Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  I scanned the street. Where could he have gone? Where would I go if I were frightened, bleeding, and unsure of the world? I couldn’t begin to hazard a guess. I trudged back to my car, exhausted, with no idea where I might look next. Guilt hung like heavy stones in my pockets.

  There were eleven messages on my phone when I checked it—eight from Barb, three from Whip. I sighed. Somehow I’d acquired a Scooby gang, and I didn’t quite know what to do with it. I was used to going it alone without having to account for my time or explain where I’d been. Having a posse was new. I dialed my home number, expecting to get it with both barrels. Barb snatched up the receiver on the half ring.

  “Where are you?” Her panicked pitch was that of a frightened parent. “I thought you were dead. I called Whip. The three of us have been out looking for you.”

  I could count. Barb and Whip made two. “The three of you?”

  “Pouch. He’s a friend of Whip’s. We needed another set of eyes. You’ll like him. You’d never guess he was in prison for killing a man. Hey, don’t change the subject. Ben called. He said you were shot at and arrested. We didn’t know what to think.” Her voice was so loud and fast that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. Even still, it came through like thunderclaps. When I pulled the phone back, she was still at it. “What is going on? Who shot at you? Why were you arrested?”

  “I was detained, not arrested.”

  “What the heck’s the difference?”

  I massaged my forehead and smiled in spite of the situation, remembering a similar conversation I’d had with Pop. “Arrested lasts longer.” I rolled down my car window for some air, wishing I could fly through it. “Look, I’m heading to the office. I have some calls to make, hospitals to check. If you and Whip and this Pouch person want to meet me there, I’ll fill you in and prove to you all that I’m not dead.”

  “We’re on our way. And you’d better be there.”

  “I said I’ll be there, I’ll be there. Why are you so agitated, anyway? This can’t all be about a few missed phone calls.”

  Barb went quiet on the other end. Then I remembered her visit with her mother. “You saw your mother,” I said. Barb said nothing. “You know, given your vocation, you’d think you’d have the patience of Job. Did she trim your hair?”

  “Oh, shut up, smartass.”

  She hung up on me.

  * * *

  I stood in the dim hallway ten feet away from my office door. From here I could see glass, shattered like jigsaw pieces in front of the door. Maybe if I stood in this one spot long enough, I reasoned, I’d discover that my tired eyes were playing tricks on me, and someone really hadn’t smashed my window in. I listened for Dr. Gupta’s drill, but didn’t hear it. Any other day he’s drilling away, but not today when my door gets taken out. I was still standing there when my Scooby gang climbed the stairs and joined me.

  “Aww, man, that doesn’t look good,” Whip said.

  Barb gasped. “Tell me that’s not your office.”

  I turned to get a good look at the new guy.

  He grinned and extended a pudgy hand for me to shake. “Pouch. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  He was a short, stout white guy with dark, deep-set eyes that never quite landed anywhere. Everything he wore was gray—jacket, shirt, pants, shoes, knit cap. Maybe he was forty, or sixty. It was hard to gauge. He looked like a giant human rat.

  “Pouch,” I said, turning back to the glass.

  Looks like you got a break-in there,” Pouch said.

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  Whip let out a frustrated howl. “So, are we just going to stand here and do nothing?”

  “Whip’s right.” Barb took a step forward. “Let’s go check it out.”

  “Everybody stop. You three downstairs, out the front door. Wait for me on the sidewalk.”

  Whip groused. “Like hell.”

  Barb grabbed hold of my arm. “You can’t go in there alone. Not after last night. What if somebody’s in there waiting?”

  “I mean it. Down the stairs. Out the front door.” I felt for the gun in my pocket and waited till the three of them had descended the stairs. I listened for the sound of the front door screeching open and slamming shut before I moved. I’d put enough people in danger already; I had no intention of adding to that number. I couldn’t take on any more weight.

