by M. P. Cooley
“What kind do you want?” I called.
“Grape!”
I smiled as I grabbed one. Lucy would have chosen the grape, too.
When I returned he was frantically thumbing a text. He blushed when he saw me. “One of my girls,” he said. “Jackie.”
I handed him the drink. “Got a lot of girlfriends, Ray?”
He popped the tab and gulped down the soda, letting out a huge burp when he was done, his lips stained purple. “In California. They’re way hotter there.”
I picked up the controller and pushed the button. The vehicle on-screen lurched forward.
“So,” I said, pulling my on-screen car over to the side of the road to make a drug deal. “You sleep out here?”
“Mos def.” Ray burped again. He giggled. “You’re sitting on my bed right now.”
“And you’re sitting in your closet.” He shifted around in the nest of clothes.
The police on-screen tried to stop me, and gave chase when I gunned it onto the expressway. “When’s the last time you saw Danielle?”
Ray was back in gangster mode. “I don’t have to answer you. I don’t have to answer anything.” The leather of the vest bunched up as he crossed his arms.
“True. But I think you might have seen her last, and I assume you want to help. I mean, from what you said before, the two of you had a bond, right?”
Ray seemed to consider the question. “You’re supposed to stop and beat up the hos. More points.”
“Thanks for the tip”—I swerved around the group of prostitutes, crashing my car—“but I prefer not to.” I sent my guy running for the pursuing cop car, grabbed the cop’s gun, and commandeered his cruiser. Police business.
“So, can you tell me when you last saw her?”
“Before I went to bed, okay?”
“And no one could have come in or out the front door without waking you up?” I fired my stolen gun back at the police car that was now in pursuit.
“That’s right.”
“And the back door?”
“That’s, that’s possible.” He dropped the controller and quickly grabbed it up again. “That’s probably what happened, okay?”
“But she told you she was going to meet her dad for breakfast.”
Ray was rocking back and forth in the tan recliner, oblivious to the fact that he was banging the wall every time. “She told me that before. I woke up, she was gone, and I figured her dad picked her up. I went out, got my brother—”
“What time did you go to bed?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“Midnight or one, okay?” He bobbled the game controller before bouncing it between the chair and the wall. As he scrambled to reach it, his drooping pants revealed Homer Simpson boxers peeking out from beneath the biker vest. When he sat back he was breathing hard. I let myself crash on-screen, and watched as a cop pushed my guy down on the hood of the vehicle.
Ray was still huddled up in a ball.
“Your turn,” I said.
Ray picked up the controller. He hit a bunch of keys at once and the car started to fly.
“That’s cool,” I said.
“I know all the cheats. Wait, catch this.” His speech was a charming mix of farm boy and gangster. He didn’t do either well. “I’ll show you how to get a really big gun, for your turn, you feel me?”
“I feel you,” I said. “So the Abominations. Pretty hard core.”
“They are. They’re in the Bible. Serious badasses.”
Somehow I doubted that the Bible spent much time on outlaw motorcycle gangs. “I didn’t realize they were in New York.”
“They’re everywhere. They are legion.” He swung his arms and the vehicle on-screen made a sharp right.
“Do the Abominations, or any other gangs, have anything to do with Danielle’s death?”
“No!” His on-screen car skidded off the road. “No, nothing like that!”
Dave and Marty walked in. Marty moved quickly across the room, standing in front of his brother. “You okay, Ray?”
“Yes. They’re stupid. They should leave.” Ray threw his controller on the floor. Marty grabbed him up in what looked like a headlock but I realized was a hug. Marty’s muscular arm completely encircled Ray’s head. Marty whispered to Ray, Ray responding yes softly, before Marty pulled away. “Look,” Marty said, “do your thing here. I’m going to trust you for now, trust you to find Danielle’s killers. My folks’ll be in tomorrow to pick up Ray—”
Ray’s head bobbed over Marty’s shoulder. “Did you talk to Dad?”
