by Rick Reed
Liddell parked in front of the Coffee Shop. They left their coffees in the car and went inside. One older customer sat at the same table where Freyda said the customer had sat. He was most likely a professor, judging by the tweed sport jacket with patches on the elbows with matching vest and snap-brim cap. Jack could imagine him smoking a briarwood pipe if smoking were still allowed in public places. A sensible heavy coat was over the back of the booth.
Freyda Rademacher emerged from the back room carrying a bag of IAMS dog food, with the dog shadowing her every step. She put the bag of food on the countertop.
Liddell said, “The dog seems to have taken to you.”
“Yeah. Her name’s Shadow,” Freyda replied.
“How do you know the dog’s name?” Liddell asked.
“Sister Aqueduct told me.”
“Do you mean Sister Aquinas?” Jack asked.
Freyda said, “Yeah, whatever. I don’t plan on getting on a first name basis with some nun.”
“When did you talk to Sister Aquinas?” Jack asked.
“She called a few hours ago. She said you told Joe about a dog found outside my shop. It’s Joe’s dog for sure. Did you know that damn woman reporter tried to interview me? Shadow run ’em off. She’s a good dog.”
“Claudine Setera was here?” Jack asked.
“Don’t worry. That reporter don’t know where you hid Joe, and neither did I until Sister Aqueduct called and asked did I have the dog. I don’t know how the nun knew I kept the dog. I didn’t ask. She put Joe on the phone, and he described her down to the little twist in her tail from being broke in a door. She answers to the name Shadow real good. He talked to her on the phone, and she smiled.”
“The dog smiled?” Jack said.
The dog was lying on the floor beside Freyda, eyeing Jack and Liddell closely. It got to its feet and cautiously approached. “Shadow...sit,” she said. The dog obeyed. “Shadow...smile,” she said, and the dog bared all of its sharp teeth.
“You taught her to do that?” Liddell asked incredulously.
“You call that a smile?” Freyda asked. “The boy told me she did that. She does the same thing when someone comes in the shop. She can be a handful. If you’re going to take her, you better take that food with you. I guess Sister Aqueduct don’t keep that laying around a convent.”
“You knew we were coming for the dog?” Jack asked.
“O’ course I knew,” she said. “I know how the Gestapo works. You come and take stuff from us poor people and give it to the rich. But in this case, if you’re giving the dog back to the boy, I guess you’re okay.”
“Freyda, I need to ask you something, and I want the truth,” Jack said.
“I told you the truth,” she said.
“Listen up,” Jack said. “We’re city detectives, but we’re also federal agents. We work for a federal task force. If you lie to a federal agent you can go to jail, and believe me when I tell you, I will take you to jail if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“I believe you would,” she said.
“He’s kind of an asshole,” Liddell added.
“Okay. You got me, J. Edgar. What do you want to know?”
Jack said, “I want you to tell me what you held back.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you everything, and I swear to God I don’t know any more,” Freyda said.
Jack said to her, “Freyda, when someone says ‘I swear to God,’ they usually mean what?”
She grinned and patted the dog’s head. “It means they’re going to lie their ass off. You’re smarter than you seem to be. Okay, I’ll tell you, but first let’s get some coffee.”
“We’ve got coffee in the car,” Jack said. “And we don’t have a lot of time.”
“Let’s take this to the back room,” she said. They followed her out of earshot of the professor, and Shadow stayed at her side. She said, “I saw Shadow in that VW that night. The engine was running. I told you a lie when I said I’d never seen the dead guy before. I saw his face that night. He was the one in the car with the dog. I had the impression he was waiting for someone.”
“Go on,” Jack said.
“Well, that cowboy guy was in here insulting my food, and he seemed to be waiting for someone, too. I figured he was nervous because he wasn’t eating my pie. He sat there a couple of hours and just scribbled in that book of his. I wondered why the other guy didn’t just come in here, but it’s none of my business, is it? When the cowboy guy left that big tip, I knew something was wrong. I watched him leave and turn in the direction where the VW was at. But by the time I went out the door, the cowboy was gone. I didn’t go down the alleyway because I’m not stupid. The car was still sitting with the engine running big as you please with the man and dog still inside. I was thinking it was a drug deal.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Jack asked.
