Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  The Mayor went squint-eyed and glanced around for ears within range. “Why would I? We broke up over twenty years ago.”

  “Called your little gang … what? The Right Wave, The Right to Win? What was it?”

  “I did not belong to a gang, Ed.”

  “Naw, more like a clique, you said … or a cult—”

  “It was not a cult.”

  “Lot of females in the group, if I remember right. You always had a way with the women, and didn’t one of your girls accuse a professor of feeling her up? Was that how it started?”

  Avery shrugged.

  “The professor might be damned old now to be acting out a grudge. But his children wouldn’t be.”

  “Ed, digging up ancient history won’t gain anything—except mud for my opponents to sling at me.”

  “Your clique got a man canned, probably ruined his chance of being hired by any other school. And I’ll bet you didn’t stop with ruining one man—not to mention the other incident. And here you are climbing the golden ladder. Your old friends, Avery, are they doing as well?”

  “The group broke up after …”

  “After that boy’s suicide.”

  The Mayor grimaced and stole a glance at his bodyguard. “All right, I’ll give you the names. They won’t do any good.”

  Ed nodded, satisfied. He could’ve dug up the information on his own. Mostly he wanted to see if the Mayor would cooperate. He fished a pad and pencil from his inside pocket and handed them over.

  Hesitantly, Avery opened the notebook. “Promise me the task force will investigate discreetly.”

  “As if I could tell the task force anything.”

  “I know you’re not happy working with them—”

  “Avery, I’m happy as a clam working with anybody can get the job done.”

  “But you don’t trust their instincts.”

  “They don’t trust instinct. They don’t trust cops. They trust numbers and statistics and profiles. They’re betting on The People staging the big hoopla on Memorial Day. Big media presence.”

  “Do you think they’re wrong?”

  “Probably they’re right. But if this group wanted media attention, why didn’t they copy the TV stations with their letters?”

  “Okay, what do you think they want?”

  “Remember that old-fashioned word ‘clout’? Your college club-mates would’ve understood it. If we do as the letters say—resign—The People get off on strutting their power, and nobody gets hurt.”

  “They must realize we won’t do that.”

  “Sure. So they follow through on their threat—take out our officers from the shadows exactly as they’ve done so far. Each one that goes down, public fear goes up. More pressure on us to comply with The People’s orders.”

  “We cannot surrender to terrorists.”

  “I know that, and you know that. But citizens seeing Houston’s finest picked off like ducks on a pond are going to panic. The families of those officers will demand to know what’s being done.” He stared grimly at the notebook in Avery’s hands, still blank. “Finding the missing money and making an arrest in the robberies might help.”

  Avery’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead, like this was a whole new thought. “You believe The People would back down then?”

  “Not back down. But their cause would be tarnished some.” He nodded at the notebook. “You going to write anything in that?”

  The Mayor reluctantly jotted a name, then another.

  “To tell the truth,” Ed admitted, “I’m not too worried about being on that stage. The task force will throw up a barrier around this park. It’ll look like part of the festive doodads but force everyone to enter at one of four points. With your stage draped on three sides, a marksman outside the park would need to be stationed on the open side to get a clear shot. They’ll stake out parking garages and buildings with visibility. Monday morning, we’ll station men with scanners at the entrances. A shooter will have a tough time getting close, but those metal detectors aren’t foolproof—”

  “Can’t we use the kind they have at airports?”

  “Not if you want to clear anybody through in time to hear your speech. Somebody comes in with a big silver belt buckle, the thing goes off. A pocketful of change, the thing goes off. Woman with big metal earrings—”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  The Mayor hadn’t met Ed’s eyes since he’d started writing. And he’d still put only two names in the notebook. Was his memory failing? Or was he holding out after all?

  With a bleak sigh, Ed continued. “What I’m more worried about than stepping up on that stage Monday is stepping out my front door. The People’s thirty-six-hour deadline runs out tomorrow night.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Ryan emerged from behind the HAZARDOUS WASTE sign on his door wearing his best summer duds, socks with sneakers, precisely parted hair, and a weak facsimile of his usual infectious grin.

  “Hey, slick. Who stole my nephew?”

  He ducked his head, the grin sliding to a grimace. “Mom said to dress up.”

  Yeah, and you just happened to pick the shirt I bought. Nice try, kid. But Dixie hooked an arm around his neck and ruffled his hair.

  “Maybe we should stop in the garage, see if your dad’s got a big stick I can use to keep the girls away.”

  Ryan turned a satisfying shade of pink and squeezed out of her hold to lope ahead. “I told Mom we’d eat at the movie. Is that okay?”

  “Depends on whether I decide to torture you.”

  His shoulders rolled forward, head ducked low.

  “No, Ryan, I didn’t forget why we called this movie meeting,” Dixie muttered. Earlier, she had driven past the cemetery just as the burial ceremony finished. A sea of blue uniforms surrounded the grave and clustered around a lithe blonde with a baby. Had to be Ann Harris. It was not a good time to catch the young widow alone, so once again Dixie squeaked out of a difficult Q&A. Now here she was about to start one that promised to be equally difficult. As Ryan held the door for her, she yelled toward the TV sounds, “Amy, Carl—we’re gone.”

