Goodbye Sister Disco

by James Patrick Hunt

  The FBI had brought in their Evidence Response Team (ERT). They had nicer vehicles than Metro and more personnel. Well trained and well equipped, they went over everything, but they were no closer to knowing who kidnapped Cordelia Penmark than they had been before.

  Klosterman said, “And the phone?”

  Hastings said, “That part’s interesting. We did trace a number. The owner of the number lives in Sunset Hills. But it’s a duplicate number.”

  “A duplicate?”

  “Yeah. They duplicated a SIM card. And we triangulated it, but all we found out was that the call was made near Judy Chen’s apartment.”

  “So maybe she was right,” Klosterman said. “Maybe they were watching her when they called her.”

  “I think they were. As to the kidnappers, we seem to be dealing with someone who knows electronics. And telecommunications.”

  “What did you think of the feds?”

  “Gabler, I don’t know. Kubiak’s an asshole. He almost ran the witness off.”

  “Kubiak … is he a blond-haired guy with glasses?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I know who he is.”

  “Yeah?”

  Klosterman said, “You know Fred Krafft?”

  “Yeah, I worked evening shift with him about five years ago. He’s a good guy.”

  “He’s a shift sergeant now, on patrol. Last year, he arrested some crankhead turd, brings him down to the station. The guy’s cuffed and Fred sets him on the bench in the booking room. Now you know Fred, right? Not an abusive guy. Never even talks smack to suspects. Well, this turd, he starts kicking and shouting, saying I’m gonna fuck your wife and your kids, and he’s getting the other detainees riled up. They’re still in the booking room, so Fred tells the guy to be quiet. Doesn’t do any good. Fred tells him again, be quiet or I’m gonna O.C. spray you. The guy keeps going, shouting and kicking, and so Fred walks over and sprays him in the face. Well, the spray hits the guy and it doesn’t even fucking faze him. So now Fred thinks the guy’s on fucking PCP or something; O.C. spray isn’t fucking working on the guy. Fred’s eyes go wide open and the turd launches out of the chair onto Fred. They roll around on the ground for a while, Fred gets his fucking wrist broken, the turd, he gets his lip cut. Some other guys join in, they subdue him and get him off to a cell. After that, Fred leaves and goes to the emergency room to get his wrist splint. End of story, right? No. The guy’s lawyer files a tort claim against the city for excessive force against Fred—”

  Hastings said, “I heard about this.”

  “Yeah, Fred’s captain, who wasn’t even there, he tells the prosecutor that he’s always had ‘concerns’ about Fred. Which is bullshit if you know Fred. But Lew Goodgame, that’s the captain, he’s always hated Fred. So the prosecutor dismisses the criminal case against the turd. They do an internal affairs investigation on Fred. He gets cleared. Because Fred was just following the standard use-of-force continuum.”

  Both Hastings and Klosterman were aware of the common misperception, outside of law enforcement, about the use of O.C. or pepper spray. That misperception is that the use of pepper spray is unnecessarily cruel or extreme and that thuggish police officers are all too quick to use it. But actually, pepper spray rates somewhere near the bottom of the use-of-force continuum. In other words, the officers are typically trained to use pepper spray before escalating to physical force such as closed fists, nightsticks, expandable batons, and firearms. The purpose of pepper spray is not to injure but to subdue. While it is, for a short duration, a pretty nasty thing to experience, it does not bruise or cause physical injury as a fist or a baton or a trained attack dog or a firearm would. To many civilian observers, the sight of a police officer pepper spraying a person in the face (the only place where it is effective) seems sadistic. But officers are encouraged to use it if it is reasonably believed that its use will prevent the use of a more serious force.

  Hastings said, “So he was cleared?”

