"I know him."
"Yeah. Any friend of mine is a friend of yours, understand? I never let anything happen to my friends. I know what to do if something does."
"You want me to look out for this white boy?" he sneered.
I leaned forward, close to his face. Dropped my voice to a whisper. "I want you to look out for yourself, okay? I went to see your mother—left her some cash. Anything happens to my friend, I figure maybe I made a mistake about you. Maybe you're not my friend like I thought. That happens, I'll go see your mother again."
His eyes were unvarnished hate. I held them. Let him see the truth. Right down to the deep spot where the blood–spill starts.
57
BOSTICK WAS RELAXED in the courtroom. Wearing one of those slouchy Italian suits over highly polished black boots. Not lazy, staying within himself. Like a good host at a party. Virgil and Rebecca were in the front row, dressed in their church clothes. I sat next to Bostick at the counsel table.
The judge was a youngish man, light brown hair carefully combed to one side, face already starting to pudge from the rewards of honest living. The ADA was the kind of guy who spends his life going through the motions and never gets good at it. The kind of guy who screws something up so many times they call him experienced.
The kind of fight you don't waste your time fixing.
A reporter from the Post–Tribune flipped open his pad. I caught his eye. Whoever he was, he wasn't there to go through the motions.
"Your Honor," Bostick began, voice low and controlled. Hounds in check. "The purpose of bail is to ensure the defendant's presence at trial. The so–called evidence against my client does not aggregate to the weight of good gossip. The court knows full well that the totality of the prosecutor's case would not survive a probable–cause hearing. The crimes…they are horrible. Shocking to the conscience of the community. And the perpetrator surely deserves our worst condemnation. But, Your Honor, I respectfully suggest that the people of our community are ill served by illusion. The killer is not in this courtroom! As long as the press treats this case as solved, our people will sleep peacefully. But it will be the peaceful sleep of sheep who do not sense the presence of the wolf. Leads will dry up. People will not come forward and communicate with the police. If the court keeps Lloyd in jail, that time will be forever lost to him. When the killer is apprehended, all this court will be able to offer this boy is an apology. That is not the way we treat our citizens, Judge. We have been ready for the probable–cause hearing for weeks. Indeed, we are ready right at this moment. But the prosecutor's office has made no such attempt. If the police are satisfied with their investigation, let's have a trial. Let's have a trial, so my client can go home, to be with his family."
The ADA got to his feet, already exhausted. "Your Honor, the defendant was on bail. He jumped bail, disappeared. How can we be sure he'll show up when his trial starts?"
"He didn't jump bail," Bostick said in a mild voice. "The prosecutor knows better than that, Judge. The boy panicked. He was scared. But he never left town. All that really happened was he didn't show for an appointment with his probation officer. That was wrong, and Lloyd knows it was wrong. But remember, Your Honor, the boy's family put up his bail. And it was the boy's family who found him. And brought him right back to the police station. The only reason Lloyd is in custody right this minute is because he surrendered himself."
The judge looked a question down from the bench. The prosecutor nodded. "I'm going to continue bail in the same amount, the judge said. "Mr. Bostick, your client understands that failure to keep one single appointment, failure to show for a single court appearance, and he's back inside. On remand, is that clear? No bail."
"Understood, Your Honor."
"Defendant is discharged. Same conditions of bail. Next case, please."
The prosecutor was busy with some papers on his desk. Bostick went over to the clerk to sign Lloyd out as the kid went to stand with his family. The reporter walked by the defense table, gave me an interested glance, shrugged his shoulders when I didn't react, and went to file his story.
We came down the courthouse steps in two groups. Rebecca between Virgil and Lloyd, me next to Bostick. Detective Sherwood was leaning against the wall. He rolled his thick shoulders to push himself toward us. Virgil caught the movement, kept walking toward the car. Sherwood stepped in front of us.
"Mr. Bostick, I'd like to talk to your…investigator. That okay with you?"
Bostick turned to me. "Sure," I said.
"Drop down to the precinct anytime," Sherwood said.
"Would you do me a favor first?"
"What?"
"A friend of mine, Detective McGowan. NYPD, Runaway Squad. I'll give you the number. Could you give him a call, kind of tell him what's going on out here?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Save you some time, okay? You want to talk to me, you want to know who you're talking to."
His eyes measured me. "Give me the number," he said.
58
I STAYED AT Virgil's house only long enough for Lloyd to tell us he never got to use any of the stuff we taught him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, facing me and Virgil while Rebecca bustled around in the kitchen. Virginia and Junior were all over Lloyd, glad to see him—afraid he was going to go away again. Rebecca took them into the back yard to play.
"You remember that guy I told you about? Hightower? Well, as soon as I got out of that first–day isolation room they put you in, I went into the main room. Where the TV is. I was watching, like you told me. Watching their eyes. I was ready. This one black kid, I had him all picked out. Then Hightower walks in, comes right up to me. I was thinking, damn! I didn't want to start off with this boy, you know? But he comes over to me, says, 'Homeboy! When d'you raise, man?' Like we were pals forever. He sits next to me, runs down the whole place. Like which counselor…I mean, which guard you can get over on. The other guys, they see this, they don't know if Hightower's staking me out for himself or what. He puts his pack of smokes on the bench between us. I remembered what you said about not taking nothing. He leans over, whispers to me, says we got the same friends, don't worry. He had a visit. He described you, Burke. I mean, perfect. Like he knew you."
