Key Witness

by Sandra Bolton

  34

  Darkness descended on the mountains, carrying with it a sudden influx of cold. Abe shivered and cursed himself for having left his jacket in the Bronco. But the cool air provided clarity to his thoughts as he puzzled over the significance of the key. Abe’s dog ran ahead, sniffing at new, intoxicating smells. Without realizing it, he and Patch had walked far from the hunter’s cabin. Deer had recently used the trail, cluttering it with their brown-bead droppings. Now, however, nothing moved in the forest. Even the small gray juncos had given up scratching the ground for seed. They perched in silent groups on pine branches, as if anticipating some unknown danger.

  Maybe Marilu had woken up and they’d finished the interview, Abe wished. He pondered the woman’s words—“the tapes.” What did it mean? He thought it had to be either audio or VHS recording tapes she had managed to get her hands on—something obviously very important to her father. The key had to be tied to the tapes. It was all coming together. He picked up the pace as he turned back toward the dim glow emanating from the cabin. The light bounced off millions of luminescent particles floating in the air, kissing his face. A steady snow began to fall. Freakish weather, Abe thought. Way too early for snow. By the time he reached the cabin door, the path lay covered in a white blanket.

  Abe brushed the flakes from his arms and warmed himself at the stove. “Can you believe this? It’s practically a blizzard out there,” he said.

  Bowman looked out the window. “Shit. This might complicate things.”

  “You can’t predict the weather here in New Mexico,” Emily said. “It’s unusual, but it happens. Some arctic air from Canada blew down and it will all be gone in a day or two. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Abe rubbed his hands together and turned toward Emily and Bowman. “I had an idea while walking outside.”

  “Save it till after we eat.” Bowman carried plates of hot dogs and baked beans to the table. “Sit down and dig in. One thing we have is plenty of food. I made sure of that.”

  They ate their meal off paper plates with plastic forks, and made small talk concerning the changing weather until Bowman finished his last bite of hot dog and pushed his plate away.

  “This is the way it’s going down. We’re each pulling an eight-hour shift.” He dabbed at his face with a paper napkin, wiping mustard from his chin. “Emily takes first watch and stays in the room with Marilu from ten tonight till six in the morning.” Then, looking at Abe, he added, “You, undercover man, you get the six-to-two shift. I’ll cover the two-to-ten. DiMarco can’t be left alone. I brought a couple of sleeping bags so whoever’s not on duty can crash in here and keep the fire going. If Marilu wakes up and starts talking, whoever’s on duty immediately calls the others. Understand?”

  Emily and Bowman must have already discussed this, Abe thought. “Okay.”

  Bowman retrieved a toothpick from his pocket and rolled it around his mouth. Rocking back in his chair, hands locked behind the back of his shiny head, he said, “So what’s this idea you came up with, partner?”

  Abe finished his hot dog and beans, washing it down with a slug of hot coffee, wishing he had a beer instead. Emily ate quietly, chewing slowly, looking pensive and a little peeved. Abe figured she was annoyed with the way this macho Fed took over, but then she probably had to deal with guys like this all the time. “It’s Marilu’s key.”

  Emily cleaned her plate, swallowed, and looked at Abe. “Yeah, well, we thought at the time she had stolen it from her old man, then gave it to Jackson.”

  “No. It’s always been hers. But there’s more. She said the key was their way out. The key and the tapes are tied together. If she already had the tapes, she wouldn’t need to steal a key to get them. So the key must belong to her, and DiMarco needs her and the key if he wants to get to whatever it unlocks.”

  Robert Bowman stopped rolling the toothpick. “A locker at an airport or bus station. Maybe a safe-deposit box.”

  “It has to be a safe-deposit box, and Marilu DiMarco is the only one who can sign for it. They have her signature on file. It takes two keys to open the box—one from the bank and the other from the person who signed the contract. So her father needs the key and Marilu.” Abe stood, poured more coffee. “That is, unless she’s dead. If that were the case, the next of kin could view the contents, but they would need a court order, and I doubt DiMarco wants to deal with the courts.” Turning to look at Bowman, he asked, “Where’s the mother?”

