“You find something to match it against, Detective, and then you come back.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I really mean it. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Back in the parking lot, results in hand, I have no idea how to proceed. My initial hunch is confirmed, but then I never doubted there’d been a woman tied to that bed. All I know now that I didn’t before is that I’m right. This will help me with Hedges, but it won’t break the case, which is what I really need.
Instead of waiting until I get back downtown, I call in the results. Lorenz’s number goes straight to voicemail, which is fine with me. I dial Bascombe and report directly to him.
“So that’s that,” he says.
“I guess so. It’s more than we had this morning, anyway.”
On the radio, a local call-in show is discussing nothing but Hannah Mayhew, alternating “oh, what a tragedy” with “why can’t the police do more?” in perpetual rotation. A woman whose daughters attend Klein High calls in to let everyone know how devastated the students are. She’s dismayed the kids are returning to class after the Labor Day holiday.
Then an anonymous caller who claims he’s from the Harris County Sheriff ’s Department says this task force thing is only going to make matters worse. My sentiment exactly, but the rivalries being what they are, I find myself doubting when they come from a county deputy’s lips.
“At this point,” the host says, “Hannah’s been missing for more than seventy-two hours. Since noon on Thursday. How likely is it now that she’s gonna turn up safe?”
The supposed deputy clears his throat. “Well, I mean, stranger things have happened, but . . . If you ask me, it sure doesn’t look hopeful.”
I turn it off. Not because I disagree with his prognosis, which is only common sense, but because a light just went on in my head. Everyone’s up in arms about this missing girl. And I’ve got a missing girl I’m looking for, too. With O-positive blood. Hannah Mayhew disappeared at midday Thursday. My shooting went down later that night.
Has the solution been staring me in the face? It’s crazy, I know, but like the deputy said, stranger things have happened. And in a way, it’s so obvious. How many girls go missing in one day, even in a city of millions? No one has reported my victim’s disappearance, and that only strengthens the tie.
I’m afraid to say it aloud. Afraid to think it. But I’m going to have to when I get back to the office, because I’m starting to believe it’s true. The girl tied to the bed, the one the shooters took after lighting up Morales and his crew.
It was Hannah Mayhew.
It had to be.
CHAPTER 5
I should know better. But listening with such rapt intensity, Lorenz fools me at first. As I show him the printout from Bridger, explaining the significance just in case, he nods in that odd way of his, like there’s a neck spasm synchronized to his pulse.
“I know it’s a stretch,” I say, “but there are no coincidences.”
Not that I believe this. My work is full of coincidences – people in the wrong place at the wrong time – but my need to persuade him overcomes all nuance. To pursue this line of inquiry without any hindrance, I have to convince him it’s worth checking. At the same time, he needs to think it’s a fool’s errand, the perfect time-waster to keep me out of his way.
He examines a little chart on the page, bringing it close to his nose, then sets the printout to one side. The stacks of paper from this morning are neatly sorted into a series of piles, a sort that must have taken him all morning.
“Well?”
“Take a look at this,” he says, handing me a folder from the top of the nearest mound. “I need you to follow up on it – ” he consults his watch – “by the end of the shift today.”
Inside the folder, there are several muddy faxes, half-page incident reports typed in capital letters.
“What about my lead?”
“The guy to talk to in Narcotics is Mitch Geiger. He’s a friend of mine, does a lot of street-level intel. Rumor is, there’s a crew that’s been jacking stash houses on the southwest side. They don’t report it, obviously, but we’ve been hearing things. I want you to follow up on the prior incidents, see if you can substantiate anything. Maybe there’s a connection to the guys who hit our house.”
I toss the folder on his desk. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“I’m going to follow up on the blood trail. Running the dna profile turned up nothing, but if we can get a sample to compare with – from Hannah Mayhew’s parents, for example – that will tell us whether there’s a connection to pursue or not.”
