by A. W. Gray
Agent Turner sprawled into the chair and regarded Frank through slitted lids.
“He’s a cocker,” Tate said. “Blond, cute, six months old. Everybody at our house adores him, including me. You know why he reminds me of you?”
Frank recalled that Tate wore a lilac scent. He had a quick whiff. “I don’t have the slightest idea,” Frank said.
“Because he does number two in the house, the naughty boy,” Tate said. “Every day, three or four times we find a pile of physical evidence on the rug. The odor’s enough, I don’t even need the DNA testing to convict this dog.”
“Maybe you should try rubbing his nose in it,” Frank said. “Scolding him and putting him outside.”
Tate looked upward as if in thought. “That’s what I think when I see you, dear.”
Frank and Turner exchanged a look. Turner shrugged.
“Now, what we’ve got here,” Tate said, playing with the gold charm bracelet on her wrist, “is a kidnapping. This is a big enough deal, the girl’s father and all, to where the U.S. Attorney assigned me to come out here and advise the FBI how to proceed, which, frankly, the FBI doesn’t like one smidgen, interference from a federal prosecutor where they’re investigating. Am I right, Dave?”
Agent Turner put on an earnest look. “You’ve got that wrong, Felicia. We’re glad for the help.”
“Which is what I’d expect you to say instead of something like, Fuck you.” Tate looked back at Frank. “But no matter what they say to my face, they don’t like it. But I’m out here. And the first thing I learn is, the missing girl has been going out with a man I prosecuted one time. You.”
Frank sat forward. Sudden tears stung his eyes. “Meg’s…? Listen, she means a lot to me.”
“I’ll bet she does,” Tate said. “What we’re hoping is, she doesn’t mean a lot of money to you. That’s my original thought, then I say, Wait a minute. This is no kidnapper. This was a policeman who decided to blow some holes in a black guy.”
“Who was trying to stab me,” Frank said.
“That’s something your lawyer should have established, at trial,” Tate said. “But that was then. This is now. So I’m ready to dismiss the possibility that you’re in on it, but then I remember the puppy. Then what I’m thinking is, Maybe Frank White is still doing number two, only he’s doing it somewhere else. Maybe some time in custody has taught him not to go around shooting people, but maybe he’s thought of another angle. You follow?”
Frank couldn’t figure out what his answer should be. Meg being missing shook him up beyond words, and he was pretty sure he knew at least one of the people responsible, but he wasn’t ready to tell Felicia Tate about Darla Bern. At least not until he’d heard a whole lot more. “Yeah, I suppose I follow,” Frank said. “But you’re way off base.”
Tate looked at Turner. The FBI agent grinned. Tate fiddled with the earring on her right pierced lobe. “Fair is fair, Frank. Uncle Sam believes in fair. That’s why we’re going to give you a few minutes to convince us we should give you the benefit of the doubt and not arrest you right here and now.”
Frank’s hands trembled. He cleared his throat. “First of all I was a cop, remember? If you had anything but suspicion I’d be downtown at the marshals’ instead of sitting here talking to you.”
Tate’s plucked eyebrows lifted. “Do you want to go to the marshals’? I can arrange that.”
“Secondly,” Frank said quickly, “I don’t have a clue what’s happened to Meg. Is she alive?”
Turner butted in. “That’s what we’re wanting you to tell us, Alphonse. Is she?”
“You’re talking about kidnapping. Where from? At the school?”
Tate showed even white teeth in a smile. “Spare us, will you? You’re dating this girl worth millions, you’re with her about every Friday and Saturday night, but suddenly you haven’t the vaguest idea where she was last night?”
“Oh, I know where she was,” Frank said. “I just didn’t know that’s where they got her. And as for Meg being worth millions, you must have the wrong girl. She worries about making ends meet as much as I do. That’s why she was living at the school. Free rent.”
Tate picked up her pen and doodled on the legal pad. “Now you’re going to tell us you never heard of Carpenter Truck Lines. And that elephants fly, and all that. My children enjoy Dumbo, Frank, but I’ve seen it so many times it’s lost its fascination.”
