, anyway,” I said. “Damn—I wish I knew where that letter Loretta Evans mailed went to.”

  “It went to Agnes,” Roger said. He was smiling smugly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I waited around on the corner where she mailed it till a postman came around to empty the box and told him I slipped an important letter in that I thought I forgot to put a stamp on. I had a hysterical expression on my face and a stamp ready in my hand, and the bastard took pity on me and let me sort through looking for my letter.”

  “And you found one addressed to Agnes Evans.”

  “Sure.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Left it right there,” he said. “You don’t think I’d tamper with the U.S. mail do you?”

  * * *

  —

  A foul, pungent odor from Oscar Mayer permeated the working-class neighborhood the massive plant bordered; but nobody seemed to notice, on this sunny June afternoon, or anyway care. Ragamuffin kids played in the streets and on the sidewalks, wearing dirt-smudged cheeks that knew no era, and housewives hung wash on lines strung across porches, apparently enjoying a breeze that to me only emphasized the slaughterhouse stench.

  The address I had for Agnes Evans was 714½ Wundrum; it turned out to be a paint-peeling clapboard duplex in the middle of a crowded block.

  My Buick was dirty enough to be at home in the neighborhood, and in my plaid shirt, tied into a halter top, and snug blue jeans, I fit in, too. I felt pretty much at home, actually; with a cop for a father, I had grown up in neighborhoods only a small step up from this—minus the slaughterhouse scent, thankfully.

  I knocked at 714½ and then knocked again. The door opened cautiously and a round-faced woman in her early twenties peeked out at me. She had permed dishwater-blond hair, suspicious eyes, and her brother’s weak jaw.

  “Yeah?”

  Pleasant, not at all pushy, I said, “I’m looking for Doris Wannamaker.”

  “No Doris anybody here,” Agnes Evans said. She eased the door open somewhat; not all the way, but I could get a better look at her. She wore tight jeans with fashion-statement holes in the knees and a blue tee-shirt with “QUAD CITIES USA” in flowing white letters. She was slim, attractive and wore no make-up.

  I said, “Isn’t this 714½?”

  “Yeah.” I could hear a TV inside; a cartoon show.

  “Wundrum Street?”

  “That’s right.”

  I sighed. “She’s gone, huh. I guess that’s the way it goes these days. Wonder how much I missed her by.”

  “I lived here six months,” she said. “I don’t know who lived here before me.”

  I shrugged, smiled. “We was in beauty school together, Doris and me. I was just passing through town and wanted to surprise her. Sorry to bother.”

  Agnes Evans finally smiled. It was an attractive smile. “I went to beauty school. At Regent.”

  Of course, I’d known that.

  I said, “I went to the University of Beauty Science in Cedar Falls.”

  “Supposed to be a good school,” Agnes allowed. “I graduated, Regent. I didn’t keep my certificate up, though.”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  The door was open wider. I could see the little girl, wearing a red tee-shirt and underpants, sitting like an Indian in front of the TV, watching Tom bash Jerry with a skillet.

  “Sure sorry I bothered you,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  “Look, uh…is there any chance I could use your phone? I want to try to catch my boyfriend at the motel, before he goes out.”

  “Well…”

  “I thought I was going to have the afternoon filled with seeing Doris and talking old times, but now…could I impose?”

  She shrugged, smiled tightly, but opened the screen and said, “Come on in.”

  The house was neat as a pin; neater. The furniture was the kind you rented to own, but it was maintained as if owning it was the plan. The TV was a big portable on a stand, and there was a Holiday Inn–type landscape over the plastic-covered sofa. A window air-conditioner chugged and the place was almost chilly, and the smell of whatever-goes-into-weenies wasn’t making it inside.

  “Hi, honey,” I said, stopping near the little girl.

  She didn’t look up at me; she was watching Jerry hit Tom with a toaster. “Hi,” she said.

  Maggie looked older than her picture, but not much. A little child with almost white blonde hair, and a lot of it, a frizzy frame around a cameo face that was blank with TV concentration.

  I pretended to use the phone in the kitchen—which was tidy and smelled of macaroni and cheese—while Agnes stood with her arms folded and studied me as she smoked a cigarette. She was still just a little suspicious.

