by Milk;Honey
“Aw shucks,” Hollander said. “Want to show your appreciation? Find out if your lady has a cousin.”
“What about Donaldson?” Marge asked Hollander. “How many little buggers does he have?”
“Not written in his profile,” Hollander said. “You’re slipping, Pete.”
Decker said, “I don’t know for certain, but I remember several pictures of two little girls sitting on Donaldson’s desk.”
“Linda didn’t screw him,” Hollander said, matter-of-factly. “The dude hadn’t proved fertile enough.”
Decker was about to retort, but was interrupted by a flash in his gray matter. He bolted up and grabbed his coat.
“Where’re you off to, Sherlock?” Marge asked.
“Off to find the missing link,” Decker said.
He made it back to the Manfred development in a record seven minutes, jumping a few lights in the process. His overworked adrenals had caused him to break into a sweat, and his shirt needed a wringing by the time he reached Patty Bingham’s house. When she answered the door, Decker didn’t bother with the niceties. He said, “Where’s your husband?”
Patty said, “He’s not home.”
Decker entered the house, paying no attention to Patty’s high-pitched protests. The place was the same—a pigsty. The TV was blaring, laundry was scattered on the couch, a radio talk-show psychologist was blasting words of wisdom from the kitchen, kids were in various stages of dress. The boy was in his swimming trunks, one of the older girls was in shorts and tank top, the baby sat on the carpet, naked, examining herself.
Patty had on a bikini bra and a pair of cutoffs. Her skin had darkened to a bronze glow, but her nose was red and peeling. Her feet were bare, her toenails were long and sharp and painted bright red. They looked like bloody nail files.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, barging in like that?” Patty placed a hand on her hip and regarded his face. “The name was Decker, wasn’t it?”
Decker nodded. “I need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Bingham.”
“He’s working.”
“Find him for me.”
“He’s an electrician,” Patty said. “He’s out on jobs. What do you want with him? What’s he done?”
“Call his office and have them page him on his beeper,” Decker said.
“Mind telling me what this is all about?” Patty asked.
“The same thing I came here for last time. It’s about a lost little girl. Only now I know her name. It’s Katie Darcy. Name Darcy ring a bell?”
Decker saw it all in Patty’s eyes. Her face crumbled, her lower lip began to tremble. Her eyes turned ugly. She turned to the kids and screamed at them to leave the room. They obeyed without question except for the baby, who began to cry. Patty swooped her up in her arms and comforted her with soft words and a kiss. It took Patty a moment to find her voice. When she did, it came out a whisper.
“Bastard knocked us both up at the same time. Otherwise, I would have left him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this the first time I came here?”
“Why should I have?” Patty fired back. “I never seen the other kid. Didn’t know for sure it was her. I never wanted to see her.”
“But you knew when I showed you the picture.”
“She had my baby’s eyes. His eyes, the prick.” She faced Decker, hate oozing from every pore. “So now you come over here and mess everything all up.” She began to cry. “Make me suffer it all over again. Why, if you found out who the kid was…why in the hell did you come back here? To torture me?”
“Linda Darcy is dead,” Decker said.
That snapped her out of her self-pity. “Dead?” Patty sank onto the couch. She sat there for a minute, then eventually said, “Jesus, you don’t know how many times I wished her dead. God, do I feel weird.”
“You ever act on your wish?” Decker asked.
“Oh God, no,” Patty insisted. “No, no, no!”
Decker said nothing.
“God, I don’t know a thing about this Linda Darcy, other than the fact that my husband had screwed her. I’d never even seen her ’cept in a pitchure. A pitchure my husband kept in his wallet, till I made him rip it up.”
Decker said, “I need to talk to your husband.”
“No, Sergeant.” Patty Bingham was crying again. “No, you got it all wrong if you think Cliff had something to do with it. Cliff makes mistakes, he’s not perfect. But he’d never, ever do something like…”
“Like what?”
