by Nikki Soarde
“Are you accusing Calvin of something?”
“Maybe. All I know is Tate left without a word almost two months ago. I started to bug Faye about it, and after a while she gives me this story that she filed a missing persons report on him. But maybe she just said that to stall me, keep me out of her hair. And now, all of a sudden Calvin’s hanging around Tate’s place so much he might as well have moved in.” He took a menacing step toward Pete, but Pete held his ground.
Pete had dealt with the blustering Jeremiah Barton before. The man was like a predatory animal who could smell fear. And if he did, that was the time to turn tail and run. If you stood up to Jeremiah he respected you, and it rarely came to blows. Which was definitely Pete’s preference. Pete was big, but few could hold a candle to the size and speed of sixty-year-old Jeremiah Barton.
Pete met Jeremiah’s gaze evenly. He could feel Jeremiah’s breath on his face, and could trace the deep furrows and wrinkles that spoke eloquently of too much sun and booze and too many cigarettes.
“So I’m telling you now, Sergeant, you find my boy. And if you find him rotting in an alley somewhere you come and tell me first so I can deal with things proper.”
“You mean so you can pound Calvin Carter into a pulp? I don’t think so. If anything’s happened to your son, you’ll have to trust us to find out who’s responsible and let us look after things our way.”
Jeremiah hissed, “I don’t trust cops to deliver justice, Sarge. I got my own brand and it’s a hell of a lot quicker, and a hell of a lot more satisfying.”
Pete narrowed his eyes and leaned into Jeremiah close enough to smell the stale whiskey and nachos on his breath. “You listen to me, old man. No matter what happens, you stay away from Calvin. Because if he ends up rotting in an alley somewhere you’re gonna have to deal with me and my brand of justice.” He stepped back. “Got it? Now get lost and let us do our job.”
Jeremiah smiled a slow, satisfied smile as he turned to go. “Yeah, you just do that. You do your job. You find Tate and then we’ll talk.” He reached the door and sauntered down the hall as if he owned the building. Pete heard the echo of Jeremiah’s laugh as he called back, “Then we’ll talk plenty.”
Kyle licked his lips and shook his head in wonder. “That gives new meaning to the term mountain man.”
Pete raked a hand through his hair and then dropped it to the back of his neck where muscles were bunched together like grapes on a vine. “Yeah. I never could figure out how it was that he spawned a skinny beanpole like Tate.”
“So, that confirms it, I guess. Tate’s probably dead. You still think it was Sam?”
“Shut up,” whispered Pete. “That was between us.” Their office door was open and Pete hardly wanted that theory advertised to the entire precinct.
Chagrined, Kyle shut up.
“I don’t know anymore. Sounds like this Calvin character might be an even better prospect. We might just have to have a little chat with him down at The Pit.” But if Calvin was a more likely suspect for knocking Tate off his pimp pedestal, then Pete didn’t like the implications for his partner. Sam had gone off chasing after Tate, there was little doubt of that. And if Calvin had his hand in Tate’s disappearance then it might just follow that—
“What are you talking about? We’re Vice, not Missing Persons.”
“Shut up, kid.” Pete grabbed his coat and headed for the door with Kyle hot on his heels. “This is still unofficial, okay? Missing Persons came up empty on Sam, and Jeremiah didn’t put anything to paper. It’s my baby if I want it.” He flashed Kyle a grin. “Off the record.”
“But what do you care about Tate if Sam’s not involved?”
“Oh, Sam’s involved. Whenever Tate’s somewhere getting his hands dirty, Sam’s not far behind dusting for fingerprints. So finding Tate would mean finding Sam, and vice versa. I’d just rather find them alive.”
Kyle sighed in exasperation. “What is it with those two?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
“Huh? I thought we were going to see Calvin.”
“Nope. That comes later. Right now I’ve got somebody else to see, and this visit is way overdue.”
