I know where Tallapoosa is. David considered what he had said. “We got a guy playing leap frog across the South?”
“Looks like maybe that’s the case,” he said, hopping inside the Tacoma and opening up the glove compartment and checking things that Beatrice and David had already checked.
“So that’ll kick this case over to ATTF.”
“Also,” Hulsey said.
“What?”
“That’ll kick this case over to ATTF also,” said the large man. He hopped out of the Tacoma, and the thing lifted a few thankful inches as he did. David even fancied he heard a sigh of relief from the truck. “I’ll be coordinating with them for tonight, and give the Missing Children guys a bit of a hand. ATTF won’t like it, especially since the car got dropped off down here in the Bluff.”
“They still lookin’ for the right chop shop?”
Hulsey nodded and looked up and down the street. A few late-nighters had paused to see what the cops were doing. A trio of young toughs had gathered around a spray-painted mailbox, and up the street from them a bearded fellow in a blue flannel shirt stood as still as a statue, just staring at them like a deer in headlights. “Almost two dozen auto shops in a ten-block radius, but none of the ATTF boys are sure which one’s their big flipper.”
David turned and looked up the street, where a few cars had stalled at a stoplight, even though it had turned green. Everyone was so curious tonight, even more so than usual. It’s like something was in the air. Something’s changed, he thought, and knew he was being silly.
Or was he?
The Bluff had always had a weirdness to it, especially at night. No one denied that. A lot of local church leaders had started campaigning for the revitalizations of areas in and around the Bluff, and had started programs to coordinate with police, even going so far as providing safe havens for informants that needed to disappear for a while. But Atlanta’s Major Crimes Division had its work cut out for them when it came to this end of town. Abductions were on the rise. It wasn’t anything quite so alarming as what you’d see in Phoenix, but the same drug cartels that had moved in there had now taken up residence in the A-T-L, plus a few extra, such as the vory v zakone, who conducted organized kidnappings like the Mexicans but for different reasons. At least, that was the new report that was moving fast out of the rumor mill and headed directly for the land of certified fact.
The vory v zakone, the influx of Mexican cartels, the new human traffickers and the Auto Theft Task Force’s frustration at not finding this major chop shop, which they were all positive was helping these other groups and was some-God-damn-where in this area, were just other symptoms of the changes here. Once, the Crips and the Bloods had been the big problem. Then had come the brief occupation of heavy hitters from the Five Families. Now, people from other countries were calling the shots here. They had proxy groups and proxy gangs doing their deeds for them, and they never even had to leave their home soil.
A sign of the times, David thought. Crime isn’t for the locals anymore. It’s gone international. We’re outsourcing the criminal work. He smiled whenever he thought about how criminals were finding it difficult to find work with other criminals, just like the law-abiding citizens in the standard economy were finding it hard to find a job not taken by foreigners. Hard to believe, but criminal jobs were disappearing overseas, and many of the important ones that remained here were going to the cousins of those lieutenants in other countries. These made up the proxy gangs.
The rain got a bit heavier. Small puddles had started collecting just since Hulsey arrived. The big detective removed his rubber gloves and tucked them in his back pocket. “That’s weird,” he said.
“What is?” David asked.
“Well, a Caucasian car thief hauls ass across the South for more than forty-eight hours, maybe longer, just to come here to Atlanta—the fucking Bluff of all places—and then helps with the kidnapping of two black girls?” Hulsey shook his head. “Just weird.”
“You think they’re unconnected?”
“Yeah, I think they’re unconnected. But he still saw something at Dodson’s Store, and I wanna know what, and why he ran off like that. Maybe if I help ATTF find their man, their man will help me find Kaley and Shannon Dupré.”
Beatrice, who had been quiet throughout the conversation, spoke up. “David here thinks it was the vory v zakone. Ain’t that what you said earlier?”
David stiffened again. He knew that Hulsey was one of those guys who didn’t like needless speculation, especially from people who weren’t detectives. Hulsey himself had obeyed that rule when he was a beat cop; never second guessed a detective or voiced his opinion in the presence of another detective, nor in front of David himself when they worked out together.
