Colin was looking at me quizzically. “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head to refocus on the present. “The mention of Ping-Pong zoned me out for a sec—childhood memories.”
“It’s making a comeback,” he said, but didn’t press for the sale.
“When I was here before, you mentioned that Celio Arriaga had been in here, asking about guns.”
Colin nodded but his gaze was on a customer examining sports bras. “Those are among my most shoplifted items,” he said, discreetly gesturing toward the bra-browsing woman.
“Do you get a lot of shoppers in here wanting to pick up a gun without bothering with the waiting period or the background check?”
“Define ‘a lot,’” he said. “We get a few each month.”
“What do you do?”
That snapped his attention back to me. “What are you implying?” With narrowed eyes and the cords on his neck suddenly more prominent, he looked intimidating.
“I’m just wondering what you tell them,” I said in a nonconfrontational voice.
He wasn’t totally pacified, but he responded, “Mostly, I explain the laws to them and they leave.”
“And those who persist? What if a woman came in needing a gun to protect herself from an abusive husband or boyfriend?”
“I don’t like where you’re going with this, EJ.” He rotated his shoulders back three times and then forward three times. “Have there been complaints?”
“No. Just humor me.”
Comprehension glinted in his pale eyes. “I see. Do you have a ‘friend’ some man’s using as a punching bag? Someone who needs a gun?”
I didn’t respond, letting him draw his own conclusions. The shopper disappeared into a dressing room with a handful of bras, and Colin didn’t even notice. “I get it. In such a situation, I might—I say I might—suggest she visit a gun show, preferably in another state, or check Craig’s List.”
Interesting. “Aren’t sellers at gun shows bound by the same rules you are?”
“In theory. In practice… that environment is a whole lot looser and less regulated. No bar codes. No sales orders on record with manufacturers like Beretta or Glock. A lot of the gun show business is cash-and-carry, so no credit card receipts or checks to track. The feds have been trying to keep better tabs on what goes on, but they don’t have the manpower. They won’t get it until some jerk shoots up a playground or shopping center with a weapon bought at a gun show,” he finished cynically.
Asking Colin point-blank if he sold guns under the table would only earn me his hostility, so I thanked him and left, leaving him with the impression that I had a friend who wanted to solve her marital problems with a bullet. His response let me know that, at the very least, he was willing to, if not bend the rules, then point a would-be gun owner toward someone who would.
Sunshine streamed into the wing from the double glass doors leading to the parking lots, and I felt it drape across my shoulders as I crossed the hall toward the sunglasses place. It half blinded me, so I didn’t notice Detective Helland approaching until he was almost in front of me.
“Officer Ferris,” he said, his voice flinty. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
I got the sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach that used to attack me when told the principal wanted to see me in her office. Usually, I hadn’t done anything to merit a chewing out by the principal, so the feeling of dread was wasted. Today, however, I was conscious that (a) I hadn’t told Helland about Eloísa’s revelations, minor as they were, and (b) I was interviewing merchants on a topic he might feel he had a proprietary interest in, so to speak. Consequently, I managed only a strangled, “Hi.”
With his tall figure now blocking the sunlight, I could face him without squinting. His mouth was set in an uncompromising line. “A Mrs. Rosita Arriaga reported her daughter Eloísa missing this morning.”
I gasped.
He nodded grimly at my reaction. “Exactly. You call me one day to tell me about a fifteen-year-old who may know something about a murder, and the next day she’s gone missing. I don’t like coincidences. In fact, I don’t basically believe in them.”
I didn’t either, at least not in this case.
“The cop who took Mrs. Arriaga’s report recognized the name and clued me in. What do you know about it?”
Tucking a hank of hair behind my ear, I said, “After I talked to you yesterday, I got a call saying that if I wanted to talk to Eloísa I should go to Phat Cat last night. I did and I hooked up with her briefly.” I filled him in on what Eloísa had said. “She was terrified of this Enrique, and when a truck came around the corner, she took off for the woods like Usain Bolt headed for the finish line. It was only a club security guy.”