They reached the parking lot and Pete stopped beside their cruiser. “You go home. You don’t wanna get involved in an unauthorized investigation. I don’t wanna drag you into my mess.”
“Too late,” said Kyle cheerfully. “I’m up to my armpits, and besides,” he tugged open the door and slid into the passenger seat, “I’m your partner. Whenever you’re in trouble I wanna be there to see it firsthand.”
Pete chuckled as he slid into his seat and turned the key. “You’re okay, kid. And…thanks. I can use all the help I can get.”
They pulled into traffic. Rush hour had finished two hours ago but the Schuylkill Expressway—locally known as the “Surekill Expressway”—still teemed with cars and transport trucks. The bumper-to-bumper traffic grated on him. In hopes of escaping it and relieving his claustrophobia, Pete opted to go the city route. He took an exit and headed for Market Street, which would take them to the western end of the city.
“So, where are we going?”
“To see Sam’s ex. She was with Sam back in the days when he and Tate were tight, and she was around when the rift formed. I’ve only heard snatches of the story from Sam. He never wanted to talk about it. He’d always get so angry as soon as I’d start asking about it he’d clam up like a vise. I wanna know the whole story now. Or at least as much as she can tell me.”
Kyle tapped his fingers on the dash in a rapid accompaniment to the Stones song thrumming quietly from the speakers. “Uh…speaking of the whole story. You never did tell me the whole story about Sam, and how he killed somebody and ran.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Well?”
“It’s a long drive. If you shut up I’ll buy you a cappuccino.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Not yet.” Pete began calculating a route that would take them past one of Kyle’s favorite coffee hangouts. The habit had been irritating at first, but then he had tried one of the foamy concoctions and he got hooked himself. It was humiliating.
Pete glanced at Kyle again and saw the younger man was watching him with a concerned and puzzled expression. “Give me a little time. I’ll tell you when you need to know.” I’ll tell you when I know for certain that I can trust you. He took a steadying breath and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. And when I know for certain that Sam’s not coming back.
* * * * *
“Scott!” called Elsie.
There was no answer. Elsie could hear the throbbing, pounding beat of The Pokemon Movie blasting from the big-screen television that had been Sam’s extravagant gift to his son last Christmas.
“Scott!”
“What?”
“Turn that thing off. It’s supper.”
There was the usual whining and pouting, but Elsie knew that within three minutes Scott would be sitting, drooling and eager, at the kitchen table.
Just like his father, he was always starving and always able to pack away three times his body weight and never put on an ounce. Sam had consistently put away fourteen-ounce steaks and triple-scoop ice-cream sundaes and had still been as toned and slim at thirty-four as he was when she had met him at twenty-one.
Scott was only seven, but he seemed destined to follow in his father’s footsteps. The two of them together, with their supersonic metabolism and love of fatty foods, were a woman’s nemesis, her worst nightmare, a crime against the female gender and nature in general. And she desperately wanted to see the despicable duo in action again. She’d give anything to see them sitting together in the backyard as a quart of ice cream got sucked into the black hole that was their stomachs.
Sam may not live there anymore, but he was still very much a part of their lives. It had been more than two months since Scott had laid eyes on his father, and she was beginning to worry that
it would be much longer than that before he saw him again. If ever.
“What’re we having?” asked Scott as he tumbled into the room. He was all skinny, flailing limbs and black hair and black eyes. She and Sam had blended so well in the making of that child. It hurt her deeply to acknowledge they hadn’t blended very well in other ways.
“Lasagna.”
“Really?” His eyes brightened and his hands came together in anticipation. “Does that mean Daddy’s coming?”
She had dreaded this. But she couldn’t put off making Sam’s favorite entrée forever. “No.” Her heart broke to see his face fall and the spark go out of those dark eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. Daddy’s still away. I just thought it was time to have it again. I was running out of ideas.”
Scott climbed wearily into his chair, suddenly old beyond his years. “He’s been gone a long time. When’s he coming back? He said he’d take me fishing for my birthday and that’s in two weeks.”