Marty didn’t acknowledge Ray’s question. An indirect lie, I thought. “—after the funeral. Which I need to plan.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “But I have one follow-up question for you. Ray, the earrings?”
Ray looked stricken. “What?”
“The earrings in your pocket. Can you show them to your brother?”
After fumbling with the snap, Ray slowly pulled the earrings out of his pocket and handed them to Marty.
“Was she wearing these,” Marty asked, “when she . . .”
“No,” I said quickly.
Marty continued to study them. Even in the dim light of the living room the earrings had a real sparkle. Finally he said, “But she wore them?”
“Ray says so.”
Ray nodded. The brothers didn’t look at each other.
“Well, I guess the earrings are hers. Were hers. You taking them?” I told him no. Ray looked ready to reach over and grab them back, but Marty folded the bag and gripped them tightly.
Dave and I left the brothers in the living room for some solace, if not solitude. In the backyard, we found Annie pulling a finished cast out of one of the footprints.
“Annie!” bellowed Dave, grinning broadly.
Annie jumped. “Don’t do that!”
“What? We’re old friends,” Dave said to me. “Annie and I did great work together on that string of B&Es last spring. We understand each other.”
“Shut up,” Annie said.
“Did you get a footprint?” I asked, figuring the less time spent on social niceties—did Annie have any social niceties?—the better.
“Three!” Annie pointed to two bags and a box. “And I was about to tackle that drag mark.”
Dave jumped off the porch and over the footprints. “So, we’re just in time.”
I paused for a moment, looking at the tracks. There were footprints away from the house, but not toward. The killer had come in, or been invited, through the front door.
I jumped over the fence. Midcalf on Dave, the snow was up to my knees. We all approached the imprint, and Annie crouched down.
“Aha!” Annie pulled a hair out of the snow. I held out a bag for her. The three of us settled into a happy pattern, finding hairs, drops of blood, and even a piece of fabric. While we worked, I explained to Dave that I had suspicions about the earrings. We arrived at the edge of the fence, which was made of flat wooden planks of varying widths and in a range of shades of drab, depending on the water damage. The planks were woven unevenly through poles, and the gaps provided toeholds.
Annie hit the fence. It vibrated out three houses on each side. “She went over here!”
“No shit!” another tech yelled back. “Something got dragged, all the way down past the power plant to the river.”
“Any blood?” called Dave.
“A little. Any blood over there?”
“Yes!” shouted Annie.
“Anything else?” yelled a voice.
“Don’t we have radios we can use?” I asked.
Dave stood on his toes and peeked over the fence. “Radio if anything else comes up, guys. And you,” he said to me, “why don’t you go home for a few hours?”
I looked at my watch: noon. I felt strangely energized despite going on hour thirteen. Still, it would be good to catch a nap and play with my daughter.
“I’d like to see Lucy,” I said.<
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“Yeah, I’m so going to owe her after this,” Dave said. “Tell her she’s got a trip to Hoffman’s Playland coming to her when things thaw out. Roller-coaster rides and skee ball till her arm falls off.”
I smiled. “She’ll keep you to it, you know.”
“She’s a tough one . . . just like her mom.” He waved me away. “Get lost, and be at the station at seven. We got a meeting with the chief, Jerry, and Special Agent Hale Bascom, our liaison from the FBI.”
Hale? At the mention of his name I shivered, my guts feeling like they’d turned to ice. Hale and I hadn’t seen each other in eight years. During that time, he was off being a badass in Homeland Security, so we never crossed paths professionally, and he steadily ignored the e-mails Kevin and I sent, even as Kevin’s illness progressed and Kevin’s desire to connect with Hale became desperate. My last e-mail to him three months before Kevin died probably got me knocked off Hale’s Christmas card list: “Hale, I appreciate that you are an overgrown adolescent, but Kevin needs you right now, and there’s not a lot of time. I have no idea why you stopped talking to us—or maybe it was just me—but whatever the reason you need to get over yourself and call him. Give a dying man the peace he needs.”