  “Yeah, he was cleared on the IA investigation, but then the FBI did its own criminal investigation. And Craig Kubiak headed that up. From what I heard, he was just a prick. He’d haul officers in for what he called an ‘investigatory interview.’ The minute any one of them said Fred was clean, he’d start threatening them with criminal perjury charges. The guy was just fucking abusive. The lawyer for the police union showed Kubiak the policy manual on O.C. spray, showed him the report clearing Fred, showed him that everything Fred did was legit. But he could give a shit. He wanted Fred’s scalp.”

  “Yeah, but Fred Krafft was cleared.”

  “Yeah, after about a year. A very long fucking year for Fred. And Agent Kubiak did everything he could to get the grand jury to indict Fred. It was the U.S. attorney that dropped it. So for a year Fred, his wife, they were just waiting for agents to show up and arrest him. That’s not fun. The point is, Kubiak wasn’t doing an investigation; he was witch-hunting.”

  Hastings shrugged. Craig Kubiak would hardly be the first witch-hunter in law enforcement.

  “Well, yeah,” Hastings said, “but would there have been an investigation if not for Captain Goodgame?”

  Klosterman tried to wave that away. He wanted to hold on to the black-and-white notion. Feds bad, Metro good.

  Hastings said, “It’s not just feds that go after city cops. We do it to each other too.” It was one of the more depressing aspects of the job, Hastings knew. Cops testifying against other cops in internal affairs hearings, sometimes stretching truth, sometimes just downright fabricating. The “blue code of silence” civilians believed existed was an illusion; truth was more often than not trampled over by fear and ambition.

  Klosterman said, “You never have.”

  SEVENTEEN

  In the videotape they gave to Judy Chen, the kidnappers had not specified when or how they would contact Gene Penmark. The FBI agents did not believe this was an oversight. They thought that the kidnappers would contact Penmark somehow. Or that maybe they would try to use a third party again, like Judy Chen.

  When the FBI got involved, they immediately dispatched a team to the Penmark’s home to set up recording devices on his phones. They sent another team to his office to do the same thing. Klosterman said to Hastings, “I don’t know if it’ll do any good. Didn’t they contact him on his cell phone last time?”

  Hastings didn’t argue the point. He left the station after his conversation with Klosterman and drove out to the Penmark’s home. The guard checked his identification at the gate and Hastings drove the Jaguar up the winding hill to the mansion.

  There were a couple of Crown Vics out front and a shiny blue van, FBI vehicles. Hastings stopped the car, cut the engine, and got out. Late evening now and the sound of the city was behind him. It was quiet. Hastings stood still and looked up at the mansion. He decided it wasn’t looking down at him and he moved to the front door.

  He was surprised that it was Lexie Penmark who let him in.

  She was wearing black capri pants and a black top. It made him think of early Mary Tyler Moore, when she was playing Dick Van Dyke’s wife. A slim, attractive lady.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice warmer than he’d expected. “Won’t you come in?” It was a little strange, that. Like he was here to help plan a fund-raiser.

  “Sure,” Hastings said.

  She led him to a room that was almost human. It had a desk and some antique French furnishings. There were some pictures on the walls—Lexie with the mayor; Lexie reading a speech, looking cerebral and serious in her glasses; Lexie with a black child at a Boys and Girls Club Awards Dinner.

  She said, “This is my office. Gene allowed me to decorate it. Notice it doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the house.”

  “Yes,” Hastings said.

  Lexie said, “Would you like some coffee or something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Lexie was sitting behind her desk now. Hastings was aware of it, wondering what it was she wanted.
/>   He said, “Where is your husband?”

  “He’s in his study. Waiting. Trying to work, I suppose.”

  Well, Hastings thought, it’s good that he’s not wasting his time. It’s only his daughter. Hastings said, “They didn’t specify when they would call.”

  Lexie said, “I know. We don’t know much, do we?”

  “No, not much. The waiting is difficult, I know.”

  For a moment she didn’t say anything. Then she leaned forward and said, “I wanted to speak to you alone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please, you can call me Lexie.”