Hulsey grimaced. He lifted a finger and pointed up the street. “Here comes the tow truck.”
The big man walked back to his car, folded the collar down from his long coat, and hopped inside. His sedan rocked hard and tilted to one side as he settled in. He started it up, and drove off with a lifted index finger as his only farewell.
David turned to Beatrice, and said, “Please, please, if you were ever my friend and wanted to help me make detective, don’t ever tell Leon Hulsey that you or I have an opinion.”
Beatrice thought about that for a second, and made a hissing sound. “Oops. Sorry, Dave.”
“Don’t worry about it.” David said it a little more sharply than he’d intended. He wasn’t really cognizant of it, but he was still upset over what the guy at Dodson’s (“Mac” Abernathy) had called him earlier. Fake-ass nigga. He had thought he could drop it, leave it behind like he had so many other times before. But he couldn’t. Not tonight.
And now Hurley, and Beatrice’s indiscretion…
David looked at who was hopping out of the tow truck. “C’mon,” he said. “Looks like they sent Saul. He’s got that bad knee and moves slower than a snail in Jell-O. We’re gonna have to help him if we wanna get outta this weather.”
The clouds had moved in from nowhere. They were thin, spread out. They didn’t look like rainclouds at all. David looked about the street, and saw that they still had an audience. In fact, it had grown. Three woman in the skankiest clothes now stood at the corner of the block, just staring at them. They were staring at the truck. They’re drawn to it, he thought for half a second, then walked over to greet Saul.
Yes. A strange night.
Leon Hulsey drove a couple blocks away to Brandi’s Grill, where he sat for a moment, thinking. There were only two other cars parked near him, waiting for the curbside service Brandi’s was known for. When Theresa, one of the waitresses, had approached his door, he’d waved her away.
The Tacoma and its thief had him vexed. “It’s not easy to know how to hotwire that many cars,” he said out loud. To think better, Leon liked to get away from people and have a conversation with himself. He knew that they would think him weird, so he always sought seclusion and hammered it out. “There’s no universal color-code system for the wires underneath ignition covers.” He thought for a moment. “Only an owner’s manual would have that much information, let you know which wires are which, but a car thief in a hurry like this guy couldn’t stop to consult every single owner’s manual in every single car he targeted. It would take too long.” He nodded to himself. “Yep. Besides, not all of the cars would have the owner’s manuals inside.”
He glanced outside. Theresa had walked up to him again to check on him. Leon waved her away again, watching her sashay her ass in those tight blue jeans. Half the reason he came to Brandi’s Grill right there, because the hot dogs and burgers were shit for sure.
The rain had slackened to a light drizzle again. Rivulets ran down his windshield, and Leon watched them merge and form temporary rivers before separating again.
“But a pro would know that the red pair is usually the set that provides power to the car,” Leon went on, sussing it out. “And the brown, which can be a single wire or a pair of wires
depending on the car, handles the starter. A pro would know that, too. Sure. Someone who had done this a lot. No standard booster or avid Grand Theft Auto video gamer.” He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. “No, not like that. A lifer. Done this since he was old enough to look over the dashboard. For sure.”
Leon considered the kinds of cars that had been selected. The thief, whoever he was, had selected all models of cars that didn’t have the locking mechanism that would require a key before unlocking the steering column. Had the thief tried it on, say, a Mercury, he would’ve been able to start it but wouldn’t have been able to turn the steering wheel. “A lifer. For sure. Knew which models to look for. Yeah. For sure.”
Leon tapped his teeth for a moment, ruminating, then reached over to the passenger’s seat and lifted an issue of The Dark Knight Returns. He hadn’t removed it from its flimsy plastic wrapper yet, and savored removing it now, just as much as he then savored flipping through the pages and sniffing the age. This was an old Frank Miller special, one of the greatest runs an artist or a writer ever had on a comic series. Leon hardly read comics anymore, but he enjoyed the artistry, the pageantry and the mythology. Miller’s gritty, film noir-style of art particularly appealed to him. The streets weren’t clean in Miller’s universe like most cities appeared in comics or film. The streets were filthy, grimy, all the people had rought lines on their faces that showed how hard the world had been on them, how it had abused them before moving on without them.
