“Oh, Glenda, this place is awesome!”
“Well, I don’t know about awesome,” says Glenda, “but it’ll do. And, it’s a ‘rent to buy,’ so one of these days I might actually own the place.”
“Well, I think it’s awesome.”
“Yeah, well, let’s get you situated.” She takes Rhonda by the hand, and leads her to a small bedroom in the back of the house. The walls are papered with a cheerful floral print, and against the far wall is a single bed with a pink ruffled bedspread. Matching curtains adorn the two windows that frame the bed, and a half dozen frilly pillows are piled up against the headboard. It’s like something out of a movie—or a dream. It’s exactly the kind of room that Rhonda has always wanted.
“This’ll be your room,” says Glenda. Rhonda looks at her with a puzzled expression on her face. “And, you can stay as long as you want to,” adds Glenda, as if reading the girl’s mind. Rhonda walks over to the bed, places her hands on its surface, and presses down like she’s seen people do in the movies. “I’ll take it,” she says with a giggle. She turns and plops her fanny down on the mattress, and then just as quickly, jumps back up again.
“Look, honey,” says Glenda. “I may as well tell you right now. I had a daughter of my own. Her name was Daphne, but we just never got along.”
“What happened to her?”
Glenda stares off into space, not saying a word. A tear falls first from one eye, then from the other.
“What’s the matter,” asks Rhonda, “did I say something wrong?”
“No, no, honey,” sniffs Glenda. “It has nothing to do with you. Daphne ran away from home when she was sixteen—just like you—and I never saw her again.”
“Do you have any idea where she is?”
Glenda shakes her head. “I’m hoping that someday she’ll—”
“Come back?”
“I know it’s silly, but―”
“She might,” says Rhonda, her voice full of optimism.
“It’s okay,” says Glenda. “I thought the same thing for a while. But, then eventually I realized that even if she did, it could never be the same.”
“I guess.”
“Hey,” says Glenda, quickly changing the subject, “you must be exhausted. Why don’t you take a nap?”
Rhonda feels as if all the air has come out of her. Not only is she totally spent, but after Glenda’s revelation about her own daughter, she is suddenly acutely aware of the enormity of her situation. “I don’t know what to say, Glenda, I—”
“You don’t have to say a word, honey.”
“I mean, last night, it was like it was the end of the world. And, now…I’m here…and, well…I…” She begins to cry.
Glenda rushes to the sobbing girl, and takes her into her arms. “It’s okay, honey, I know just how you feel. Now you just get yourself some rest, and when you get up, we’ll have ourselves a good talk. Figure out a plan. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
“Yeah,” sighs Rhonda, “I just need some sleep.” She lies down on the bed and in a matter of minutes is sleeping peacefully.
Glenda pulls down the shades, tiptoes out of the room, and closes the door behind her. As she moves off down the hallway, she is filled with a sense of purpose, and is smiling for the first time in many a year.
Chapter 15
On my way back home, I can’t help but wonder about a guy like Bryce Wilson. I’ve caught his show on the radio many an evening. Actually, he’s not all that bad. Glib sense of humor, decent speaking voice, and an eclectic mix of music that shows he knows his way around the medium. So, what’s he doing in this little hick town? Why isn’t he plying his trade in a bigger market? Is he hiding; doing his thing where nobody will notice? He doesn’t exactly keep a low profile, but in this neck of the woods, he certainly isn’t attracting major attention either. No doubt, the name’s a phony. But, I can check that out with the owners of the station. I decide to assign that task to Rick Dawley.
The next morning, I tell Rick what I want him to do.
“And when you find out what his real name is, run a trace on him. See if he’s got any kind of history with young girls. Who knows, maybe this guy’s a prime-time candidate for our—”
“Bryce? Shit, he couldn’t hurt a fly. I been listening to him for years. I will say he’s an asshole. Pretty much everybody knows he’s a cradle robber. I think this case is gettin’ to you. Hell, Matt, sometimes you just have to admit that even a ‘Big City’ detective can’t solve ‘em all.”
I look up from my desk to see Rick smiling at me.
“Gotcha!” he says.
“Yeah, well this ‘Big City’ detective does know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Just that if something walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck—”
“Yeah, I know, it’s a duck.”
“Nope.”
“What then?”
“It ain’t always a duck.”
Rick scratches his head, tilts it slightly, and stares at me with a blank look on his face.
“Never mind,” I say.
“But—”
“Just check the guy out, okay?”
“Sure, Matt. But, I’m tellin’ you, you’re sniffing up the wrong tree.”
“It’s barking.”
“What’s barking?”
“Never mind.”
Rick shrugs his shoulders, turns, and walks over to his desk in the corner. Soon, he’s on the phone with the State Police. I decide to call a few school superintendents.
With my fourth call, I strike pay dirt. Miles Rapkin, PhD, Superintendent of the Elmira School System, tells me of a young girl named Olivia Elge, who quit school.
“Actually, she ran away from home,” he says. “Kind of a shame, really. She was a good student. She would have graduated this June.”
“Do you have any idea why she left home?”
“I’m not really sure. I believe she was trying to get to New York City. Something about wanting to be a fashion model.”