  I headed off down the long hall, keeping my back to the wall. When I reached my office, I stepped forward, crunching fallen glass under my Nikes, and peeked through the gaping hole. Someone had made quite a mess of things. There was paper everywhere, chairs overturned, even my window blinds had been slashed to ribbons. That was a lot of rage, I thought. Who had I gotten on the wrong side of besides Farraday? What wrong button had I pushed? I wondered seriously about Farraday, but then dismissed him. He was an incompetent blowhard, but surely he wouldn’t jeopardize his career by trashing my place, no matter how angry he was.

  I slipped my key out of my pocket and unlocked the door, which seemed silly seeing as I could see the inside of my office from where I stood. It reminded me of Maisie’s place. I crept in, stepping on and around squares of white paper strewn about the floor. It was like playing a monochromatic game of solo Twister. Right foot, glass. Left foot, paper. Everything I owned had been manhandled and thrown to the floor. What did they think I had?

  My desk drawers had been pulled off their casters and rifled through, their contents turned out. My file cabinets were completely gutted, folders strewn everywhere, drawers gaping open and dented, as though someone had hauled off and side-kicked them all. The only thing left unmolested was the safe under my desk, probably because whoever ran amuck didn’t have the know-how to crack it. Amateurs. I carefully checked the closet. All fine. Obviously, nobody cared about ripping up my change of clothes and extra shoes.

  I plopped down into my chair, the hairs on the back of my neck tingling. This was hateful and personal. Somebody out there wanted to send me a message I couldn’t miss. In a fit of anger and frustration, I slid the few papers left on my desk over the side and onto the floor. Why not? I didn’t have to worry about making a mess.

  Whip’s head appeared in the doorway. “I called the police. They should be here by Christmas.” Whip’s head was quickly joined by Barb’s and Pouch’s, the three of them framed in a ruined door frame.

  “I said wait outside.”

  Barb walked in, kicking papers aside with her foot. “We figured when you didn’t scream or anything, the coast was clear.”

  Pouch’s eyes widened. “Wow, this is rough. Amateur work, though. I knew a guy once who could break into your place, make himself a sandwich out of stuff in your fridge, then take what he wanted, and you’d never know anything was amiss till you went looking for whatever. That there’s a professional at work.” He scanned the office. “This looks like a kid just went apeshit. Unless we’re dealing with crazy. If it’s crazy, all bets are off.”

  I just looked at him. “Why do they call you Pouch?”

  He grinned. “Funny story there. I started out as a knuckler, see. You know what that is, right?”

  I was losing patience. “Yeah, you’re a pickpocket.”

  “Okay, right. Well, even as a little kid, see, I had nimble fingers. I could lift practically anything without anybody knowing it—jewelry, wallets, purses, dogs, whatnot. And you always gotta have a place to stash the stuff, right?” He opened his gray jacket to reveal a gray fanny pack. “Pouch. Get it? The name stuck.”

  I slid Barb a sideways glance, then turned back to the gray rat. “Barb said you were inside for murder.”

  Pouch frowned, his rodent eyes skittering away from me. “Unfortunate circumstances. Self-defense, all the way. Totally. Like I said, a knuckler from way back.”

  I tried a smile. “Got it. Thanks.”

  I dug down into the pile of debris at my feet and came up with the Yellow Pages, slapping it down on the desk. I needed a speedy glazier . . . and a vacation, though that would
have to wait.

  “Who would do this?” Barb moved around the office picking things up, trying to put them back where she thought they belonged. “Am I the only one worried about this?” She searched our faces. She was not the only one. I felt sick. I’d assumed last night the shooter was aiming for Yancy, but what if he’d meant to kill me instead? I glanced at Whip and Barb. What if something happened to them while they were standing next to me? I didn’t know Pouch, but I couldn’t be responsible for him either. I had to get them away from me somehow.

  I opened my mouth to stop Barb from tidying up. Technically, this was a crime scene, and nothing should be touched, but let’s get real. There was no way the police were going to do much about this. Nobody died. No state secrets were stolen. The best I could do would be to get my glass replaced and call my insurance company. I’d likely have to eat the losses.

