by Robert Lane
“We reviewed it. Unfortunately, it’s focused on the cash register, not the restrooms.”
I decided to go all in. Jenny, as far as I could ascertain, was alive despite having been kidnapped three times. Her luck had to be close to quitting time. “Someone owes Vegas a bundle of money,” I said. “But instead of paying his debt, he decided to keep it himself. He needs to silence Jenny to bury the money trail.”
“Our organization has extensive interests in Vegas—”
“I imagine so.” I realized I had cut him off.
“And Mr. Duke performs a wide variety of work for us.”
“So you said.”
He held my gaze for a moment. “He discovered an unusual connection between the missing girl and my missing funds. It wasn’t at all that obvious.”
Did Dangelo or his organization know Rutledge? I could have stared at the board all day and not seen that coming.
“I believe you stated,” I said, “that you don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Yes.” The right side of his mustache curled up; I’d not seen that before with him. “It bodes well for a man if he’s a good listener.”
“It bodes well if we stop our prancing. Let me guess. Someone she came in contact with is an individual you extended unsecured credit to.”
Dangelo settled back into his chair. “We believe that to be the case.”
“Eric Rutledge,” I said. He tried not to flinch, but his jaw clenched, and I hadn’t seen that before either. Uncle Joe was in the cooker. “When did you make the connection?”
“He was good,” Dangelo replied. “He avoided the security camera at the Winking Lizard. But Eugene, when we showed him a picture, remembered him loitering before closing time. You see”—he dismissed the waitress with a wave of his hand when she was still six feet out—“we just connected the dots this morning.”
“We’re on parallel tracks. How did you get here?”
Dangelo waited a beat then came in. “Mr. Duke was conducting some idle research on the girl’s—Ms. Spencer’s—encounter with the sheriff’s office. He recognized…he uncovered the name of someone who owed us some money.”
“But you accused me.”
“Covering my bases, much like you.”
“You had his picture?”
“Such people, who owe us a considerable sum, are known throughout the organization.”
“Duke trips over the connection. You flash a picture to Eugene; he confirms that Rutledge was in the bar, but now he’s gone.”
“Yes, although you’re eliding one item that baffles us. Why was Eric Rutledge stowed away in my bar? Why that bar, Jacob? Who led him there?”
I blew my breath out. Lying wouldn’t advance my cause. “I might have slipped up a bit, Joe.”
A laugh escaped him. “Forgive my humorous response, but such a lighthearted admission seems so…unbecoming of you.”
I shrugged. “I’m not a virgin.”
“No,” he said with a chuckle, “I suppose none of us is.” I’m glad he found the thing so damn amusing. “Strange, isn’t it?” he wondered. “A man you trusted is now the man you chase, but here you and I sit working through our issues in a civilized manner.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “Rutledge creates an unusual challenge for you. He wears a badge, and you can’t go in and manhandle him the way you normally operate. You can’t afford to have ‘cop killer’ on your résumé.”
“Such talk. He reached in and took a drink of water. He placed it back on the table. “But since you opened the binder, I’ll remind you that your résumé is, as I’ve already stated, remarkably stark. Yet you hardly seem a man of inaction.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“The woman you so—”
“Your turn to be careful. ‘Very careful’ is, I believe, how you put it.” Our eyes were locked in a death grip. Dangelo nodded his head up and down; I tilted forward. “Measure your words, Joe. This ain’t no dress rehearsal.”
“Well…” He took a breath and sat forward. “Ms. Spencer and—”
“Keep it simple.”
He let his breath out evenly and said in a measured voice, “We would have no interest in you, your associates, or your friends, past or present. Frankly, Jacob, we would be in your debt.”
Dangelo was offering a peace treaty that he wouldn’t delve into Kathleen’s past. I had to assume at that point that he was suspicious that Kathleen was the former Lauren Cunningham whose husband had been murdered days before he was to testify against the Outfit, Dangelo’s association. He also likely surmised I was responsible for the deaths of four of his men who had been sent to silence her. Furthermore, he seemed to realize that his organization, as I knew, had overreacted when they sent the four men after her.
“Do we have an agreement?” he asked.
“And if I’m unable to find the money or Rutledge?”
“I have great faith in you. But in that unlikely event, I’ll consider the mere act of your effort to seal our agreement. How did that Native American put it? ‘I will fight no more forever.’”
“A good omen.”
“How so?”
“His name was Chief Joseph.”
Dangelo smiled, but it seemed to take something out of him. I stood, took a step toward him, and said, “You’re in debt to me now. You just don’t know it.” I didn’t wait for a reply.
On the way out, I paused in front of Chuck Duke. “What do you think?” I asked him. “Pedophile or not?”
“Dodgson?”
I nodded.
“No doubt. He would have done well with an organization like ours.”
CHAPTER 37
I hit the front door and smacked into a morning deluge. I wanted to check my phone, so I ducked into a real estate office next to the restaurant. I told the receptionist, a substantial lady with a doughnut in her hand, that I was seeking refuge from the rain. She smiled, placed her pastry on her mouse pad, and handed me a sticky card. Toni Shaffer, she said, wasn’t in at the moment. Refuge seeker or not, I was a potential client.