  “Died when Marilu was a kid,” Bowman said. “She’s been shipped off to East Coast boarding schools ever since. Ran away when she turned fifteen, lived on the streets for a while, and had a few arrests for soliciting and drugs. When her father tracked her down, she was living with Easy Jackson. After Jackson was busted for dealing and sent up, she stuck around to wait for him.”

  Abe peeked at Marilu. Her rhythmic breathing told him she was sleeping soundly. He rejoined the others and asked, “Where did you say DiMarco found her?”

  Emily stood up, excitement showing on her face, and paced around the room before returning to where the two men sat. Looking too wired to sit down, she placed both hands on the table and remained standing. “Dumas, Texas. Not far from the prison where Easy Jackson was transferred, then released. Her house had been ransacked and her car set on fire around the same time she disappeared. It looked like arson, but no one knew what happened to Marilu.”

  Robert Bowman scratched a stubbly gray growth of chin hairs. “Her father’s men must have grabbed her and took her back to Kansas City. Somehow she managed to escape, and a KC cop picked her up and ID’d her. She sounded pretty incoherent, high on meth, kept going on about her father killing her boyfriend. Said she had information on him that could put him away for life. That’s when they locked her in protective custody. They called the FBI because she had been abducted across state lines, and that’s where I came in.”

  Abe’s fingers drummed the tabletop while he considered the significance of what might be in a safe-deposit box. “Whatever she took from DiMarco and stashed away is damn important. Corazón wanted that key as well. What do you think might be on those tapes, Bowman?”

  The federal agent looked out the window, then walked to the woodstove, opened the little door, and threw a log on the glowing embers. “Something the FBI would like to get their hands on, I’m betting.” He picked up a metal poker and stirred the coals, then looked at Abe. “We’re gonna find out. In the meantime, we need more wood.”

  Abe bristled again. He didn’t like being bossed around. “What am I, your gofer? What’s wrong with you?” Abe snapped at the FBI agent. Bowman growled back at him that he might as well make himself useful since he had tagged along on this gig, and although true, Bowman’s attitude rubbed him the wrong way. Just the same, he grabbed a flashlight, put on a coat and gloves, and stepped out into snowfall.

  The first snowstorm of the year had turned into a whiteout. The wind buffeted drifts of snow, making it hard to find anything, but his flashlight singled out a couple of large mounds. The one near the back of the building turned out to be Bowman’s vehicle. A smaller hill of snow stood near the south side of the cabin. Further investigation revealed a stack of dry logs cut into stove-length chunks buried under a tarp.

  He carried in two bundles and dropped them near the potbelly. It was nearly ten, and he could hear Emily making washing-up noises in the bathroom. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her all day and wondered what she made of the situation. When he finished stacking the wood, he put some chunks in the stove and banked them for the night.

  Bowman sat in the oak chair, a gloomy look on his face. He had thrown one sleeping bag on the sofa and pulled the coffee table to the side of the room to make space for the other bedroll on the rug. “You take the sofa. I’ll crash on the floor.”

  “Makes no difference to me,” said Abe.

  Bowman sighed. “Look, man. Sometimes I get caught up in being this big, important FBI agent. I guess I have a bit of a chip on my shou
lder, too. I had to work hard and put up with a lot of crap to get where I am. Not too many black guys in the Bureau, and they’re still giving me shit duty, like babysitting this crazy woman. I’ve been taking things out on you.”

  Abe reflected on the truth of that for a while, and started smiling.

  “What the hell are you grinning about?”

  “Look at us. A Jew, a black man, a Native American woman, and an Italian Mafia princess trapped together in a snowstorm. How many minorities can you cram into one small cabin without war breaking out?” He erupted in laughter, and Bowman joined in.

  “Don’t forget Patch, the three-legged dog,” Bowman roared.

  Patch had already claimed his place on a throw rug close to the stove. When he heard his name, he repositioned himself, made two circles, and curled into a ball.