  Whip stood my hat rack back on its legs. “Somebody’s trying to put a scare in you. Who?”

  I leafed through the Yellow Pages. “I don’t know.” I looked up, remembering something. “Barb, St. Benedict Joseph Labre. I found his prayer card attached to clothes in Pop’s closet. The one’s meant for GI. Who is he?”

  “He’s the patron saint of the homeless and mentally ill.”

  That fit, I thought. Adding the card would have been Pop’s attempt at adding just a little bit more solace. I went back to the Yellow Pages. “You guys should go now. I can handle things from here. I’ll wait for the police, if they show up, and for the glass guy. I’ll meet you back at the house. We’ll order pizza or something.”

  Barb stared at me. “I’m not leaving. Deal with it.”

  I turned to face Whip, but encountered the same stubborn expression. I even got it from Pouch, and I didn’t even know him. It was no use. I was stuck with them and maxed out on worry. I simply couldn’t worry any more than I already did. I ran a finger down the page looking for a glass guy who sounded legit. That simple task was the only thing keeping me from screaming. I looked up in time to see Pouch strolling furtively around my place as though he were walking the aisles of a high-end department store.

  “Pouch, just so you know, I’m frisking you before you leave here.”

  His gave me a startled look, a rat caught exposed outside of his little rat hole. “Sure. Sure. No problem.”

  He turned his back to me, but I could still see him as he slid an office stapler out of the gray pack.

  I swallowed the scream.

  * * *

  The glass set me back $105 even. I’d have to hire someone to stencil my name on it again. Until then, I was the nameless PI on the third floor. I finally got my new posse to leave, but only after they helped pick up and refile every piece of scattered paper. It took almost three hours, but by the end of it, my office looked like it did before someone did their crazy tap dance on it, except for the ruined window blinds. I frisked Pouch on his way out, but he didn’t have any of my stuff on him. I was sitting at my desk feeling sorry for myself when there was a knock at the door. It was Father Pascoe, dressed in his clerical garb, cradling a banker’s box as though it were a twenty-pound baby. My mood went immediately from dark to deadly.

  “Not today, Father. I haven’t the energy.” I grabbed for a Post-it note, a pen. “What say I pencil you in for the twelfth of never? That work for you?”

  His thin mouth twisted into a scowl. He walked slowly over and set the box gently onto my desk. “This belongs to you.”

  I eyed the box, wondering if it might explode or spew toxic gas all over the place. I stared up at the priest, saying nothing. It was a box. Unless it came with an explanation, I wasn’t about to get overly excited about it.

  “Father Heaton left a detailed will. Most of his things he donated to charity. These personal items he bequeathed to you.”

  I perked up, stared at the box, suddenly interested in it.

  “I’m delivering them to you, along with an apology. I could have been . . . less obstructive.” I said nothing, just stared at him, wondering where the old Father Pascoe had gone. “Thea mentioned that you wished to also have his umbrella and some of the photographs. I couldn’t carry it all with me today, but those are yours, as well. I’ll make sure you get them.”

  I stood, placed my hands on the box, then slowly opened it. Inside was Pop’s watch, his eyeglasses, a few personal papers, and a black leather-bound diary. I ran my hands over the cover. I never knew he kept one. A diary. Better than a datebook. I smiled, then looked up at Father Pascoe standing there more contrite than I ever thought possible. “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  We stood for a time, the box between us.

  “Where were you the night of the murders?”

  The look of shock on his face lasted only a moment, then he began to laugh. I’d never seen him do that before either. It was a little disconcerting, but I was willing to go with it.

  “You are relentless.”

  “You’ve given me the box. You don’t have to pile the flattery on, too”

  “Hospital,” he said simply, his expression suddenly serious. “Overnight stay. Chemo.” He smiled weakly, reading the shock on my face. “Not what you expected, I see?” That explained his ill-fitting clothing, maybe even the irritability, the aloofness. He shrugged. “My chances are good. I have my faith. I don’t need sympathy.”

  I smiled. “You thought you’d get sympathy from me?”