“Was it a drug deal? If it was, I’ll deny I told you any of this. I’m not messing with any cartel.”
“It wasn’t a drug deal, Freyda,” Jack said, thinking this confirmed his theory. But why stop in Evansville, steal a car, and meet with this guy on the other side of town. How did he end up here? Did someone call him? Did he call someone? So far, a phone hadn’t been found.
“Is there anything else you didn’t want to tell me? If we find out you had other information and didn’t tell us, it’s as good as a lie,” Jack said.
She said nothing.
“Freyda, I’m going to have my crime scene people come out here and search again.”
“They don’t know squat, those guys,” Freyda said. “They never checked the roof, and that’s where them criminals hide stuff they don’t want found.”
Jack said, “I’ll have them search the roof.” He turned to Liddell. “Maybe we can get a fire department ladder truck?”
Freyda snorted. “You don’t need to do that. You can get on the roof from inside my closet upstairs.”
“Do you mind?” Jack asked.
“Help yourself, but be sure to close it up good and tight when you’re done. If you don’t, cold air blows right through it.”
Jack said, “Bigfoot will stay down here with you, Freyda.”
“You afraid I’ll make a run for it, G-man?” she asked.
“Got any more of that pie, Freyda?” Liddell asked her.
Jack went up the stairs to Freyda’s living quarters. Sgt. Walker hadn’t said anything about searching the roofs or gutters of the Coffee Shop or nearby buildings. Jack was mad at himself that he hadn’t thought of it.
The closet door was shut, but he could feel cold air leaking through the cracks. It was colder when he opened the door. Hanging inside were a few tops, two dresses that went out of style in the ’30s, and one pair of sneakers. She lived more than frugally. A wooden ladder was attached to the left wall of the closet, and it led up to a wooden hatch. Jack took out his flashlight and shone the beam on the top of the ladder and the hatch. He could see where she had used rolled newspaper in an attempt to keep out the cold.
He tested his weight on a ladder rung. It squealed in protest but held. He climbed to the top and muscled the hatch open. A blast of freezing air blew through the opening and stung his cheeks and eyes. A rusty chain kept the hatch from opening and falling back against the rooftop. He held a hand out in front of his face and squinted. The roof was flat and covered with tar and splotches of silver paint.
He climbed out onto the roof, pulling his coat tight around his face. He could see the top of the beauty/barber shop next door, the intersection at both ends of the block, the tops of the houses, and Evansville University’s buildings filled with parked cars.
The wind blew the hatch shut behind him. He turned at the noise and saw a black leather wallet that he’d mistaken for a roof patch. He squinted into the light wind and scanned the roof more carefully. Directly behind the hatch,
he made out the shape of a flip phone. He pulled latex gloves from his pocket and tried to slip them on. It was too cold. He used the gloves to pick up the phone and wallet, wrap them in another set of gloves, and put them in his pocket. He opened the hatch and went back down into the relative warmth of the closet, being sure the hatch was completely shut and newspaper stuffed back in the cracks.
When he came back into the front of the shop, he found Liddell sitting in the booth with the customer. Liddell and the man were eating pie and conversing like old friends.
“We’ve got to go,” Jack said to Liddell.
“Jack, this is Jim Robertson. Retired EPD officer,” Liddell said.
The man Jack had thought was an academic stood. “Call me Lightning.”
Liddell grinned. “Tell Jack how you got that nickname.”
Robertson grinned and said, “I moved slow as smoke. You know how cops are. They started calling me Lightning. Assholes.”
“I told him we thought he was a college professor,” Liddell told Jack, and Lightning chuckled.