“Like murder!” Patty shrieked. “Why? What for? He loved her, for godsake! The affair ended three years ago. As soon as she got knocked up. She was the one who broke it off. Said she didn’t need him anymore. Cliff told me all about it six months later, cried on my shoulder, can you imagine such nerve? I was six months pregnant with this son of a bitch’s kid, and he was bawling in his soup that his whore mistress didn’t love him no more. Then he told me she was carrying his child.” Patti wiped tears from her eyes. “I threw up all over him.”
“What made him think it was his kid?”
“I don’t know. I guess she told him it was his,” Patti said. “I always thought that maybe she was lying until I saw that pitchure of that little kid. My gut knew who she was.”
“I still need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Bingham.”
Patty stared at Decker, a strange expression on her face. “You do that,” she said. “You do that and tell him something else for me. Tell the bastard I’m out of here. Tell him I shipped his kids back to his ex, and I’ve gone back to Mama in Dallas. Tell the bastard I’ve had it up to here with him.” She made a slash across her forehead. “I’ve had all that I could take. And I want no more part of it or him!”
Decker found a piece of scrap paper and a pen. He offered it to Patty and said, “Why don’t you tell him yourself.”
Patty pushed her hair out of her eyes and took the paper and pen. She sat the baby back on the floor and said, “Good idea. I’ll do just that right this minute!”
Decker said, “You have your husband’s work number?”
“Take one of his business cards,” Patty said as she scribbled. “On the counter.”
Decker pocketed the card and said, “Maybe I’ll call him from the station.”
“Whatever…” Patty paused a moment, then began her furious scrawling once again. “Whatever you want!” She punctuated the end of a sentence and broke through the paper with the pen point.
“Bye,” Decker said.
Patty was on her second piece of paper. She didn’t hear him leave.
23
The warrant had become wet with sweat. Marge dried her palm on her polyester-cotton pants and waited in the driver’s seat of the unmarked for the positions to come over the TAC frequency. Charlie Benko occupied the passenger’s seat, outwardly calm, but he kept shaking his leg up and down, the thing that teenage boys do when they’re nervous or horny. Benko looked at her, gave her a thumbs-up sign, and Marge managed a tepid smile in return.
The block was dark and quiet. The house where Douglas Miller aka Rusty Duralt lived was texture-coat blue with white shutters, its front yard an unadorned square of straw-colored grass. A row of flowerless rosebushes had been planted in a side patch of dirt, an open trench for sprinklers bisecting the plot. A lone porch lamp cast a yellow circle on the cracked cement walkway. The shades in front and back were still drawn. Dawn was another thirty minutes away.
Everything taut, yet seemed to be going smoothly. Marge hoped it would remain that way. She’d obtained the arrest and search warrants at eleven-thirty last night, but Miller had been out for the evening. With a jumbo Thermos of coffee, she did her own stakeout, spotting Miller returning at three-thirty, soused to the gills. Rather than make the bust right there, taking a chance of him decking her or bolting, she called in for backup.
Marge remembered Duralt as having put up quite a fight that day in Booking, swinging his fists at whatever got in his way. Of course, he’d be
en really pickled that day. Then again, he might be nursing last night’s hangover, no telling what kind of mood that would put him in. If he ran, the back and side doors and windows needed to be covered. If he should try to duke it out, she’d need plenty of men to control him fast.
And someone to get the kid.
“We gonna do something soon?” Benko finally asked her.
“Just waiting until we’re sure everyone is in position,” Marge answered.
“You know, Dotty wanted to come up to the door with us—”
“No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told her. Doug’s violent as hell, who knows what the sunnabitch may try? But she really wanted to do it. She wanted to spit in his face.”
“Well, she’ll just have to control herself,” Marge said.
“You’re sure he’s in there?” Benko said.
“Positive,” Marge said. “And so is Heather—you told Dotty they’ve renamed her Laurie, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“The kids are the problem,” Marge said. “We don’t want him doing something crazy with either Heather or the baby—”
“I don’t understand why you didn’t just grab the kid when you saw it was her,” Benko said. “That’s what the sunnabitch did. Just grabbed the kid. You should have just grabbed her back.”