Elsie dished out the wedges of pasta, meat and cheese. “Scott, I wish I knew. The truth is I just don’t know when Daddy’s coming back.”
Scott stared at his portion, his hands clasped in his lap. “Did a bad guy get him and you just don’t wanna tell me?”
Elsie stared at her son—the joys of raising a child with a Philadelphia cop as a father. Scott had known at a very young age that there was always the possibility Daddy wouldn’t come home from work. Maybe that was another reason Elsie had seen the need to put a little distance between them. Maybe she had hoped it would be a little easier to lose a father who wasn’t around every day.
And maybe she was deluding herself.
“No, honey. I honestly just don’t know.”
Scott had just picked up his fork when the soft chime of the doorbell interrupted the somber hush of the kitchen. “I’ll get it!” he shouted as he sprang from his chair and raced for the front door.
Elsie tucked her hair behind her ears and followed the dark streak, musing at the resilience of youth. How easily children bounced back, how easily they seemed to set pain and uncertainty aside in the face of some new and exciting adventure—even an adventure as unremarkable as greeting a stranger at their door.
“Uncle Pete!”
She smiled. Uncle Pete was better than a stranger any day. He was already through the door and giving Scott the obligatory noogie.
“Hi, Pete.”
“Hey, Elsie. What’re you feeding this kid anyway? He almost reaches my waist already.” Pete scooped up the boy and made a show of inspecting his legs, tickling and exploring, to Scott’s giggling delight. “Are these legs or stilts, anyway?”
“It’s good to see you.” But then she caught a glimpse of the smaller shadow behind Pete’s broad shoulders.
Pete caught the flicker in her eyes. “Uh…Elsie Riven, this is my…my partner, Kyle Johnson.”
She felt her stomach curl up in a ball and sink promptly to her feet. “Partner?”
Kyle extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Her hand met his of its own accord. She had made no conscious decision to reach out to this man who presumed to take Sam’s place beside their dear friend Pete Gruber. His handshake was warm and firm, but her fingers lay limp and cold in his.
Pete extricated himself from Scott’s arms. “You run on in the kitchen. You were probably in the middle of supper. We’ll be there in a minute.”
Scott dashed off. “I’ll turn the coffeepot back on.”
Pete chuckled. “The kid knows me too well.” Then he sobered. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by. They assigned me to Kyle two weeks ago.” He shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”
Elsie felt numb. “Does that mean—”
“It just means they don’t want me hanging around alone, getting into trouble.”
“Believe me,” said Kyle with an amiable grin. “Keeping him outta trouble’s a full-time job.”
Pete reached for her hand. “Don’t worry, hon. When Sam comes back we’ll be back together again.”
Elsie raked her eyes over the young cop with the wide smile and the auburn hair, then turned to Pete. “I can’t help it, Pete. I worry.”
“Uh…Elsie, can we talk for a few minutes? It’s official, Tate Barton is missing as well, and I’m sure their disappearances are tied together. I’d like to know more about what happened between them.”
Elsie’s eyes flickered from Kyle to Pete. “All right. Come in the kitchen for coffee. I’ll let Scott take his plate into the family room while he watches that Pokemon movie.”
“Ash and Pikachu, huh?” commented Kyle.
Pete and Elsie both turned to stare at him in disbelief. “I’ve got nephews, okay?”
Elsie turned away, now working at suppressing a smile as she heard Kyle mutter, “Sheesh! I’m not exactly twelve, you know.”
Elsie herded her son into the family room while Pete and Kyle settled down with coffee and the chocolate chip cookies she had baked that afternoon.
Unable to face the lasagna when she returned, she poured herself a cup and, settling down at the table, stared at its dark depths for an interminable amount of time.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, how did they get to be friends? They came from opposite sides of the tracks, didn’t go to the same high school or play on the same basketball team or anything like that. How’d they hook up?”
