by A. J. Lape
Even Vinnie found that odd. He cocked his head to one side, calling her beautiful again, thinking if compliments worked once, they’d work again. Like before, she gave him another robotic, empty smile. My guess was she was overworked and underpaid.
The knot in my stomach reminded me I should be home, so I blurted out, “We’re here to see the dumpster my brother,” I sort of coughed, “was found in. Can you take me to it?”
I cringed. Who in their right mind would ask to see a dumpster?
Dixie halfway nodded then the switchboard went Christmas tree again. Suddenly, the inside voices were broadcast over the speaker system in the waiting area. Dixie, I could only assume, accidentally hit an intercom button. When she turned to speak to the uniforms standing behind her, I ducked my head, digging around in my purse. I couldn’t look anyone in the face, fearing they could X-ray my intentions.
“Billingsley is bringing in Kinsley,” she said. “Usual charge, OVI.”
There was a, “What else is new?” from the crowd.
She clicked another line. “H.R. Ratner is on line two.” Peeking up, I saw one of the male uniforms go for a phone. “He wants to put a restraining order out on his wife for domestic violence,” she added.
The uniform chuckled, “What’d she do?”
“She stun gunned him when she found naked pictures of his girlfriend on his phone.”
“That’ll do it,” Vinnie whispered.
When the uniform disconnected, he looked at the three others near him. Two males, one female. “Boe, see what’s up with the Ratners. Ginger, take Harlan and look for the Small brothers. Vance Unger called earlier and said they were truant again today.”
Vinnie and I simultaneously turned our heads—him up, me down—trying to act nonchalant in the process. It was Oscar and Frank...had to be. That might mean something. What, I had no idea, but that was a piece of information I filed away for future use.
“The pickers?” the female uniform asked.
“Yes,” he answered her. “My guess is they had a big night and are sifting through the booty.” Garbage pickup on my street was Mondays. It was reasonable to believe Oscar and Frank visited other streets on different nights.
Before the officers went out a back entrance, the one who appeared to be the highest ranking pitched Dixie a set of keys, his expression serious. “For your hands only, Dixie. I’m going to catalogue when I get back, but right now I have to take one of the calls since we’re shorthanded.”
Evidence Room keys??
After two more calls, I felt like I was spinning my wheels in the snow. When Dixie re-cradled the receiver, I said, “Can you—”
All at once, it sounded like a killer bee attack was underway amidst the group of people filing the missing person’s report. Two of the men had their hands around one another’s throats, squeezing and rolling around on the tile. The officer nearest hurriedly went for his cuffs, while the one behind the glass “buzzed” himself out with a stun gun already drawn. I quickly deducted the man doing most of the squeezing was stuck with the late fees on the bounced checks—the husband.
It was like a car crash. You felt like you shouldn’t watch, but your morbid sense of curiosity couldn’t help itself. Blood was pouring out of one of their mouths, a handful of black hair was nearby on the floor, and somehow the cop with the cuffs had been knocked unconscious.
The majority of those waiting tried to assist the other officer, but next thing you knew, two men arguing over whose-dog-pooped-where went UFC with the biggest throwing the other through the front plate glass window.
When some pepper spray hit the atmosphere, Dixie jumped up from her desk like she alone was the EMT on duty.
In the process, she forgot altogether that Vinnie and I even existed.
And even better, the door she came out of was ajar just begging to be entered. Call me the Queen of Rationalization, but I decided to take that as opportunity knocking.
While all hell was breaking loose, I dragged Vinnie inside. The ring of keys was by the telephone. I snatched it up and hurriedly continued down the narrow corridor along the right side of the building. There was an empty office to our left, a closed door to our right then up in front at about ten feet was a room clearly marked “Evidence.” An Evidence Room is where things are stored and catalogued per each specific crime. When a detective needs something, it has to be “checked out” with a signature.
All I could think was jackpot. It didn’t get any better than this.
