Don't Lose Her (11 page)

Chapter 20

T
ouch your belly! Really? Do I want to touch your belly? Jesus Christ! What kind of prisoner asks the guard if he wants to touch her fat pregnant belly?

Do you remember when your wife was pregnant? Shit! The woman still thinks I'm a man, which is probably a good thing because she's not supposed to know a damn thing about any of us. That was Geronimo's big scheme and the way these assholes, including Danny, all thought we were going to get away with this deal. No sound, no voices, no touching, no removing the hood, so she can't identify a single thing, who we are, what we look like, where she's been. That was the line Danny used to try to convince Rae that everything would be cool.

Rae knew it probably came directly from Geronimo, even though Danny was smart enough to come up with it himself. He was good at that kind of thing as much as she hated to admit it. He was good with the details, and that's why he'd been so successful with the carjacking and the pot- and amphetamine-selling at the resort and the ski areas back home. He was smooth and he was quiet and he was careful. He never talked about what he did with anyone but her. “Loose lips sink ships,” he used to say, and before that, the only time she'd ever heard the line was from her rowdy girlfriends who used to laugh and say, “Loose lips suck dicks,” when they were hanging at the old Crossroads bar in a booth, acting all smart-assed and scoping out the guys.

Danny had snorted at her version and had explained that the “sink ships” came from World War II and meant that sailors or soldiers who talked too much about missions took a chance of letting the Japs know what was up. Yeah, right—like they were sitting around in the bar shootin' the shit and watching the game with a couple of Japs and happened­ to mention where they were sailing the next day to bomb Tokyo. Christ! Her version was much better. But Danny knew that kind of shit, history and stuff. It was another reason she'd fallen for him. Quiet and smart. It was maybe the only reason she thought this whole fucked-up kidnapping thing might work out so that they'd both walk away with a load of money and a way out of the life up north.

You and your dreams, Rae. Don't you know how those go by now?

“Can you take me to the toilet again?” The whiner.

Jesus! Rae thought. She should have known. As soon as you start being nice to them, they just want more. She'd gotten Danny to go out and buy the Boost shit because the woman needed it. Even Rae knew that you can't keep somebody locked up in a room without food and water for days and not have something happen to them, especially a pregnant woman. So she gives her the stuff, and half an hour later she's got to pee. And no way is Rae gonna let her piss in that bed and have that smell hovering in the room for however long they were going to be here.

She got up and went over to help the woman up off the bed, wobbly, even with Rae holding a fist of her dress and keeping her from falling over. Stumbling. Can't put one damn foot in front of the other. Rae guided her. Same thing as your mom, right, Rae? Jesus, who needs that memory?

She'd been, what, seven, eight, nine years old? Staying home alone in the old single-wide they had on Skegemog Point. She'd be alone from the time the school bus dropped her off, doing homework on the couch with the TV on, eating cheese curls and drinking pop even though her mom might have left a tuna casserole in the fridge that day. She'd watch every kid's show from three in the afternoon until she fell asleep with her orange fingertips in her mouth like a little baby. Then she'd wake up to the sound of the car pulling up, sometime deep into the night. She'd keep her eyes closed when her mom unlocked the door and came in, the glow of the TV the only light in the place.

Rae would listen to see if the steps were quiet, and if the handbag was placed carefully on the counter. The fridge was being opened and closed. There was a rustle of clothing as her mom sat on the coffee table in front of the couch for a long minute, Rae knowing she was watching her sleep, looking at the side of her face, maybe even knowing Rae wasn't really asleep. Then sh
e
'
d bend over Rae, kiss her on the forehead, and gather her in her arms and take her back to her own bed. Those were the good nights, the infrequent nights.

Mostly there were sounds of keys fumbling in the lock, a trip, and then a curse when her mom stumbled over a pair of Rae's sneakers on the doormat. Then the bump of a hip against the counter and the fridge being opened and left standing open, its light competing with the TV for a long minute.

That's when Rae would open her eyes and get up on her own. “Mama, are you all right?”

And this apparition, known by others as her mother, would singsong slur: “I'm just hunky-dory, Rae-Jay,” using her pet name for Rae. “An' I brought a treat for my baby 'cause I know they're your favorites.”

