“The drug and gang problems in this city are more important than the case of a missing child,” McCann said, nearly shouting. “You are aware that the task force just conducted sweeps of the various drug houses on the East side?”
“Yuh,” Nagler said, his voice no longer polite. “I ordered them. Two purposes. Information on the little girl, and a byproduct, to reacquaint some of our friends on the other side with our finest accommodations. We know who the dealers are, sir, but since the city cut our manpower by twenty-five percent in the past five years, we haven’t been able conduct as many sweeps as we’d like.” Nagler felt his mouth moving and didn’t seem able to stop it. “You were at that budget hearing, you know, the one where all the officers in their dress blues lined the back wall of the council chambers, and the chief said we have thirty openings in the department and that more cuts would result in fewer patrols. Well, guess what? We have fewer patrols.”
“Are you challenging my authority, Detective?”
“No.” Nagler glanced up and down the hallway and then motioned for McCann to draw closer. “Is there something else going on here, sir? Feels like it. You after my job?”
McCann’s head jerked back and he pursed his lips. “No,” he said softly. “No, we’re not.” Softly, but cutting.
Nagler thought: ‘We’re?’ Don’t ask. How to end this?
“I understand the importance of the drug raids, but again no disrespect, I can walk and chew gum at the same time, sir. I can work with the drug task force and keep an eye on the developments with our girl.”
“You’ll need to,” McCann said, as he handed Nagler the folder that had been tucked under his arm. “Your friend Delvin Williams is on that list. Do you count drug users among your friends, Detective?”
Nagler tore open the file, nearly dropping the unstapled pages. He scanned the first page and found Del’s name.
“Something is wrong, here, sir. That’s impossible.”
“Is it? That an old junkie like Williams couldn’t backslide? I recall his name from county court years ago.”
“But he hasn’t. Since he came out of the hospital five years ago, he has been clean. I know. As part of his employment at the community center and as a personal pledge to me, Del is drug-tested every three months. The reports come to me and Rashad Jackson, not to Del. I have them all. He’s clean.”
McCann turned to leave. “Well, maybe your friend just fucked up, Detective. I don’t have any more time for this.” Then he left, clearing the hallway like a tall, wide wave.
Detective. The title hung in the air like a curse. Nagler hated being called by that title.
Nagler leaned back against the cool cement wall and wiped his forehead. What the hell is going on?
At the front desk, he stopped to speak with Sgt. Hanrahan, who knew the topic of conversation before Nagler spoke.
“Del’s been released, Frank. Bobby Reynolds bailed him out about an hour ago.”
Nagler nodded in reply while scanning the lobby. All the seats and nearly all the wall space were occupied by a person awaiting processing, guests for the day. The rest of the space was taken up by police in combat gear, or scruffy jeans and leather coats wielding clipboards, trying to sort out the crowd. Some of guests were in hoodies and red, unlaced Nikes, their gray gym pants slouching below their waists; others tugged oversized fur lined jackets around their skinny frames, eyes unfocused. Hands were shaking, folding and unfolding, clasping the chair rails, unclasping; heads nodding, slowly nodding, the scream of need roaring in their blood; twisted mouths, hollow eyes.
“What did we do, arrest every junkie in the city?” Nagler asked.
Hanrahan laughed. “No, this is just Belmont and Oak. A couple of crack houses were emptied as per the order of the new commander.”
“I’m guessing by your tone that you don’t approve, Officer Hanrahan,” Nagler said, smiling slightly.
Hanrahan frowned. “We’ll find a few three-timers and send them over to the county, but most of these jerks were holding a nickel bag or a half-smoked joint, so we’ll release them on a minor possession charge. This is the second bunch in this afternoon. We missed all the key dealers and they’ll just go underground for a while after this. It was too noisy and poorly coordinated. Made a lot of work for ourselves with little return.”
“Any of our guests have any information on our little girl? That was the original point of the raids.”