“She didn’t come home last night,” Helland said, making it clear he blamed me for that. As galling and as worrying as it was, he was probably right.
“I didn’t see her after she ran off. That would’ve been a bit after ten,” I said. Where could the girl be? I pictured her alone, chilled and hungry, hiding in the strip of woods near Phat Cat.
“You wouldn’t hide her?” Helland’s tone was marginally less stern.
“I might if I thought there was reason to, but I’m not and I’d’ve told you if I were.”
“You didn’t tell me about your conversation with her.”
That was unanswerable, so I kept quiet. I didn’t think saying “I was going to” would cut much mustard with him. “She’s got a friend, a girl named Gilda whose sister works at Phat Cat,” I said. “I don’t know her last name.”
He stopped short of rolling his eyes, but the expression on his lean, handsome face said it all: I’d messed up big-time.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. You’re interfering with a police investigation, and you’ve endangered a girl who may be a key witness. If this is an example of the type of ‘policing’ the military does, no wonder things are so screwed up in Afghanistan.”
“That’s not fair” hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it. Underneath Helland’s hostility, I sensed worry for Eloísa and that kept me quiet. “Where are you looking for her?” I asked quietly.
“I’m not Missing Persons; it’s not my case,” he bit out. “I just volunteered to come over here and grill you because I was certain you had something to do with her going missing.”
“I can help—”
“You’ve helped enough. Call Detective Angela Barnes in Missing Persons if you see or hear from Eloísa.” He scribbled a number on a piece of paper from his notepad, ripped it out, and thrust it at me.
I took it numbly and stuck it in my pocket. Without another word, Helland wheeled and strode toward the door. As he moved away, the sun struck my face again, blinding me, and I turned away to stop the involuntary tears. Caused by the sun, I told myself.
Seventeen
Joel took one look at my face when I returned to the office and asked, “Whoa. Who died?”
“No one.” Yet. I prayed it was true and that Eloísa was safe. I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of Helland’s tongue-lashing.
“That’s ridiculous,” Joel said promptly, reaching into a plastic snack bag for a celery stick, which he then crunched down on. “You know what you’re doing. It’s not your fault—”
I stopped him with a shake of my head. I appreciated his faith in me, but no one could absolve me of blame in this case. “No. I screwed up. I should have called Helland before I ever went to the club. If something happens to Eloísa, it’s at least partly my fault.”
Silence fell, broken only by Joel’s chomping, and I watched the monitors absently, not really seeing what was playing out on the screens. The sound of Joel’s teeth grinding against the celery made me feel like I was in a barn with a team of cud-chewing oxen. All that was missing was the smell of dung.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen this?” Joel asked, pushing the Vernonville Times toward me. He pointed toward a paragraph on an inside page.
“N
ew Development in Gang Killing,” read the headline. I skimmed the lines beneath it.
A spokeswoman for the Vernonville Police Department today revealed that the police have recovered the weapon used to kill Celio Arriaga, the man found outside the Fernglen Galleria on Wednesday. “We caught a break,” Lieutenant Erin McEvoy, VPD public affairs officer, told reporters yesterday. She went on to say that the .32-caliber gun was originally registered in California but had been turned in as part of a gun amnesty program run by the Mantua, New Jersey, police department. That department is investigating to determine how a gun thought to have been destroyed ended up back on the streets, according to McEvoy.
“Interesting,” I murmured, my gaze still on the newspaper. The article didn’t say where the police had acquired the murder weapon, but it almost had to be the gun from Captain Woskowicz’s office, didn’t it? I noticed the police PA lieutenant hadn’t said anything about an imminent arrest. Was that because they were convinced Captain W was guilty and you couldn’t arrest a dead man?
“I thought you’d think so,” Joel said, pleased. “So, do you think a crooked cop killed that gangbanger?”
“Why would a cop from New Jersey be interested in a low-life gang minion in Vernonville?” I asked. “I doubt that’s what happened. However, maybe a cop or someone connected with the company contracted to destroy the guns saw a way to make a little profit.”
