Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  “Vigilantes?” asked Cantrell.

  “Or competitors.”

  “That guy who runs MetroWest?”

  I said, “Hugh Graxton?”

  Cantrell swung around to face me. “How do you know Hugh Graxton?” he asked.

  “He’s Sal’s friend.”

  Cantrell said, “Friend? What makes you think these guys have any friends? They’re animals.”

  “Hugh’s a good guy.”

  “Yeah, so’s Sal, and they’d both kill you as soon as look at you.”

  “What’s your problem, Cantrell?”

  “My problem is that you’re cozy with these crooks and nobody’s even looking at you.”

  “If I were part of it, why would they send me the ransom note?”

  “Who knows if they sent it to you. Maybe this whole charade was the delivery mechanism.”

  I pointed at the front door. “Get out of my house.”

  Whatever Cantrell was, he wasn’t a vampire. No magical power swooshed him out the front door. Instead, he remained standing in my kitchen.

  “You heard me,” I said.

  Bobby said, “C’mon Frank, we’ve gotta go.”

  I asked Bobby, “What are we going to do about this?”

  “I think there’s only one right thing to do,” Bobby said. “We’re going to show this to Sal, see if he wants to plead guilty.”

  “Let me grab my coat.”

  Cantrell said, “You’re not coming. Why would you come?”

  “He’s my cousin,” I said. “And I lost his daughter.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Frank, let’s bring Tucker,” Bobby said. “He may settle the situation.”

  “You’re taking his side?” asked Cantrell.

  “This isn’t about sides.”

  “Then you two go talk to Sal. Three’s a crowd.” Cantrell turned and left, running down the staircase and banging the front door closed.

  “Tantrum much, Frank?” I asked.

  “His heart’s in the right place,” said Bobby.

  “You mean under a rock somewhere?”

  Bobby slid the paper back into the envelope. “Let’s see if Sal will confess.”

  Nine

  Sal had the slack jaw and faraway gaze of a bombing victim sitting in the gutter. Five o’clock shadow bristled from his chin in salt and pepper patches, accentuating his slack jaw and pallid complexion. His eyes darted, jumping from his hands to the wall to Bobby to me and then to the woman sitting at the head of the table.

  The woman had red hair, pulled back into a bun, and she wore a sweaty green yoga top. She stood and circled the table to shake our hands.

  “Caroline Quinn.”

  I hadn’t seen a woman wearing anything less than a parka in weeks, and my eyes, acting on their own, shot down Caroline’s body for an inventory. Tight yoga top, check. Shapely hips in yoga capris, check. Thighs, super-check. My eyes stalled when they hit Caroline’s left shin, where a shiny, ornate prosthesis poked out from the capris.

  Fluorescent conference-room lighting glinted off the elegant curlicues that adorned Caroline’s prosthetic shin. It was as if she’d taken a beautiful tattoo and rendered it in chrome.

  Caroline grabbed my hand, shaking it and yanking my eyes back to hers. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  I held her hand. “You do?”

  “Nice legs.”

  Bobby said, “Can we get started here?”

  Caroline released my hand, motioned me to a seat, and took hers at the head of the table. “Miller, telling one of my legal secretaries to pull me out of hot yoga was quite a stunt. I hope you’re not just messing with me.”

  “No counselor, I’m not messing with you,” Bobby said. “We needed to show you this now.”

  Caroline nodded at me. “Who’s this?”

  Sal said, “That’s my cousin, Tucker.”

  Caroline asked, “First name or last name, Tucker?”

  “Last name,” I said.

  “What’s your first name?”

  “I just go by Tucker.” I don’t spring Aloysius on them until the second date.

  “So, Tucker, why are we here?”

  Bobby produced a copy of the note, dealt it across the table to Sal. “Because of this. It’s a ransom note.”

  Sal trapped the note with the palm of his hand, slid it toward himself, looked at the picture of Maria taped to the chair.