Then she'd tap at the brown paper bag containing the half-drunk bottle of Allen's coffee-flavored brandy known locally as “fat ass in a glass,” and a package of Double Stuf Oreos. And then it was Rae who would prop up her wobbling drunk mother, guide her through the narrow passageway to the back bedroom, and help her lie down without crashing into a bureau or nightstand or lampshade.

It was Rae who went in the tiny bathroom, soaked a washcloth under the sink, folded it, and placed it over her mother's forehead and eyes. It was she who would stare at her mother's profile, the face that everyone called country beautiful. Even as a child Rae could see it, even through runny mascara and smeared makeup: the prettiness, the curse, the ultra-green eyes that drew men in, the rich dark hair that made them stare, the flawless skin that made them want to touch her. Her mother's beauty was the exact opposite of Rae's own distinctive strawberry blonde, freckle-cheeked look. And even a kid hears the whispers of the “bitchy broads” at Tom's Pancake House: “Ain't her daddy's girl, is she?”

Even a kid could recognize her own coloring and its similarity to that of another man in town who was not her mother's ex and whom her mother avoided like vermin.

Still, it was on those drunken nights that Rae would kiss her mother's closed eyes. It was Rae who had mistaken the smell of whiskey for perfume until she was ten and went to the bar herself one night to find her mother and recognized the odor being wiped off the counter. It was Rae who knew what was going to happen before it happened. Even then. Even now.

Do I want to touch her belly? Christ no!

Do you remember when your wife was pregnant? Jesus!

And Rae led the woman back to the bed, spun her, and shoved her, a little harder maybe than she'd meant to.

Could I at least cut her hands loose so she could feel her own belly? Anything else, Prisoner? What, you wanna go for a jog around the yard? Do a few bench presses with the skinheads in the barbell club? Rae stood speechless in front of the bed. Says she's a fat, pregnant woman, what's she going to do? Well, true there. Rae knew that Geronimo would be pissed. She knew she was breaking the rules. Maybe even Danny would be pissed, but fuck it. Look at this pathetic woman lying there with a bag over her head.

Rae reached into the spot where she'd hidden the small razor blade, the same place she'd hidden her thin cell phone, the place where the old northern Michigan cops were too prudish or even too scared to search you when they booked you into county for some stupid-ass violation. She took the fold of cardboard off the blade and rolled the woman on her side and sliced through the flex-cuffs, freeing her hands.

Then she took a step back and watched. Go ahead and try something, she thought, not letting the act of kindness weaken her—I'll kick your ass.

Chapter 21

W
hen I pulled up to the curb in the Dunbar Village housing project, Mrs. Quarles was nowhere in sight. That she was watching through the lace curtains of her tiny living room would be a solid assumption. When I got out of the Gran Fury and walked toward the basketball court where I could see her son repetitively shooting free throws, I stopped in front of her porch for a single second, a moment of respect and a soundless request for permission before moving on. The court was empty. CQ, ballplayer with eyes in the back of his head, did not turn until I was two paces behind him. “Thirty-nine,” he said, as the ball left his fingertips with an exaggerated backspin, arced through the warm humid air, went cleanly through the hoop, and as he planned, bounced back as if on command into his waiting hands. “Forty,” he said, repeating the exact movements and formula again. Only then did he turn to me, a look of seriousness on his handsome face. “Mr. Freeman,” he said, cradling the ball in the crook of his elbow and gesturing to the paint-chipped iron bench on the sideline. “Shall we adjourn to my office?” I couldn't help myself. The juxtaposition of the venue and the young man's pantomime of corporate cant made me grin. “After you, sir,” I said, extending my hand toward the bench. We sat and let silence hang for a full minute, maybe two. I didn't think he was second-guessing his decision as much as he was letting the quiet act as a cleansing that moved him from one activity to another; the two should never overlap. “Look, CQ,” I started, “if you don't want to get involved …”

“No, no,” he stopped me. “I made some calls, talked with some fellas. Got some info … but I'll tell you up front, Mr. Freeman, this tip isn't about drugs. If you think it might be a dead end, it's up to you. OK?”

Now it was my turn to be silent.

“I understand, Mr. Freeman,” CQ said. “I read the newspapers. I know Ms. Manchester was the judge in the Escalante case and that everyone thinks that his cartel and their connections here on the street could have their fingers in it.” He was looking out over the empty court now, not into my eyes.