Except I heard a rustling in the closed office…
A look back at the nameplate on the door said “Chief of Police” in big, gold letters. My word, was he inside? I breathed deep and began to sweat. Chief Robert T. Lynch was the last person I’d ever want to meet—well, considering which side of the law I was currently operating under. He played no games, was cunning and ruthless in his hunting down of hardened criminals. He even made national news for sending “Pay in 60 days” invoices to the Mexican government and other countries for the illegal US citizens or criminal aliens he was housing in the Valley Jail. It was a bill to cover the costs related to seizing their drugs and the man-hours used in those investigations.
Putting my ear to the door, I heard nothing. Maybe it was the wind, I told myself, because a part of me knew instinctively he wasn’t in the building. Otherwise, he would’ve sniffed me out and had me hogtied and shoved in the nearest cell. I pushed that thought aside along with the urge to cut and run. This was one of those gray areas. I didn’t mind breaking rules if it were for a good cause, and if I didn’t act now, whatever opportunity I had would be dead in the water.
Vinnie touched me on the shoulder looking as though he were about to barf. Thing was, so was I. He’d either passed gas or his intestines perforated and were leaking through his skin. “Things like this give me hives, Dolce. I’ll just stand watch.” I gave him the A-okay to do whatever he wanted.
I walked forward a few steps and jiggled the doorknob. There were two keys. Choosing the silver one, I swallowed the lump in my throat when it slid in with no resistance. Jeez, Louise, it was like I’d stepped into one of those revolving doors. It was a duplicate scenario of the reception area up front—thankfully, with no one manning the station. Behind it was another door I could only assume was the actual Evidence Room.
Stepping around the desk, I slid the other key into the doorknob and slowly pushed the door wide. This specific area was 30x30 and utilitarian. Rectangular tables lined the walls, and shelf after shelf of numbered cardboard boxes were atop them. Dangling from the ceiling was a light bright enough to light up New York City. Sure enough, in the middle of the room was the dumpster. It had been brought in through a back entrance that resembled a garage door.
When I got a load of the smell, I nearly fainted; it was atrocious. I seriously considered placing my head between my knees but was afraid gravity would keep pulling me down. Wasting no time, I eased up to it and saw that it had been cleared. Out to its left side were its contents, numbered and tagged with the name of the establishment they’d come from.
Cardboard boxes were labeled to private individuals, a bucket of brown ooze and rice boxes said El Rancho Grande, about twenty magazines were from Amity Health Care, yogurt cups and Jett’s pizza boxes were marked accordingly, and a vinegar jug was tagged as “unidentifiable.” Then there was a dead rat carcass, a set of car keys, a shirt that looked too small for the victim, a gaudy gold man’s ring, a scrap of red fabric, and newspapers. This didn’t seem like incriminating information. So what could I extrapolate?
Nada.
I pulled my iPhone out and snapped a few pictures of the contents anyway then turned and bumped the leg on one of the rectangle tables. On it was someone’s lunch—half a turkey sandwich on wheat and a cup of steaming, chicken noodle soup from Panera. Steaming, I thought. That meant someone was on the way back soon.
No sooner was that thought formed in my delinquent brain than the garage door rose, and I was staring into the fac
e of someone who looked like he’d slept in his clothes. His black hair was messy and damp, sticking to his forehead. His wire-rimmed glasses were angled to the right, housing brown eyes that looked half asleep. His white polo was untucked with a coffee stain over his heart, and his jeans (well, I think they were jeans) were so faded that the right knee was almost white.
“Why are you in here?” Crooked Glasses barked suspiciously.
Oh the crappery I stepped into. Momentarily, I was shell-shocked, and when I parted my lips to speak, all that came out was a nervous cackle. This was one of those times conventional wisdom told you to fess up. Self-preservation, however, told you to stall.
When I stood there like an idiot, Crooked Glasses frowned, casually walking forward and placing his car keys by the soup. He slowly picked up his sandwich and carefully took a bite off one corner—like he was dissecting each portion—pondering who I was (I assume) and what he was going to do about it.
This was it.
The end. Finis. Coda. Kaput.
As the color drained from my face, he finally pushed, “I’m going to need a name,” then he narrowed his eyes, “...and a reason.”