Frank was speechless for an instant. Carpenter Truck…? He pictured the huge loading dock off Stemmons Freeway, a fleet of forty-foot rigs side by side, laborers moving around on the dock stacking freight like army ants. Morgan Carpenter, sure. Open shop, big time unpopular with the Teamsters. Meg’s father? Jesus Christ, Frank thought. “Sure, I’ve heard of ‘em,” he finally said. “Who hasn’t, that’s lI’ved around here for long? I just didn’t know Meg was part of that family.”
Turner shifted irritably and scratched his eyebrow. “Sure thing, Simon. You thought her old man was on a construction crew.”
“I didn’t think he was anything. All she ever told me was, he lived in North Dallas. Look, I’m interested in her, not who her folks are. She’s…hey, corny as it sounds, Meg’s turned my life around.” Frank blinked, wondering why he was baring his feelings to the feds when he’d never expressed them to Meg. Wondering now if he was ever going to have the chance to tell her.
Frank rubbed his eyes, then finally looked up. Frank said, “You’re sure this is, that somebody’s snatched her? Meg wasn’t really happy with her job. It wouldn’t be like her, but it’s possible she just left on her own.”
Tate leaned back and stroked her chin. She reached down to the floor and brought a plastic cigarette holder out of her purse, then sucked air through the holder. “Having to smoke outside is the pits,” she said. She reached in a drawer and produced a hand-size tape recorder, then fitted a miniature cassette onto the spools.
Turner got up and leaned over the desk. “You want to think about that, playing it for this guy? If he’s…” He looked over his shoulder at Frank.
“If he’s in on it,” Tate said, “then he already knows what it says. If he’s as innocent as Dr. Kimball, he might catch something we wouldn’t.”
Turner drummed his fingers. “They say, no laws.”
“Sure they do. All kidnappers do. Does it occur to you that if Frank’s involved in the kidnapping, our cover’s already blown just by picking him up?” Tate twirled the cigarette holder between her fingers, baton fashion, as she said, “It was in the Carpenters’ mailbox. Not particularly original, this group, but I’ve got to admit pretty smart. The man’s voice is…well, just listen to the love.” She pressed the tape chamber down and pushed the play button. Seen through clear plastic, tiny reels began to turn. Agent Turner sat down resignedly.
Frank rested his forehead on his lightly clenched fist, and listened to the silent noise of running tape punctuated by the airy thump of ceiling fans. After fifteen seconds the message began, a deep male voice distorted by tape speed, the words drawn out as if the recorder’s battery was running down. The words were difficult to understand until Frank’s ear got the hang of it. As he listened he raised his head.
The message was in short, terse sentences. “We have your daughter. In two days you will have instructions as to how to get her back. If you contact the FBI she will die. She will now speak briefly to you.”
More running tape, followed by a clear, youthful female voice at normal speed, saying, “This isn’t a play, Daddy. These people are serious. Don’t do anything to set them off, okay? Remember, they aren’t acting.”
Frank’s eyelids fluttered. The voice was Meg’s, no doubt about it. Her tone was calm and matter-of-fact, and Frank felt a surge of admiration. In addition to the other things he liked about her, Meg was a pretty tough cookie. “Play” and “acting” were buzzwords, of course, intended to point toward Darla Bern, but were hints th
at he didn’t really need. Just hang in there, babe, Frank thought.
There were a few more seconds of silence, then the distorted male voice came back on. “Remember, no FBI. As I see it, you have no choice. In two days you will hear more.”
Frank looked at the ceiling. As I see it. Something about that. He’d have to think.
Tate clicked off the recorder, removed her glasses, and dangled them from a slim gold earpiece. Still sucking on the cigarette holder, she said, “So you’ll know we haven’t been sitting around enjoying the air-conditioning here, we’ve already speeded up the tape and listened to the guy. He’s talking through a cloth of some kind, maybe just a handkerchief. Whatever it is, it muffles the vibrations enough so there’s no traceable voice print for our lab folks to pick up on. It could be anybody talking.”