I checked my calls and punched Binelli’s number. She picked up on the second ring.
“Talk to me,” I said.
“I found your man.”
“And?”
“Wallace Eric Rutledge.”
“No wonder he went with ‘Eric.’ Now tell me why’s he in your database.”
“We keep a file on law enforcement personnel with gambling issues. A study a year ago showed they were the most susceptible to crossing the line. His name is on the list. Declared bankruptcy twice and has jumped around. Lee County is his third stop in seven years. But his record is clean, except for one incident. Gun—”
“What was that?” I realized she was going to tell me, but I’d jumped in with my question.
“Gunned down a suspect during a drug raid. Went in himself. Some money was never recovered. There was an investigation, and he was cleared. But judging by the length of the investigation, it wasn’t exactly open-and-shut.”
“Did you look into it?”
“The drug raid?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure, I read the seven hundred pages while soaking in the tub this morning. We’re talking CliffsNotes. Got it?”
“He owes money to Dangelo.”
“Come at me again.”
“Just met with Uncle Joe. He claims Rutledge owes their Vegas branch.”
“My, oh my, oh my. What a tiny little world we live in. The Nevada guys are above Dangelo’s pay grade. The heat must be on him.”
I thought of his facial twitches and wondered just what type of conversations Dangelo was having with the pay grade above him. “Any known addresses? Family? Anything else you can give me?” I asked.
“Divorced twice, no kids.”
“Address?”
“No longer in your neck of the woods, although he grew up just south of you. Only parcel under his name now is in Lee County.”
I was disappointe
d at that. I was hoping Rutledge still owned property around Tampa Bay. It would have been a convenient place to stash Jenny and the cash. No way would he use his personal residence.
“Heavy gambler?” I asked. It was a moot question. I was stalling as, in the back of my mind, I was formulating my final assault on Binelli.
“An addict. Remember, you didn’t get any of this from me.”
“Any record of Vegas debt?” Still stalling.
“No, not that he doesn’t have Vegas debt. We just have no way of knowing that.”
It was now or never. “Can I put your picture on the team website?”
“You work for a shadow agency, right? Some well-financed rogue branch?” It sounded rehearsed. She had made up her mind based on what I would say. FBI Special Agent Natalie Binelli and I were going to settle this here and now.
“At times. Certainly not on this case, which is why I’ve been badgering you. I get into situations where I need another source, where I need help. I can’t always go to my agency, and even when I can, it’s often not enough—like at Escobar’s when we freed those girls.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem? The problem, Vassar, is I never know whether you’re all in. I sense that any phone call could be our last, and I can’t have that. I need to know.”
The line was quiet, and the receptionist switched her doughnut to her other hand. She picked up a call. I pressed my phone hard against my ear.
“You know what I want,” Binelli said.
“How much?”
“Oh, no, cowboy. You’re not even in the right playing field, and you know it. That stupid comment just got you two strikes. One more, and I hang up.”
“You need to be crystal clear.”
“And so do you. The truth. Would you have?” She laid it out. “Would you have busted my wrist that night in Escobar’s kitchen if I hadn’t gone along with your half-brained scheme to save those girls?”
“Without hesitation.”
“Busted my wrist to get your pissant way.”
“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t think you’d let me, and I’m glad you didn’t. But lives were in danger. Before we closed, one man was missing his head, one had bled out on the living room floor, one was floating facedown in the bay, and Elvis had lost half his blood. That’s not an uncommon scene for—”
“I’ll play with you.”
It took a second to register. “Understand what I’m saying?”
“Crystal,” Binelli threw back at me. “I just wanted to make sure you could tell me, and yourself, the truth before joining your little Sunday school group. If I ever reach the point where it’s our last conversation, I’ll let you know; I’ll finish whatever deal we’re on then shut the door. Agreed?”
“Fair enough.”
“And Jake?”
“Yeah?” I don’t believe she had ever addressed me by my name.
“Those other times I asked you, and you said you didn’t know?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever lie to me again.” The line went dead.
“Okay.”
I turned to thank the receptionist for offering me sanctuary. She had dropped her phone and doughnut and was staring at me. “Not that Elvis,” I said.
The rain had stopped. I stepped onto the steamy pavement and instantly jumped back up against the building as two female joggers brushed past me. Both were drenched in sweat and rain. I held eye contact long enough with the one wearing the Rays visor to count as sex. I found Garrett leaning against my truck.
“Why the smirk?” he asked, as I climbed behind the wheel. He went around to the passenger’s side.
“Binelli. We’ve reached terms of an agreement.”
“What sealed the deal?”
“I told the truth.”
He grunted, and I recounted my conversation with her.
My energy surge created by Binelli’s information dissipated like a fog lifting off the water. I thought I had reached an agreement with Dangelo that if I found—meaning turned over to him—his money, not only would he not look into Kathleen’s past, but I also might be in a position to call in a favor one day. Even if I came up empty-handed, I didn’t think he was a threat to Kathleen. I’ll consider the mere act of your effort to seal our agreement. He had nothing to gain by going after her and had already indicated his associates realized she wasn’t a threat, and they, like me, had overplayed their hand. In full disclosure, they did end up dead, and I was whistling “Dixie,” but I was willing to let minor imbalances slide.
