“We’ve looked at the other probation officers, security guards, even some of the lawyers, and we got nothing.”
“But we got the blue van.”
Schmitty shook his head. “Pretty weak.”
“Well you got something better for me?”
He looked away, then turned back to me, looking at me straight with a little bit of panic in his eyes. “I told you we got nothing. We’ve got nothing on anybody.”
And I believed him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Emma’s list for the afternoon was long. I had spent multiple days working exclusively on the Lost Boys files, and she needed me to make some money. After being presented with the first bill for Sammy’s new school, I also felt the pressure to bring in some revenue. My goal was to pay a quarter of Sammy’s tuition for the first two months and then slowly increase that portion. The Judge had said from the beginning that he didn’t care, and I believed him; but in my mind it was my promise to Sammy and my obligation.
With no leads or clear direction about what was next for the Lost Boys, I put it all on the back burner and met with a new civil client out in Clayton. I spent over an hour returning phone calls and setting up new appointments, and then I walked over to the nearby courthouse for two court appearances before heading back to the office.
Traffic on Forty wasn’t too bad. I took the Jefferson exit off the highway and wound up the off-ramp into the city proper. The ramp dumped me at an intersection that only a traffic engineer could love. It was a tangle of old city streets, highway, service roads, alleys, and some sidewalks that were never used.
I pulled up to a white line and waited while cars and semitrucks zipped past me in all directions. When the light turned green, I was going to take a left, cross back over the highway, and cut across downtown.
The light, however, did not turn green.
It held steady on red as the other traffic lights and arrows cycled, theoretically giving everybody an opportunity for safe passage.
My mind wandered. Then a knock on my car window brought me back. I turned and saw Cecil Bates smiling at me. He held a cardboard sign, obviously panhandling.
I rolled down my window. “How’s it going, Cecil?”
“Not too shabby, Counselor.” His head bobbled, and as Cecil exhaled, the car filled with the odor of cheap whiskey. “Making a little something something, here and there.”
I got my wallet and took out a ten-dollar bill. I held it up but out of reach. “I’m giving this to you, but you gotta promise me first.”
“Promise what?”
“To stay out of trouble,” I said.
Cecil gave me an exaggerated look of great offense. “Absolutely,” he said. “Not breaking any laws.”
“You sure?”
“Cross my heart.” Then Cecil laughed. “Plus I got me my backup plan now.”
“Backup plan?”
“The cameras, man.” Cecil pointed at a pole above us. It had four cameras mounted on the top in each direction. “Don’t do nothing where there ain’t cameras. Videos don’t lie.” Then he winked at me. “Keepin’ it legal.”
“Got it.” I laughed, then looked back up at the cameras. Somebody behind me honked their horn. I looked over at the traffic light, which had turned green—and, at that moment, I had an idea.
“Take this.” I handed Cecil Bates the ten-dollar bill. “You earned it.” Then I pulled away, deciding that I wasn’t going to go straight back to the office.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
It took about eight minutes to get over to the Juvenile Justice Center. I slowed as I drove in front of the building. The protesters camped at the corner of the parking lot had dwindled from a hundred to two dozen, and now to about ten.
I didn’t see anything at first. Then I turned on Bell Avenue and circled it again. Still nothing.
The angles weren’t right, and even driving slowly, I was going too fast. Too excited.
I pulled into the parking lot in front of the Juvenile Justice Center. After grabbing my cell phone, I got out and gave a quick acknowledgment to the remaining protesters. Although Tanisha Walker and Isaac Turner were gone, the people that remained looked familiar. “Talk to you in a minute.” I waved again, then started walking down the sidewalk that ran along the south side of the building.
I knew they had to be there, but I was worried that they wouldn’t be in the right spots.
I walked a little farther, toward the back parking lot. Then I saw it: a little silver box attached to the side of the building.
A camera.
I took a picture of it, and then I stared at it, trying to figure out exactly where it was pointed.
I walked up to the chain-link fence that surrounded the blue vans that were used by probation. There were no cameras on poles here, and no cameras atop the high fence posts, but I found one attached to the back side of the building.
I took a picture of it, getting even more excited. The camera was pointed directly at the vans. If it didn’t capture a face, it would have certainly captured the general physical characteristics and body type of the person who took the van on the night that Isaac Turner’s brother, TeeTee, had disappeared.
I had just taken another picture when a security guard came outside. He was a big guy, probably eighty pounds overweight. The look on his face was one of panic as he ran toward me from the front of the building. Every few yards, he’d stop, wave his hands, and yell at me. “Can’t do that! Can’t do that!” Then he’d double over, head between his legs, trying to catch his breath.
He wanted to confiscate my phone. That much was clear, although it was difficult to understand him. His face was bright red by the time that he’d made it all the way down the block. Sweat ran down his cheeks. Midsentence, he’d stop, take a deep breath, point at my phone, and say, “No.”
“You’re telling me I can’t stand on a public sidewalk and take a picture of a public building?”
“Says you can’t do that.” He was out of breath. “You need to give me your phone.” He pointed at it, bent over, and shook his head.