  “Cocksucker!” Sal said. “Fucking Pupo.”

  Bobby said, “Joey Pupo? What about him?”

  Caroline said, “Don’t answer that, Sal.”

  “I should have taken care of him,” Sal said.

  Caroline said, “Shut UP!”

  “What do you mean ‘taken care of him’?” asked Bobby.

  Caroline said, “No more talking, Sal. Agent Miller, I need you to leave now.”

  “Why?” I asked. “If Sal knows who has her, that’s a good thing, right?”

  Caroline blew out a sigh. “What Sal says can and will be used against him in a court of law. Isn’t that right, Agent Miller?”

  “This is off the record, isn’t it?”

  “There is no ‘off the record,’ Tucker,” said Caroline. “Miller is fishing.”

  Bobby said, “I thought Sal should know about the demands.”

  “And you thought Sal might be more willing to talk to you,” said Caroline. “It’s time to go.”

  “They say he needs to plead guilty,” said Bobby.

  Sal crinkled the note into a ball. “Miller, when did you turn Joey?”

  Caroline said, “Not now, Sal.”

  “You turned my best friend against me,” said Sal. “I just want to know when.”

  Bobby said, “Don’t get dramatic, Sal. Joey wasn’t your best friend. Marco was your best friend, until you shot him.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Sal didn’t kill anyone,” I said.

  Bobby said, “You stay out of this, Tucker.”

  “How long, Miller?” Sal asked. “How long since you turned Joey?”

  Bobby didn’t respond.

  “So he is a fucking informant?” said Sal.

  “You gonna do him too?” Bobby asked. “Want to just fill out the confess—”

  A bleacher whistle, loud enough to be heard from the top of the bleachers, blasted through the room, piercing my ears and driving spikes into my brain. I spun to the noise and saw Caroline Quinn standing, thumb and finger poised. She inhaled and I covered my ears before she blasted us again.

  Caroline sat. “You boys ready to settle down?”

  Sal rattled a pinky around in his ear. “For Christ’s sake, Caroline.”

  Caroline said, “Agent Miller, I asked you to leave. You can bring Tucker with you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

  Caroline said, “I’m sorry. Do you think I’m going to let you fill in Miller after we’re done?”

  “I just want to find Maria.”

  Caroline made a flicking motion at Bobby. “Would you leave? C’mon. Shoo.”

  “Let’s go, Tucker,” Bobby said.

  I said, “I’m not leaving.”

  Sal said, “Tucker can stay.”

  “You trust him?” Caroline asked.

  “Yeah,” Sal said.

  Caroline sat. “Fine.” She pointed at Bobby, then at the door.

  Bobby moved to the door, turned. “Listen Sal. About Sophia. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Sal closed his eyes. Crushed the note in his fists. Bobby closed the door behind him.

  Caroline patted Sal’s hand, worked the note free, and spread it on the table. “That’s the stupidest kidnapping demand I’ve ever heard,” she said.

  Sal sa
id, “Joey’s always been a fucking moron.”

  “How do you know Joey has her?” I asked.

  Sal pointed at the picture. “Those are the dining room chairs his grandmother left him. They’re fucking ancient. Nobody else has chairs like that.”

  I asked, “So why did he take her?”

  “Because the douche bag doesn’t want to face me in court and spend the rest of his life in witness protection.”

  “Why would he face you?”

  Sal didn’t answer, spread out the note some more trying to get it flat. “Thank God Sophia didn’t live to see this.” Sal’s composure slipped. His lip curled, his eyes spilled tears that forged wet trails through his beard. A sob erupted. “Fuckin’ church.” He dropped his face into his arms. “I’m sorry, Maria.”

  “What about the church?” I asked.

  “I let Joey live—”

  “Sal, I shouldn’t be hearing this,” Caroline said. “Let’s focus on—”

  Sal grabbed my shoulder, slid his big hand behind my neck, and pulled me close. “You listen to me, Tucker. You never tell a guy you’re gonna kill him.”