“Typical,” I say. “Small town girl, going nowhere, scared to death of spending her life in a place like—”
“Like what? Elmira?” interjects the school administrator, clearing his voice, ready to lecture me on the virtues of small town life.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything personal. It’s just that coming from New York City, I’ve seen this type of thing countless times. They only see the glitz, never the reality. Do you have an address for Mrs. Elge? A phone number, perhaps?”
“Won’t do you any good,” he says. “They moved out, not long after Olivia left. At the time, I thought it was a bit strange. But, I’m guessing she found out something that made her think Olivia wasn’t coming back. Perhaps she moved back with her own parents, knowing that Olivia would find her.”
“You said ‘they.’ Who else was there?”
“Mrs. Elge and her son. Mr. Elge’s been out of the picture for years. He was killed quite a while ago, in Iraq…or was it Afghanistan? I’m not really sure. Well, anyway, it was one of the two.”
“Is it possible that Olivia went to live with a relative, a friend—maybe somebody she knew in the city?”
“Chief, we don’t make it a practice to pry. People have their own reasons for what they do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am quite busy. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I sense I’ve ruffled his feathers with the “small town” reference. “Just the last known address and phone number, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Suit yourself,” he says. “I’ll put my secretary on.”
“Thanks, Mr. Rapkin. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s Doctor Rapkin. No problem at all.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Oh, Chief, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is Olivia in some kind of trouble?”
“I really can’t say,” I reply. More trouble than you want to know about, I think. “Thank you for your time.”
“Don’t m
ention it,” he says. This time, there’s a subdued tone to his voice that causes me to think that he’s not really a prick after all. Maybe more of a prig.
“His real name’s Robert Finkelstein; from Los Angeles, by way of Detroit, Michigan, with a quick stopover in New York City—like two months.”
I look up from my desk to see Rick standing there with a piece of paper in his hand. “Bryce Wilson,” he says. “One charge of aggravated assault—”
“Let me guess. On a minor?”
“Close. A female. Barely legal; nineteen, to be exact.”
“Where?”
“Los Angeles. A Mexican girl he was ‘dating.’”
“Conviction?”
“Charges dismissed. Girl claimed she hit him first; didn’t want to pursue it.”
“Anything else?”
“The usual stuff. Unpaid parking tickets in Michigan. Landlord in New York sued him for not paying his rent. Oh, and he did do a couple of days for drunk and disorderly in Panama City, Florida. Spring break, 2001. But, other than that, he’s clean.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll just keep an eye on him. Maybe he’s clean and maybe he isn’t.”
“He’s just a jerk. A harmless jerk,” says Rick. “But, you can’t arrest the guy for being a jerk, right?”
“Just remember what I said about ducks…”
“Yeah, yeah,” replies Rick. “I get it. And the barking dogs, too.”
Instead of saying anything, I just smile; it makes him crazy.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing. I think I’ll take a ride. Maybe get some lunch.”
“Want company?” he asks, hopefully.
“Sure. Know somebody?”
“Ha, ha.”
Chapter 16
Bryce Wilson a.k.a. Robert Finkelstein enters the side door of the WLUV radio station, flips on the bank of lights that illuminate the broadcast console, and spots the flashing light on the phone set that indicates a message is waiting.
“Bryce, it’s Linda,” says the frantic voice on the phone. “Daddy went to see the Chief. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. I told him I walked into a door, but he didn’t believe me. But, don’t worry, I promise I won’t tell anybody the truth. Please don’t be angry with me, please, Bryce?” Then, in a hushed voice she adds, “I love you, Bryce…Bye.”
Bryce chuckles to himself, and then mimics Linda. “I love you, Bryce,” he says. Dumb hick. You wouldn’t know anything about love if it jumped up and bit you in the ass! Love. Ha! His mind shifts gears, and he pictures Chief Davis. Mr. Big Shot Chief. It’s always the same, he thinks. Push a broad around a little, have some fun, and next thing you know some cop is sticking his nose in your affairs. It’d be wise to cool it with this one though; for some reason this cop seems to mean business. He’d better tell Linda to get lost. Besides, the high school is full of little tarts that would just love to be his main squeeze.
The big industrial clock on the wall tells Bryce that he has ten minutes before he has to be on the air. He wishes Linda was there now. Shit! Can’t live with ‘em; can’t live without ‘em. Well, maybe she’d show up for a little “good-bye lovin’.” Then, he’d get rid of her.
Chapter 17
Peggy, December, the previous year – still day one
The man watches her every movement, safely, from a distance. He has curly black hair, a sparse goatee beard, and a pencil thin moustache. His name is Julio Rodriguez; he’s a native of Puerto Rico, living with his aunt. At twenty-two, he already has a long record with the NYPD. Nothing major—yet; just a string of misdemeanors: panhandling, shoplifting, possession of marijuana, assault. But, it doesn’t mean he isn’t capable. It’s just been a matter of luck—good for him, bad for his victims. His prey consists solely of women – mostly old and infirm. They’re easy targets that won’t put up any struggle. Many can’t or, worse yet, won’t identify him in a lineup, for fear of reprisal. Still others can’t be certain because of drug habits that make them unreliable as witnesses. Occasionally (like today) he’ll try to hustle a chicita, an innocent girl that can be talked out of a few dollars for a fake marijuana cigarette.