“Listen.” I tried sounding contrite. “I’m not giving you my phone.” I looked over his shoulder, hoping that somebody rational would arrive. “Why don’t we call Sergeant Schmidt of the Saint Louis Police Department? He can clear things up, tell you who I am.”
This stopped him. He looked at me with suspicion. “Telling me you a cop?”
“No, I’m not a police officer, but I’m working with—”
“Then you need to give me that phone.”
“Why?”
“You know, terrorists. September eleventh.” He wiped more sweat off his forehead. “Against the law to take pictures of a public building.”
“It is not against the law to take pictures of a public building.” I put the phone in my pocket. “Listen, I’m just going to leave now. OK?”
“Not OK.” Now the security guard was pointing at the pocket that held my dangerous cellular device. “You need to leave that with me until I get it cleared.”
“I’m not doing that.” I turned and started to walk away, and then I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Told you that you cannot leave.” The security guard grabbed my wrist. “Going to have to place you under arrest.”
I yanked my hand away from him. “You’re not even a police officer.”
“Sir,” he said, shaking his head. “You need to obey me.”
“This is ridiculous.”
As the security guard started to unclip his handcuffs from his belt, the high chain-link fence to the parking lot began to jerk and squeak to life. We both turned, surprised, as the fence opened and a black Jaguar XJ emerged from the lot behind the Juvenile Justice Center.
The car pulled up alongside us. The passenger side window rolled down. “Jameson.” Judge Bryce leaned over, shouting out of the car window. “What are you doing to Mr. Justin Glass?”
The security guard’s chest pumped up. “Yes, Judge.” He n
odded toward me. “This man was taking photographs of our building, sir.”
“So what?”
“With all due respect, Judge Bryce”—the man shifted from one foot to another, starting to get nervous—“it’s against the law to take photographs of any courthouse.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Judge Bryce pointed at me and then looked back at the security guard. “Leave him alone or I’ll have to report this to your supervisor. I happen to know that Regal Security’s contract is up for renewal, and they will not like hearing about this at all.”
“But sir.” The security guard looked at Judge Bryce with a mixture of disappointment and exasperation. “The law says—”
“The law does not say that.” Shaking his head, Judge Bryce dismissed the security guard with his hand. “Go on back, now. Don’t make me get out of the car.”
“But . . .” The security guard put his hands on his hips.
“Now.” Judge Bryce turned off his car and stepped outside, slamming the door shut. He then walked around the front of his car and stood toe to toe with the guard. “I’m the presiding judge of this court. I’m in charge of this courthouse, and I’m telling you for the last time to go back inside and leave Mr. Glass alone.”
That was it.
The security guard took a final deep breath, staring at Judge Bryce with a mixture of respect and resentment familiar to any enlisted grunt that ever had to deal with a commanding officer, then slightly bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”
We watched in silence as he shuffled back toward the front of the courthouse, rounded the corner, and disappeared.
When Judge Bryce was sure that he was gone, he turned to me and shook his head in dismay. “My apologies.” He paused, as though thinking about whether he should elaborate. “Been having trouble with Jameson for years. He has applied to be a police officer in every city and county in Missouri, and never made it . . . mostly because he’s a moron.”
“Well thank you for stopping. Thought I was going to be put in jail.”
Judge Bryce laughed. “Maybe handcuffed, but as soon as he got you into the courthouse, somebody with a brain would’ve intervened.”
“Hope so.”
Judge Bryce looked at the building and then back at me. “Mind if I ask why you were taking photos of one of the ugliest courthouses in America?”
“A theory.” I kept it vague.
“Seem to still be very interested in the blue vans.”
“I am.” I paused. “But I’d better go and let you be on your way.”
Judge Bryce nodded and looked back at the vans on the other side of the fence. “I thought your march was wonderful,” he said. “Call me if you have any updates, will you? I feel terribly out of the loop.”
“I will.”
“Maybe coffee or lunch sometime.” Judge Bryce rubbed his chin, thinking. Then he sighed and stepped a little closer to me. “But be careful.”
“About what?”
“Well.” Judge Bryce looked around. “I know you’re working closely with Sergeant Schmidt.”
I shrugged. “He’s my contact.”
Bryce nodded. I wasn’t telling him something he didn’t already know. “I’ve been around a long time, you know? Remember, I was a prosecutor before I was ever a judge, and I’d be careful with Sergeant Schmidt. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Something specific here that I need to know?”
Judge Bryce shook his head, then he talked softly and slowly. “Plays the game very well. Easy to underestimate, and I’ve seen things and I’ve heard things . . .” He stepped back. “Shouldn’t go into too much detail, but my warning is a fair one. We got a city on edge. Jimmy Poles is nowhere. Supposedly he’s fled the state because he fears for his own life. Last night was the first night it was a little better, but I think it’s just the calm before the storm. Too much pressure. The city’s gonna pop.” Judge Bryce stepped back and started walking to his car. “I can feel it.”
He opened his car door, and he stuck one foot inside. “Plus the birds tell me he’s gonna be the next chief if he plays this right.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
What Judge Bryce told me about Schmitty rattled around in my brain for the rest of the day. It probably troubled me more because I knew that at least part of it was true. It was convenient for me to consider Schmitty a friend, even though he wasn’t. We’d never seen each other for non-work-related reasons. Never hung out because we enjoyed each other’s company or for no reason at all.