  He shook his head, amused. “Perish the thought.”

  “What was going on with Anton Bolek? Did Pop tell you?”

  “He did not, but I knew he suspected something. I assume he preferred to handle whatever it was in his own way.”

  “The same way he handled his argument with George Cummings?” I watched the priest closely.

  “That Father Heaton did mention, though he offered nothing specific. He said simply that he was praying for Cummings’ acceptance.”

  I frowned, disappointed. What kind of acceptance? About the homeless at the church?

  I pulled my cellphone out and showed him the picture of my father. If he was a killer, I needed to know it. “Have you seen this man before?”

  Father Pascoe pulled out his glasses and took a long look before sliding them back into his pocket. “I don’t believe so. Who is he?”

  “An acquaintance.” I put the phone away. “Yancy Gantt. You know him?”

  Father Pascoe shook his head. “Seems I’ve walked into the lion’s den here.”

  “Well, if you had answered my questions the first time I asked them back at the rectory, we wouldn’t be doing this now. Please, Father. Yancy Gantt?”

  He sighed, nodded. ““We inherited Yancy about a year ago. Father Heaton promised his mother before she passed away that he’d watch out for him, make sure he was safe. He did that.”

  “Even going so far as to retrieve him from LA?” I asked.

  “You know about that? Well, obviously, you do. He hired a detective out there. He found him, but he was in a bad way. Father Heaton brought him back here, kept him warm, fed, clothed, and, when he could get Yancy to agree, he got him psychiatric help. I wasn’t completely onboard at first, but Father Heaton prevailed. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen Yancy since that night.”

  “I’ve seen him. I talked to him. He’s a witness to the murders, and now he’s running. Besides the church, where else would he feel safe?”

  Father Pascoe gave it some thought, unsettled, it appeared, by Yancy’s role as witness to a double homicide. “I don’t know. But in honor of Father Heaton’s promise, I asked everyone in the parish to keep an eye out for him and to let me know when they found him. I also contacted the police, but they couldn’t commit to much.”

  “You’ve actually got people out looking for him?”

  He nodded. “The search has been organized through our outreach committee. I’m confident we’ll know something soon. Well, I must be going.” He turned to leave. I stopped him. “Father Ray knew his killer. T
hat person was harassing him, following him. Who could it be?”

  “All he would say was that it was someone in need of great healing. But, perhaps, there’s something in the diary that will shed some light? I haven’t read it. It wasn’t my place, but it now belongs to you . . .”

  “Father? One more. Who heads your outreach committee?”

  “Our most ardent organizer, of course, George Cummings.”

  As Father Pascoe slipped quietly out, I stood there transfixed for a time, thinking things through, ordering the puzzle pieces in my head. I nearly missed the ringing phone, picking it up just in time. It was Mrs. Luna. I’d almost forgotten about running up against Hector Perez and Ignacio in the street. Today was the day of our meeting with Hector. Her church. Neutral ground. Noon. I stared at Pop’s diary, anxious to study it. Reluctantly, I told her I’d be there.

  Chapter 27

  Hector glared at me across the long Formica table in St. Teresa’s school hall, a basement room that apparently doubled as the kids’ lunch room. The table was low, the chairs lower. I couldn’t get my knees underneath the table and had to angle them sideways to keep from losing all feeling. I felt a little like Gulliver among Lilliputians. Hector and Mrs. Luna looked perfectly fine in their seats, Hector leaning over casually as though he were a bored kid in math class, Mrs. Luna sitting stalk straight, her hands folded in front of her, her dark eyes holding worry.

  She’d washed her hands of Hector, but agreed to the meet if it meant learning more about Cesar. Hector’s friends, including the Mack truck I’d threatened, hadn’t been allowed past the door—by Mrs. Luna’s orders. Father Vasquez, a jittery little man with big brown eyes and thick black hair, stood a distance away, his face devoid of all color, his eyes flitting nervously from table to door and back again. He had gangbangers in his church hall. I could almost hear him praying to Jesus.