EQMM, December 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Guy in the next coach. He and Strenko apparently had coffee together day before yesterday, seemed to hit it off well. About seven yesterday morning, he pulls on a robe and walks over to Strenko's, sees the open door and the blood, and hightails it to a pay phone to call us."

  "Where's he now?"

  "Wherever snowbirds go,” Sheriff Parker said.

  "What? You lost him?"

  Parker stiffened. “We'll find him. Got a man on it running his plate number by campgrounds."

  "So what did you want me for?"

  "Thought you might know something more than I do. Like why your name was in Strenko's wallet and what the killer might have been looking for."

  That was a place Fogelman had no desire to go. “In Detroit we'd put out an APB on the witness,” he said. “Haul his ass in and not waste time calling campgrounds.” Fogelman shook his head, then looked back into the RV cab. After a moment, he continued, “Either the guy found what he wanted before he finished searching the front, or whatever he was looking for was big, too big to be hidden in the seats.” Fogelman stepped to the ground outside.

  Parker followed Fogelman out of the RV and locked it. “Check with me before leaving the county,” he said.

  Fogelman looked up sharply. Did Parker know something or not? Should Fogelman have told about his badge number? Annoyed at himself, at Parker, at having someone tell him to stick around, he shot back, “You can't find me, call your cousin."

  Parker gave him a curt nod and stepped inside the salvage yard's office, leaving Fogelman to walk out to his truck alone.

  * * * *

  Nettie Travis stood behind the screen door as Fogelman pulled his truck to the curb and killed the engine. She stared out at him, then disappeared into the house as he made his way up the walk to the porch.

  Fogelman rapped on the wooden screen door, then pulled the door open when she didn't respond.

  "The movie started twenty minutes ago,” she said when he found her standing at the kitchen sink, her back to him.

  "We can catch the next show."

  "That isn't the point."

  He crossed the kitchen and placed one hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

  "Parker had something to show me,” Fogelman explained. “One of the snowbirds got himself into some trouble. Sheriff thought I might know something about it."

  Nettie turned. “Why you?"

  Fogelman explained about the blood and the note.

  When he finished, she said, “You told me you'd left all that behind."

  "I did. Maybe it followed me. Maybe it's coincidence."

  "I don't want to get a phone call telling me you're hurt."

  "You won't.” Fogelman had moved from Detroit to forget the people who had forgotten him—the partner who had retired from the force during his hospital stay, the girlfriend who hadn't bothered to visit or even say goodbye. He'd spent a month alone in that hospital bed waiting for someone—anyone—who meant something to him to show up. On his release, Fogelman had returned to his empty apartment, then to desk duty, where he heard an endless string of less-than-comforting platitudes from his fellow detectives. After his injury, nothing had been the same, and Fogelman had no desire to relive his last year in Detroit. “I promise, you won't."

  "I—"

  Fogelman placed one finger against her lips. “You don't have to say it. I know. I'll be careful."

  Rafael sat at Meader's Bait & Beer nursing a Shiner Bock. When Fogelman slipped onto the stool next to him, Rafael said, “Missed you yesterday."

  "Sorry,” Fogelman said. “Parker wanted to play show-and-tell. What've you got for me?"

  "They ain't running seafood up from the coast, that's for sure.” Rafael paused to sip at his beer. “My brother's nosed around the docks. Guy in an RV is buying something, but it ain't shrimp."

  "Don't get cute. I'm not in the mood."

  "You want my help or not?"

  Fogelman stared.

  "Coke. They're bringing coke in on the shrimp boats. Put it in a shrimp sack and give it to this big dude in an RV, like he bought a bag of shrimp."

  "Same guy all the time? Same RV?"

  "Same guy. I dunno about the RV. There's so freakin’ many of ‘em, who'd notice?"

  Fogelman thought about the RV Parker had shown him earlier that day, then slid a hundred across the bar. “Got anything else?"

  Rafael put his fingertips on the bill. “Naw, couldn't get too much off those guys. That Russian keeps ‘em busy, works their asses off."

  "Russian?” Fogelman's head jerked up. “Taller than me, big shoulders, huge gut?"

