“And at the risk of sounding shallow,” I interrupted, “he’s good- looking himself. She’s probably got a target-rich environment, if you know what I mean. She knows she’s onstage and can pick from the audience.”
“Someone in their age r-range, I would suspect. M-Maybe a little older.”
“But not Daddy,” Diane said. “You said your friend Richards profiled these girls as being far from home, not necessarily close to family, independent-minded. I see that as a girl running away from Daddy, not to one.”
“Someone who appears stable. Has a job. Isn’t in there scraping change together or begging off a tab. These girls have seen enough of that.”
“Someone s-safe. Or p-perceived to be safe,” said Billy. “They see a lot of quick hit hustle going on b-between pickup and bar stool relationships every night.”
“All right,” said Diane. “We’ve got a good-looking guy with an aura of something out of the ordinary who appears stable, self- sufficient, not boring, smart and makes you feel safe.”
The table went quiet for too long. I was staring into my coffee cup and when I raised my eyes they were both looking at me.
“Where were you on the night of January third?” Diane said with that mischievous look in her eyes.
“It fits you, M-Max. And your friend, O’Shea,” Billy said.
“Who doesn’t trust a cop, off-duty, in a bar?” Diane said. “Especially a blue-collar girl from a blue-collar neighborhood.”
“I’m not a cop anymore, and neither is O’Shea,” I said, going on the defensive.
“The problem with all this dime-store psychoanalysis is that none of us knows what the women were looking for to let themselves fall into this trap. And that’s if they fell at all and aren’t tending bar in Cancún or Freeport or Houston for Christ’s sake,” I said. “And what’s the killer’s motive in all this if they were abducted?”
This time I got up myself and poured the final cup from the coffeemaker.
“They’re lonely, Max,” Diane said, answering the first question. “You don’t use logic to explain what one person sees in another to save them from loneliness.”
She slipped her hand under Billy’s.
“Just like m-most abusers, rapists, it’s not about sex,” Billy said. “The guy is trying to control something and can’t, not even himself.”
“Colin O’Shea doesn’t want control that bad,” I said. “Hell. He never wanted it when he did have it.”
“I agree,” said Billy.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. If he gets arrested, Max. Tell him t-to call m-me.”
“I appreciate it, Billy,” I said, and looked at Diane, who was now squeezing Billy’s hand.
“And let’s all pray for Cancún,” Diane said.
CHAPTER 17
Marci woke Sunday morning thinking: “How did I do this to myself again?”
She could feel it hardening in the back of her head, that uncomfortable guilt and self-admonishment like she’d put off studying for a midterm until the date of the test or once again forgotten to check the oil in her car and knew that her father would back it out to move it from blocking his truck and see the light on and say “Didn’t I tell you? That engine is going to seize up on you, young lady, and that’s it. You’re walking.”
But this was worse. She was in too deep again with a man and shit, she was starting to tell it wasn’t going to work. She was lying in bed, naked under just a sheet and watching the lines of sunlight streak through the blinds and crawl across the wall. It had to be eleven. He’d been gone since seven because he was working that daytime alpha shift or whatever they called it. She pressed a pillow tighter in between her legs and felt the bruise on the outside of her thigh. It was still that high, purple color of an underripe plum and was just getting a thin ring of yellow around its edge. He’d punched her a good one when she grabbed the cell phone out of his hand and kept right on bitching about him checking all her call-back log numbers.
OK, maybe she was overreacting. It was just his nature, wanting to know everything about her and who she was talking to all the time. It’s what cops do, right? Born investigators and always need to know what’s going on, he said. Christ knows she’d been with guys who didn’t want to know a damn thing about her except whether she’d put out on the first half-drunken date. And so what if he called her at work a dozen times a night? He just wanted to hear her voice, he said. He was always asking if she could get out early because he missed her. Shit, when was the last time she had a boyfriend who showed her that much attention?