Hanrahan picked up a clipboard and handed it to Nagler. “Nothing.” He nodded at the clipboard. “The guy you want to talk to is Patrolman Alton. He brought in Del.”
“Major possession? That can’t be right.”
“Alton said they found twenty folds in the inside liner of his coat.”
Nagler handed back the clipboard and shook his head.
“That’s bullshit. Del’s been clean since he got out of the hospital five years ago.”
“I know,” Hanrahan said, as he raised one eyebrow and scratched his nose.
Nagler smiled a thin, angry smile. “Was thinking the same thing. Alton around?”
“Downstairs, managing the lock-up and county transfers.”
Ironton’s police station, like many older ones in the state, had a small holding cell near a door that did not lead to a public part of the building. Six-foot-by-four-foot, designed for one, always held more, face-to-face, scowl-to-scowl, a fight waiting to happen.
The downstairs rooms, like the lobby, were crammed with bodies, except many of these had leg chains and handcuffs. The county transfers. The cell itself held three men. Nagler wondered who the lucky trio was, and what they had done to gain the plush accommodations. He had been scanning the faces as he walked through the department but only recognized a few of the detained, and those at best were low-level runners, not the dealers. Something wasn’t right. We didn’t grow an entire new crop of junkies in six months.
Nagler spied Alton near the rear door and pushed his way over.
“Alton, a question,” he yelled.
“Yeah, hey, Detective Nagler.”
“Call me Frank.”
Alton’s bulging shoulders pulled at the seams of his black police shirt, a mock-turtleneck, as his biceps burst out of his tactical vest. His gray eyes stared out of a shaved head. He was Nagler’s height, but chiseled after hours in a gym with rockpile forearms. This was the new police officer, Nagler recognized, military hard after 9/11, formidable, trained more for intimidation than reason.
“Big night,” Nagler said, tipping his toward the filled room.
Alton cracked a brief smile. “Yeah. Cleaned the street of the scumbags.”
“Looks like you picked up anyone who crossed your path. Some of ...”
“Pretty much what we did,” Alton said, with what Nagler detected as a little too much pleasure.
“Okay,” Nagler said softly, nearly to himself. “I was told you brought in Delvin Williams.
“Did I?” Alton’s eyes hardened. “Yes, I remember. Old guy, had drugs sewn into his coat liner. Sad. Know him?”
“Why?”
Alton shrugged. “Old man like that, ruining his life on drugs. We can probably prove distribution.”
“Where did you pick him up?”
“Place on Belmont. Got a lot of these losers there.”
“Why are they losers?”
Alton waved one hand. “Look at ’em. Drugged up, stealing to make a buy, forcing others to use drugs, making a lifestyle out of bad habits. Need to get them off the streets.” Then his face slipped back into a hard mask.
Wow. Sounds like a training video, or one of these TV ads that come on late at night: An older man in a police costume steps into frame standing before a film of people sticking needles into their arms, and others of terrified suburban couples being robbed of their money and watches and wallets, while the “POLICE CHIEF,” according to the ID crawl, rattles off some frightening statistics and then points a threatening finger, and says, “This could happen to you!”
&nb
sp; Alton tipped his head. “You had a question?”
Nagler stared at the floor so Alton would not see him bite his lip.
“Yeah, any of these folks recognize our little girl, the one who was in the station a week ago?”
“We didn’t ask.”
“Weren’t you directed to?”
Alton’s façade softened. “Don’t know, sir. I was just told to arrest drug users.” He glanced at Nagler, then away. “Why?”
“Because you recognized her that night she was here. You stared at her for about a minute as she walked past you into the parking lot.”
Alton flinched, and then squared his shoulders. He shook his head before he spoke. “No, sir. As I told you, she was just so filthy.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes sir. I don’t know her.”
Alton’s radio squawked. He replied, “Ten-four,” and turned to Nagler. “County wagon is here. Gotta move some of these prisoners out.”
