A Field of Red

by Greg Enslen

  Frank put up his hand.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” he said to Ted. King was right—the kid was young, a sure sign that the Bureau office in Cincinnati didn’t think this case was important. Or solvable. “It happens to all of us.”

  King finished the introductions: Deputy Simon, another young member of the squad, and Sergeant Graves, third in command and next in line for Detective.

  “Okay, Frank is getting up to speed,” King said. “He’s going through all the files first, and then we’ll take it from there. Show him all the courtesy you would a fellow officer. Frank, let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll get you out in the field.”

  Frank looked at King.

  “I’m ready now.”

  It wasn’t what the Chief and others were expecting. Chief King looked at him, suddenly curious.

  “I’ve been through all the personal files this morning,” Frank said. “I’d like to see a final report on the ransom drop, and photos, if you have any, and I need to read through Shale’s report. But first, I’d like to re-interview the Martins.”

  Chief King nodded, rolling with it.

  “No problem. When?”

  Frank glanced at the clock on the wall. “Now, if that’s convenient.”

  Deputy Peters and the others smiled at Chief King, who was looking at Frank. After a moment, King slowly nodded.

  “Okay,” Chief King said, slightly flustered. “Graves, can you call over there and set it up? Let me get my keys.”

  24

  Frank looked out the car window. The Chief was taking them on a different route, taking the back way through a residential neighborhood.

  “So, you’ve been through all the files already?” the Chief asked. “Really?”

  “I’m a fast reader,” Frank said, looking at the houses around them. “You guys covered everything pretty good, but I had a few questions for the Martins.”

  He heard the Chief grunt. “Okay, but I think it’s too soon—you could review—”

  “Nope,” Frank said. “Done enough reviewing. I need to get started bringing in new information, not rehashing stuff you and the others have been through a dozen times already.”

  They drove in silence until the car turned onto Hyatt, then into a long driveway, and the Chief stopped the car. They climbed out. Frank recognized the house from the police report from Sergeant Graves, the first officer on the scene—a long driveway lined with bushes. He turned and stared up the street for a long moment, thinking. This driveway had an unblocked view up the street to the corner where the girls would have turned—he imagined standing here that morning, watching the girls walk up the street.

  King walked up and joined him.

  “Straight shot, all the way up to where they turned,” King said. “What you thinking?”

  Frank shrugged. “Not sure, yet.” He pointed up the street. “It’s a clear line of sight to Broadway.”

  King nodded.

  “Yup. The water bottle was found just thirty feet down on the right,” he said. “Like I said, I can’t believe no one saw anything—Hyatt is one of the busiest streets in town, after Main. And the drop-off area at Broadway is always packed. Parents, teachers, an officer, even crossing guards. No one saw anything out of the ordinary.”

  Frank nodded, thinking, and followed the Chief inside.

  Mrs. Gutierrez, the housekeeper, opened the door and greeted them, and Frank could tell she’d been doing a lot of crying over the past week. That kind of emotional attachment was hard to hide and impossible to fake—her daughter was missing, and she was dealing with it.

  The Chief introduced them, and Frank shook her hand. Her hands were as rough as Frank’s. She knew about hard work.

  The Chief told her they were doing all they could to find her daughter, and she thanked him in broken English before leading them through the house.

  And the house was huge, impressive.

  Frank wondered what it would be like to be this well off. He was driving a hand-me-down car from the Bureau, filled with broken electronics. His tiny apartment in downtown Birmingham was a dump. His NOPD pension wasn’t impressive, but he could have lived a better life, if he took more side work. Just being surrounded by all of this wealth made him want to revisit the idea of getting out of Birmingham proper, maybe get a nicer apartment, in a nicer part of town. He had a little scratch, but he could make more if he wanted to. And he just needed to be smarter about spending it. Way too much of it ended up at Tammy’s Liquor down on Park. Tammy knew how much he liked his bourbon, maybe better than anyone else.