  "Naw, little guy. Fat, though. The guy in the RV is the big dude. Desgraciado, that one. My brother's a mean son of a bitch, and he's scared shitless of this guy."

  A commotion behind them caused both to turn. Parker stood in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the bar.

  Fogelman turned back to the bar. The empty Shiner Bock was pushed to the back edge of the bar and the hundred had disappeared.

  Rafael stood to leave. “Later, amigo,” he said.

  Parker took the seat just vacated and waved off the bartender. “Found him,” he said. “Up in Waco, at the Heart of Texas Fair and Rodeo grounds. The locals have him wrapped up. I'll drive up in the morning and talk to him."

  "Mind if I tag along?"

  "Suit yourself."

  * * * *

  The sheriff wheeled through Hill Country back roads that Fogelman had never seen, evidently a shortcut to the Interstate. He braked several times to avoid deer crossing the road and Fogelman again marveled at the amount of wildlife this apparently barren land could support. Barren at least compared to Michigan. Even in heavily populated southern Michigan, you were never far from forest, thick with evergreens and white birches.

  Fogelman wondered again if he should tell Parker about the badge number. Parker was sure to find out eventually, and although it was true that a suspect didn't help himself by volunteering information, the quickest way to annoy a cop was to withhold information because the cop hadn't framed the question just so. And Parker wasn't a man to annoy without good reason.

  Fogelman watched the scrubby trees slide past his window and wondered if he had good reason, if he ought to be afraid of Parker. He searched for the right way to ask without arousing suspicion, but a half-hour later the sheriff's vehicle reached I-35, and Fogelman still hadn't found it. He smiled. For the first time in his life he felt sympathy for those he had interrogated.

  Another hour passed in silence, then the sheriff turned off I-35 onto New Road and followed it through Waco to Bosque Boulevard. A left turn on Bosque brought them to the Heart of Texas Fair and Rodeo grounds, now overflowing with RVs.

  The sheriff drove between the lines of trailers and motor homes, scanning each. Parker didn't say what he was looking for and Fogelman didn't ask, though he wondered again if it was a good idea to have asked to come along.

  Parker wheeled in next to a blue and green motor home several feet longer than the one with the bloody handprint. A short, slightly rounded middle-aged man with a toothbrush moustache opened the door immediately and waved them inside.

  The three of them sat at what would be the kitchen table. Fogelman noted that rather than the straight-back booth-bench seats he imagined all RVs had, this one had a freestanding table and set of chairs. In the next room he saw a plush aqua-colored sofa and easy chair. The RV might be slightly smaller than Fogelman's mobile home, but it was much better appointed. And, he thought, it had the advantage of being truly mobile. When life turned sour, one had merely to drive somewhere new and begin again with a fresh slate. In a motor home this nice, one could even pretend it was possible. Fogelman had only one move in him after retirement—to Texas, a place as far from Detroit in distance, weather, and attitude as he could get.

  Eric Booker pushed his glasses up his nose using the tip of his index finger. “Look,” he said. “I told you everything I know when you tal
ked to me the other day."

  "Tell me again,” Parker said. He jerked his thumb toward Fogelman. “My friend here needs to hear it."

  Booker glanced from one man to the other. “I'm not in trouble, am I?"

  Fogelman leaned forward. “Not yet."

  Booker took a quick swallow from his iced tea. “Like I said, me and the guy driving that RV hit it off real good the day before. We talked sports mostly. Basketball. He's a Pistons fan, I favor the Lakers."

  "Describe the guy for us."

  "Tall. Very tall and skinny. I thought he might have played basketball, but he said he never did."

  "He have an accent?” Parker asked.

  "Yeah, a funny one."

  "Russian?"

  "Yeah, I guess. I don't know."

  Parker looked at Fogelman. “So we proved it was Strenko. Happy?"

  Fogelman stared at Booker. “What aren't you telling us?"

  Booker shifted his eyes between Parker and Fogelman. “He said not to say anything. That I'd be sorry."

  Parker slammed his fist onto the table. “You'll be damned sorrier if you ever hold out on me again. Who said not to say anything?"