“And it makes sense you'd want to find out if there was word on the streets. So you come to my neighborhood to find out what might be hummin' out here, you know?”

“I wasn't judging, CQ,” I said. “Leads are leads, chances, opportunities.”

After another few seconds of silence, he dug into his pocket and came out with the burner, the toss-away cell phone I'd given him.

“I ain't judgin' you, neither,” he said. “Number on there for a dude name of Dez, jack-a-all-trades kinda guy who has some stuff to tell about a chop shop down Delray way where some odd shit been going on last couple of days.”

I nodded and let CQ continue.

“Says he got a piece of a Ford van that has a vehicle ID number on it might interest you.”

I could feel that interest materialize as a physical tingle up my hairline, an ember of hope that I had to contain immediately lest I give it more importance than it deserved.

“Of course, he also has a monetary interest of his own,” CQ said, handing me the cell, his voice going an octave lower, putting on the Boston University vernacular again. “So you two will have to negotiate that on your own. He'll know your call is legitimate if it comes through this line.”

The way the kid kept doing the linguistic two-step did not confuse the message. Street smart, business smart, cover-your-ass smart: Billy's friend the teacher had chosen his protégé well. I started to go to my own pocket to pay for his help, but CQ cut me off again.

“I gave Dez your two thousand up front,” he said, raising his palms, refusing any money. “I hope what information he has will help Ms. Manchester. If I obtain any more, uh, leads, I'll purchase another untraceable phone and call you.”

“Agreed,” I said, and offered my hand to be swallowed by his once again. “And thank you, CQ.”

The voice on the cell gave me the address of a bodega in eastern Delray Beach called La Preferiola
.
CQ had given me the guy's name as Dez, but no last name. “And if he gives you a last name, it won't be his real one,” CQ said. “But the dude's got an ear on everything, and I mean everything. So you have to take his info on face value—but take it seriously because when it comes to the streets, this guy is plugged in.”

I was taking it at face value, but when I reached Dez on the phone—young-sounding voice, no detectible accent, clipped and direct—he led me to a neighborhood of shops and garages and little groceries where the signage is overwhelmingly in Spanish. So I was putting a face on the “dude” ahead of time.

Here I was with cash money to pay for information about a particularly high-profile crime that might have involved drug dealers tied to one of the nearly mythic figures in the trade: it was hard for me not to start projecting. I'm figuring Dez must be Latin and wants to meet me in a place where he's comfortable and may have his own brand of backup among the locals.

I know this gig. I had more than a few informants when I was a beat cop in Philadelphia and during my short stint as a detective. We talked on untraceable lines. We met in places where the informant was unlikely to be recognized with a stranger who looks like a cop. We made the meetings short and sweet. The promise was given that real names never went into documents.

I would soon find out that a lot of those rules were going out the window on this one.

If Dez was as street smart as CQ made him out to be, he was going to be careful. And so was I. Already I had my handgun out of the trunk and felt it bite into the small of my back as I got out of the Fury. I'd thought twice about switching my car and driving my F-150, not to be so obvious, but now realized it would have been a useless move.

La Preferiola was a squat, one-story business in the middle of the block on Southwest 18th Avenue. The store's front windows were filled with advertisements in Spanish for
COCINA LATINA
,
ULTAMAR SERVICIOS TELEFONICOS
, and
C.A.M.
, a money-transfer service providing a link to the Caribbean and South America and available in a thousand shops in South Florida. There was even a sign for overseas Internet availability for a price per minute.

It was one-stop shopping. You could come in and send money to your mom in Ecuador, call your cousin in Brazil, and send an email to Cuba, all while having café con leche and churros. The joint next door sported a red and yellow
JOYERIA EMPEÑOS
sign identifying it as a jewelry and pawn shop. On the other side was what we'd call a mom-and-pop grocery in Philly, with the sign
LA PREFERIOLA
running­ across the awning.

I sat for a minute, assessing. The only visible signs in English were
STOP
and
SPEED LIMIT 30.
I was a gringo in a foreign country.