“Sure,” Nagler said. “Good job, officer.” He turned to leave then turned back. “How long you been on the force, Officer Alton? I’m sorry I don’t know your first name.”
“Garrett. Garrett Alton. About fifteen months, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“Jefferson, on the lake side.”
Nagler smiled, and reached over to shake Alton’s hand. “Good for you, great spot.”
****
“She’s my project now, Frank.”
Sister Marie Katherine had been in charge of the Catholic Sister’s Home since Nagler was in high school. Now — what, ninety? — it seemed to him that she had been wearing the same plain black dress with the starched white collar and gold chain with a one-inch cross since he had known her; the dress sagged at her shoulders, and he noticed that the narrow black belt cinched in a roll or two of fabric.
“She’s bigger than you are, Sister,” Nagler said, smiling.
“But I’ve got this,” she said, laughing and waving her gold-headed cane, a gift from some bishop after a car accident years ago that had left her limping. The tall tales said she used the cane for discipline, but Nagler knew better. She used her heart, mind, and unshakable faith in God as her weapons.
They spoke in the hallway outside the family courtroom where her order, along with the county social services office, had been granted temporary custody of the girl. Sister Katherine said the city attorney had sought to file a petition of relief, but the judge said the city had no standing.
“When can I speak with her, Sister?”
“A day or two. We haven’t been allowed to ask her about anything more than her family or past, which, of course, she has not disclosed. But now as her guardian, we can begin to dig a little.” The old nun stared down the hallway where the girl had emerged from the courtroom with Grace Holiman. “I have yet to speak with her.” She glanced up at Nagler. “She wants to speak, Frank. She has given small signs. Gently,” the admonition a clue to her own approach.
“Okay. A couple of days. I’ll tell you, Sister Katherine, there are some that want her to go away, not to be the public focus that she’s become.”
“I’ve heard,” Sister Katherine said, nearly whispering. “It’s come to me through some friends that this girl represents more than she seems, more than just a child cast aside on a dark, cold night. That is your suspicion as well, isn’t it, Frank?”
He stared at the nun, then smiled and shook his head. “Yes, Sister. You always know. I just don’t know why.”
She lightly rapped his knee with her cane.
“I always know, Francis, although I also do not know why. Perhaps together...”
“Francis! No one’s called me Francis since...”
“High school, I know,” Sister Katherine said, smiling briefly. “I so wanted to see you and Martha live as a family.” She took his hand and kissed it. “I’m so sorry, Frank. All these years and I know it still hurts.”
Nagler squinted back sudden tears. “Thank you,” he croaked.
“So do right by Lauren, God bless ya.”
“What?” Nagler closed his eyes and sighed. “You and your spies.”
“Yes, me and my spies.” She nodded toward the end of the hall where Holiman and the girl approached. “Not a word.”
The girl had filled out a little since the last time Nagler had seen her, that first night. Her face was rounder and the red dress she wore fitted well compared to the tank top and shorts that stuck to her body for apparently no reason.
Nagler nodded and said, “Hello.” The girl stared straight ahead.
“Now the work begins,” Holiman said.
“Indeed. Grace, Sister Katherine. We’ll speak soon.”
Nagler turned to the girl and started to speak, but swallowed the words before walking away. He noticed her eyes had shifted up to look at him, then quickly were pinned to the floor.
CHAPTER FIVE
I think I’m being followed
“Well, you certainly blew the lid off something with that story,” Nagler told Jimmy Dawson as they sat in Barry’s. “Been half-listening to conversations and all anyone is saying is how they’re going to check with their bank and attorney on their mortgage.” He nodded at Dawson. “Story had to be written, but you scared the crap out of everyone. But I would say, great job.”
Dawson put down the coffee cup and rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks.” He waved his hands, looked left and right and then shook his head. “It was something. Hackers demanding ransom from homeowners, an inside job at the county office — they still don’t know who — people losing their homes and savings...”
Dawson’s face was pulled back to a scrunching frown. Then he leaned into the table.
“But what?” Nagler asked.