He never called.
“June? Is Hale Bascom a problem?” Dave asked, a worried look on his face.
I waved him off, promising to be at the meeting at seven sharp.
Inside, Ray was again playing the game, hopping up and down in the chair. Marty spoke low into a phone, plugging his other ear to muffle the sounds of the game, his face like one of the granite cliffs along the Hudson.
“I know it would be good to get some help from the fellowship right now, but it’s just . . . the AA meetings aren’t the same. I just can’t connect with the people in the rooms out here.” He caught me watching. “Look, man, I appreciate you taking my call, but I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” He was silent for a moment. “Thanks for that. She was something else and”—his voice broke—“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Listening again, he started laughing. “Fine. I’ll get my ass to a meeting.”
“You out?” Pete said, startling me. I’d been as lost in Marty as he was lost in his conversation.
“I’m out,” I said, as Marty hung up the phone.
Marty snapped his fingers in front of his brother’s face until Ray swatted him away. “We should eat.”
“Marty, we need you to stay clear of the kitchen for a little while longer,” I said.
Marty sighed. “And of course none of you could arrange to feed us.” Before I could protest he continued, “Can we leave? Go get something?”
“McDonald’s!” shouted Ray.
“No. Real food,” Marty said. “Bob’s Diner, up by the arterial.” He turned to me. “That okay with you?”
I said yes. The two of them didn’t wait, crashing down the stairs two at a time, sending the whole porch shaking as they waved away my offer of a ride. They turned right, and I headed across the street, where Bill sat in a cruiser.
He rolled down the window as I approached. “Ride? Dave’s taking your car.”
“What fine collaborative police work.” I climbed into the passenger seat. I had plenty of room: the cruiser was new and outfitted with a laptop terminal, not that the city could afford the computers.
We made a U-turn, passing Marty and Ray as they trudged along. Marty rested his gloved hand on his brother’s neck, guiding and comforting. I could see neighbors watching the brothers, some openly but most half hidden, peering from behind curtains or through gaps rubbed in the condensation from the ancient steam radiators. The neighbors didn’t want to get hauled into this murder, not when they had troubles of their own. Outsiders caused this trouble. As long as it didn’t touch them, they were fine.
CHAPTER 6
CHIEF DONNELLY’S LONG-SERVING WOODEN chair creaked under the strain of his aggrieved suffering.
“Can we get another seat in here?” he said.
“And put it where?” Jerry demanded.
Much as I hated to admit it, Jerry was right. The office comfortably sat three, and five exhausted people were a strain. I felt rested having spent the afternoon with Lucy, drifting in and out of sleep on the couch with her nestled next to me. Usually she wouldn’t have sat still that long, but I let her watch SpongeBob and she was riveted.
Perched on one of the deep windowsills, I felt lucky to avoid the crush around the desk: Chief Donnelly, Jerry, Dave, and Special Agent Hale Bascom. I couldn’t see Hale’s face from my seat, which was fine with me. I had hoped never to see him again. I slid backward on the sill until my shoulders were pressed against the window. The chill seeped through all four layers of clothing I was wearing. “The Brouillettes wish to have the body released,” Jerry said, brandishing his cell phone, a proxy for the congresswoman and her husband. “They want to have the wake tomorrow night.”
“We want to accommodate any parents of a murdered child,” Dave said. “But the truth of the matter is that the coroner might need to keep the body up to forty-eight hours. A case this high profile—we can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
“And do these plans sit right with your partner?” Hale asked. I slid forward and faced him. The first of what no doubt would be a cadre of feds, he appeared every inch the FBI agent: fit body in a no-longer-required black suit, undoubtedly made by a tailor who’d worked with his family for six generations. Close-cropped hair, so conservative you wouldn’t know he artfully applied product to tame the cowlicks. He had a handsome face, with a square jaw, and intelligent green eyes. The only thing that was out of place with his G-man image was the lips: full and currently set in a half smile.