  Of course, some of the wealth surrounding the Martins was an illusion. Frank had been through the finances. The Martins were very good at projecting a mirage of stability and success. Frank guessed that rich people had the same problems as anyone else—keeping up appearances, people relying on you too much. Frank’s eyes took in the foyer as they walked through. The place was posh, like a hotel lobby. They passed a huge, sweeping staircase and through into what had to be the largest living room he had ever seen.

  “Who’s this? Another consultant?” A man stood, his arms on his hips. Nick Martin—Frank knew from the photos and the barking attitude. Confrontational and short-tempered when surprised. Frank knew the type.

  “I’m Frank. Frank Harper,” he said. He didn’t bother to offer his hand. He knew that Martin either wouldn’t take it, or he’d squeeze too hard just to prove his anger. Instead, Frank turned and started walking around the room, taking everything in. It was a typical suburban living room—couch, chairs, TV the size of an aircraft carrier, and a bunch of low tables with crap on them. Lots of beautiful landscape photos, blown up and mounted on expensive canvas. And magazines, piles of them, everywhere.

  “More questions, right?” Nick said, shaking his head and looking at Frank. “Instead of asking us more questions, shouldn’t you be out there, looking for Charlie?”

  “Well, thanks for seeing us,” Chief King said, holding his tongue. Frank would have done the same thing, had he been in King’s position. No need to engage the man in a useless debate. “We’ve brought in a consultant on the case, and that—”

  Nick Martin shook his head and turned to look at the Chief. “We don’t need another goddamned consultant,” the man barked. Nick’s voice was getting louder. “YOU need to be out looking. You and everyone on that police force. Why are we paying you people?”

  “We are searching, Nick,” the Chief said, shaking his head. “We are combing every location we can think of and interviewing anyone that might have a problem with you, or anyone who might know the kidnappers.”

  Martin looked at him sideways. “That’s bullshit. Just about everyone in town has a problem with me. You interviewing everyone?”

  “We’ve talked to everyone on the list, Nick,” Chief King began. “And we’ve got people out there—”

  “Mr. Martin,” Frank interrupted. “Why does everyone in town hate you?”

  The father and the Chief both turned to look at him but with opposite reactions. The Chief seemed mortified, but the City Councilman’s face went through four versions of red, before settling on a particular rosy shade.

  “What? How dare you come into my house—someone I’ve never met, by the way”—he shouted at the Chief—“and insult me!”

  Frank shook his head.

  “I’m not insulting you. I’m repeating back what you just said—everyone in town hates you. Why?”

  “Are you from Cooper’s Mill?” the man challenged Frank.

  Frank shook his head.

  “I’m on the City Council,” Nick said forcefully. “I have a record of fiscal conservancy. I’ve ended some programs and cut some funding that I didn’t think was necessary. We scaled back the police department, for one thing.” Frank glanced at the Chief, who gave no outward reaction. “Anyway,” Nick continued, “I’ve led the charge to get the city’s books in order. I’m used to running a business, living within my means. We cut some stuff, killed a few projects
, and people are mad. I’ve had threats before, and I can take it. I was in the Army.”

  Frank nodded at Martin. “I was in the Corps, 7th Brigade.”

  It was so easy to get ex-military talking. Let them know you were in—it always got them to relax. Martin nodded at him in that brotherly “we served together” kind of way that Frank hated, but Mr. Martin seemed to calm down a few notches. He sat heavily on the couch, letting out a sigh.

  “Chief, I don’t care who you bring in,” Nick said. “I just want our daughter back.”

  The Chief nodded and sat down on the flowery couch opposite Nick. Frank sat down next to the Chief. He glanced at two thick coffee table books in front of him: “Photography and Darkrooms” and “Ansel Adams—A Retrospective.”

  “Mr. Martin,” Frank began. “Are you a photographer?”

  “No, my wife is. She dabbles,” he said, clearly not impressed with his wife or her level of talent. “That means she spends lots of money on it, but it never amounts to anything.”