“I think I’m being followed,” Dawson whispered. Then he raised his eyebrows.
“What?”
“A couple of days ago, at the county records office. I noticed two guys. You’ve been there. Most everyone has a legal pad filled with numbers and lot and block listings, either scrolling through electronic records or flipping through the paper records for deed registrations, and all that stuff. Everyone doing the same thing, so when someone is not doing it, they stand out.”
“And these guys weren’t ...”
Dawson wiped his chin. “Not at all. They were pretending to look at the records. They occasionally would take out a book and flip a few pages. But it was obvious they had no clue what the book they had represented. It’s what you do in a doctor’s office waiting for your appointment, casually flipping through the magazines. Besides, they didn’t have legal pads or a tablet computer. Not even sure they had a phone. There isn’t an agent in that place who’s not on the phone all the time.”
“Get a photo?”
Dawson frowned. “I tried, but they weren’t close enough, always at the far end of the row of tables I was at. Blue or black sports coats, jeans. One was wearing New Balance. You know, they didn’t have cop haircuts. A little long and shaggy. When I left, I headed up to the crossover to the court house that overlooks Court Street and waited by the window, took a photo. They came out a few minutes later, glanced up and down the street and the headed toward Washington, where they took a right turn. I’m not sure they were supposed to lose me.”
“Well, you are a sneaky old bastard,” Nagler followed Dawson’s worried eyes flashing from side to side, peeking over his shoulder. If it was anyone but Dawson.
“Seen ’em since?”
“No. Looked, though. I’ll send you the bad photo I took from the overpass. Too much window glare.”
Nagler leaned back and rubbed his hands in a circle continuously while he thought. “Alright. Call me when you see them again.”
“That’s not all. There was a car, an SUV. A couple of times ... it pulled off the curb into traffic, once on Blackwell, once on North Clinton. One time, okay, but twice? Same car?”
“What did it do?”
“Followed me for several b
locks, four or five cars back, then turned off. When it happened on Blackwell I pulled into the grocery parking lot and parked between rows, just to see. When it happened on North Clinton I drove to the Wharton police station, but the vehicle went straight up 15 when I turned onto Dewey.”
“Who’s out to get you, Jimmy?”
“Don’t know, the story didn’t name anyone, just described the circumstances of the online hack and subsequent effort to recover the cash. I’m a little concerned, Frank.”
“I can see that,” Nagler said. “Is that story over?”
Dawson’s lips formed a knowing, crooked smile. “Naw. Never is.”
Nagler hunched his shoulders in a short laugh. “Yeah, I know.” He nodded toward Dawson’s phone. “Send me the photo. I’ll see what Maria Ramirez can do with them.”
****
Couple of guys in blue blazers. Couple of blurry guys, overexposed guys.
Dawson was right, Nagler concluded. It was a bad photo.
He sent it on to Ramirez anyway, with the note, “Plez, see what you can do. May be following Dawson.”
As he reached for the phone to call Sister Katherine to arrange an interview with the girl, it rang. Nagler jumped, startled, “Nah, she’s not that good.”
Wasn’t Sister Katherine, but the Atlanta detective, Guidrey.
Nagler let the call to go to voicemail.
It had started to rain. Faint tapping of raindrops filled in the silence of the dark office.
I’m beginning not to like this, letting the gloom settle.
And I don’t even know why.
And then he did.
In the city hall parking lot, sitting in the front seat of his ’05 Crown Vic — it took the city two years to replace his ’99 after Tom Miller blew it up as part of his terror campaign — blasting the defrost to dry the inside of the windows, there it was, framed by a side mirror. Big, tall, black, with darkly tinted windows that reflected the weak street light, an SUV, idling curbside, a wisp of smoke leaking from its tailpipe.
The parking lot was one-way from the street and the lanes were diagonal in the wrong direction; Nagler knew he’d have to pull a K-turn to drive out the wrong way. Take too long. Only thing to do was walk over.
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