  “I’ll see you later, then,” I told the dial tone, and hung up and smiled at Agnes and shrugged. “Men,” I said.

  She smirked and blew smoke and nodded in mutual understanding.

  As I walked out, she followed. I said, “So you’re not in hair anymore?”

  “No. My boyfriend Billy runs a bar. I work there most evenings.”

  “Really? Who looks after your little girl?”

  “That’s not my little girl. Cindy is, uh, a friend of mine’s kid. I look after her, days.”

  “Sweet little girl,” I said.

  “She’s a honey,” Agnes said.

  I left them there, in the neat house in the foul-smelling neighborhood. I wasn’t worried about leaving Maggie in Agnes’s care. It was someone else’s care I was worried about.

  The someone who was with Maggie, nights.

  * * *

  —

  Bill’s Golden Nugget was a country-western bar on Harrison, a one-way whose glory days—at least along this saloon-choked stretch—were long gone. I parked on a side street, in front of a natural-food co-op inhabited by hippies who hadn’t noticed the sixties were over. The Nugget was between a pawn shop and a heavy-metal bar.

  It was mid-afternoon and the long, narrow saloon was sparsely populated—a few out-of-work blue-collar urban cowboys were playing pool; a would-be biker played the Elvira pinball machine; a couple of guys in jeans and workshirts were at the bar, having an argument about baseball. Just enough patrons to keep the air smoky and stale. A Johnny Paycheck song worked at blowing out the jukebox speakers. The room’s sole lighting seemed to be the neon and/or lit-up plastic signs which bore images of beer, Marlboro men, and Sports Illustrated swimsuit models, none of which had the slightest thing to do with the Nugget. Except for the beer.

  A heavy-set, bearded, balding blond man in his late twenties was behind the bar. He wore a plaid shirt that clashed with mine and red suspenders that clashed with his. I heard somebody call him Bill.

  He seemed pleasant enough, but he was watching me warily; I was new, and maybe I was a hooker.

  I took a stool.

  “What’ll it be, sweet thing?” he said. There was nothing menacing about it. Not even anything condescending. But he was eyeing me carefully. Just a good on-top-of-it bar owner who was probably his own bouncer.

  “What have you got on tap that I’d like, big guy?”

  “Coors,” he said, and it was sort of a question.

  “You kidding, Bill? Drinking that stuff is like makin’ love in a boat.”

  “Huh?”
>
  “Fucking close to water,” I said, and I grinned at him. He liked that.

  “I also got Bud,” he said.

  “Bodacious,” I said.

  He went away smiling, convinced I was not a hooker, just available. Even a guy with a good-looking girl like Agnes at home has his weaknesses.

  I milked the Bud for fifteen minutes, tapping my toes to the country music, some of which was pretty good. That Carlene Carter could sing. Nobody hit on me, not even Bill, and that was fine. I just wanted to fit in.

  There was a room in back that was at least as big as the front, with tables and a dance floor and a stage for a band and a second bar; it wasn’t in use right now, but some beer-ad lighting was on and somebody was back there working, loading in boxes of booze or whatever, through the alley door.

  When the guy finished, he came up front; he was in a White Sox sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves and blue jeans. He was a brawny character, maybe twenty-five, good looking except for a weak chin.

  He was Joey Evans.

  I had a second Bud and eavesdropped as Evans—whose voice was high-pitched and husky, not suited to his rather brutish build—asked if he could take a break.

  “Sure, Freddy,” Bill said. “Take five, but then I need you with me behind the bar. It’s damn near happy hour, kid.”

  Freddy/Joey went behind the bar and got himself a can of Diet Coke. He went to a table, away from any patrons, and sat quietly sipping.

  I went over to him. “You look like you could use some company. Hard day?”

  “Hard enough,” he said. He took my figure in, trying to be subtle; it was about as successful as McGovern’s run at the Presidency.

  “Have a seat,” he said, and stood, and pushed out a chair.

  I sat. “Hope you don’t mind my being so forward. I’m Becky Lewis.” I stuck out my hand. We shook; his grip was gentle. Right.

  “You’re from Chicago, aren’t you, Becky?” he said. He smiled boyishly; his eyes were light faded blue, like stonewashed denims.

  I was supposed to be the detective. “How did you gather that?”