  Emily emerged from the bathroom and saw the two men doubled over. “What am I missing that’s so funny?” Since they couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer, she poured herself a mug of coffee and took up her post in Marilu’s room.

  Abe and Bowman talked well into the night, comparing stories about how it felt to be on the outside, always thinking you wanted in.

  35

  Except for tossing, turning, and mumbling, Marilu slept through the night. She still hadn’t awoken when Emily crept out of the bedroom, her hand over her mouth, covering a yawn. “Mmm, smells like bacon in here.”

  “How do you like your eggs?” Abe stood over a small propane stove removing strips of bacon from a cast-iron skillet. On a second burner, an old aluminum percolator burped fresh coffee. Robert Bowman came through the door, carrying firewood. The storm had moved on, leaving behind pristine whiteness and blue skies, as well as a precipitous drop in temperature.

  Emily headed for the bathroom. “Any way you want,” she said before closing the door.

  Bowman dropped his load of wood, and as if on cue, Marilu emerged from the bedroom, wild-eyed and raving. “What is there to eat around this dump? I’m starving.”

  She sat at the table once breakfast was served, and ate like she hadn’t in a month. It didn’t seem possible anyone as small as Marilu DiMarco could put away that much food. Abe had cooked a pound of bacon and scrambled a dozen eggs, supplemented with toast, coffee, and orange juice, and she devoured half of it, leaving Bowman looking grumpy and wiping his plate clean with a slice of bread. When nothing remained but the coffee dregs, they sat back in their chairs and looked at her, as if waiting for another explosion of profanities.

  “I need to pee.”

  “I’ll have to go with you,” said Emily.

  “Whatever gets you off,” Marilu shot back. “They got a shower here?”

  A half hour later the two women emerged from the bathroom, Marilu wrapped in a skimpy towel, and Emily looking bored.

  “What are you starin’ at, freaks? What’s’a matter? Haven’t you ever seen a real woman before? Here, I’ll give you a good look, perverts.” When Marilu pulled the towel open, the two men looked at each other and shook their heads.

  Emily gave Marilu a gentle shove toward the bedroom. “Shut up and get dressed.” Rolling her eyes at Abe and Bowman she added, “You two are a lot of help.”

  “Hey, I did the dishes,” Bowman chuckled.

  “And I cooked breakfast,” Abe countered.

  Once fully dressed, Emily steered the surly-looking woman toward the sofa. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Marilu. We have a few questions for you.” She carried her recorder and set it up once again.

  Marilu, though still gaunt and pale, looked a hell of a lot better with her damp hair tied back in a loose ponytail, and wearing clean slacks and a sweater. She plopped down on the sofa, glaring first at Bowman and then at Abe. “Well, this is one swingin’ party.” Her foot tapped the floor as she rubbed her arms in an agitated manner. “Give me a cigarette.”

  Bowman parked himself in the big oak chair, and Abe grabbed a wooden straight-back from the table, straddling it backward. He pulled the pack of Camels from his pocket, shook one loose, and lit up, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward Marilu. He knew to leave the interrogation to the experts, and that he should keep his mouth shut, content to play the role of passive observer, but couldn’t resist. “You give us something first.”

  Marilu shot back, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” She rubbed her mouth and scratched her arms, opening scabs. “You want to screw me or somethin’? You gettin’ horny and your girlfriend won’t put out?”

  Emily sat on the other end of the ratty plaid sofa, keeping a cool distance between herself and the other woman. “You’re the one who’s screwing us, lady. You asked for protective custody. Said you had the goods on Daddy, didn’t you? So let’s cut the crap and start talking. Tell us what’s in the safe-deposit box.”

  Bowman emptied his coffee cup and set it down. “You don’t like it here, I can take you back to Kansas City. Say the word and you’re free to go home to Daddy. Is that what you want?”

  Marilu answered his question with a scowl, then several minutes of silence while she stared at the floor. “The tapes are in my safe-deposit box. Look, I need a smoke, and something to drink. Don’t you have anything stronger around here than coffee?”