I nodded. Hightower knew me. Better than Lloyd did.
"Anyway, later, at lunch, this other boy, big white kid, one of those skinheads, he reaches over, takes the cake right off my tray. I start across the table at him when I hear Hightower whisper, 'Chill, Lloyd. The Man!' and I see one of the guards coming down the aisle. The white boy smiles at me. Then Hightower tells him he wants to settle this later, come to the shower room after gym. Bring his shit. The white boy says this ain't Hightower's beef. Hightower says anyone messes with me, they got him to deal with. I reach over, take my cake back off the white boy's tray. Then I help myself to his piece too. Nobody says nothing. I did it right, Virgil?"
Virgil's smile was sad. "Like you been doin' it all your life, son."
The kids came back inside. Virginia sat down at the piano. Started pounding out the jangle–line of some country–blues song. Like her father. Junior sat next to his sister, his little hand on her shoulder. Rebecca watched over them. Virgil opened a beer for Lloyd. The kid left it untouched in front of him, knowing it was Virgil's way of telling his family Lloyd was a man now. Sacramental wine, not for drinking.
I knew it was time for me to go.
59
IT WAS LATE afternoon when I got back to the motel. Night work coming up—I lay down to rest. Slapped a cassette into the tape player Virgil lent me. "Got some of your girl on this, brother," he told me.
Judy Henske's voice charged out of the speakers, dominating the dingy room the way she overworked every club she'd ever played. Her early stuff. "Wade in the Water." Making the gospel song into a blue–tinted challenge. When they say a prizefighter hits and holds, they're talking about a dirty tactic. Like we taught Lloyd. Henske, she hits and holds those notes until they turn
into beauty past what you can see with your eyes. What you feel. What she makes you feel. A channel to the root.
There was more on the tape. Bonnie Raitt. Henske's spiritual sister, like Henske was Billie Holiday's. "Give It Up." Working that slide guitar like the critics said a woman never could.
When Raitt got to singing "Guilty," I felt Belle's loss so hard I couldn't get a clean breath. I'd paid off her debts, but it didn't set me free. My soul jumped the tracks and it took a monster and a witch to save me.
It wasn't just a sex–sniper I was looking for in Indiana.
60
I DRIFTED IN and out of sleep. Dreamed I was back in prison. The Olympics were on the TV in the rec room. 1972. The cons watched Olga Korbut twist herself into positions the Kama Sutra never imagined. Talking about what they'd do to her if they had her for a night. The little Russian girl was winning hearts all over the world, dancing and prancing, wiggling her teenage butt, waggling her fingers in special waves, smiling like she'd discovered purity.
The senior member of the Russian gymnastics team was a dark–haired beauty who'd been the leader for years—until right then, when Olga burst out. Lyudmila Turischeva. A proud woman, she knew it was time—time for the cubs to challenge the pack leader. When she walked out onto the mat, her shoulders were squared, chin up, eyes straight ahead. Arms moving at her sides like a soldier's. She knew she was up against it—the crowd was Olga's.
The other cons watched her hips, disappointed. I watched her eyes. She did her exercise perfectly. No flash, the fire banked. Then she turned and walked off, head high, going out with class.
A woman, not a girl.
I woke up knowing what I'd recognized in Blossom as she walked by.
61
I DIDN'T NEED the real estate cover anymore, but I dropped by Humboldt's office just to keep the extra cards in my hand. He was out "viewing some properties." I left word that I was still around, still looking into our project.
Used the car phone to call Sherwood. Held on while they looked for him.
"This is Sloane. Did you speak to my friend?"
"Yes. Last night."
"Now a good time to come and see you?"
"A very good time."
"Okay. I'll pull up outside the station in about fifteen minutes. We'll go for a ride and talk, okay? I'm driving a…"
"I know your car. I'll be out front."
He hadn't seemed surprised I didn't want to sit around a police station—I guess he had talked to McGowan.
62
SHERWOOD CLIMBED in the front seat, adjusting his bulk comfortably. "You show them a credit card, they'll rent you anything these days, huh?" Letting me know.
"Anyplace special you want me to drive?"
"You want to see where it happened? That last one?"
"Yeah."
"Take the left at the corner."
I followed the cop's directions until we came to a sign that said Naval Reserve Center A couple of more blocks to the beach. A black man came over to my window, wearing a guayabera shirt, metal change–maker at his waist. "Two bucks for nonresidents," he said.
"Rest it, Rufus," Sherwood rumbled.
The change–maker looked across me to Sherwood, turned away without a word.
I pulled into the parking lot. Lake Michigan spread out before us. Only a few people on the beach, half a dozen cars in the lot.
I killed the engine, flicked the power window switch, lit a smoke. Waited.