He nods, then hands back the folder. “That’s what I want you working on, March. Geiger’s expecting you. If you have a problem, take it up with Bascombe.”
“What about the missing girl?”
“This is Homicide, not Missing Persons.”
“We have a missing female victim, and they’re missing a juvenile female. Her disappearance and our shooting took place on the same day. It’s reasonable to assume – ”
“Are you even listening to yourself, March? You think this girl from the news really ditched her classes, drove down to the ghetto, got herself tied down to a bed, then vanished after a crew came in and wiped out everybody else in the house? That’s your theory? Trust me, I’m saving you a world of embarrassment here.” He chuckles at the thought of this favor he’s doing me. “You’d be a laughingstock, man. Just talk to Geiger, all right? I think all that time on the cars-for-criminals detail warped your instincts. The point here is to clear some murders, not get yourself on TV.”
An hour ago I’d have put down money on the fact that nothing Lorenz could say had the power to sting. I would have been wrong. Problem is, he’s only saying what everyone else will be thinking. The lesson I learned putting in time with Villanueva is that the right kind of media attention makes careers. Hitching my wagon to Hannah Mayhew would represent the perfect application of the principle, assuming my hunch proved out. That’s not my motive, but Lorenz won’t be the last colleague to see it that way.
“I have to pursue this.”
Again with the insufferable nod. “March, you gotta do what you gotta do. But so do I. You’re either with me on this thing, or you’re against me. And if you’re against me, you’re out. I’m not just blowing smoke here. Go ask Bascombe and you’ll see.”
“Fine.”
I reach across him for the blood work, whipping the sheet within an inch of his nose. Just to be on the safe side, though, I keep the folder, too.
Bascombe’s office, just a fraction of the size of Hedges’s, is slotted into a row of glassed-in cubes along the back of the bullpen. On my way, I sense more than a few pairs of eyes tracking my progress. No one butted in on my conversation with Lorenz, but they all know what’s going on. I can only guess where their sympathies lie. Lorenz has made a lot of buddies on the squad, but he’s still pretty raw. My guess is, underneath the superficial bonhomie, my fellow detectives wouldn’t be too sad to see him taken down a notch.
Plus, a few of them have been around long enough to remember what I was like in my prime. Their respect might not be what it once was, but all those years on top have to count for something.
Passing by a cubicle opening, I catch a flash of movement. I turn to find Mack Ordway beckoning me over. Before I teamed up with my ex-partner Wilcox, he and Ordway were the dynamic duo. Now, thanks to some health issues, Mack’s mostly holding down a desk until retirement. Apart from a little water-cooler banter about the old days, we haven’t had much contact since Wilcox left the fold.
“What are you trying to prove?” he whispers.
“Meaning what, Mack?”
He scratches his double chin. “I will lift up mine eyes to the lieutenant’s office, from whence cometh his strength. The lieutenant is his shepherd, he shall not want.”
“What is this, Sunday school?”
“Word of adv
ice? You’re not gonna score any points trying to make that kid look bad. He’s on the fast track, no matter what. All you’ll do is hurt yourself in the process.”
“I’m just trying to do my job.”
He shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I thank him with a nod, then keep moving. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but I guess his heart is in the right place.
Bascombe’s door hangs open, as always. He never shuts it, never even lowers the blinds. Unlike the captain, he takes a hands-on approach, which means his office is a hive of activity. He’s on the phone when I tap on the doorframe.
“One sec,” he says.
I settle into a chair, using the time to flip through the incident reports in Lorenz’s folder. They’re mostly recaps of street intelligence. An informant complaining about supply problems driving up retail cost on the corners. Latin Kings issuing warnings after one of their packages gets jacked. A couple of Southwest cholos gunned down, supposedly in the aftermath of a rip-off. It’s all pretty vague, which is to be expected. If there was anything solid, Lorenz wouldn’t have passed all this paper my way.
Bascombe ends his call, prompting me with a palms-up shrug. “Now, what can I do for you?”