“One of the professors gave me this old suit. Said he was tired of me looking like a homeless guy on my days off. I retired about the time you came on the department,” he said to Jack. “I knew your old man. Good cop. Good guy. Now I work security at the university. We got a game of poker every Saturday in the Security Office if either of you are interested.”
“Gambling’s not really my thing,” Jack said.
“Lucky at love, unlucky at cards,” Lightning said and chuckled at his own joke. “Anyway, Liddell here updated me a little on your investigation. Horrible thing. This kind of thing never happened in my day. Guess the world has moved on.”
“We really need to get going, Lightning, but it was good meeting an old friend of my dad’s,” Jack said.
“Who said we were friends?”
“I...”
“Just kidding you, Jack. He was a good cop. Smart. His gut was rarely wrong. From what I know about you, I’d say it was a family trait. I won’t tie you up if you got places to go. But I was telling Liddell that I was off Friday night, Saturday, and tonight, so I don’t have anything for you but gossip. But listen. If you ever need anything from the university, you call me. If they won’t give it to you, I’ll steal it.” He gave Jack a napkin with his name and number written on it. “I don’t have a home phone anymore. Can’t stand all the telemarketers. That’s my sister’s number. Just ask for Lightning to give you a call, and she’ll know it’s police business. Don’t talk to her, for God’s sake, or she’ll never shut up.”
Robertson family trait.
Freyda came in with Shadow on a leash. The dog had a new collar. She handed the leash to Jack. “I’ll miss the mean shit,” she said, and Jack took the dog.
Jack knew he didn’t have to tell Freyda to keep quiet about the dog and Joe. They thanked Lightning and went back to their car. Jack opened the back door, and Shadow jumped in and sat where she could see between the front seats.
“You drive, Bigfoot,” Jack said, and when they were in the car, Jack took the glove-wrapped evidence from his pocket. “Lookie here.”
“You picked up evidence, pod’na. You should have let Walker get it.”
“Your point?” Jack asked.
“You gonna open the wallet?” Liddell asked.
Chapter 34
Coyote saw the two detectives enter the Coffee Shop. He’d shut his engine off. He’d been sitting there for hours and didn’t want to draw any attention. He wondered if he should just leave. Leave here. Leave the city. Nah. The police didn’t have much to go on. In two hours he could be in Terre Haute. In three hours he could be in Indianapolis. The next shipment would be coming through there.
He wondered if she was telling them about him being in there? She was a nosy old biddy, but he didn’t think she knew anything. He’d seen Murphy on the roof of the building, but he didn’t come outside first. Murphy had to have come straight up through the roof. He’d watched Murphy bend down a couple of times like he’d found something. Whatever it was, Murphy put it in his coat pocket.
The phone and wallet. I should have taken them with me or thrown them in the sewer.
Murphy was one lucky son of a bitch. Coyote had had a drill instructor in Army boot camp that said luck favored the prepared. Was Murphy prepared for him? Did Murphy know something? Did someone see him pitch the things onto the roof? Coyote knew the man was dangerous the first time he saw him on television.
He watched Murphy disappear back through the roof. He moved his car a couple of rows back where he had a better view through the front windows of the shop. The big detective was sitting with the professor. Murphy came into the room, and the big detective stood and introduced him to the man at the table. Coyote lost interest. If Murphy found the phone and wallet, he wouldn’t show them to his partner with the professor at the table.
Coyote took out his notebook, what his shrink called his journal. After the fiasco at the roadside café, he’d been busting at the seams to write. Maybe his shrink was onto something. He always felt a tiny bit better when he recorded his thoughts. The shrink had called it “cathartic.” He thought it was like sticking a tube into his brain and letting all the emotion and nightmare sludge flow onto the pages.
He propped the notebook on the steering wheel, keeping the shop in his peripheral vision, and wrote.