But, this one is different. This one smells of real money, he thinks. It’s nearly Christmas; maybe she has a couple of hundred dollars. These white college girls are easy. Who knows; maybe she’ll even want to have sex with him? It’d be fun, he thinks; show the juera a good time; make her little blond head spin. He picked her up at the Washington Square Station and followed her discreetly all the way uptown.
Peggy is oblivious to Julio’s presence. She is looking for the escalator that will take her upstairs to the bus terminal. “Senorita,” he says, approaching her from the rear. She spins around, and Julio thinks she definitely will be easy.
“Yes?” she says.
“You look like a girl who might be interested in some ‘product’.”
“Product?”
Julio pantomimes a smoking action, squinting his eyes as if shielding them from the smoke of a marijuana cigarette. “You know, Chicita, some grass—some weed. You lookin’ to score?”
Peggy laughs aloud and smiles. “Me? Buy weed? I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”
“No weed, huh? Oh, I get it,” he says. “What do you do then? Lines?”
“No, no. No lines. I don’t do that kind of thing. But, thanks anyway. I’ve got to catch my bus.”
Julio’s criminal mind moves to another level. He reaches out and gently touches the girl’s shoulder. “Okay, okay,” he says, “I didn’t mean to insult you. You look like a nice girl. I just thought you were like all the other college senoritas. You know, into the drug scene.” He flashes his most winning asset, his smile. The girl melts.
“How do you know I’m a college student?” she asks, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I could be a secretary—or something like that.”
Another smile; this one even broader and more endearing. “I can’t lie, Chicita. I been followin’ you since you got on the subway. You go to NYU, no?”
“Why were you following me?” asks Peggy, suddenly defensive.
“Because…because…you’re so pretty.”
“Bullshit. You just want—”
“I just want to know you; that’s all. Is that a crime?”
Peggy is becoming more wary. She takes a hard look at the Puerto Rican youth. His hands are scarred on the knuckles. His face is in need of a shave, and his clothes are worn and unclean. This is not some innocent teenager. This is someone she’s been warned about, time and time again. Someone to fear.
Sensing the change in Peggy’s demeanor, Julio decides to abandon the obvious ploy, and to resort to what he knows best—force. He pushes the girl hard into a dark corner of the train station, while at the same time withdrawing a switchblade knife from his pocket. The chrome steel reflecting the dim station lights onto Peggy’s cheek in a curious pattern, reminiscent of fireflies.
The suddenness of the attack has caught her off guard, and she struggles to keep her balance. Clutching her knapsack to her chest, she is about to scream when Julio presses his free hand to her mouth, stifling any attempt to shout, and presses the knife blade to her throat.
“Look, Juerva, I don’t want to hurt you. But, if you make a sound, I’ll cut you. All I want is your money, okay?”
Peggy opens her eyes wide, tears wetting her cheeks, and slowly moves her head up and down in agreement. Julio’s breath is like a furnace against her cheek, and reeks of garlic. “Now, give me your money, okay?” He slowly lowers the knife to his side, and waits patiently for the girl to comply.
“It’s in my knapsack. I have to get it out, okay?” she says.
“Sure, Chicita. No problem. Just don’t make any noise.”
She shakes her head from side to side.
“Good little juerva,” he says, his confidence rising. His instincts were right, he thinks. This one will be easy.
Without warning, Peggy shoves the knapsack hard into Julio’s mi
dsection, knocking him off balance.
“Hey!” he shouts. But, Peggy is off and running before he can regain his balance. He looks quickly around to see if anyone has heard them, but no one has. He charges after the girl, and catches her halfway up the stairs to the upper level. He grabs her arm and spins her around, punching her hard in the face, while simultaneously ripping the knapsack from her hands. Blood pours from Peggy’s nose, and she collapses on the stairs, and begins to cry loudly.
“Shut up, you stupid puta!” yells Julio. “Shut your face! All I wanted was your fucking money. It’s your own fault you got hurt.” He rifles through the knapsack, and finds Peggy’s purse, tossing the heavy pack aside. “You say a word and I’ll kill you,” he says quietly, his voice menacing and cruel. “Now get your chickenshit ass outta my face. I better not see you again.” With that, he turns, runs back down the stairway, across the open floor, and disappears down another flight of stairs to the subway station below.
Peggy is stunned, and too scared to move. She retrieves her knapsack, rummages inside until she finds a tissue, and presses it gently to her nose. Already, the blood has stopped flowing, but the pain is increasing and her nose has begun to swell. She hopes it isn’t broken, but fears for the worst. Slowly, she raises herself off the concrete stair, and begins the arduous climb to the top. Then, it hits her. Everything is gone: her money, her license, her school ID—everything. She has no choice now; she’ll have to hitchhike home. But, at least she’s alive. She shudders to think of just how close she came to being killed. She has no doubt that the Hispanic man would not have hesitated to use his knife.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 7