I slide the folder across the desk. “You seen this?”
“I’m the one who gave it to Lorenz in the first place,” he says, not bothering to look inside. “But don’t come to me about it – you need to talk to Geiger. He’s got some kind of angle on this.”
“I can do that,” I say.
“Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your willingness to do your job. If there’s nothing else I can help you with . . .” Bridger’s printout shuts him up a second. He scrutinizes the results with a little smile. “What do you want from me? Congratulations? Here you go, March. You were right. Good job, man. Way to deliver.” An ironic handclap, one-two. “Now, was that good for you?”
“What I want is your permission to follow up a lead.”
“My permission? You don’t need it. I’m not gonna hold your hand on this thing.”
“Lorenz wants me to follow up with Geiger, which comes from you. But I’d like to pursue something else in addition.”
He hoists his eyebrows in mock surprise. “And what’s that?”
Taking a deep breath, I launch into it, making my case as strongly as I can. Once he sees where I’m going, though, Bascombe starts shaking his head and shuts me up with a throat-slicing gesture.
“You wanna be assigned to the Mayhew task force, is that it? ’Cause I can make that happen right now.” He reaches for the phone, then pauses. “Or, maybe you’d prefer to stay in Homicide instead? If that’s your choice, then you better go talk to Geiger this minute. And if there are any headlines to grab in this case, believe me, you better not be the one I catch reaching for them.”
“Is that what Hedges will say?”
“You wanna go ask him?” He smiles like he’s starving and I’m his favorite dish.
The fact is, I don’t. If Bascombe really wants me off the squad, I’m already pushing my luck too far. By giving me a shot, the captain put a wrench in the works, but he won’t back me up the way Bascombe is backing Lorenz. So either I play their game or I’m out. Simple as that.
I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. “I’ll go talk to Geiger.”
But in the elevator I decide Geiger can wait a half hour. There’s a stop to make on the way.
Missing Persons turns out to be a ghost town. I corner one of the civilian aides, asking to be pointed in Wanda Mosser’s direction. She tells me the task force is operating out of the Northwest station, then starts rubbing her temples like they’ll explode any moment. I thank her and turn to go.
“Hold on a second,” she calls after me. “Cavallo’s still here. You can talk to her.”
I follow the direction indicated by her red fingernail, heading down a row of cubicles a bit more shabby and threadbare than our Homicide digs, though identical in principle. At the end of the row I discover a slender, dark-haired woman of about thirty, one long, pinstriped leg crossed over the other. The sleeves of her white blouse are rolled up, revealing sun-browned forearms and a diminutive silver diving watch on the left wrist. An engagement ring on the left hand, but no wedding band.
“I’m Roland March,” I say, holding out a hand. “Homicide.”
She looks up. “Theresa Cavallo.” Her skin is cool to the touch.
I’ve never laid eyes on her before, or even heard the name, a testament to how out of touch I am. Because a woman like this gets talked about. I’m probably the last to find out about her. Large brown eyes, a sharp nose dusted with freckles, just a hint of makeup, and a slight dishevelment to her limply thick black hair. Letting the world know she can look like this without trying.
“You’re working for Wanda?” I ask.
“Obviously.” She motions lazily at the surroundings.
A knot forms in my throat. “I mean, on the task force.”
“What have you got?” she asks. “I was just on my way out.” She nods toward a black purse and a canvas messenger bag stacked side by side on her desk, a striped jacket nestled between them.
I’m not usually tongue-tied, but getting my hunch out proves surprisingly difficult. If I’d gotten Wanda face-to-face, there would have been no problem. If she laughed, I could take it in stride. But I don’t want to look ridiculous in front of Cavallo, and the more I struggle for words, the more ridiculous I feel.
“What is it?” she asks with an impatient frown.
“Take a look at this,” I manage, thrusting the printout from Bridger under her nose. “It’s from the medical examiner’s office.”
“I can see that. So what?”