Like Atlanta, Leon thought, glancing up at the rough streets of the Bluff all around, and the juxtaposed skyscrapers looming miles away. He looked back down. The comic provided a temporary distraction, one that settled the growing black tumor of knowledge that he’d been trying to avoid ever since he peeked inside the Tacoma. There was no denying it. It’s one of Pat’s guys. For sure.
Yes. For sure. His grandpop had passed down this piece of advice: “If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, an’ quacks like a duck, then it’s a safe bet you don’t got an orangutan’s smelly turd on yer hands.” If it wasn’t one of Pat’s guys, then Pat would know him. Leon was willing to bet on that.
For a moment he continued flipping through the pages of his comic. He took in the rough textures, ran his finger across the faces of the characters like he did as a kid, almost expecting to feel them. He considered where he’d be now if he had opted for the art scholarship instead of following his father’s footsteps.
“Why are you stalling, Leon?” he asked himself sternly. “What else can it be? Remember what Grandpop said.” He gave it another moment’s thought, then nodded his certainty. “So that’s it, then,” Leon said, closing the comic book and putting it back in its plastic wrapper. “Pat’s Auto.” He still doubted it had anything to do with the kidnapping—nothing else about it lined up—but it was worth a shot to see what Pat, or one of Pat’s drivers, might know.
Leon cranked up his sedan, backed out of Brandi’s with a final wave to Theresa, and then headed for Terrell Street. It had been a peculiar thing, trying to find reasons not to go to his brother-in-law’s chop shop, but no one ever said being a cop was easy.
5
Pat pulled out a Caran D’Ache lighter, and lit the cigarette pressed between his lips. He obviously did it without thought to show off, but to Spencer the black Chinese lacquer finish on the lighter was a sign of just how high Pat had risen. He offered a cig to Spencer, who declined. Some people thought beer and cigarettes went hand in hand, but Spencer had a different philosophy. He’d smoked Marlboros earlier in lieu of a beer, but he had a good buzz going on now so to hell with the nicotine.
There was a loud clanging outside, and someone shouted. Pat huffed and went to do the door. He stepped outside and started hollering at Eddie and the other grease monkeys. Spencer remained in his seat, leaning back and staring up at the spackled ceiling and listening to the light tinkling of rain on the roof, thinking about all the nights spent in the joint with little else to do but listen to the rain, or talk to Martin Horowitz.
When Pat plopped back down his squeaky chair, he did so with a sigh and a rueful shake of the head. It was interesting to see him behave in such a way, like a man with actual responsibilities. “And so,” he said, taking a toke of his cigarette (it was a brand with a name Spencer couldn’t pronounce). “When last we left our hero, his stupid ass was locked up inside Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. An’ now fo’ our excitin’ conclusion, folks. How will Spencer Adam Pelletier escape the evil clutches of the Man an’ keep his asshole virginity intact? Stay tuned.”
Spencer took a sip of his Bud. There was only a quarter of the bottle left, and he held it up to the light and sloshed it around for a moment. “I already told you,” he said. “They opened the door for me and I walked out.”
“Uh huh. The full story, if ya please, sir? Pray tell.”
He sloshed a bit of the beer around again, considering how much he ought to tell. He shrugged, and figured, Why not everything. “I was transferred from CRC, Coyote Ridge Corrections, which is a state prison in Washington.”
Pat nodded. “I know the place. Remember Enrique Lopez? Gay-ass Puerto Rican with a lisp? His brother locked up in that joint.”
Spencer continued. “They were initially going to send me to a level-three maximum-security prison, one down in Tennessee, but then a few inmates at CRC lied on me, said that I’d been givin’ them all these threats of violence. I did get in a fight with one o’ them—this one fella who stepped to me, he was a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, an’ the AB don’t forget. Since I was about to be moved out soon, and would be away from the reach o’ their vengeance, they concocted a story that had me attacking a whole bunch of ’em during the six short weeks I was there. They claimed to all be scared of me. They did this and presented the one AB guy whose ass I’d beaten in the shower room as evidence. It was a last ditch and pathetic effort. One that worked.