“Mr. Benko—”
“I know, I know.” Benko waved her off. “System doesn’t work that way. You need papers, you need warrants, you need some asshole judge telling you, yeah, it’s okay to do to the sunnabitch what the sunnabitch did to you. You couldn’t have done it. But I could have. You should have called me as soon as you found out.”
“I thought about that, Mr. Benko—”
“Charlie.”
“I thought about it, Charlie, but I wanted to do this the right way, the legal way.”
“You wanted a bust.”
“That’s a really low thing to say,” Marge snapped.
Benko looked contrite. “Yeah, you’re right. Guess I’m a little nervous for Dotty and all.” He let out a jittery laugh. “Good scam you worked out, huh? Diapers for sale. I’m gonna use that.”
Marge said, “Be my guest.”
A crackling voice came through the police radio.
“What’d he say?” Benko asked.
“Shhh,” Marge said. A moment later, she looked at Benko. “We’re ready to roll.”
“Finally.”
“Sure you want to do this with me?” Marge said.
“Hell, I wanted to do this without you.” Benko stuck out his hand. “Nice goin’, Detective.”
“Thanks.” Marge shook his hand, pulled on the door handle, and pushed out the door. “Let’s do it.”
The two of them started up the pathway to the front door, their footsteps loud in the still of the night. The sky was charcoal dust, lightening to ash gray at the eastern horizon. Marge felt her heart race, glanced over at Benko. His face was slack and serious. She checked her watch. Five thirty-five.
They reached the front door. Marge knocked loudly. The Gestapo knock, she called it. They both stood at the side of the door frame, neither one expecting shooting, but neither one wanting to be taken by surprise.
No response.
“You sure he’s in there?” Benko asked.
“Saw him go in myself.”
“He could have slipped out the back if you was only watching the front.”
“Could have,” Marge admitted. “But I don’t think so. More likely he’s just sleeping soundly.” She only had to knock one more time before she heard the rustle of activity inside.
“Someone’s home,” Benko whispered.
“Yeah?” a deep, husky voice asked from the other side.
“Police, Mr. Duralt!” Marge shouted. “Open up.”
No response, then the scuffling of footsteps.
“God, he’s gonna be a schmuck about it!” Marge swore.
“Let’s break it down!” Benko said, getting ready to charge.
“Wait a second!” Marge held his arm, radioed the situation, then took a credit card and caught the lock. The door opened. Benko stared at her.
Marge said, “Sometimes the easy way works. Cover me.”
The living room was dark and quiet.
“Where did the sunnabitch go?” Benko asked.
“We’ve got to get to the kids.” Marge radioed in for backup through the front door, then said, “I’m going down the hallway, Charlie. You stay on my ass.”
“Got it.”
The center hallway was pitch-black. Marge groped the side of the wall for the light switch, found it, and flipped it up. She counted five closed doors that fed off the passageway.
She opened the first, found the light. A thousand Marges stared back at her. A mirrored room. In the center was Nautilus equipment, a weight rack filled with barbells and dumbbells and an Exercycle. She pushed back a sliding mirrored closet door. It was filled with sports paraphernalia—basketballs, handballs, rackets, fishing rods, baseball mitts, and bats.
No Duralt!
She closed the door to the room, then cocked her head in the direction of the next door.
A tiny bathroom illuminated by a night-light. She popped the main switch. The shadowed grays turned into blue foil wallpaper. The sudden whoosh of a ventilator fan. Empty.
On to the next door. When she turned on the lights this time, she saw a hump under the covers on a double mattress atop bare box springs. Marge looked at Benko, then walked over to the covers and pulled them back. The woman was huddled in a fetal position, wearing a pink shortie nightgown. Her dark hair was tied up, her skin riddled with goose bumps. Marge recognized her as Bonnie Duralt, the same woman she’d pulled the Pampers scam on.
Marge said, “Where is he, Mrs. Duralt?”
