The Weight of Living

by Michael Daigle

  Nagler felt like laughing less when Alton Garrett stepped around the corner of the health center building and greeted McCann.

  Fuck, we’re being played.

  Garrett was wearing a black leather jacket and a ball cap. Nagler recalled Bruno Hapworth’s description of the pair that shook him down: A big guy with a tweed hat and skinny punky kid. Right in front of him.

  They didn’t appear to be talking, just waiting.

  Nagler was going to call Maria Ramirez and ask for a patrol car for back-up. They could pick up Garrett for desertion of his police job. What would be the point? McCann would run interference and a whole street scene would erupt. Instead, Nagler hobbled to find a better view and snapped a few photos on his phone.

  He was about to put it away when another man approached. Medium height, or at least he seemed so, standing next to McCann. A streetlight above them tripped on as the sunlight faded. Nagler took more photos, hoping they would come out at that distance and that light.

  The men all nodded together and then turned.

  Nagler almost shouted.

  Tank.

  Right there. A face Nagler could not forget. Randolph “Tank” Garrettson.

  Nagler felt the cold shock like a fist to the heart.

  Garrettson turned directly toward Nagler as he glanced up and down the street. Nagler started to duck, but understood he could not be seen in the dusk and hidden as he was. Jesus absolutely fucking Christ.

  Tank.

  Garrettson turned to face the train station and moved slightly so he was in the full street light glare. Nagler snapped off a couple more photos.

  Garrett nodded toward a parking lot across the tracks and the three men walked slowly in that direction. Nagler watched from his vantage point. He would have been too obvious in the parking lot if the retreating men looked back. When they reached the other side of the tracks, they turned toward an old railroad shed and Nagler used the cover of one of the moving vans to limp behind a minivan.

  It was too dark and they were too far away for another photo, but he saw they entered a black SUV with front driver’s side damage. Nagler smiled.

  “Hey, Ramirez, remember that SUV that whacked Lauren’s car a few weeks back? Yeah? Well it’s leaving the south side train station parking lot with McCann, Alton Garrett, and Randolph Garrettson. Got a patrol?”

  Nagler closed the phone to the sounds of Ramirez shouting, “Son of a bitch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Who has no name, Frank?

  Nagler limped back to police headquarters, each step more painful.

  The first call he placed was to Sister Katherine, who told him that the girl had been moved.

  She had been first taken to Pennsylvania by two sisters, church security and Alton Garrett, but at the suggestion of one of the security officers, she was moved to a home in New York. Garrett was not told of that move, she said.

  “It seemed to the officer that Alton appeared agitated, so we took no chances. I believe I played my hand badly, Francis.”

  “Everyone has,” he replied.

  By the time he got back to the office, Acting Chief John Hanson, Ramirez and the patrol and tactical patrol captains were huddled. Cars had been dispatched to Leonard’s store and Nagler’s house, and photos of the three men and a description of the car had been sent out. Nagler retrieved the copy of the photo that John Guidrey from Atlanta had sent him.

  Hanson had called the Jefferson chief asking about any old homes or campsites that might have appeared lately to be active and was awaiting that reply. Hanson also made that request of the county park police, who patrolled vast acres of public parks.

  “No one knew Garrettson was here?” Hanson asked.

  Nagler shook his head slowly. “First we thought he was dead, then we thought he was in Georgia. My police contact in Atlanta said Nebraska reopened the investigation into the crash that supposedly killed him, and Georgia was looking at his businesses. Both states sent out copies of the one photo that anyone had, the one I just gave you.” He looked at the chief and raised his eyebrows. “We all... shit, know what, that photo went out a couple of weeks ago, so we should have had it on file. Garrett hadn’t yet deserted and McCann was here poking around. Either of them could have removed it.”

  Nagler wanted to kick the desk, but didn’t. “He could have been here as much as two weeks ago. Damn it.” He slapped the wall with his palm. “Right under our fucking noses.” Nagler leaned over the desk and chuckled. “The best part? We don’t really even know what his name is.”