  Back behind the Mustang’s wheel and a string of taillights, she realized how much she loathed getting into a conversation with Ryan about smut. Was she being a priggish old-maid aunt? She lowered the volume on the radio, which he had promptly tuned to his favorite rap station. Get it over with now and maybe they could enjoy the film.

  “Where did you hide those pictures so your mother won’t stumble across them, as I did?” she asked.

  “In my lockbox. She wouldn’t open it.”

  No. Amy and Carl both believed a child needed privacy. Dixie had, too, until now. Now she wasn’t sure whether walking into his room when she did had been an invasion of his space or a nudge from the Child God that kids need a watchful eye around to keep them out of trouble.

  “Why do you want those pictures?” Duh! Great start. “You’re curious—okay, I get that part. What they show in school about sex, the female body, it’s all clinical and dull and … and you’re growing up … but, Ryan, what I saw in your room wasn’t a Playboy centerfold. Those photos were as raw as they get.”

  “I trade them,” he mumbled.

  “Trade for what? Money?”

  “Sometimes. Or for others, better ones. To get a whole set … or … you know.” He fiddled with the door handle. “A different position.” He sounded as miserable as she felt.

  “Like baseball cards?”

  “Sort of. Only you can’t buy them, like, at a store.” He kept his eyes on the handle as he clicked it back and forth.

  Dixie checked the door lock.

  “Not everyone can get the good ones,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t other kids have an Internet setup?”

  “Yeah, most. Some are restricted.”

  “And those are the kids you trade with?”

  “Some. Others don’t hang on the net.”

  “You mean some kids don’t spend sixteen hours a d
ay behind a computer?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Never mind. Tell me why you can get the good dirty pictures. That is what you’re saying, isn’t it? Not everyone can, but you can?” Ryan was smarter than the average kid, but no genius.

  He hesitated, rubbing at a spot on the window. “I have better connections.”

  “Connections like in …” She knew enough about computers to call a technician when hers jammed. “Like in how your hardware’s hooked up?”

  “Connections on the net. The best places.”

  “You mean some vendors sell better smut than others.”

  “Yeah …” He shrugged.

  “Yeah, what? Help me here, kid, or we’ll turn around and talk to you-know-who.”

  “Some sites are harder to get to. Restrictions and stuff.”

  “But you figured out how to get past the restrictions?”

  Another hesitation. Holding back? Or simply embarrassed to talk about this with a grown-up?

  “I … you need a credit card.”

  “You said you weren’t using your parents’ cards. Ryan, you’re not using a stolen card number, are you?”

  “No!”

  “Then dammit, how?” Great. Yell at the kid, that’ll make him talk.

  He stared at his knees. “I have a … friend.”

  A chill lodged at the base of Dixie’s spine: Some mofo out there sold my kid shit. A gang connection? Was porno replacing drugs?

  With the cineplex only two blocks away, Dixie turned in the wrong direction to keep the conversation going.

  “Where did you meet this friend?” she asked casually.

  “A chat room. On-line.”

  “So … then what? You chat? Tell him the pictures you want. He finds them, sends them to you?”

  Ryan nodded, shooting a quick glance at the dash clock.

  “What are you not telling me? And don’t think I’ll cut your inquisition short because the movie’s about to start, I haven’t pounded any toothpicks under your fingernails yet.”

  He heaved a big disgruntled sigh.

  “Cut the crap. Talk to me.”

  “He doesn’t have to find the pictures. I can do that. He buys them.”

  “So your friend is the one using his parents’ credit. Or a stolen card number.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  The chill crawled a little higher up Dixie’s back.

  “How old is your friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he an adult?”

  “We never talked about that.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Just what’s going on … and stuff.”

  “Girl stuff?”

  “Sometimes. Not too much.”

  “Does he know a lot about girls?”

  “I guess.”

  “What else do you talk about?”

  “Doing stuff. What I’m doing, what he’s doing. Mostly he goes places on his dirt bike.”

  “Where?” Dixie was ready to choke the answers out of him.

  “Parks … fishing, camping out … sometimes towns.”

  So this “friend” was a lot older than twelve. “Are these towns nearby?”

  “Austin, Roundtop. Around there.”

  A three-hour drive. Take the kid for a ride on your nifty dirt bike. Head out of town—what’s the little imp to do about it? Scream over the engine roar? Jump off?

  “Has he ever suggested you meet in person?”

  “He said maybe he’d be in Houston sometime. What’s wrong with that?” Ryan seemed genuinely puzzled at the turn her questions had taken.

  Nearing the cineplex again, she veered down a side street.

  “Ryan, if this guy’s old enough to ride a motorbike and go wherever he wants, why would he hang out with someone your age instead of other adults?”

  “He doesn’t know how old I am.”

  Sure, kid. “Doesn’t he wonder why you don’t buy your own dirty pictures?” “He never asked.”

  “Has he ever asked you to pay him back, or does he just give you this stuff?”

  “He said we’d work it out someday.”

  Oh, shit! “How?”

  “He might need something, and maybe I could help him out.”