I addressed the room. “The wake will be a good place to meet those close to her, people who might—”
“Officer Lyons,” Jerry interrupted, “is assisting on an as-needed basis. Correct?” He glared at the chief.
“The Bureau would like to request,” Hale said, “that she be assigned as a full-time liaison on this case.” Hale’s voice sounded rough, the southern accent absent, but I knew it would come out the moment Hale wanted people to trust the dumb good ol’ boy.
“Any particular reason?” Jerry asked.
“I’d think it would be obvious. However, to state it plainly: With the FBI’s involvement in the case, it would be good if we could have someone on your end who understands what information our agents need. And when.”
Great. Hale had announced to the room that he wanted me on the case so that I could spy on my fellow officers. Dave seemed fine with my new role, nodding along with everything Hale said.
Jerry was having none of it.
“As the person responsible for prosecuting this case, I need to ensure that we have the best possible—”
Ignoring Jerry, Hale stood and motioned me up. He raised his right hand and signaled for me to do the same.
“Repeat after me,” he said: “I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic”—I found myself speaking the FBI oath from memory, sometimes speeding ahead of him—“that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.” I took a deep breath. “So help me God.”
Hale winked at me, and I couldn’t help grinning at him. He sat back in his chair looking like he’d had his cake—as well as Jerry’s—and eaten it, too.
“I’ve deputized Officer Lyons. Y’all can decide whatever you want, but June Lyons is currently an agent of the U.S. government.”
Jerry protested. “I—”
“Guess that’s settled,” Chief Donnelly said. “Anything else?”
Chief Donnelly, Jerry, and Hale stayed put to discuss communication with the state authorities. Dave twisted his bulk left and then right, maneuvering out. I followed him into one of the interview rooms
.
Whistling “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake, he spread his notes across the table.
“Told you, told you,” he started singing, his long legs brushing mine under the low table. I organized the interviews from the river, interviews with Marty and Ray, statements from neighbors, and crime scene information. I heard a sharp rap at the door, and in walked Hale.
The interview room was meant to inspire claustrophobia in suspects. When Hale took a seat at the table, his shoulders brushed mine. He pushed his chair back as far as he could, which was only a few inches.
I decided to quash any idea that my role would be FBI informant. “So, Agent Bascom, any questions about our findings after your earlier briefing? Any gaps?”
“Nothing you and your colleagues”—Hale nodded at Dave—“haven’t already identified.”
“I was assuming that if the FBI was planning to investigate, perhaps we hadn’t considered an important angle. Do you think she was kidnapped?” Dave watched the two of us as if we were players at a tennis match.
“Not a kidnapping, no.”
“Anything related to the charges she faced in California?” I fished.
“I’m not aware of any charges against Danielle.” He rested his hand on the back of his neck. “Marty, however, is a whole other matter.”
He was right. When we’d done a search on Marty’s name, a series of federal charges from three years ago came up. Newspaper articles breathlessly recounted how the good looks of this “Rebel Without a Cause” hid a dangerous drug lord and killer. Marty had been facing serious time for the large-scale production and distribution of meth, and RICO charges related to being a fully patched member of the Abominations, one of the big five outlaw motorcycle gangs. In photos, Marty craned his head away from the flashes, more often than not being dragged along by a special agent.
“Our case,” Hale said, “was going to send Marty away for a good long while, and take down the Abominations’ whole operation.”
“But your witness disappeared?” Dave asked.
Hale sighed. “Without a trace. It killed us to lose that one. We had spent years cultivating Big Dog—real name Reginald Davidson—as an informant. Finally we got everything lined up just the way we wanted and bang, he was gone. Disappeared. And when we interviewed his wife in her brand-spanking-new condo with the Mustang parked out front, she claimed he ran off with some floozy to Costa Rica.”