  Hastings was not one for undue familiarity. If someone he didn’t know well used his first name, he always felt they were trying to sell him something. Still, it was a lady. He said, “Okay.”

  Lexie said, “I want you to be frank with me: how likely is it that Cordelia will survive this?”

  Hastings said, “Well, we’ll see. They haven’t called yet, and…”

  “You can tell me,” she said.

  Hastings was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He was thinking of Adele Beckwith, the girl’s mother, though he wasn’t sure why. He said, “Ma’am, I honestly don’t know. The FBI is experienced with this sort of thing and they’ll do the best they can do to bring her home safely.”

  “I’m sure they are. It’s just that,… I feel more comfortable with you.”

  Now Hastings was irritated. Vain woman, probably shooting for attention more than anything. He could ask her to meet him at a hotel room and that might get her to knock it off. He said in a businesslike tone, “Well, thank you, but I assure you they know what they’re doing.”

  It pushed her back, but for only a second. She said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “I used to be a reporter on Channel 9.”

  Sexy Lexie, Hastings thought. Not seeing it himself, though. “Yes,” he said, “I remember.”

  She said, “I covered the Sullivan trial. You testified.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Hastings said. Though there had been a lot of media at the trial.

  Cal Sullivan, M.D., had murdered a man because he had tried to blackmail Sullivan for a murder Sullivan had committed in college. Just before beginning medical school, circa 1980, a coed of dubious reputation had threatened to turn young Cal in for date rape. Cal went to her and apologized for any misunderstanding and then threw her off a tenth-story balcony. He went on to become a successful surgeon. Twenty years later, Hastings put the pieces together and tracked him down. It was while he was working the case that he found out Eileen was having an affair with her boss. Eileen left him before the trial. He remembered coming home one night, before she left, and talking about the frustration he was having over the case. In spite of everything, it was Eileen who had comforted him then. When Hastings worried that he would never catch Cal Sullivan, it was Eileen who said, “Of course you will.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because whoever he is, he thinks he’s smarter than you. And you’re not going to allow him to get away with that.”

  Smart, maybe. Lucky for sure. Cal Sullivan shot a police officer in a mall after a blown sting, and as Hastings chased him on foot, Sullivan drove his Mercedes into the path of an oncoming Chevy Suburban, and by the time he came to his senses, Hastings had a gun pointed at his head.

  Sullivan was not so dumb as to try anything then. He was arrested and charged with three murders and one count of deadly assault for shooting a police officer. Sullivan’s lawyer rejected all plea offers from the DA and the case went to trial. Hastings held his own against Sullivan’s lawyer. And Sullivan’s lawyer made the mistake of putting Sullivan on the stand to let him tell his side of the story. Sullivan testified the way doctors do, arrogant and self-assured, but overlooking the fact that he was on trial for murder, not medical malpractice. The jury concluded that Cal Sullivan, M.D., was a liar as well as a murderer and gave him three life sentences without the possibility of parole.

  Lexie Penmark said, “I knew him, you know.”

  “You knew who?” Hastings said.

  “Cal Sullivan.”

  After a moment, Hastings said, “Oh. A friend or something?”

  Lexie made a throwaway gesture that made Hastings wonder if she’d slept with him. She said, “The federal agents have advised us to get the two million dollars together. For the ransom, that is.”

  Hastings nodded. “Yes, I understand they have.”

  “What do you think?”

  Hastings said, “About what?”

  “Do you think we should pay it?”

  For a moment, Hastings had to look at the woman. He wasn’t sure he understood her, but he was getting to like her less and less. He said, “Well, they’re the ones in charge. But yes, I think you should pay it. If it gets your stepdaughter back alive.”

  “Oh, of course. But we have no way of knowing they’ll keep her alive, do we?”

  “No. No guarantees. But more often than not, kidnappers are caught.”

  “Right. But that’s not the same thing as guaranteeing her safety, is it?”