  Right, a child helping an adult. “I want you to give me this man’s name and E-mail address.”

  “What for?”

  “So I can talk to him.”

  Ryan stared at his knees. He shook his head. “You’ll get him in trouble.”

  “If he hasn’t done anything wrong, how could he be in trouble?”

  “Then why do you need to talk to him?”

  “I need to know why he’s so generous.”

  “That’s not fair. He’s a friend, and you just want to hassle him.”

  Dixie pulled into the parking lot and slid into a space. Ryan’s stubborn streak always reminded her of Barney, unmovable when he dug in his heels. Except for checking out his online buddy, she might as well let the kid off the hook. He’d reached that age between childhood and adulthood where all the forbidden knowledge would be explored. And who was she to know what sort of smut a twelve-year-old boy could view without brain warp?

  “I think you should show those photographs to your father.”

  He finally looked at her, his face tight with stubborn defeat. “Awwww … Aunt Dix! Can’t we keep this between us?”

  “You think Carl’s never seen pictures like that?” Maybe not recently. And not so graphically enhanced by electronics.

  “I don’t know, but …”

  “Are you embarrassed to show him?”

  “Yeah …”

  “But not too embarrassed to show your friends?” “That’s different.”

  “What’s different about it? You’re both guys. Your father was twelve once.” Probably not until he was chronologically fifteen or sixteen. Or maybe thirty.

  “Okay, what if I tear up the stuff and throw it away?”

  “Your whole collection?”

  He gave a halfhearted nod.

  “You can always get more where those came from,” Dixie said. “No, I think your father needs to know what’s replaced baseball cards. You decide how to break it to him. All I want is the name of your friend with the credit card and dirt bike.”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Ryan, this man could be dangerous. You’re smart enough to know that. You’ve heard about chicken hawks. We’ve talked about it—men who like kids for sex. They used to lure kids like you into back alleys. Now they hang out on the Internet.”

  “He’s not like that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s just a guy. A great guy.”

  “If he’s so great, he’ll realize you’re being smart. If he’s so great, he won’t mind talking to your worried aunt.”

  Ryan remained hunkered into himself, silent.

  “An E-mail address, what does that tell me, anyway? It’s not like I can drive to it.”

  “You’d find a way.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Dixie dropped off Ryan and dialed Belle’s home number. The lawyer had been in court and unreachable all day.

  “I feel sleazy checking out cops, Ric. They were the victims, and their families don’t deserve to be harassed.”

  “Is this your way of telling me you haven’t turned up any new suspects?”

  “Unless you consider a juvenile gang-related shooting accident in Officer Harris’ past.”

  “What happened to all your DA and HPD connections?”

  “They think I’ve switched sides. Even so, in any ordinary case I could find someone willing to chat. Emotions are high on this one—and this time we are the enemy.”

  Belle was silent. Dixie could hear voices in the background. Real voices, not TV. Saturday night at home. In Belle’s case, it meant a husband and whichever of their three teenage children had stayed in. Frequently, the Richardses entertained friends and associ
ates. Occasionally, they invited Dixie. Headed toward an empty house, Dixie almost wished she’d been invited tonight.

  “Marty may not be HPD’s only suspect any longer,” Belle said. “I don’t have anything concrete, but there’s a buzz going around about some letters, threats—a terrorist group claiming assassination responsibility.”

  “Well, hallelujah. I think.” Could that fit with the gang symbol drawings Marty grabbed from Ted Tally’s house? “Who started this buzz?”

  “Blackmon heard it at the Mayor’s office. The task force checked out the site today for the Memorial Day bash, and Blackmon heard them talking afterward.”

  “Having a senior partner on the Mayor’s committee seems to be more useful than hiring yours truly. Maybe you should crown Blackmon your chief investigator.”

  “I’m not letting you off that easy. You keep Marty buttoned down tight. In case the sniper does strike again, I want our boy smelling as innocent as a newborn babe.”

  “Why did this become my responsibility, Ric?”

  “Because you begged me to take his case.”

  “Begged? Your firm didn’t mind taking Marty’s money for civil work.”

  “Okay. How about, you and Marty Pine go way back, and when it comes to friendship you couldn’t be more loyal if you had four legs and a cold nose.”

  “Am I hearing things or did you just call me a dog?”

  “Maybe I need to work on that metaphor a bit.”

  “Next time I want to feel really shitty about myself, I’ll know who to ring up.” Dixie powered the cell phone off. She didn’t want to hear any more party sounds. Maybe she should drive over to Club Cato for a few drinks. Meanstreak’s music might cheer her up.

  Almost instantly her cell phone rang.

  “Flannigan,” she snapped.

  “What lonely road are you traveling tonight, lady?”

  “Slim Jim?” Dixie grinned. McGrue had such a solemn disposition, Dixie usually felt cheery by contrast. “Got something for me?”

  “Got some answers. Don’t know what use they’ll be.”

  “You just moved to the top of my Christmas list.”

  “This is May. Could be dead by Christmas. Let’s think of a way to pay off your debt sooner. I phoned a retired officer in Dallas who knew the Harris family, an old gossip, but a reliable gossip. Harris served some juvie time for drugs.”