I wasn’t sure what protocol was here. If I lied and they searched for identification, I wasn’t sure what would happen if they discovered I was Darcy Walker, especially when Dixie thought I was Jester Juarez. I could say I was looking for my aunt, I guess. She was the Assistant Hamilton County Prosecutor of nearby Hamilton County (technically “former” prosecutor, but I was hoping they hadn’t kept up with her recent resignation). I sometimes dropped her name when I was in deep trouble. Sure, she’d have my back—well, I think she would—but there’d be heck to pay afterward.
I chose your standard line, shrugging like a dumb blonde. “I got lost on my way to the restroom.” Jeez, how cheesy. Especially since there was one in the waiting room. “Big case, huh?” I said, motioning to the dumpster.
His eyes burned like a laser beam on high heat. “What’s your name?”
More teeth, Walker. More teeth, more teeth, more teeth.
My best bet, I knew, was to redirect his thinking. Glancing down at his hand, I noticed he was wearing a gold wedding band. A quick look back to his sandwich showed him in a photograph with a smiling African American son and daughter, but it was the son that nearly floored me. It looked like Jinx King. Short of picking up the photograph to know for sure, I all but passed out on the spot. Jinx was related to this case every which way I turned, and more and more, someone would have to convince me otherwise it wasn’t him that called me the other night. I mean, who else even had motive? Did his father drop my name at dinner as the one that discovered the body? Would his father even have information like that?
Crooked Glasses had no sort of identification on his person, and truth of the matter, he probably lost it if it was considered a small detail in his day. The only way to discern for sure if he was related to Jinx was to point-blank ask him.
Extending my hand, I smiled, “Nice to meet you,” still not giving my name.
He shook my hand, a little harder than necessary and muttered, “King. I’m Harold King.” Then he started talking to himself, running a hand through his hair, reminding himself of everything he had to do today.
How easy that was, I thought wondering.
And interesting...Jinx King’s father??
But Harold wasn’t as absentminded professor as I thought he was. Right when I decided to cut my losses and back out of the room, he snarled again, “I’m going to need your name.”
It’s like someone cut my tongue out.
Right then, the door blasted wide as though it had been hit with two tons worth of explosives. Vinnie. Vinnie talking on a walkie-talkie, all business. Here’s the thing about Vinnie. He might have the pre-game jitters, so to say, but was nothing but money when it counted. Somewhere along the way he’d acquired a cap that said “Guido,” a tool belt dangling from his waist, a navy shirt unbuttoned acting as a jacket over his t-shirt, and a clipboard stuffed with papers. He looked like maintenance of some kind. Walking forward, he clicked off his walkie-talkie and gave Mr. King a business card.
“Guido. Guido Galucci.” Vinnie didn’t even sound like himself. His voice was flatter—more neutral. Before it was deep with a hint of flirtation. Now, it was just one-of-the-boys who sucked on a cigarette out back. Vinnie started scribbling things on his clipboard, ripping out a pink sheet of paper that was a customer copy. Mr. King scratched his head, looking back at the dumpster. While his back was turned, Vinnie gave me a tsk-tsk smirk that was nothing short of a you-owe-me.
I decided to smack him later.
Mr. King swiveled back around, throwing the card onto his desk. “I know who you are, Guido,” he exhaled. “I haven’t seen you around in a while. How’s it going?”
Say what?? This felt like the Twilight Zone, but I just went with the flow.
“The wife and kids are keeping me busy,” Vinnie explained.
“Don’t I know it,” Mr. King said to himself. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here for my dumpster.”
Mr. King lost the good humor, taking a big bite out of his sandwich. “Listen, Guido. I’m working 70-hour weeks trying to keep my marriage alive and my son on the straight and narrow. Cut a man a break here. That dumpster’s the property of Valley Township until we say otherwise.”
How was Vinnie going to answer that? I knew that to be true.
And furthermore, could Vinnie pull this whole thing off?
Vinnie played with his sideburn, acting as if they both were caught between a rock and a hard place. “Let me tell you what I’m going to do for you. I’ll be back in a week to see how things are progressing. What’s the big hold up anyway?”