  “Afraid not.” Abe shook a cigarette loose from his pack of Camels and handed it to her along with his lighter.

  Marilu lit up and took a few puffs before beginning. “The last time they kicked me out of one of those shitty private schools, my old man didn’t have anyplace left to send me, so he had to take me home. Imagine, Vicente DiMarco, big-time gangster, playing daddy. I hate him for the way he treated my mother, and he can barely stand the sight of me.” She shuddered, as if the thought was too repulsive to contemplate, and began drumming her fingers on her knee.

  Emily turned on the tape recorder and ran through the necessary preliminaries before proceeding. “Take your time, Miss DiMarco. It’s Sunday and we aren’t going anywhere today.”

  Sitting must have increased her agitation because Marilu jumped to her feet and walked to the stove, holding her hands over the heat, rubbing her arms as if chilled. She continued moving around the room, circling like a cat on the prowl, puffing away on her cigarette.

  “I didn’t care at first because I could get into his private stash of liquor and pretty much do whatever I wanted. He threw parties all the time—lots of big shots and plenty of booze, coke, beautiful women—anything his guests wanted.”

  The FBI agent looked up with interest. “Who’re we talking about here? What big shots? You mean Mafia types?”

  “Hell, no.” Her sneer displayed the level of contempt she must have felt. “I’m talking city commissioners, building inspectors, Chamber of fucking Commerce, and more. Oh yeah, let’s not forget the big honcho himself, Mayor Pete Sanderson. Seemed like they all wanted to come to one of DiMarco’s catered parties—strictly men, invitation only, except for the hookers, of course.” A humorless laugh passed through her lips. “Everyone knew my old man was crooked, but nobody could pin anything on him. They were all in his pocket one way or another.” Marilu stared out the window at a blanket of untarnished snow. “Yeah, everybody havin’ a good time—for a while.”

  Emily looked up. “What happened?”

  “What do you think? They’re all drunk and high. My generous old dad made sure whatever they desired was available. And if someone wanted to fuck a girl or, say, another guy, that could be easily arranged. They were given a private room, but no one told them the rooms were bugged and cameras were rolling.” Marilu stopped talking and laughed, a sound like broken glass.

  “So, he took video tapes of important public figures and big shots in some compromising positions,” said Bowman.

  “Yeah.” Marilu nodded. “Snort’n, fuck’n, pass’n money for whatever they could get. Something they don’t want the little lady and kiddies at home, not to mention the general public, to find out while they’re at a so-called ‘business meeting,’ that’s
for damn sure.”

  “And then he blackmailed them, threatened to make the tapes public if they didn’t pay up,” Emily said.

  Marilu found her way back to the sofa and collapsed. She closed her eyes and leaned back, holding her head with both hands as if in pain. “You catch on pretty fast. He made duplicates of the tapes so they’d know what he had, and sent a copy to each unsuspecting asshole. I stole his copies of the tapes and stashed them in a safe-deposit box in Dumas.”

  “What bank?” Bowman asked.

  “Citizens something or other . . .” Then Marilu drew up her knees, lay down, and curled into a fetal position, tucking in her chin and covering her head with both arms, signaling she had had enough.

  Bowman and Emily exchanged a look. “You should get some rest, too,” the agent said.

  Emily switched off the recorder, but before she headed for the bedroom she covered the girl’s body with a quilt that lay folded on the back of the sofa.

  Abe watched in silence, more than willing to leave police work to the law. Marilu had presented a story of corruption and greed, one that had been played out at different levels throughout time. Maybe his reasoning was off center, but he sympathized with this damaged child-woman, wanting to disappear with her boyfriend, perhaps to some tropical island to live their dream—a life of luxury while their money grew interest in an offshore bank somewhere—a dream that sadly never measures up to expectations. Abe learned firsthand about greed after his father’s death. He had watched his mother fight with family members over the will and walked away in disgust, wanting nothing more than to have his father back. This girl, this tough-talking, sad little girl, had lost her mother at an early age and never had the love of a caring father. A pathetic, broken young woman lay crumpled on the sofa.