"This is it" he said. "Victims were parked just about there"—pointing at the corner of the lot closest to the dunes. "We figure he took a position somewhere up around there"—pointing again. "No use trying that trajectory stuff—too many bullets."
"Kids still park here at night?"
"Yeah, they do. But over on the other side. Where there's no cover."
"Wouldn't need much at nighttime."
"No," he agreed, sadly.
I scanned the scene. A thousand places to shoot from, stationary, unsuspecting targets who couldn't shoot back, the cover of night. Surprise. A human–hunter's paradise.
"McGowan, that's your friend?" Sherwood asked.
"My friend. Not my brother, not my partner, okay? We've done some things together over the years."
"Want to know what he said about you?"
"Up to you."
"He said you got felony arrests for everything from hijacking to attempted murder."
"Not everything."
"Okay, he was clear about that. No rapes, no sex cases."
"No narcotics, no kids."
"Right."
"So now you know."
"He said you may have been a firearms dealer at one time. There's an FBI file on you for that. You took a federal fall for interstate transport, but it was only a couple of handguns. That's where you met your man Virgil, right?"
I nodded. That was back when the state joints were using the federales as a dumping ground, transferring cons all over the country. Bus therapy, they called it. They moved the Prof for preaching—race war is more to prison authorities' taste than brotherhood. I never did find out why Virgil came down as well.
"And a CIA file too—still open. Suspected mercenary."
"I was in Biafra," I said, watching him closely, "not Rhodesia."
"He told me. Said you cleaned up a real mess for them a while back."
I dragged on my smoke.
"He said you make a living working the edge of the line. Finding missing kids, stinging kiddie–porn dealers, roughing off pimps."
"Any of those on your protected list?"
"No."
"So?"
"So you're a criminal. Not just an ex–con like your pal Virgil. A working criminal."
"McGowan tell you I know anything about freaks?"
"He said you know more than anyone he's ever met."
"You think Lloyd did the snipings?"
"Do you?"
"I know he didn't."
"Which means…?"
"Which means someone else did."
"Maybe."
"You got 'Exceptional Clearance' in this state?" I asked, challenging him. Sometimes the cops arrest a guy who didn't do the crime and mark it closed. Sometimes they know who did it but they can't make an arrest. Then they call it "Exceptional Clearance." The same tag they use when a baby–raper turns out to hold some political markers.
I flashed back on standing next to an old black woman in a cemetery. Watched as they put the little casket in the ground. Her grandson. Tortured to death. Scanning the crowd. Hoping the freak would want one last look at his work. The kid's mother was in jail. Crack. The old woman was bent over slightly at the waist from a hundred years of cleaning other people's houses. Her eyes were clear and hard. She'd offered me the money she'd put aside for the boy's college fund to find the killer. "The money was for Alexander, and the Lord knows he doesn't need it now."
Dirt rattled on the coffin. Her hand tightened on mine, holding herself rigid. "If God was going to make life so filthy, seems like he didn't have to make us dirty when we die."
My file was open.
Sherwood met my eyes. "Not for homicides. Not on my beat. I asked around, got the word about you. Do the same before you make your charges."
"I got it. I figured you hadn't closed the books on this one…that you're still looking. That's true, I want you to know I'm looking too. I don't want to step on your trail, give you the wrong idea."
"McGowan told me, some of the people you look for, they might not get found."
I tossed my cigarette out the window.
"Not around here," he said. Making it clear.
I nodded. "Will you show me what you got?" I asked him.
"The forensics?"
"Everything."
"Why not? It's not much."
"You got a profile?"
"Profile? One of those FBI things? Tell me the killer probably had an unhappy childhood or something? No, thanks."
"I got one."
"Wher
e?"
"In here." I tapped the side of my head. "You've got this guy pegged as a loner, right?"
He nodded.
"He's alone inside himself. Where only freaks like him can go. But he may reach out, understand? Find people he can relate to."
"Like who?"
"Gun freaks. Survivalists. Like that. You got Nazis around here?"
"Like in the Klan?"
"Yeah."
"Sure."
"There'll be a connection. These freaks, they're all quasi–cops in their heads. Like to play soldier. Wear the clothes. Handle the toys."
"Quasi–cops?"
"You got cop buffs here, right? Got police scanners in the houses, join the auxiliary force, work as security guards…you know?"
"Yeah. We always look through that file when we got filth—a hooker killing. Or a kid raped."
"If this freak's looking for a group, that's where he'll look."
"Okay."
"You got a friend in the postal service?"
"What if I did?"
"Then I'd write out this list of magazines. And you'd ask your friend who gets them delivered."
He gazed out his window for a minute. Down into the ravine where they found the bodies. "Write out the list," he said.
It only took me a minute. Then I started the engine, backed out.
As we drove along Lake Street, Sherwood turned to me. "You carrying?"
"No."
I pulled over outside the precinct house at Broadway and Thirteenth to let him out. The big man nodded like he'd made up his mind about something. "Burke, that's your name, right? Burke, you're not the only one looking for this guy."
"I know."
"I don't mean me. Someone else came around, asking questions. Spoke to me."
"Who?"
"We're not there yet, you and me."
He closed the door with a snap of his wrist as he exited the car.
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