It was convenient for me to consider Schmitty a good guy, because he’d passed along some information or let me see a confidential file. But it was just as plausible that he was playing me, knowing that one day he’d need my family’s support when his name was dropped as the next chief. And given all the favors he’d done for me over the years—with little given back in return—I’d gladly offer him my endorsement and tell Annie, my father, my brother, and the rest of the Glass machine that he was a good choice.
Or maybe Judge Bryce’s warning went beyond simple politics. He’d heard the whispers about Jimmy Poles. Maybe there were whispers about Schmitty, too. He certainly knew his way around the system, but I couldn’t imagine Schmitty being dangerous or hurting anybody.
It nagged at me.
Emma knocked on my open office door. “You doing OK?”
I looked down at the stack of papers for my review and the small notebook filled with phone messages that I needed to return. Then I looked back up at her. “I guess so, just . . .” I wondered whether I should tell her about Judge Bryce’s warning. “What do you think about Schmitty?”
The question caught her off guard. “The cop?”
I nodded. “The guy who’s been working with us on the Lost Boys.”
Emma paused, as if picturing him in her mind. “What about him?”
“Think he’s using me? Using my name? Using my connections?”
Emma smiled. “Of course he is.” Then she shifted her weight to her other foot and put her hand on her hip. “That’s how it goes with cops. Doesn’t mean it’s bad. That’s their job.” She started to turn, but stopped. “Anything else?”
“Well.” I pointed at the chair next to my desk. “Why don’t you have a seat?” I thought for a moment, then, as Emma sat down, I warned her. “It’s only a theory.”
I told Emma about my drive back from Clayton, my intersection epiphany with Cecil Bates, and my confrontation with the security guard at the Juvenile Justice Center. Even though it got later and later, Emma sat patiently and listened.
Then I told her what Judge Bryce said about Schmitty. “Think it’s possible?” I shook my head. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Schmitty wants to be the next chief, but I don’t understand how burying evidence about these kids is going to help him. Why would he get the videos and never act on them?”
Emma shrugged. “You never know about people, but it doesn’t seem like him. It doesn’t make sense.” She thought more about it, trying to reason it out. “The police are tight, like a brotherhood. Maybe he keeps a video tight to protect the integrity of the department, maybe to prevent the violence from escalating, maybe as a favor to get somebody’s support for a promotion. Perhaps all three.”
“Maybe.” I stood up. “I should give him a call and tell him about the cameras.” I paced behind my desk, feeling like I had become a conspiracy theorist. It was a rush of paranoia, and it made me suspicious of everybody. “I mean, we don’t even know whether the videos exist. Maybe they delete them all after a week or something.”
Then I had an idea. “What about Nikolas?”
“To sneak a peek?”
“Something like that, like an insurance policy.” I talked up the idea, trying to convince myself. “If we peek, find nothing, no harm done. Or maybe I find something, and Nikolas makes a backup copy, just in case Judge Bryce is right.”
“Maybe.” Emma remained noncommittal. It was one thing to play a little loose with Cecil Bates and drinking in the park. It
was another thing to start hacking the courts’ security system on one of the highest profile criminal investigations in the country.
“That’s it.” I nodded, folding my arms across my chest. “We’re doing it.”
“Correction,” Emma said. “You’re doing it.”
The Northside Roastery was closed, but Emma had a key. We went in through the back door. Emma called out, letting them know they had visitors. She looked over her shoulder at me. “Don’t want to get shot.”
Hermes was cleaning the front of the shop, and Nikolas was in his little room.
I went to Nikolas, and Emma turned back, leaving. “You’re on your own, Mr. Glass.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I took a step into room where Nikolas was working.
He was concentrating on the information displayed on one of his three computer screens. He typed another line of code and then turned. “Can I help you?” Nikolas had dark circles under his eyes, and his beard had grown bushy. It looked like he’d been working nonstop for a few days. The place smelled like a locker room.
“I think you might be able to help,” I said. “It’s the Lost Boys case. The one in the news.”
Nikolas nodded. “Yes?”
“I think I might know a way to find out who’s responsible, but I’m not sure the police are going to help.”
“Don’t trust the police?” Nikolas smiled. “Me neither. What you need?”
I handed him my phone and we looked at the pictures that I had taken of the cameras outside the Juvenile Justice Center, as well as a picture that I took of one of the blue probation vans. “I’m looking to see if there’s any footage of who took the van on this date and about this time.” I took out a piece of paper from my notebook that had the information written on it and handed it to him. “And if there’s other videos from inside showing the person walking through the hallways, or maybe even a video of the van driving on the street near the place where Isaac’s brother was taken, that would be amazing.”
“That’s a lot.” Nikolas turned and looked at his computer. “Got something in the hopper right now.” He held up his hands. “All this you’re talking about, probably different systems. Street cameras, probably public works or department of transportation, maybe Homeland Security or cops. The courthouse, maybe city or cops or bailiffs, or even a private security company. I have to figure out the main system where it’s stored.”
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