  Caroline said, “Sal—”

  “You just fucking do it. No warning, no nothing.”

  “Sal, stop it.”

  “You fucking warn him and this is what happens.” Sal gestured to the room.

  “You were going to kill Joey Pupo?” I asked.

  “I warned him first,” Sal said. “Told him to turn himself in or I’d kill him.”

  Caroline asked, “Turn himself in for what?”

  “He killed Marco.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “Because I’m not a fucking informant,” said Sal. “What did I tell you?”

  Caroline sighed. “That you’d never turn.”

  “Don’t even bring me a deal.”

  “I’m still going to bring you a good deal if they offer it.”

  “I’m telling you, don’t do it. I’ll never turn on my guys.”

  “Well, Pupo turned on you, Sal. He told them you killed Marco.”

  I stood, shrugged on my winter coat, stuck out my hand, and shook Caroline’s. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Where are you going?” Sal asked.

  I said, “I’m getting Maria back.”

  “You can’t just go get her back,” Caroline said. “You’ll get killed.”

  “I’ll bring Bobby.” I opened the door. Stepped into the hall.

  Sal called out, “Joey will kill her if he sees you coming.”

  “Then he won’t see me coming.”

  Ten

  Joey’s address, Holden Court, turned out to be a long courtyard formed by three brick apartment buildings. Joey’s apartment commanded the high ground at the end of the courtyard on the top floor. Bobby Miller peeked around the corner, his bald head steaming in the cold.

  “He’s got to be up there watching the street,” said Bobby. “He’ll see us coming. We should wait until early morning. He’d be asleep.”

  “I’m not waiting,” I said. “Maria’s terrified.”

  “Well, walking up that courtyard will get her killed, and that’s worse than terrified.”

  I scanned the buildings around us. I’m certain that the guys who built the North End had never read a computer science book, had never heard of tessellations, and had never even played a game of Tetris. Yet their handiwork on the triangle formed by Battery, Hanover, and Commercial Streets said otherwise; they had managed to cover the entire triangle with buildings by eschewing right angles long before modern construction techniques had made it cool.

  The backsides of the triangle-facing buildings formed a little trapezoid, which would have been wasted space, or maybe a park, if the builders hadn’t dropped Joey Pupo’s house into it. This explained the long courtyard of Holden Court; it was the only way to reach the entombed stack of condos.

  “We don’t need to go in the front door,” I said.

  Bobby said, “These places don’t have back doors. They’re fire traps.”

  “They’re not fire traps. If there’s a fire you don’t go down, you go up.”

  Bobby smiled as he got my idea. “You’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you’re trapped in mundane two-dimensional thinking.”

  “Yeah. That must be it.”

  Bobby popped the trunk on his illegally parked Buick and pulled out a crowbar. We opened the ornate front door next to the courtyard and climbed the steps to the inner door. Three buttons were fitted into the doorjamb. Bobby pressed the bottom one, ringing a buzzer inside someone’s apartment. He pressed it again and leaned on it a beat longer than necessary.

  “For emphasis,” he said.

  “Making friends,” I said.

  An apartment door opened, a head appeared, disappeared, and then a guy came out. He had a short brown beard, neatly trimmed off his cheeks, and a t-shirt that read Follica: Breakthrough products for hair follicle disorders. He said, “Can I help you?”

  Bobby flashed his ID. “I’m Agent Miller with the FBI, and this is Mr. Tucker. We need to get onto your roof.”

  The guy stiffened. “You got a warrant?”

  Bobby said, “A warrant for what?”

  “To search the roof.”

  “We’re not going to search the roof. We’re going to walk on the roof.”

  “I’m sorry, officer—”

  “Special Agent,” said Bobby.

  “What?”

  “I’m not with the police, I’m with the FBI. I’m not an officer, I’m an special agent.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry, Special Agent Miller, but I don’t consent to searches.”