  “What’s he here for?” Hanson asked.

  “The girl,” Nagler said. “Nothing else matters.”

  Hanson glared at Garrettson’s photo. “I want this son of a bitch, Frank.” He turned to the other officers. “Come up with a plan. Let me know when it’s ready. Let me talk to the city attorney to see how fast we can get this bastard’s assets frozen. And Frank, get those photos out to your friend Dawson.”

  Nagler nodded, “Yeah. Haven’t seen him in a couple of days. But he’ll get them.”

  As they all sat at the table, Ramirez said, “Dawson’s gone? He never leaves town.”

  Before they all left, Nagler handed Ramirez the page of photos of the girls. “Let’s get these in the system,” He shrugged deeply, dejectedly. “Can’t hurt.”

  “Yeah,” Ramirez said. Then she patted him twice on the cheek. “Heads up, Sunshine.”

  ****

  Mayor Rashad Jackson pointed to the city crew trimming trees and bushes and installing benches along the streets near the bookstore store, all part of the effort to clean up the block in advance of the ceremony that would honor Leonard.

  “The farmers’ market will be set up in the green,” Jackson said. “We were going to use streets, but the merchants made a good point that if we block traffic completely, no one would walk here from the train station.”

  Frank Nagler smiled. All this for Leonard, the little boy he found on the streets years ago crying, hungry and alone. Look what he’s done.

  “He certainly deserves it,” Nagler said.

  “True that,” Jackson said. “Keeping the bookstore open showed other building owners that they could find tenants if they cleaned up the spaces, and now look, a restaurant, a grocery, a shop that features local handmade women’s clothing, and coming soon, an art gallery. The owner hooked up with the school system to feature students’ works once a month. Great boost for those kids.”

  “Yeah, indeed,” Nagler said. “Why didn’t this happen before, Rashad?”

  Jackson folded his arms and started into the angled sunlight.

  “You know why, Frank. The politicians were more interested in their careers, lining their own pockets, and helping their buddies. Too many years of mayors like Howard Newton and Gabriel Richman who bled the city dry as they pulled all those shadowy deals. And the business community was more interested in bitching about taxes and pointing fingers than they were about working together. A toxic mix.”

  They turned back toward the bookstore.

  “Is it better?” Nagler asked. “I mean it seems to be better.”

  Jackson smiled. “Well, the new mayor so far doesn’t seem to be a crook. He’s a little distant, pre-occupied, but hasn’t set up any shell companies.”

  Both men laughed.

  Jackson turned to Nagler, a serious look on his face.

  “What’s changed, Frank, is the opportunity to get moving. I give that credit to Lauren. She’s brought in companies to pair up with the schools, bankers and investors to tour these old empty shells. She showed them our redevelopment plan with, yeah, it provides some incentives, but they’re limited. They can buy these buildings cheap. They’ve been empty for forty years. Save on the purchase cost, put the money into renovation. There’s always critics, including some crank who comes to every meeting and yells about big government taking all the property, when, I mean look at this neighborhood, private investment is turning it around. All the city is
doing is paving the street and cleaning the sidewalks.”

  “Well, it really all started at the community center, and that’s yours, Rashad.”

  Jackson shook his head. “No, Frank. That was the kids. After the fire a couple years ago, they took the lead. I was devastated. Rafe and Dom, and the others. They took over. I just got out of the way. Gotta run, my friend,” and they shook hands. “Counting on you for a great introduction for Leonard.”

  ****

  When Nagler opened the door to the bookstore, he heard “Yellow Submarine” leaking from the new speakers; it meant Bobby and Leonard were running the store.

  As a nod to the kids, who had complained the place was too quiet, even for a bookstore, Leonard had subscribed to satellite radio, which set off the battle of the stations, usually classic rock versus hip-hop. After a week of constant channel changes, Leonard said there would be only one change per day.