What Dangelo didn’t know was that while he had talked, my mind had flashed to Kathleen’s hardwood floor. Words ring so hallow. I wouldn’t take a chance. At the end of the road, Dangelo would understand in perfect terms why he would volunteer for a slow death before any harm ever befell Kathleen. “Do we have an agreement?” he had asked.
I hadn’t answered.
And Jenny? I was getting close; I knew it. One break. One tip, and she was mine. I needed her. For herself. For Susan. To keep Kathleen’s past where it belonged. To keep myself from losing.
CHAPTER 38
Jenny
She opened her eyes.
I’m a big girl.
Red crayon markings on the floor. Now black. Now red. “Run” played from far away. Down a long hall. A forgotten hall. A song about an imagined world. About putting yourself in better times. A title that described her life. At first, she was just taken with the restrained soft voice that fronted the lush orchestra and heart-tugging strings. When she’d read what the lyrics were intended to mean, however, she’d adopted it as her anthem. But it was fading—the hope for a better life, creating her own place by the sea. The belief that the emotional tug of a song could actually shape a life. What a crock-shit full of illusions, she thought. And sooner or later, they all melt away like snowflakes on a spring day.
The stuff you’ve got to figure out on your own.
She lay on her side with her head on her hand. She heard and felt her heartbeat through her wrist. It stopped. She passed out. She woke. She considered, What was the last thing I heard when I thought my heart had stopped? Nothing. Not even the static of an empty frequency. There you have it—the smell of forgotten and the sound of death.
A beach, she thought. A place in the sun. Was that too much to ask? Something had gone wrong on the beach. What was it? She tried to focus, but her mind was a swirl of images. She was back on her father’s boat, and she smelled the wood, for old boats smelled their weight. She felt the pump handle in her tight, oily fist then saw him as he walked out of the mangroves. But he’s dead. No…no…no. Did I say it out loud? Don’t even think that. She blacked out again, and this time she surrendered to the concrete floor. She went back to her father, back to when it was good. To the last trip to Club 57, the waterfront bar. It played in her head as if someone had stuck in a DVD.
I’m a big girl.
It was the last summer, which was only the second summer, that they had shared the Trojan. It was just the two of them, and it was the time of the year that got hung up in nowhere. It was hot, but not July hot. It was as if the earth was a grill that had been turned off but still radiated heat. There was no wind, like whatever had caused the early summer gusts had packed up and gone home. Good-bye. I’m gone. The planet had stopped revolving and finally come to rest before its next big convulsion. In September, in Ohio, the earth sleeps.
Jenny had spotted a vacant picnic table on the deck that hung over the water before Larry had even docked at Club 57. After she had tied the bowline—her responsibility—she sprinted ahead of Larry to secure the prize. Like mid-September, Jenny was starting to transition. She still carried Puddles, her stuffy, but Larry noticed she was getting self-conscious about it. She had spent a week at Camp Tecumseh, and Larry figured that part of her innocence had stayed in those woods. He didn’t know whether she left it or it was taken, nor was he one to dwell on such things.
Jenny took her seat at the picnic table
and heard a loud smack and a grunt. She looked up and saw her father towering over a man who was sprawled on the ground next to the bright blue hostess stand that had been built into the side of a gnarly maple tree. Larry’s right hand was balled into a fist, his face redder than anytime she’d ever seen, and a vein the size of the Ohio River rode his neck until it disappeared under his faded red Buckeyes 2002 championship T-shirt. Three men with bandannas around their heads and Harley T-shirts—“bikers,” her daddy once had called them; some of the nicest guys you’d ever meet—sat on picnic benches with their eyes darting between Larry and their comrade, who now lay on the concrete, staring at the underside of the tree and making no effort to improve his position.
“Anyone else?” Larry asked, as he stood over the table. Fist tight. The Ohio River about to break its levee.
“Take it easy, boss,” the man with long braids and wearing a Hog’s Breath Harley T-shirt said. (Jenny had seen so many Key West Hog’s Breath T-shirts at Club 57 that she once had asked her father if Key West was somewhere in Columbus.) “The only thing I’m gonna do is hit him myself when that stupid son of a bitch gets to his sorry-ass feet. You just need to accept our apologies. Follow me?”
Jenny saw her father shrink as if he was leaking air. His fist went back to being a hand. He blew his breath out and nodded at the man. He walked over to Jenny.
“What happened, Daddy?”
“Nothing for you to be concerned with.” He took the bench across from her, waited a beat as if figuring something out in his head, and then said, “Let’s switch sides, Jen.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll have the better view.”
“I thought you just did that for Mom.”
“Well…it’s time I did it for you. You’re a big girl now.” And they did switch sides, and Jenny looked out over the lake and sandbar and tossed french fries to the grateful ducks and carp below.
You’re a big girl now. You’re a big girl now.
I’m a big girl now.
She sat up and brushed her hair away from her face. There was red crayon in her hair. How odd, she thought. She felt the crayon. Crusty, not a waxy substance at all. Blood.