She answered, “He’s not here.”
“Where’d he go?” Marge fired back.
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, lady, do better than that!” Benko yelled at her.
“I swear it!” Bonnie pleaded. “He just said, ‘I gotta get out of here, Bonnie.’”
Marge felt her stomach churn. “He have a weapon on him?”
For the first time, Bonnie looked up. “You’re the Pampers lady!”
“Well, now I’m a police detective, so answer my questions!” Marge ordered. “Does your husband have a gun, Bonnie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cut the bullshit, Bonnie,” Marge said. “Now, try again. Does your husband have a gun?”
Bonnie was shivering now. “He keeps one under the pillow.”
Benko’s hand went under the pillow. “It’s not here.”
Bonnie squeezed herself into a tighter ball, tears streaming down her cheeks. Two uniforms came into the bedroom—one was a Hispanic named Ramirez, the other a blond named Sutton.
Marge asked them, “Somebody guarding all the doors?”
“Yessir, ma’am, Detective,” answered Sutton.
“Then the suspect has to be somewhere in the house. Consider him armed and dangerous.” Marge focused in on Bonnie. “Get up, Bonnie. We’re going to go get the girls.”
“The baby’s mine!” she cried out.
“I know,” Marge said. “But we need the kids and you out of here—safe.”
Bonnie blurted out, “It’s his little girl, ya know.”
“Not no more, lady,” Benko snapped. He hoisted Bonnie up by her arm. “Let’s go.”
Marge gave him a “Cool the rough stuff” look, and followed Bonnie to the girls’ room. It had been done in blocks-and-teddy-bear wallpaper—a homemade job, since the seams weren’t aligned. The windows were draped with pink gingham curtains. Against the wall were two cribs, between them a white nightstand with a Humpty-Dumpty night-light. Marge peered inside the cribs. The children were sleeping undisturbed. At least Miller had the good sense to keep them out of it—for the time being. The baby was on her stomach, nose squashed against the crib’s mattress. Heather was on her bac
k, her face red with sleep, soft wisps of hair framing her face.
Up close, she looked quite different from Katie Darcy, her features more refined, a little older. Marge told Bonnie to take her baby, and Marge handed Heather over to Sutton. The child opened her eyes, looked at the patrolman, then slumped on his shoulder and went back to sleep. The baby continued sleeping in her mother’s arms.
Marge said, “Ramirez, you, Benko, and I will cover the others until everyone’s out of the house and into the car. Suspect may be watching, and we don’t want any shots fired while we’ve got the kids in our hands.”
“Got it,” Ramirez said.
“Move with caution,” Marge reiterated. “Apprehending the suspect isn’t as important as the kids.” She turned to Bonnie and said, “Don’t try anything stupid with the baby in your arms, Bonnie. You’re in enough trouble as is.”
Bonnie didn’t answer, but the frightened look in her eyes told Marge that she’d cooperate. Ramirez went first through the hallway, covered it from the front end. Marge and Benko stood at the threshold of the kids’ room and covered the passageway from the back.
As soon as the children were out of the hallway, they were quickly escorted out of the house and into waiting patrol cars. Sighing with relief when the children were out of the way, Marge figured out her next move.
Miller hadn’t been caught leaving the house. He must be hiding somewhere inside the dwelling.
Hiding somewhere.
Anywhere.
With a gun.
Marge told Benko to check the other rooms off the hallway, Ramirez to take the living and dining room, she’d take the kitchen and service porch.
The kitchen was compact, crowded. The countertops done in some sort of cheap terra-cotta tile, the grout cracked and grimy. An unopened jar of peanut butter, a dirty knife, and a trail of crumbs decorated the left side of the counter; the right side held three empty beer bottles. The sink was filled with dishes sitting in six inches of milky water. Above the sink was a greenhouse window, its shelves holding a half-dozen wilting plants. Behind her were the oven, the microwave, and the cooktop. Marge opened all the cabinets, the door to a walk-in pantry, and—just to be sure—the oven door.