Elsie took a sip as she recalled the story she had heard from Sam shortly after they met. “He just ran into Tate one afternoon. He was sixteen. Tate would’ve been getting close to nineteen, I think. Sam was on his way home from basketball practice when a bunch of punks started hassling him. He said he was always an easy target because he was so skinny.” She fingered her mug. “At least he was tall. He had filled out considerably by the time I met him.” She smiled at Pete, who nodded encouragement for her to continue.
She eased herself away from the temptation to wallow in memories that served no purpose other than to pick at old wounds that refused to heal. “Anyway, these kids were shoving him around, insulting him and generally trying to scare him, when Tate blasted into the group, shouting at them, flailing his fists like a maniac.” She shook her head. “Sam was always amazed that those kids took off. Tate wasn’t much taller than Sam, and he sure didn’t weigh much more, but I guess he must’ve sounded so fierce and looked so mean that he scared ‘em off.”
“Can’t imagine where he gets it,” muttered Kyle.
Elsie looked at him questioningly, and Pete filled in the blanks. “We had a little run-in with Tate’s dad today.”
She nodded understanding. “Exactly. Tate had to deal with Jeremiah all his life, he had to learn how to stand up for himself. It was either that or spend all his spare time down at the emergency room…” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and took another sip of coffee. She didn’t like to feel sorry for Tate Barton. Lots of people had hard lives and lived with abusive parents and didn’t turn to the kind of life he had. “I’m afraid, even into his early twenties, Tate put up with Jeremiah’s abuse. Sam used to talk about the mysterious bruises that would appear on Tate’s face and neck.”
“Jesus,” muttered Kyle. “Why the hell did he stay?”
Pete tapped the table impatiently. “We’re getting off on a tangent here. I wanna know about Sam and Tate, not Tate and his father.”
Elsie studied Pete’s pale green eyes, which were bloodshot with fatigue and too much caffeine. “But they’re all intertwined. You can’t talk about one without the other.”
“Okay, okay. But for now let’s focus on Sam and Tate.” He sipped from his mug. “What happened after the day they met?”
“Sam said that at first Tate seemed almost shy around him. He always put it down to the fact that he and Tate came from such different backgrounds, but looking back he said that didn’t ring true for Tate. Tate was sly and street-savvy, and even a bit arrogant. Shyness and Tate just didn�
��t go together. He wasn’t intimidated by anybody—except, of course, his father.” Feeling unsettled at discussing things Sam had shared with her in confidence, she rose and crossed to the coffeepot, even though her mug was barely half empty. “But even considering that initial shyness—or maybe because of it—Sam said he was drawn to him. They hit it off right away, and Tate even became a sort of mentor for him. He was older and knew stuff Sam had only wondered about. Tate taught him how to fight, and how to get through bad neighborhoods without getting beat up. And other things Sam would never share with me.”
“Did Sam’s parents approve of the friendship?”
“I think it was tough at first. But Sam said that, to his surprise, they came around without too much fuss. And Tate felt reasonably comfortable at their house. Sam’s parents didn’t exactly welcome him with open arms, but they didn’t forbid him from setting foot in the house either.” She sat down with her mug again and recalled her own less-than-exuberant first meeting with Sam’s parents. The mood had been reserved and chilly. It had taken weeks of work on Sam’s part to convince his parents that Elsie’s unusual heritage didn’t mean she was predestined to either reek of garlic or ginger for the rest of her life. “I think they just sort of tried to ignore him, hoping that it would all eventually blow over.”
Kyle shook his head in confusion. “Did Sam come from snobbish old money or something? Those types don’t usually go into police work.”
“No, not old money, but they were definitely comfortable. Sam’s father had worked hard to build up a chain of restaurants, and his mother came from a fairly well-to-do background as well. I think they were both just raised in relatively protected environments and were afraid of anything or anyone who was different and whom they perceived might be a threat to what they had built.”
“So, how long did the friendship last?” Pete drained his mug and got up to help himself to more from the dwindling supply in the carafe.