“Including you, Yorick,” Agent Turner said, looking at Frank.
Frank’s forehead tightened. As I see it…“One thing we think’s significant,” Tate said, “is the fact that he’s instructing whoever not to call in the FBI. A yo-yo from Paducah would talk about just ‘the police,’ not knowing what falls under whose jurisdiction, but this man specifically says, ‘FBI.’ He says it twice. Makes me think the guy knows something about the system. Maybe he’s even been our guest for some period.”
“Which still doesn’t eliminate you, Ishmael,” Agent Turner said, looking at Frank.
Frank licked his lips. In the old days he would have cooperated in a heartbeat, but his own travels through the system had made him hesitant about giving the federal folks so much as his name. Finally he drew a shallow breath and said, “Look, there’s this woman.”
Tate put her glasses back on and picked up her pen. “There usually is. If we’re getting a confession here, you need a lawyer first.”
Frank waved a hand like, no, this isn’t a confession, no way. “I hadn’t seen her since Pleasanton, before last week. She was an actress. All that about, this isn’t a play, and, these people aren’t acting?”
Tate looked at Turner. “We wondered about that as well,” Tate said. “We’re astute wonderers, Frank.”
“She took a tour of the school. Meg conducted it.”
Tate dropped the holder back into her purse and now fiddled with her earring. “You’re talking about Darla Bern?”
Frank inhaled, then exhaled. “You know about her.”
“We haven’t completely tuned out everything else just because we’ve got you, lover. Miss Carpenter talked to the school headmistress about Miss Bern.”
“So you’re already, you’re going to talk to Darla.”
“Even as we speak,” Tate said, folding her arms. “And so we’ll have everyone’s story straight, let’s you tell us why you think it’s Darla Bern. She’s a bit more than a passing acquaintance, or…”
“Pleasanton was a coed joint,” Frank said. “I first knew her when we both worked in the sign factory.”
“Odd you consider her a suspect,” Tate said, “with a million and one other ex-cons running around.”
Frank shifted his position and crossed his legs. “Several things. She shows up in town just before all this happens…”
“Not just before,” Tate said. “She’s been in Dallas a couple of months. Acted in two plays. So what? It could be strictly a coincidence that she’s here, unless you know something that could eliminate the chance factor.”
“That tour of the school,” Frank said. “Meg said she wanted to know a lot of things about the security.”
Agent Turner leaned in. “That all?”
Frank shot the agent a sidelong glance, suddenly on his guard. “Probably all that I think’s suspicious.”
Turner’s expression tightened. “You’re sure.”
Frank tugged at the knee of his jeans. “Sure of what?”
“That those’re the only reasons you’ve got to suspect this broad.”
Frank’s throat was suddenly dry. “What else could…?”
Turner and Tate exchanged a look, then Turner leaned even closer to Frank and grinned. “That’s funny,” the agent said. “Some other people that were at Pleasanton say you used to fuck the young lady, Lawrence.”
“Don’t be crude, Dave,” Tate said. “There’s a lady present. It is sort of strange, though, that Frank would point the finger at someone he used to have a relationship with.”
Frank wondered fleetingly who they’d been talking to. Could be any one of a number of people. The federal pen had been one place where keeping anything secret was impossible. One corner of Frank’s mouth tightened. “Look, you have to understand about prison.”
“I hope I never get the opportunity,” Tate said. “But enlighten us. Share your firsthand knowledge.”
“It wasn’t like any ongoing thing. Only happened a few times. Before I knew some other things about her.”
Turner sat forward in interest. “Those coed joints. I hear a lot of fucking went on in there.”
Frank’s chin tilted to one side. “Well, what would you expect? Isolate a bunch of men and women from society and put them together.”
“I’ll have to go along with Frank on that,” Tate said. Coed institutions have to be one of the more lamebrained ideas our friends at the Bureau of Prisons have ever come up with. It’s good they’re no longer in existence, and why it took our lovely bureaucrats fifteen years to figure that out is a mystery to me. Which you should keep in mind, Frank, in case you might be headed for another little vacation. It will be all little boys, this time.”