“This is going to take some explaining . . .”
She checks her watch. “I’ll give you two minutes.”
“Fine.” I pull up a nearby chair, setting it just inside her cubicle. “That’s a blood sample recovered from a house off West Bellfort. We got a call early Friday morning and found the house full of bodies. A Crip named Octavio Morales, if that name means anything to you.”
She shakes her head.
“Anyway, under the bed we found parachute cord still attached. Somebody had sliced through the restraints, leaving the knots behind. Whoever was on that bed, the shooters took her with them.”
“There was a woman tied to the bed?” Her eyebrows rise. “Was she sexually assaulted?”
I shrug. “Like I said, they took the body. Based on the amount of blood, I’d say she was seriously injured, or even deceased. But I’m just speculating about that.”
Cavallo runs her fingers through her hair, shaking out the wavy mane. She has my attention. At her clavicle, a tiny silver cross catches the light.
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“I’m looking for her. We didn’t get a hit in the system, so her dna’s not on file.”
For a moment she smiles with incomprehension. Then the bloom fades from her lips. “I see. And you think – what? That your missing body could be Hannah Mayhew?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
Cavallo laughs, showing off a pair of sharpish canines. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“I realize it’s a stretch – ”
“A stretch? It’s a hyperextension.”
“I was hoping we could check our sample against one from your girl, or maybe the parents?”
“There’s only the mother,” she says. “Don’t you watch the news? Her father died when she was a baby. Peter Mayhew? You don’t remember him?”
“Should I?”
She shrugs. “Anyway, what am I supposed to do? Ask Donna if we can swab her mouth on the off chance her daughter was tied to a bed and gang-raped by a bunch of dead bangers? I’d just as soon not.”
“I can appreciate that.” I lean forward. “But before you say no, consider this. Your girl disappeared midday Thursday, right? Our shooting went down late Thursda
y, early Friday give or take.”
“On the other side of town.”
“Yes, but does that mean anything here? I can think of a thousand scenarios that would land a nice girl from the suburbs in a situation like this.”
“But not this girl,” she says. “You don’t know her.”
“Do you?”
“Not personally, no. But I’ve gotten to know Donna, the mother. She’s quite a woman, I’ll tell you that. If her daughter was mixed up in the kind of thing you’re talking about, I think she’d know. And anyway, she’s dealing with enough stress without putting something like this on her.”
As she speaks, my eyes fix on the shape of her lips. This kind of sudden infatuation isn’t common for me, but I’m having a hard time shaking off the feeling. Cavallo’s my type, trim and striking and faintly exotic. A younger, taller version of Charlotte, without all the shared baggage. I inhale her perfume discreetly, then sit back, gazing at the sheerness of her blouse.
“I need your help,” I say. “Call it a favor. I’ll owe you. I can’t do justice to my investigation without following up this lead. If it doesn’t pan out, fine. At least we’ve ticked off that box. But if you don’t help, I’ll be honest, I won’t be able to sleep at night. This is . . . important to me.”
I shouldn’t be pleading like this, exposing myself, but something about her seems to invite it.
“This is important to you,” she repeats, glancing away. “What’s important to me is not burdening this woman with more fear. She’s living with the unthinkable as it is. I don’t want to make her nightmares any worse than they already are.”
“You don’t have to tell her what it’s for.”
She thinks this over for a moment, resting her elbows on her knees, her mouth covered behind her long fingers. The engagement ring sparkles in my face.
“Look, here’s the thing,” she says finally. “The last couple of weeks, Hannah was getting calls from a certain number. And she called back a lot. The day she disappeared, she got a call at half past eleven. The problem is, the number belongs to a prepaid phone.”
I nod in sympathy. Working murder, plenty of our leads dead-end at a prepaid number, enough to inspire legislation requiring IDs and tracking – not that it would help, given the ease with which a fake driver’s license can be obtained. The things ought to be illegal.
J Mark Bertrand Page 6