“And sold it?”
I nodded.
“Was Arriaga from New Jersey?”
Wrinkling my brow, I tried to remember everything I’d heard about Celio Arriaga from Gilda and Eloísa. “I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “I got the impression he was from this area, but I suppose it’s possible he moved from New Jersey. Why?”
Joel’s eyes lit up and he leaned forward, excited as always by speculating about a case. “Well, if Arriaga was from New Jersey, maybe he made some enemies up there. Do they have Niños Malos in Jersey? A rival gang. They got hold of the gun, and one of them came down here to pop him.” He must have seen the skepticism on my face because he plowed on. “You’re going to say ‘Why would they bother?’ Right?”
I nodded, a half smile on my lips. He was learning.
“I’ve got that figured out. He had something on someone, and they were afraid he’d tell. He saw someone kill somebody, or knew too much about someone’s drug-ring operations.” He bounced in the chair, causing an alarming squeak.
“I’m not saying that’s impossible, Joel,” I said after a moment’s thought, “but it all hinges on Celio being from New Jersey, and we don’t have any reason to think he was.” Even if he were from New Jersey, I found Joel’s convoluted scenario unlikely. More probably, the reason for Celio’s death was closer to home: he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got killed, not an unusual occurrence when one hung out with angry young men who carried guns and thought it was “cool,” or a sign of manhood, to shoot people.
“I’ll find out where he was from,” Joel said, clicking away on his computer keyboard.
I left him to it and went to find Grandpa Atherton. He was Easter Bunnying, and I had to wait for him to finish with a toddler who burst into tears when her mother plopped her onto his lap. In less than thirty seconds, he had jollied away her tears, and by the one-minute mark he had coaxed a grin from her. He had a way with children, and I smiled at his silliness, remembering how he used to entertain me and Cliff with made-up nonsense songs, much the way he was now beguiling the now giggling child on his lap. The photographer snapped a photo, and the tot’s mother lifted her from Grandpa. The little girl promptly dissolved into tears again, holding her arms out toward Grandpa, and crying, “Bunny, play Bunny!”
When the mother had hauled the heartbroken girl away, Grandpa turned to me and said, “My, you’re quite a big girl. Did you want to have your photo taken with the Easter Bunny?”
I heard the laughter in his voice. “Sure.” I climbed over the low picket fence and stood beside him while the confused photographer readied the camera.
“Say ‘Bunny,’” the photographer demanded and we complied. “I’m taking a break,” he said after accepting my money for the photo. He walked off, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“To what do I owe the honor?” Grandpa asked.
I pulled the photographer’s folding chair up beside Grandpa’s Easter Bunny throne and sat. It was weird talking to the vacant stare from the Easter Bunny’s egg-shaped eyes, and I tried to focus on the mesh screen near his bow tie. “What do you know about gunrunning or gun amnesty programs?” I asked, thinking that he might have some experience from his CIA days.
“You mean like guns for oil? I wasn’t involved with any of those ops,” he said.
“Not guns for oil so much as gun smuggling into the U.S. or illegal gun sales on a smaller scale,” I clarified.
“You know that would be the FBI’s or ATF’s bailiwicks,” he said. “The Company doesn’t operate within the U.S.”
“I know,” I said. “But I thought you might’ve had some involvement…” I tapered off so he could take the question any way he wanted. There was something surreal about discussing gun smuggling with the Easter Bunny.
“Sorry, Emma-Joy,” he said. “You probably know as much about that as I do. And all I know about amnesty programs is that some police departments offer to accept guns, no questions asked, from citizens. They think that it’ll get guns off the streets and make cops—and other citizens—safer. I’ve never bought their logic, though, since I doubt the lowlifes who are likely to kill are the ones turning in their weapons.”
I was a little disappointed at Grandpa’s lack of expertise in this area, but not too surprised. “Thanks anyway,” I said, hugging him and landing a kiss somewhere on his furry neck.