She rolled over to her nightstand and took a drink from the bottle of spring water. There was an empty tumbler next to it that he’d filled with Maker’s Mark. The man could drink. Her daddy would be pissed off about that, pull that holier-than-thou on her even if he was the one who got her that first bartending job at the VFW in Eagleton. But the police officer part, he’d be proud of that. A law- abiding, respected man who would protect you when I’m gone. And he’d been gone, what, four years now?
She could still see him sometimes in her worst dreams at night, coming through the mudroom door, stumbling, and her father never stumbled. The frigid air from outside seemed to have ushered him in, the white vapor billowing off his overalls and jacket and coming with short, erratic puffs from the misshapen hole of a mouth. His big jaw was lopsided and hanging like a flour box tilted and about to fall off the edge of a counter.
“Daddy?” She could hear herself say the word and the brittle sound of it usually jerked her out of her sleep before she had to endure the sight of him falling, helplessly, against gravity and death to the linoleum floor. One eye was dropped and already sightless, but the other was clear and blue and wide like he was trying to record as much of his daughter’s image as he could in the seconds he had left.
She had stood alone next to an uncle at her father’s burial. The marble marker that held her mother’s name, the one she had been taught to pray at from the time of her first memories, was replaced by a single headstone bearing both her parents’ names. For some reason when she recalled that day, she remembered the clods of earth piled up on the grave, misshapen hunks yanked out of the frozen ground and too ice-hardened to smooth out. And she also remembered swearing to herself, “To hell with the rules. I’m leaving this place before it kills me.”
Yes, Daddy would like the idea of her dating a cop. But he wouldn’t like the rule breaking. And man could Kyle break the rules. That thing with the patrol car on the expressway. She thought she was going to pee! Then the drinking, while he was driving! “So what’s to worry? They’re not exactly going to pull me over.”
And that time he was picking her up and before she could get to the curb those punks with the leather and nose-buttons started wolfing on her? She’d never seen anyone move so fast. She had ignored the two and went to open Kyle’s passenger door and all she could figure later was that he had popped open his own side at the same time. When she sat down and her eyes cleared the roofline, he was gone, like a magic trick. A yelp from the sidewalk snapped her head around and there he was. One of the rivet boys was up against the wall of Nadine’s Nail Design, hands up flat on the brick, legs spread and shaky. Kyle had the other one hooked by a fistful of black T-shirt and she heard the splat of that police billy club thing against the slick leather of his pant leg. When Kyle had them both against the wall she could tell he was talking but keeping his tone low, like he did sometimes with her when he got pissed and all she could hear was that low bass rumbling that came from his chest. She stayed in her seat, knew, even that early in their relationship, not to enter that bristling zone of electric air that surrounded him.
He was up close to the guys, in between them, his jaws working and both of them seemed like they didn’t even want to turn their heads to look at him. She could tell what he was doing with the club that was now in front of him. She thought he was going to step down when the one on the left bobbed his head, saying something, and suddenly Kyle had
a piece of the guy’s ear, ring and all, in his grip, stretching it like the guy was some kinda Gumby toy and she could hear the dude whining: “OK, OK, man. OK.”
Only then, after he made the guy cry, did he back away and come around and get back in the car as cool and unruffled as though he’d just checked on a locked door during some night patrol.
“Jesus, Kyle,” she’d said as he started the car. “What was that about?”
“I don’t let street turds like that insult my girl,” he said, looking over at her, giving her that closed-mouth smile.
They had sex that afternoon at her apartment in a straight- backed kitchen chair and when he’d dropped his belt and the butt of that gun hit the floor she’d felt it thump in her heart and Christ, there was that guilt thing again. But she couldn’t help herself for getting off on the excitement and twinge of danger that the guy carried around with him. What girl didn’t like that page of fantasy that had her man standing up for her honor?