“They sent me to Leavenworth after a reevaluation of my conduct and misbehaviors. A prison shrink named Armand suggested at one point that I might be a psychopath. I never paid that label much mind, but as it would turn out, I guess he was right. I’d done a good job blending in at CRC. I carried myself like a lifer, an’ everyone seemed to regard me as someone who’d been around prison for a long time, even if it wasn’t that prison. But the AB’s lie ended up helping to expose me for what I really am.”
“What’choo really are?” Pat said, blowing out his smoke with a quizzical face.
“A psychopath,” Spencer said, shrugging. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”
“They actually diagnose muthafuckas with that? I thought that was just a word.”
“They gave me the PCL-R. The Psychopath Checklist-Revised. It’s a forty-point personality test. The test isn’t given to everyone, only some people. Doctors actually have to pay royalties to this guy named Dr. Hare, the guy who invented it, like the way radio stations have to pay Prince a little bit o’ money every time they play one o’ his songs.” He took a sip and shrugged again. “So, they don’t use it very often, and Dr. Hare even suggested that it not be used too liberally, only when a clinician is highly confident that a subject warrants testing.”
“Warrants testin’?”
“Needs it,” he clarified. “The head doc up at Leavenworth was a guy named McCulloch, an’ he agreed with Armand back at CRC that I needed the PCL-R. It tests a person in two main categories or factors, Personality and Case History, which are divvied up into twenty subcategories. The Personality Test has to do with things like pathological lying, cunning and manipulation, lack of remorse, lack of empathy, aggressive narcissism, shit like that, ya know?” Pat nodded, but he did so slowly. To Spencer, his old acquaintance had the look of a man who had just realized he was in quicksand, and didn’t want to move too much or else he might sink faster. Is he wondering how long I’ve been a psycho? Is he wondering if it’s somethin’ he can catch? Spencer had to fight the smile. “The Case History Test looks for things in the
past that back up what’s being seen in the subject in the present—childhood shit like early behavior problems, juvenile delinquency, a need for stimulation, impulsiveness, and a proneness to boredom. The highest score a person can get is a forty, but that’s incredibly rare. I scored a thirty-six.” Pat nodded. Spencer added, “That’s pretty high.”
“No, I got it,” Pat said. “I feel ya. What parts didn’t you score high in?”
Spencer took another sip, belched. “Apparently, I show no signs of a parasitic lifestyle—I don’t tend to cling onto others and feed off of ’em—and I don’t necessarily have a grandiose sense of self-worth as most psychos do. Dr. McCulloch actually commented that I’m, quote, ‘Quite humble.’ ”
“Pshhh. Humble? You? My fuckin’ ass.”
Again, Spencer shrugged. “I’m just tellin’ you what they told me. McCulloch said my superficial charm conceals it. He said he thinks that I like to pretend I have a grandiose sense of self-worth, but only because he suspects that I have discovered how many people find large egos attractive—men respect those kind o’ men, even if they don’t like them, and women find them attractive and controlling. In short, I apparently pretend to view myself as High an’ Mighty because it helps me control weak-minded people. It’s actually what gave me the highest score in the manipulation section of the test.” Spencer downed the last of his Bud, tossed the bottle into the garbage bin, and snorted derisively. “Thus spoke the Great and Powerful Oz!”
Pat managed a smile. Spencer watched him closely. Was he just now smiling because he sensed it was time to smile? Did he think he needed to smile because the psychopath required him to? Spencer thought he detected a glimmer of uncertainty in Pat’s eyes. He’s recollecting all of our past encounters, all the times we worked together, an’ reevaluating each moment. Spencer figured that was fine, because ever since he’d received Dr. McCulloch’s diagnosis, he’d done the same thing, too. How else does one react when their told they don’t have emotions? At least, none that are quite like those the rest of the human race experiences.
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