  Frank took in the coffee table and the stack of magazines—Oprah and Martha Stewart and House Beautiful were on top, but underneath were four about photography. He flipped through one. Beneath it, were four large albums of pictures, and Frank picked them up, flipping through each one. Vacation pictures of the Martins, good quality. Later pictures with Charlie, again very professional for an amateur. He knew next to nothing about photography, but the shots seemed well-composed.

  “So, Mr. Martin,” Frank said, not looking up from the photos or making any eye contact. “Who do you think took Charlie?”

  Frank could see Nick shaking his head.

  “I don’t know—anyone with a grudge, I guess. Isn’t that what I’ve just been saying?” The man was clearly running on fumes. “I just hope that’s what it is. If they’re mad at me, they might not hurt Charlie. But now they’ve got my money, lots of it. Maybe the satchel will make us square, in their minds.”

  Frank looked at Nick. “Okay, so you’re unpopular around town. Anything recently piss people off more than usual?” Frank asked.

  “Funding,” Nick said. “It’s always about money. Last month, we cut the Parks Department by four positions, so those guys are gone now. They were let go this week. And the police force”—he glanced uncomfortably at Chief King—“was cut two months ago by three positions. Plus, we had one person retire and one begin a long-term deployment with the military. Those positions will not be filled.”

  Frank glanced at the Chief.

  “Anyone on your payroll pissed enough at Scrooge here to hold back on the investigation? Maybe miss something on purpose?”

  The Chief sat up a little straighter. “No.”

  Frank nodded soberly. “Had to ask,” Frank said, and turned back to Martin. “Any other issues? Family problems, bad blood with the neighbors, business deals?”

  “Nope, nothing. Glenda will be home soon. She’s with a group walking the Freeman Prairie.”

  Frank turned to the Chief.

  “I thought they already checked there?”

  The Chief shook his head. “Yes, but the group is checking the prairie again ahead of the burn, and the kidnappers would have known about it as well. It’s been in the paper. The fire department burns it regularly this time of year.”

  “Why?” Frank asked the Chief.

  “Standard procedure,” the Chief answered. “It borders the town and Canal Lock Park and the bike trail, and kids wander out there sometimes. The grass is tall, and they get lost, and it’s far enough away from downtown that no one hears them yelling. There’s an off chance the girls could be out there,” he said, glancing at Nick Martin. “But it’s been checked once before by our group of about 100 volunteers—they did Kyle Park, too, and others,” the Chief said.

  Frank shook his head.

  “So, you’re still actively searching for the girls, even though you have a ransom demand and identified possible kidnappers?”

  The Chief shrugged. “Still working all assumptions, including the possibility that the kidnapping part of this is a hoax for money.”

  Frank nodded, thinking. He turned to Nick.

  “Is everything fine with your wife? The relationship solid?” Frank asked.

  “Yup,” Nick said quietly. He looked like he wanted to get offended at the question but just didn’t have the energy. “Mostly just money problems, which you probably know about, if you’ve been through the files.” Nick turned to Chief King. “Glenda’s bringing in a psychic.”

  “You’re joking me,” Chief King said.

  “No, it’s all set up, Nick Martin said, shaking his head. “They’ll be here in the morning. She’s supposedly good, having closed a few cases.”

  “Good,” Frank spoke up, and King turned to him, surprised. “No, it’s good,” Frank said again. “At the very least, it will be a distraction for everyone involved.”

  King nodded slowly. “I guess so. But the press will love that—but seriously, Nick, we don’t need more people poking around here.”

  Frank nodded. “No, it’s fine, Chief. The more eyes looking at the evidence, the better. Mr. Martin, did Charlie always walk to school alone?”

  The man shook his head. “No. Her two friends that she normally walks with were on field trips.”

  “Who would know that?”

  “Anyone with access to the online school calendar,” Chief King said. “Though, to figure out she would be walking alone, they’d have to know the girls’ names. The teachers’ names were posted, but not the students’.”