  There wasn’t much to say to Leonard, Nagler knew. Calista had been gone several days without a word; Leonard stopped calling her eight times a day.

  But the shine was gone from his eyes, replaced by a vagueness that Nagler understood. He had walked around with that look for twenty years.

  Nagler joined Leonard at a side table and reached over to touch his friend’s hand. “She’ll be back, Leonard.”

  “I know that, Frank.” Leonard looked up and smiled, though it faded. “I was thinking about the little girl, what she must be going through. I tried to speak to her when we were kidnapped” — he laughed — “trying to reassure her. She was so withdrawn; I could feel it in her hands when we talked. I told her I was blind, and the only way I would know she was still there was if I held her hand. Sometimes the pressure was tight, hard, like she was holding onto this world, and other times light and playful. When she held my hands tightly, I think she was fighting against her protective instinct to slide deep within herself.” He leaned forward and rested his cheeks on his balled fists. “I wanted at times to figuratively reach inside her soul, to free it, but I could not. Someone must, Frank, or she will be lost. We are so much alike, she and I, so apart from this world.” He wiped his eyes, now tearing. “I didn’t even have a name I could call her. Who has no name, Frank?”

  Nagler handed Leonard a handkerchief. “You did reach her, and one day she’ll know that. And we’ll find her name.”

  Leonard wiped his eyes, then held the cloth to his face and nodded.

  “I just wanted you to know that you will probably have a break-in next door, for those books,” Nagler said.

  Leonard smiled. “The ones you took?”

  “Yeah, those. We started a little chatter in town hall about the location, so we expect someone will come to get them. We installed both fake and real security cameras, so we should catch the act on film. Patrol will be outside, and we’ll see who shows up.”

  Leonard nodded.

  “And a couple more things,” Nagler said. “You’re going to hear about a sale of properties in the neighborhood. It’s a special tax sale but all the properties are owned, at least on paper, by companies affiliated with the foundation we have been chasing. Last, Lauren’s mother is going to a foreclosure sale of her home, the one set up by Bruno Hapworth.”

  “This is all a plan to trap the owners?”

  “We’ll see. It’s a way to whittle away the ring of people he has around him. We have all the paperwork to show the fraud, we just don’t have him.”

  The front door clattered open, the tiny bell ringing furiously. Standing there was a disheveled Jimmy Dawson.

  “Hey, Jimmy, you spend the last few days in your car trunk?” Nagler asked.

  Dawson shook his head slowly and closed his eyes. “Try Trenton City Jail.”

  ****

  Dawson leaned his elbows on the table and cupped his eyes with his palms before scratching his head vigorously. Bobby brought him a cup of coffee.

  “Yeah, Trenton City Jail.” He scratched his nose and ran his tongue over dry lips.

  “What the hell for?” Nagler asked. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Dawson slurped up some coffee. “They gave me one call, so I called an attorney.”

  “Okay. I don’t get it. Do you have hundreds of speeding tickets or hit a mother and her child while they were crossing the street?”

  “Naw,” Dawson said bitterly. “Remember that day we left Barry’s and my car was boxed in by two large pick-ups?”

  Nagler shrugged, “Yeah, so?”

  “Someone issued a warrant saying I left the scene of a property damage accident that caused thousands of dollars in damage to the two trucks.”

  “That’s bullshit. No offense, but your car doesn’t weigh as much as one of the bumpers of one of those trucks.”

  “Tell me about it. I took photos, Frank. There wasn’t a smear of paint or chip of chrome out of place on those trucks.”

  “Why three days in jail, and why Trenton?”

  “I was in the capitol doing some research at the treasury department. They pulled me over for a bad lane change. I know, right? Held me on an Ironton warrant. Late Friday, so it took them a couple hours to shuffle all their paperwork. Let me make the call on Saturday when my lawyer was in Philly for a family weekend and he called back late Sunday.”