  Booker jumped. “The night before ... you know ... the blood. I knocked on the trailer and this guy opened the door and pulled me in. Asked me all about who lived in the trailer. Said he'd kill me if I said anything to anyone."

  "What'd he look like? How old was he?” Parker leaned forward and Booker shrank back.

  "About my age—mid forties—athletic. ‘Bout six inches taller than me."

  "And you are?"

  "Five seven and a half."

  "Yeah?"

  "And heavy. Not fat, you know. Stout. He weighed two-fifty, I'll bet, but muscle weight, you know."

  Fogelman said, “Hair?"

  "Full head of it, not like me. I been losing hair since I turned twenty. His was black, mostly. Bit of gray at the temples. Wore it pushed back. Kind of greasy—like maybe he hadn't washed it for a few days."

  "Scars? Tattoos?"

  "None that I saw. Except one eyebrow was turned up funny."

  "Funny?"

  "Yeah, looked like there was a scar that ran along his eyebrow, like a boxer gets. You know? Split open and bleeds during a fight?"

  Parker made a few notes in his pad. “Eyeglasses?” he asked.

  "No."

  "Jewelry?"

  Booker thought for a moment. “None that I remember."

  "What about a wedding ring?"

  Booker paused again. “No,” he said. “I don't think so."

  Parker and Fogelman spent the next hour with Booker, asking and re-asking the same questions, trying to elicit additional information, but learned little else.

  In Parker's car, Fogelman waited for Parker to ask him about the man Booker had described.

  Parker didn't ask, though, and that was fine with Fogelman. Until he figured out what was going on, he wasn't ready to admit that Booker had described Barry Gorman—his former partner—to a T. Even had the eyebrow scar right.

  The sun was setting by the time Fogelman retrieved his dualie at the sheriff's office. He considered stopping at Nettie's while he was still in town, then decided against dropping in unannounced. Accustomed to being in control, Fogelman felt less capable and more exposed with each development in the case.

  He felt a noose was tightening around him, constricting his movements. Vladimir Strenko, Barry Gorman. What were they both doing in Texas? Were they together? And how did he fit into the picture? Fogelman surprised himself by wondering if Elise was in Texas, also. He thought he'd buried that relationship a long time ago.

  Shit. He had buried that relationship. Just because Strenko left some blood in the area was no reason to lose objectivity. Booker described someone who resembled Barry Gorman, right down to the scar under his eyebrow. But probably thousands fit the general description, and there must be plenty of people with scars under their eyebrows. Probably everyone who'd ever boxed. He turned off the state road onto the winding county road leading to his doublewide.

  Even before Fogelman turned into his driveway, he could see his front door standing open. He reached under the seat and unholstered a .38 that he'd carried as a throw-down, but never used, during his last few years on the Detroit police force. He didn't bother sneaking up to the porch, as anyone inside would have seen his headlights long before he'd stopped the truck.

  A half-dozen steps took him from the truck to the mobile home, then up three concrete steps and inside. He snapped on lights as he moved through the house, lowering his gun only when he felt confident his visitors had left.

  He walked through the house again, much more slowly. No hyped-up junkie on a snatch-and-grab had visited his place. His trailer had been professionally searched, and everything returned to its proper place. Whoever had broken in knew their job. Only the smallest details gave them away. An end-table lamp placed just out of arm's reach of his reading chair, the salt and pepper shakers in the wrong place on the sideboard, and his computer disks badly missorted. Still, it was a good job, and Fogelman might never have known he'd had a visitor if his front door hadn't failed to latch properly.

  Fogelman dialed the sheriff's office. When Parker came on the line, Fogelman said, “I've been tossed."

  "What'd they get?"

  "Nothing,” Fogelman said. “Nothing obvious."

  "You want me to send a car?"

  Fogelman considered the offer. “Waste of time,” he finally said. “These guys were pros. If they didn't take anything, they probably didn't leave anything behind either."

  All of a sudden, Fogelman didn't want to be alone. He thought of Elise, wondered where she was, and felt guilty that he wanted to be with Nettie tonight. The guilt didn't stop him, though, and he dialed Nettie's number from memory.