  Frank nodded and stood up.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Martin,” he said curtly. Frank shook Nick Martin’s hand—the man was taken aback by the suddenness of his dismissal—and walked away. Frank heard the Chief apologize and chase Frank out onto the lawn. Frank was standing in the middle of the lawn, staring down at the ground, thinking.

  “Okay,” the Chief said. “What was all that about?”

  “He didn’t do it,” Frank nodded back at the house. “He doesn’t know who did, either, so I decided to not burn any more daylight. The school is that way?”

  The Chief pointed. “Five blocks up. Straight shot.”

  Frank nodded.

  “Meet me there. I’m going to walk it,” Frank said. He turned and started walking across the luxurious front lawn, leaving the Chief standing there in the driveway alone.

  25

  Chastity was sitting at the table in the kitchen, working on the white skirt she’d torn. It was her favorite skirt. It made her butt look great but falling down on the pavement in front of those cops had torn it.

  She had her mother’s sewing small kit spread out on the table in front of her. It was the only thing she had from her mother—a small, ornate, golden orb about the size of an apple. It unfolded on the sides, and the small compartments held tiny spools of thread and a few needles, patches, and a thimble.

  The rip in her skirt was a simple tear. She wouldn’t need a patch—the heavy white thread, doubled-up, would work fine.

  Chastity stabbed the needle through the white fabric, trying to ignore the crying sounds from upstairs. This whole thing was taking longer than it should have, and George’s complete lack of balls wasn’t helping. Chastity knew what she would have done in his situation—kicked some ass until she got her money—but George was simple and apt to get along.

  She didn’t care—at least he was taking care of the girls. Chastity didn’t want anything to do with them. She’d told George she didn’t like kids—the look on his face had been precious, like a wounded kitten—but, in truth, she didn’t want the girls to see her face. Chastity was smart enough to know that this “plan” had little chance of coming off without a hitch, and she didn’t want it blowing up in her face.

  She looped the thread around, tying it off and cutting it, then rethreaded the needle and started again. Her mom had taught her to double-stitch everything. That, and how to turn her body into a steady flow of cash.

&
nbsp; Chastity’s mom had checked out doing what she loved best—staring at a ceiling in some dingy hotel, ignoring the john on top of her. Probably counting the money in her head, over and over as a lethal dose of coke ran through her system.

  Of course, Chastity hadn’t been old enough at the time to turn tricks, but that hadn’t kept her mom from teaching her every detail of the trade. And now, when things were tight, Chastity fell back on her God-given, built-in skill set.

  Things had been better, lately, with George. Although he was simple, and sometimes impossible to hold a conversation with, he knew where to score and had money and sometimes a car. And he never hit her.

  And this setup here at the farmhouse with George’s boss was killer. George grew the pot and prepped it for sale, and she could usually sneak some with no effort. And his boss kept prying eyes away. And Chastity? Well, she got to sit on her ass all day, watching TV, smoking and shooting up. It was the life.

  But George had talked so much about California, about heading out west, that Chastity had caught the fever as well. He’d never been, of course. But he’d told her stories about the ocean. He said that the water hissed like snakes as the waves crashed on the sand and went back out to sea. He said that you could look out at the water and know there was nothing for a thousand miles but water and wind and endless waves.

  George was an idiot, of course, but sometimes he sounded like a goddamned poet. He was nothing to look at, but when he was in his telling-stories mood, she could listen for days.

  Chastity finished up the skirt and held it up to the light. You almost couldn’t tell there had been a tear at all. Money was tight—even with George handing it over all the time—and she didn’t feel like wasting it on a new skirt, so fixing the old one was good. She never could handle money. It seemed to evaporate from her hands, especially when she was high. Or drunk.

  She slowly gathered up the items from the table and carefully folded them back into her mother’s ornate sewing kit. It really was beautiful. When closed, it looked like a large golden apple. Chastity had no clue where her mother had gotten it, or how she had managed to hang onto something so beautiful for so long, living the life she had. But Chastity was happy to have it.