  “I’m not asking you to consent to a search. I’m asking you to let us in so we can get on your roof.”

  “You need a warrant.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “And I’m not with the FBI,” I said. “So I don’t need a warrant anyway.”

  The guy said, “What?”

  “Listen,” said Bobby, “if you’re gonna spout the law you gotta know it. You can’t ask Tucker for a warrant because he’s not an agent or an officer.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “He’s an IT guy,” said Bobby.

  “I’m not an IT guy,” I said. “I’m a computer scientist.”

  “Okay, a fancy IT guy.”

  “There’s a big difference,” I said.

  The guy in the door said, “Look, I’m a bioengineer, but I still know my rights and I don’t have to let you guys onto my roof.”

  Bobby lunged, bursting through the door and knocking the guy on his ass.

  The guy looked up. “Jesus! You can’t do that.”

  Bobby said, “I can do that, because I just did that.” Bobby started up the stairs. “I’ll let the IT guy explain it to you.”

  I followed Bobby. “I’m a computer scientist.”

  The guy yelled up the staircase. “I’m calling the police.”

  Bobby yelled back, “The police love guys who obstruct investigations. Miller is spelled M-I-L-L-E-R.”

  “I know how to spell ‘Miller’!” The guy stormed into his apartment and slammed the door behind him.

  “Do you think he’ll call the cops?” I asked.

  Bobby said, “It would be good to have some backup.”

  We climbed an artifact of old city buildings, a spiral staircase mounted in a tall box. The steps, narrow at the inner edge, wide at the outer edge, constantly threatened to send people tumbling to the bottom.

  “Have you considered trying Follica?” I asked.

  “I don’t have hair follicle disorder,” said Bobby.

  “I’m so
rry. I was confused by the lack of hair.”

  We reached the top. Bobby pulled the door open. Snow tumbled down the staircase. “Oh shit,” he said.

  Yesterday’s storm had dropped two feet of snow onto the city. Most of the snow had already been shoveled, plowed, or brushed away, but nobody had done any of these things on the flat roofs of the North End. Drifting snow reflected the full moon, creating a monochromatic blue snowscape.

  I looked down at Bobby’s wing tips, encased in rubber. “You’ll never make it.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Bobby. “I have galoshes.”

  “That snow’s two feet deep. You think shoe condoms will help?”

  “So I get a little cold.”

  “I’m not worrying about you getting cold. I’m worrying about you falling off the roof.”

  “What about you?”

  I pointed at my boots. “I’ve got UGGs.”

  “Jesus, tell me you didn’t say that. Did your crush ask you to the prom yet?”

  “What? They’re great boots.”

  “And oh so stylish.”

  “The point is, I can climb through that snow field and you can’t. So let’s do this. I’ll get in the roof door in Joey’s house, call you on my cell, then knock on the front door. While he’s distracted talking to me, you run up the courtyard.”

  Bobby looked at the pile of snow. Tested it with a step. His shoe disappeared. “Goddamn, motherfucker, shit. Right down my fucking ankle.”

  “Well, at least you tried.” I took Bobby’s crowbar. “See you inside.”

  I plunged through the drift. Bobby closed the door behind me. I was alone standing on a rooftop courtyard. The city fell away into muffled silence, its traffic noises and energy absorbed by the drifting powder. A tall building loomed next to me like a glacier, while the gap between buildings formed a chasm. This was going to be more like hiking to Everest than walking across the rooftops.

  I waded through snow. I had laced my UGGs all the way up, and they performed like champs. Tom Brady champs. My feet stayed dry, and I was able to get traction. Screw Bobby, I like UGGs.

  I fought my way to the edge of the courtyard. The snow had drifted almost to the top of the fence. I tried to climb the drift, but the light snow compressed into nothing. I hoisted myself up the fence, fell over the top. The crowbar slipped and disappeared into the snow.