“I heard a lot of the guards used to get in on it,” Turner said. Good-looking young druggie women.”
Frank shrugged. “They had some, pretty nice-looking. Most of them, though, a guy would really have to be hard up.”
Tate sat forward in irritation. “You know, Dave, you could tick me off if you tried hard. If you want I can find, maybe a copy of Deep Throat in the evidence room. You can watch it and masturbate if you want to, but for now let’s stick to what’s relevant. What I’m wondering is, why Frank thinks his prison relationship with this woman in California makes her a suspect in a kidnapping in Dallas, Texas.”
“I’d been at Pleasanton maybe a week,” Frank said, “after doing holdover at two county jails, La Tuna at El Paso and the federal pen at Phoenix. When you’re a holdover they keep you in solitary, and you travel on a prison bus shackled up to a bunch of guys. Tell you the truth, when I got to Pleasanton I felt like they’d turned me loose, they got tennis courts and stuff. It’s nice, as prisons go.”
“Yeah,” Tate said. “Too nice, a lot of people think.”
“So I went to work in the sign factory, an assembly-line deal where everybody worked in teams, at various tables. One table attached the signposts, another table lettered, that kind of stuff. First day Darla was seated next to me. She’s a fine-looking woman, that’s something nobody can take away from her.”
“So our sources tell us,” Tate said.
Frank rubbed his forehead, remembering, then looked up. “It seemed to me like she was coming on, but I convinced myself I was imagining things. What she’d do, she’d put on a fatigue hat, stuff her hair up under it and walk right into the men’s barracks like she was one of the guys.”
“Where were the,” Tate said, making a note, “where were the guards while all this was going on?”
Frank snorted. “Those guys were interested in two things, coffee break and payday. Darla did some disguising, but I think she could have walked in in her underwear and the hacks wouldn’t have known the difference. She wasn’t the only one, a lot of those girls used to do this stuff.”
Agent Turner uncrossed and recrossed his legs, waving a hand around as he said, “Where you take her to do it?”
“She’d come, right up to my room,” Frank said. “Hell, I’m single, and I’m telling you prison is just a different world.”
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p; Turner leaned over in a buddy-buddy attitude. “She blow you?”
“I’m throwing a party for our new pastor next week, Dave,” Tate said. “Do you think you could come over and entertain?”
Frank ignored the agent and looked at the prosecutor. “The thing was, I hadn’t been around long enough to know all the ropes about her. I found out, though.
“After a couple of weeks,” Frank said, “Darla and I had been together twice, three times at the most, there was this other girl that came up to me at the sign factory and asked if I was Darla’s private property. Said Darla’d threatened the other women if they came near me. I wasn’t interested in this girl that was telling me, but it made me a little skittish, you know?
“I came to find out,” Frank said, “that every female in there was scared to death of her. She could get things done. Half the guards, one captain I know of, she had them wrapped around her little finger. They brought her drugs, whatever she wanted, and just a word from her would get any of the other women she wanted thrown in solitary. Privileges suspended, things like that.”
“She was what you might call Head Cunt,” Turner said, grinning at Tate.
“Sort of,” Frank said. “Anyway, the only thing I really wanted to do was do my time and get it over with, and fooling with women was something that could really get you in trouble. I knew guys that got their parole date canceled, some of them even moved to a higher-security prison over things like that. So I made the decision that fooling around with Darla wasn’t in my game plan, and I cut things off with her. Made it tough on myself for quite a while.
“She used to come up to me.” Frank went on, “at the chow hall, the sign factory, whatever, and say things like, ‘So you think I’m not good enough for you?’ She’d get this really bitchy look, and I’ll tell you something. She’s the downright meanest female I’ve ever come across, and that’s saying a lot. Back when I was a cop I’ve dealt with street whores, you name it, but nobody that can be as vicious as she can. She got me locked in solitary once, just by giving the word to a guard, and when I got out she told me, ‘You want to try for some more time in the hole, you just keep ignoring me.’ ”