  * * * *

  "Ezekiel stopped by the school today and asked about you,” Nettie said. “Wanted to know what your intentions were."

  "Huh?"

  "He's afraid of you, you know."

  Fogelman looked up. “Who is?"

  "My cousin. Who were we just talking about?"

  "Sheriff Parker isn't afraid of anyone, especially not an over-the-hill snowbird."

  "You've been here six years. Everyone knows you. You're hardly a snowbird."

  "Tell that to your cousin."

  Nettie didn't respond, and the silence grew between them. A knot grew in Fogelman's stomach. Something bad was happening, and he didn't know why or how to stop it. He did know that if he didn't say something quickly, they'd cross a line they might not be able to cross back over. At least not together.

  But so what? he thought. So our relationship tanks tonight. It'll just speed up the inevitable.

  Finally Nettie turned back to the kitchen. Fogelman didn't intend to say anything, but the word flew out. “Nettie?"

  She turned and dabbed her eyes with her apron. “He's afraid you'll take his job."

  "What? Me? Run for sheriff? Who'd vote for me? Why would I even run?"

  "Everyone likes you. Rafael and his crowd all but worship you. You could win."

  "I don't want his stupid job."

  Nettie threw the potholders at him. “Oh, fine. That should make him feel so much better.” She stood trembling, arms straight down by her side, hands clenched into tiny fists. “You bastard!"

  Fogelman jumped off the couch and grabbed her by the arms, pulling her to his chest. “Nettie, I—"

  She started to sob then, her shoulders tight in his grip. He stroked her hair. “Nettie, Parker ... your cousin ... Ezekiel—” the name came off his tongue like the grinding of gears. Fogelman couldn't even think of him by his first name. He'd always be Parker—just like Parker would never call him Dave.

  "He's a country sheriff. You were a homicide detective in Detroit. He looks up to you."

  "News to me."

  "Do you know how he found Eric Booker? He put out an APB just like you suggested. In four hours Booker'd been found. W
hy do you think he invites you along? Why do you think he asks you all those questions?"

  "Mostly to toy with me, I guess. In this case, he looks at me like a suspect."

  Nettie looked up, kissed his chin. “That's where you're so wrong."

  Fogelman closed his eyes to kiss her, but before their lips met, Nettie's door burst open. Startled, they turned to see Ezekiel Parker framed in the doorway, hands on hips. “You carrying?” he said.

  Fogelman let go of Nettie and took a step towards Parker. “Not on me. My pistol's in the truck.” He started forward but Parker held out a hand.

  "Hold it right where you are. Put out your hands."

  "What?"

  "Ezekiel!” Nettie protested. “Just what do you think you're doing?"

  Parker ignored his cousin. He kept his attention on Fogelman as he pulled a pair of cuffs from the back of his Sam Browne belt. “You're under arrest for withholding evidence and accessory before and after the fact. Of murder,” he added.

  Fogelman waited patiently while Parker snapped the cuffs on him, then walked beside the sheriff to the waiting car.

  * * * *

  In the county complex, the two men sat across from each other, a scarred table between them.

  "Ran that number,” Sheriff Parker said. “Matches your old badge number."

  "Badge numbers get reassigned after retirement."

  "Guy who has that badge number now is fresh out of your academy, sounds like he's all of twenty-three years old and he hasn't left Michigan in two years."

  Fogelman leaned back. “How long you plan to hold me?"

  "How long you plan to hold out on me?"

  Fogelman said nothing and Parker walked out of the room. After three minutes he came back in with two coffees. He put one in front of Fogelman, then sat back down.

  "Hypothetically speaking,” Parker said, “let's say you're back in Detroit, and you have a guy on the hook like I have you. This guy, he used to be a cop, and you like him, but then you find out he's deep into a case you have and he's been jerking you around for two days. What do you do?"

  Fogelman smiled, though with only half of his face. Nettie was right—Parker was learning from him. “If I really liked him, if we had history, I'd give him one more chance to come clean. Otherwise I'd book him for murder and try to make the case stick. If he didn't mean much to me, I'd make sure he went down for something, accessory at the very least."