I grabbed a quick lunch in the food court, toying with the idea of asking the mysterious Mr. Callahan if he knew anything about gun smuggling. He’d asked me to tell him if I heard anything about guns, and this qualified, surely? A grandmotherly woman with poorly fitting dentures was manning the Lola’s counter, however, and I didn’t see Jay.
Checking in with Harold Wasserman, on dispatch duty while Joel lunched, I learned there was nothing of note happening in the mall. “I’ll be in the Pete’s wing if you need me,” I told him and clicked off.
That short corridor of shops pulled at me, like waves inexorably tugging grains of sand from the beach into the depths. The key to whatever had happened to Celio, and maybe Captain Woskowicz, too, lay in one of these shops. I was sure of it. I Segwayed past the shops I’d been in earlier, stopping at the outer doors to gaze into the parking lot. Nothing unusual. Cars parked nose to nose, the gleam of chrome, a trickle of shoppers crossing the lots, either laden with bags as they returned to their cars or strolling empty-handed into the mall. No one hurried because it was a beautiful, warm spring day.
I did a one-eighty and surveyed the wing that spread out before me. Nothing stood out. Planters overflowed with ferns and hostas. One bench was empty, and one was occupied by a bored-looking man maybe waiting for his wife to finish shopping. The sun slanted in at an angle that revealed little handprints and maybe a nose smudge or two on the toy store window. My gaze drifted upward, lingering on the cameras. The cameras…
I glanced over my shoulder at the sidewalk just beyond the glass doors. My gaze lingered on the spot where I’d found Celio. If Celio was killed by someone gang-connected and his body was dropped at the mall to keep police from discovering the murderer, how likely was it that the killer, or killers, would happen to dump him at the one entrance with a nonfunctional camera? Not very. That was too big a coincidence for me to swallow. Only a handful of people knew the cameras weren’t working, and they all resided in this wing or in the security office.
My eyes widened as a question occurred to me: Was it possible that Celio had been killed inside the mall and his body dragged outside? Everyone had been working under the assumption that Celio was killed off mall property somewhere
and his body driven to the mall. What if that assumption was wrong?
I tried to rein in my galloping thoughts. If I was right, Captain Woskowicz became the prime suspect. He had means (the gun found in his file cabinet) and opportunity (he knew the cameras were on the fritz). I had no idea what his motive could be, but I knew it wasn’t necessary to prove motive to convict someone. But if Captain W had killed Celio, who had killed Captain W? A gang member getting revenge for Celio’s death? Or some totally unknown player?
I found myself taking out my cell phone and dialing Detective Helland’s number almost without conscious volition. A bored voice told me he wasn’t available, and I asked to be switched to his voice mail. After leaving a detailed message that laid out my analysis, I hung up, feeling I’d done a little bit to atone for not calling him about Eloísa.
Leaning forward to propel the Segway, I pulled up beside the red wagon in front of Jen’s Toy Store and went in. The store was bright and cheery with shelves of games, toys, stuffed animals, and a large Lego table in the middle with half-built creations rising from the bumpy surface. Resisting the urge to add a couple of Legos to a lopsided castle, I looked for Jen, who hadn’t been in when I canvassed the wing before, and spotted her on her hands and knees beside a shelf, probing beneath it. “Lose something?”
She started and looked up, withdrawing a long piece of wire—a repurposed clothes hanger, I surmised—from beneath the shelf. A soft-spoken woman originally from Oklahoma, Jen was in her mid to late forties, with a spattering of freckles and slightly jug ears that made her look younger. Standing, she said, “Just doing my weekly Lego collection.” She wiped a wisp of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Somehow they end up all over the store, not just around the table. What’s up?”
“Had any more problems with disappearing wagons?”
She laughed gently. “No. Not this week. I sold two, though.”
Did that mean the wagon out front was not the one that had been on display the day Celio died? I felt a twinge of disappointment because it had occurred to me that the wagon would make an excellent corpse transportation device in a pinch. “Did you sell the wagon sitting out front and then put out another one?”
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