  “No, it’s not, but … you’re just going to have to trust us.” Hastings was using the word us now not because he was suddenly feeling a kinship with the feds. Far from it. But he sensed that this woman was playing some sort of game now that he didn’t like one goddamn bit. She wanted him as an ally, for some reason. Perhaps against the feds, perhaps against her husband. She was making him ill.

  He said, “Are agents Kubiak and Gabler here?”

  “No,” she said, “they left a while ago. But there are agents outside and in.”

  “Okay,” Hastings said. He stood. “Well, I should get going. Someone will contact me if there’s any activity.”

  She stood up and moved out the door without a word. Hastings followed her out and found himself looking briefly at her backside. She had a nice form, he thought, but not the sort you want to have behind you on a cliff.

  In the hall, he said, “Excuse me, would you mind showing me the grounds out back?”

  She turned to look at him.

  “No, I don’t mind. Why?”

  He said, “I’m not sure, actually. I wanted to get a feel for this place.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, it may be that the kidnappers may have seen this house. Or are familiar with your stepdaughter’s schedule.”

  “Such as it is?”

  “Such as it is.”

  She shrugged. “If you like. Let me get my coat.”

  She left him in the hall for a moment and soon came back with a gray, short mackintosh tied at the waist. It flattered her.

  It was quiet outside. The pool was tranquil. There was a small pond nearby, next to a Japanese garden. They walked around the pool as Hastings took in the sights.

  Hastings was not an unperceptive man. He was aware that the woman was attractive and vain and that she probably believed he was making some sort of play for her by asking this. It didn’t matter to him though. He was not the sort to correct such misperceptions unless he thought it was necessary. The woman was quiet and he was quiet and they both seemed comfortable with the silence.

  Lexie Penmark said, “Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please, don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old.”

  “All right.”

  “Have you been a policeman long?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Reasonably enough.”

  “Were you ever interested in doing something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Something in the private sector, perhaps.”

  Hastings shrugged. “Private sector” covered a lot of ground.

  “You know,” Lexie said, “my husband, he has a security office.”

  Hastings looked at her briefly.

  And Lexie said, “I mean, he has an entire
department.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Maybe, when this is finished, I could talk to him about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About giving you a job. Maybe even putting you in charge of security.”

  Hastings smiled. “I appreciate that, but, uh, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? It would pay very well. I don’t mean to be forward, but, it would be a considerable increase in pay, I imagine.”

  “I imagine it would,” Hastings said. He stopped and pointed at one of the bungalows. “You said that Gene’s other daughter lives in one of those?”

  “Yes. Edie.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “I’m not sure, actually. Would you like to speak with her?”

  “Yes. May we go check?”

  “Okay,” Lexie said.

  EIGHTEEN

  Lexie rang the doorbell. They could hear noise inside. Lexie rang it again and said, “Edie, it’s Lexie. We need to talk to you.”

  There seemed to be a hesitation on the other side. And then the door was opened by a young blonde in her twenties. She wore jeans and a blue zip-up sweatshirt with an orange T-shirt underneath. She did not seem the type to smile, and there was a look of distrustfulness about her eyes. She looked tired and irritable.

  She said, “What do you want?”

  Lexie said, “Edie, this is Lieutenant Hastings with the St. Louis Police Department. He’d like to talk to you.”

  Hastings nodded at Edie Penmark. She looked at him and then over at Lexie and seemed to smile. A mirthless smile, suggesting to them that she suspected they were some sort of couple. Or planning to be. Hastings could see that she didn’t think much of her stepmother.

  Edie Penmark said, “Why?

  Hastings said, “I wanted to talk to you about your sister.”

  “My sister’s been abducted. Haven’t you heard?”

  Hastings looked at her and wondered how much she’d had to drink. He could smell wine.

  “I know,” Hastings said. “But I just wanted to ask you a few things. It won’t take long.”

  Edie Penmark pushed the door open with something of a flourish. “Suit yourself,” she said.