First off, Mr. King only had the dumpster for twenty-four hours. Secondly, he wasn’t firing on all cylinders because I was able to successfully dodge a trip behind bars. So, what made Vinnie think he’d talk? Surprisingly, I mused to myself, he did.
“There’s fingerprints everywhere, Guido,” he said frustrated, “and bloody fingerprints on the body was what the coroner told me. Whoever did this wasn’t the most skilled of individuals. Unless they were trying to frame someone.”
Some of those fingerprints were mine, and the police might’ve already identified as much. The only thing I had going for me was that my mug shot wasn’t going to pop up on some government program with convictions. No way in the world would Mr. King ever be able to put Darcy Walker fingerprints with a Darcy Walker face (I hoped).
Vinnie rearranged his ball cap. “Mob hit?”
Mr. King slid into his seat and slurped some soup. “Maybe, but if it was a hitter, he’s a dumb one. We’re running the prints through the database but haven’t had any hits yet.”
“People,” Vinnie said exasperated. “What’s the world coming to?”
Mr. King pitched a finger over to a pile of copper on a large skid. “Third incident this week. People are stealing copper from under-construction homes and selling it on the black market. Copper’s the new gold, son.”
“How did you get that pile?” I asked, remembering someone stole the copper out of the air-conditioning unit at school.
Mr. King didn’t like me, he just didn’t. He went back to making eye contact with Vinnie (or Guido) but still answered the question. “It fell off the back of someone’s pickup truck on I-75 in the middle of the night. Took out the tires of a semi that thankfully didn’t wreck. All he got was half a license plate and couldn’t tell if the car was black, navy, brown, or dark green.”
He paused to roll his eyes.
When Guido and Harold King waxed on about the bad things in society, I took that as a perfect opportunity to excuse myself. The day was successful. I found out there were prints all over Alfonso Juarez’s body, maybe mob-related, and that Harold King was Jinx’s father. He also acknowledged that he had to keep his son on the “straight and narrow,” which was practically admitting your child had personal problem
s. I should know, that was said about me all the time.
Slipping out through the garage door, my sense of altruism demanded I glance over to the entrance. The beginnings of guilt were taking root since I hadn’t done anything personally to stop the ruckus. An ambulance was loading the UFC wannabe onto a stretcher—he was moving, and breathing, and cursing—I’m guessing that meant he was normal.
When I made it to the Bug, I slipped inside with a big, fat smile on my face. Why oh why did I enjoy getting the best of people? Hopefully, that didn’t mean I was soulless, but by God, sometimes it was almost too easy to pass up.
When Vinnie crashed into the front seat, he was still wearing his Guido gear. “Who’s Guido?” I laughed.
He lifted a smirking brow. “One of the major players in Vinnietown.”
He gave me a look like, I don’t ask about your skeletons, you don’t ask about mine. Fair enough. I didn’t have room to judge what went down in Vinnietown. What I’d just done made sense within the Laws of Darcy. All I knew was Vinnie might be more screwed up than me.
8 A FLY IN THE OINTMENT
CLAUDIA GONZALEZ IS my Nanny. About 5’2” tall with inky black hair and a more than hourglass figure, she’s one hundred percent Puerto Rican and a devout Catholic: Mass every morning, Holy Season Lent sacrifices, and hours of community service for the less than fortunate. Claudia’s a good Catholic and does all of this to show gratitude for the supernatural Creator that saved her soul.
Claudia, however, felt God gifted her with supernatural powers of her own.
When she was thirteen years old, a tomato truck crashed in downtown Puerto Rico, and Claudia said she saw the Virgin Mary in the spray. She became a local hit, and people both young and old crossed the border and traveled to Cincinnati to get the lowdown on their lives. Sometimes Claudia got it right, other times it appeared to be wrong...or delayed. Right now, her newest mission was to provide me with an ample bosom. It was an epic fail, delayed in all capital letters. She and her sister concocted some Puerto Rican cream I applied to my chest by the light of the crescent moon. My cup-size hadn’t increased, but I did have what I considered to be premenopausal hot flashes.