So why was she still lying in bed knowing, not just thinking, but knowing, that it wasn’t going to work out and she was going to have to go through that whole high school–like breakup thing that never changed no matter how old you got. She watched the lines of sunlight hit the corner of her room like bars of paint and with each minute shear off at a new angle. Scared to tell him? Yeah, maybe. That whole thing with him disappearing out of Kim’s when those other cops came in. The punch he’d bruised her with last night. Did he hit her high on the thigh because he knew it wouldn’t show? That people wouldn’t ask her what happened? They learn about that, cops did, didn’t they? Sure, he’d snapped at her before, but he always apologized, always told her how sorry he was and how much he really, really cared about her. But what had once been flattering and endearing was starting to make her feel wary, like one of Daddy’s stewing rabbits out in the pens in the barn. They’d get petted and fed and cooed at for being so cute and fluffy but every older kid knew what happened to stewing rabbits when it was time. Kyle was waiting for something. And there was no way she was going to wait and see what it was.
CHAPTER 18
I was up in north West Palm Beach, three blocks from the hotel where Rodrigo was staying, waiting for him to meet me under the huge poinciana near the corner of Twelfth and Wright streets. The “flame tree” Rodrigo called it, because it was the time of year when the poincianas bloomed and the trees’ blossoms were thick and the color of fire feeding off an unlimited supply of clean, dry wood.
I parked my truck in the shade of the tree’s canopy and watched as the earliest blossoms, already leached of their life, fell on my hood like splotches of paint. The soiled orange color made me think of the scar on Rodrigo’s face and then there he was across the street. He was walking with his eyes down, hands in his pockets in the unobtrusive but wary manner that people other than beat cops will never notice.
“Mr. Max,” he said, climbing into the cab.
“Rodrigo, Kumusta ka?”
“OK,” he said and immediately, wanting to please, pulled a sheet of ruled notebook paper from his jacket pocket and smoothed it on his thigh before handing it to me.
“For Mr. Manchester. Names of others hurt in the fire,” he said and his eyes looked up through the windshield into the blossoms and he blew a short whoof of air from his nose at the irony of meeting under an umbrella of flame to discuss the matter at hand.
“But they are afraid,” he said. “For the jobs they are afraid to talk to you, Mr. Max.”
“Has anyone been scaring them, Rodrigo? Has there been anyone talking about organizing some kind of labor union or threatening you not to?”
The small man averted his eyes and his short, thick fingers went nervous.
“There is always talk. But only in whispers, Mr. Max. And we are only a few here now and we know it takes numbers, this union.”
I reached into the space behind his seat and took the manila folder Billy had given me and showed him the DOC photos of the Hix brothers.
“Have you seen these men? Talking with the workers or just hanging around?”
He studied the faces, holding them side by side.
“This is the one,” he finally said, fluttering the picture of David Hix, whose jaw I had broken with the top of my head.
“He is big, like you. Yes, Mr. Max?”
“Yeah, he’s big. Where?”
“He big here.” The little Filipino patted his stomach with both hands. “Fat, here.”
“No, no,” I said, unable to keep from smiling. “Where did you see him?”
“I see him at the food stand. Not talk to nobody. Sit and watch. Just watch.”
I wondered if Hix had seen me with Rodrigo and his friend the week before, if that had been enough to put him on to me by someone who had hired him to look big and ugly in front of the workers.
“I watch him follow the, the, what you say?” Rodrigo said, putting his fingers to his thumb and finger to his mouth.
“Smokers,” I said. “He followed the guys when they went for a smoke?”
“Yes, to the alley.”
Bat Man liked the alleys.
“And he hit someone?”
“No hit. Push and threaten. With huh! Huh! Mouth not work.”
My cell phone rang and I took the folder and replaced it while answering.
“Yeah?”
“Freeman? It’s O’Shea.”
“Don’t tell me you’re already in jail.”
“No. Not yet. I took a few days off work and I’m trying to lay low. Did you ask your man Manchester about me? I mean, I don’t have a lot of cash, Freeman, but I’d feel a hell of a lot better if I had some back-up on this.”