  “Who issued the warrant?”

  Dawson just smiled. “Jerrold McCann.”

  Nagler dropped his head back on the top rail of the chair. How much more screwed could this thing get?

  ****

  Back to the scene of the crime.

  The next dawn found Frank Nagler clinging to the battered chain-link fence behind the Westend Grocery, where the little girl had been found, the act that started this whole mess. The store had added a heavy latch and padlock to the trash container, which Nagler was told was locked each night.

  He was watching the slow shifting of transit rail cars across several lines of tracks. They were moved in singles or pairs until they were parked on a track close to the station. He watched as an eastbound train pulled into the station, took on what few passengers were out at six a.m., then stopped beyond the station while a couple of additional cars were added at the back of the train, increasing its length.

  The yard contained maybe fifty to sixty cars, many of which were put in service during the day. A few were shuttled to rear tracks for maintenance. While the movement of cars was mesmerizing, what Nagler was watching was the use of a road parallel to the south side of the yard. It was on the property of an old rolling mill that housed some repair shops associated with the transit yard, including a bus repair facility, and a couple of similar private businesses. It was a relic from Ironton’s heyday as an iron center and survived, he guessed, because it was not located in the center of town, like the Union Iron Mill that, when it was torn down, became the symbol of the city’s economic downfall.

  Nagler pulled out a small pair of field binoculars and scanned the road. To reach it, a vehicle would have to take a sharp turn at the point where Morris Street began its steep climb out of downtown. More than one tractor-trailer had misjudged the turn and blocked traffic there, he knew.

  There were a couple of sheds, a couple more long, low buildings, possibly used for storage, and in between three old trailers that, judging by the weeds, were permanently parked at the end of the mill, was the elusive black SUV with driver’s side front-end damage.

  The other day, Garrettson, Garrett, and McCann must have taken that sharp left turn off Morris and drove to this secluded parking space. While patrol cars blocked the downtown streets and the roads leading out of Ironton, the trio parked here and walked out. Nagler knew from his youth knew that a path at the end of the rail yard, which then would have led to woods, today entered a subdivision where a second vehicle could have been parked.

  From the trunk of his patrol car, Nagler produced a digital camera and took about thirty shots of the SUV, including the front-end damage and the license plates.

  Why would you just leave it here? he w
ondered.

  Maybe because it’s the most sought-after vehicle in the county, and this is not the worst hiding place. You get lost watching the trains. Who looks for cars?

  He would have it towed later, but as he drove away, he thought, I better make sure it’s there.

  He rummaged through the trunk for a six-inch utility knife. He jabbed the point of the knife into the sidewall of the right front tire and listened with satisfaction to the hiss of air. As the tire softened, he opened a long gash.

  Then he flattened the rear right tire, and for good measure, the left front tire; only the left rear tire, tucked tightly against the trailer, survived his knife.

  Sweating, his left foot sore from the bending, Nagler looked back at the SUV, leaning oddly from his handiwork.

  That’s because you made me chase you on my bad foot.

  Later, when Nagler told her, Lieutenant Ramirez just smiled; sometimes it’s the little things.

  “I put a call into Morristown. They’ll hold it for us,” she said. “They agreed, that with two Ironton police officers involved, leaving it in our impound might be risky. We gaining on this guy, Frank?”

  “I don’t know, Maria,” Nagler said. “I know that Dan Yang completed the list of Mine Hill Foundation assets, and most of the properties it owns are behind on taxes and owe fines for code violations. The electric, gas, and water have been shut off, and Ironton and several other New Jersey towns are heading to court to seize the properties and other assets. Georgia wants him for suspicion of multiple murders, Nebraska wants to question him about the accident in which he supposedly died. Then there’s all the allegations about rape and incest. We’re picking off his associates one by one, and we have a couple of plays yet to come. But are we closer? We’re not even sure what his name is, so what does that say?”