The manager of the greasy spoon said I didn’t have to do this. I’d already killed her with the first strike. She was dead and didn’t know it. Still begging like I could pull the blade out and say I’m sorry. I had no choice. If she blamed anyone she should blame that damn waitress. The girl shouldn’t have been reading over my shoulder. No. That’s not the whole reason they all died. That newswoman, Claudine something, broadcasted my failure to end everyone in that truckload. I want them to know I’m doing this for them. I want them to believe I’m not a monster. Of course, the media is going to portray me as a Hitler, committing genocide. The boy surviving has ensured the ruin of my reputation. One little mistake and all my past work is in the shitter.
That cop should have driven away. I told her the place was closed. She should have listened to me. She saw my face but it was only for a few seconds and I might have let her go if she hadn’t told me the waitress inside was her daughter. I had no choice. My face would be posted all over the news and on bulletin boards in every police station and government office. Killing a state trooper made me an enemy of every cop in the world.
He saw the detective called Murphy leading a dog out to the car. The dog wasn’t too happy. Murphy wasn’t either for that matter, but he seemed to be in control. He put the dog in the back seat of the Crown Vic, and they got in, but they just sat with the engine running.
What were they talking about? What did they know? Murphy was showing the other detective something. Now he was sure Murphy had found the wallet and phone, and he would soon know who the dead man was. The cell phone might reveal some interesting callers, but Coyote had used a burner phone that he had destroyed on the way to St. Louis.
Let them find out what the traitorous asshole was doing, who he was working for. He deserved to die, but Coyote felt a twinge of conscience for the trooper. In any case, he was still safe for now to finish the job he’d started.
The Crown Vic pulled onto Weinbach and turned left onto Lincoln Avenue. Coyote started his car again and cranked the heat up. He moved across the front of the campus and gave the Crown Vic plenty of room before pulling out onto Lincoln Avenue.
Chapter 35
Chad Perkins, no middle initial, had a California commercial driver’s license. According to the CDL, Chad Perkins was age fifty-six, with a Pasadena address. The license would expire in three months, but Chad had expired first.
“Chad Perkins from Pasadena, California,” Jack said. He used the latex glove to spread the inside of the wallet open. Paper money, tens an
d ones mostly, and a Blue Cross Blue Shield insurance card in the same name as the driver’s license. It wasn’t much money. Maybe Chad hadn’t been paid yet, but he hadn’t been robbed either. The killer had taken just enough—the wallet and phone—to delay identification.
“Where to next, pod’na?”
“You call Angelina and see if she can run a history on this guy. I’ll call the convent and see if the sister is still willing to keep the boy and the dog a while longer. Joe needs something to keep his spirits up.”
Jack called the convent and told Sister Aquinas they were coming with another guest.
Liddell asked, “You want me to call Sergeant Walker to send someone by the convent to pick the evidence up, pod’na?”
“We’ll bring it in, Bigfoot. The less people that know Joe’s at the convent the better. I don’t trust the ICE Queen to keep her side of the bargain.”
Liddell called Angelina. When he hung up, he said, “I feel a little guilty for asking her to do all this when she should be on her honeymoon.”
“We didn’t ask her. Anna Whiteside did,” Jack responded.
“Oh. Well that makes all the difference. You’re losing your conscience, pod’na.”
“I think our killer stole it. I’m going to find him and get it back. One wing at a time.” Jack’s voice didn’t hold any humor.
Jack slowed the Crown Vic as they passed St. Anthony Grade School. Not all of his memories from St. Anthony’s were bad. He’d had his first crush here. Kissed his first girl here. Had his nose broken here. Smoked his first cigarette in the basement with Bobby Sanders, the same kid that he’d beaten to a pulp the week before for breaking said nose. He’d learned to be tough.
“I wonder what happened to them all,” Jack said.
“All who?” Liddell said.
“Nothing, Bigfoot. Nobody. Sister Aquinas damn near yanked my ear off in that little courtyard over there behind the convent. She caught me and some other kids, Bobby Sanders, Cathy Scheidel, Keith Lloyd, and someone else. We were smoking what we thought was a marijuana cigarette. Turns out it was dead grass from Keith Lloyd’s yard.”