Rodrigo was staring out at the tree shade, trying to be invisible. Unlike in the new American cell phone society, conversations between individuals were still considered private events in his world.
“I talked to him. You can call his number if they arrest you,” I said to O’Shea.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But he doesn’t do this thing often, O’Shea. So it’s a favor to me and since you’ve got some time, you might be able to help me to help you.”
“Name it.”
“Meet me in the parking lot in front of Big Louie’s in the Gateway Shopping Center at eight,” I said.
“All right. You, ah, need me to be carrying?”
“Not that kind of help,” I said.
“I’ve got a carry permit, for the security job,” he said, getting defensive.
“You really think it’s a good idea to be carrying a gun when you’re waiting for the sheriff’s office to pick you up on an arrest warrant?”
He didn’t answer and Rodrigo was cutting an occasional look at me. He knew enough English to be uncomfortable with what he was overhearing.
“Just meet me, Colin. I’ll give you what you need to carry.”
I punched off the phone and apologized to Rodrigo, who now had his hands folded on his thighs, holding his nervous fingers down as if he were trying to keep a small bird from fluttering off his lap.
“OK. If you see the big man again, stay away,” I said. “And try to call me or Mr. Manchester. All right?”
He was nodding like a bobble-head doll.
“OK, Mr. Max. OK.”
I smiled at him and told him to be careful and he nearly sprung out of the seat when he popped the door. I watched him walk away with the same gait, but using a different route. I sat staring out at the empty lot in front of me and two more spent blossoms of flame hit with a wet smack on my hood and I wondered if I was doing O’Shea or anyone else any favors with the next plan I’d concocted.
I took US Highway 1 to Fort Lauderdale. In South Florida US 1 is boringly homogeneous. Driving south you can pass through a dozen municipalities and never tell when the string of car dealerships, strip shopping centers, pastel business buildings and gas stations fall into another jurisdiction. It matters little to anyone except maybe a speeder whose city P.D. pursuers will actually give up the c
hase when he crosses into another town’s turf. The sameness of the landscape and the parochial attitudes of the cops are a dichotomy for a road named US 1, which Billy the historian points out stands for Unified System 1 and not United States 1.
I’d called ahead and stopped at Billy’s office and Allie had one of the firm’s cell phones with a digital camera on it waiting. I then went on to Fort Lauderdale and swung down to the beach and parked near the Parrot Lounge and walked out to the sand. In the salt air and purpling sky I sat on the low beachfront wall and tried to figure out the cell phone camera. I took a shot of the Holiday Inn by mistake. I got a nice shot of a couple walking their pit bull on a silver chain leash. A young woman came off the sand and propped one foot on the wall near me and bent to wipe the grains from her ankles and calves. While faking a call I covertly took a photo of her. She looked up once at me and smiled politely and I said something about refinancing a mortgage to my nonexistent phone caller. Hey, it was a test.
By sundown I had the camera figured out. I attempted a couple of low-light shots that were adequate. When the darkness deepened I tried to capture “the disappearing blue.” But even the digital quality couldn’t do justice to the mystery of the melding colors and at seven thirty I walked back to my truck and drove back across the intracoastal bridge. At the shopping center I parked in the lot, facing Kim’s, and did a quick eyeball. Plenty of cars. Busy over at the Thai restaurant across the way. Pickup orders coming out of Big Louie’s. And a patrol car parked nearly in the same spot as last time. My angle was better, but still I could only see a silhouette of the officer’s head. He appeared to have a phone to one ear and he was facing the other way. A knuckle to metal rap on my truck bed fender made me jump. O’Shea was in my side mirror and then at my window.
“How’s it hangin’, Freeman?”
“Take a seat, O’Shea,” I told him, reaching over to pop the lock on the passenger door.
I had not seen him pull in. Maybe he had walked. I realized I still didn’t know where he lived or what kind of vehicle he drove. And still I was taking his side in a possible string of homicides. Maybe I was the one who wasn’t being a very thorough cop.
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