CQ told me that I wouldn't have any trouble recognizing Dez. And he was right. When I walked into the store, the requisite­ tinkle of bells hanging on the doorframe announced my presence. A mixed odor of warm spice, cooking meat, and some undetermined whiff of cleaning agent greeted me. To my immediate right was a glass-covered warming counter with an array of rice dishes, stews, sliced pork, braised chicken, and mixed vegetables steaming in stainless trays. To the left was a counter stacked with paper directories, lists of dollar, peso, real, gourde, and Cordoba exchange rates, and a clerk streaming a litany of questions to a customer in Spanish so fast that I didn't have a chance to glean the conversation.

The narrow single room extended back past a booth supplied with one outdated laptop and into a four-table dining area. The floors were mopped clean, but I could tell that if you bumped one piece of furniture from its spot the grime would be thick.

At a small two-top in the far corner sat a man with his back against the wall, a hoodie pulled over his head and shadowing his eyes. I walked up within a couple of feet and stood silently.

“Mr. Freeman, I presume,” a voice said from under the hood.

“Dez.”

“Please. Sit.”

The voice, again absent any discernible accent, was accompanied by the wave of a pale palm to the seat in front of him. I deferred and instead sat in the chair directly to his right where I had a wall to my own back. It was a chess move and we both knew it.

“My understanding is that you have something for me,” I said.

“I think I do.”

Again, the hand came up, this time holding a small strip of metal, probably a quarter-inch wide and three inches long, and stamped with a series of letters and numbers. Dez placed it on the tabletop and slid it toward me. I recognized it immediately as a VIN tag. It still had the rivet heads on either end from where it had been ripped from the dash of a vehicle. I spun the strip with my fingernail on one edge so I could read it. Then I took my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Billy's number. I needed his help. I'd read the preliminary police reports on the stolen van, but I've never been good at recalling numbers, and at times can still be befuddled when being asked for my own Social Security number.

While I waited for the line to ring through, Dez slid an
Especiales
menu over to me
. Chuleta de puerco, churrasco, sopa de pollo.

“The chicken soup is great,” he said.

When Billy answered, I read off the VIN without any preamble.

“It's the correct number for the stolen van,” he said. “Where are you, Max?”

“I'll get back to you,” I said, and thumbed the cell off.

I turned the VIN tag around with my fingernail and stayed silent for a few long seconds.

“True?” Dez said.

“Can you tell me where you got this?”

“I could.”

When nothing else was offered, I reached into the right pocket of my cargo pants and brought out a brick of twenty-dollar bills in a way that only my lunch companion could see.

“Two thousand more,” I said.

Dez did not reach for the payment but instead pulled back the hoodie to reveal his face. His eyes were gray and flat but gave no indication of menace as they met mine, unblinking. They showed no sign of being under the influence. His hair was short and naturally ash blond. He was clean-cut and owned an unblemished complexion that was, like his hands, light-colored, but what the Florida sun might supply as tan. He was a white Anglo kid in a bodega. I guessed his age to be early to mid-twenties.

“Four and I'll give you the address of the warehouse it came from … and an eyewitness.”

“Four it is,” I said, and reached into my pocket for another brick.

Dez nodded. He liked this way of dealing. No bullshit. No haggling. Easy money for him, and fine by me as well. I didn't like dealing with the black-market element, but there was nothing overtly illegal in our trade. He had something I needed. I had money to pay him. And time was of the essence.

He recited the address from memory: “2742 Northwest 60th Street, old area of Pompano Beach. Light industry, but used to have a lot of chop shops back in the day—mostly abandoned now. I'm thinking whoever chopped this one up is from out of town, because we don't usually handle it that way down here.”

I looked up into his light-colored eyes at the word
we
, but didn't press.

“Carjackers who want to get rid of a car down here just drive it out west and run it into a canal. They've got dredging programs these days, but an entire car can sit underwater for decades.”

I knew this to be true and let Dez go on. It was, after all, my money.

“Like I told CQ, these guys have something to hide rather than sell.”

“You get any eyeballs on these out-of-towners?”

“Not personally.” The young man's voice was all business.

I admit I couldn't hang a sign on him. Shyster? Thief? Entrepreneur?

“But there is someone who kinda lives in the area who sees everything that happens and is susceptible, so to speak, to questions,” he said, with a nod to the money still in my hand.

I passed him the cash.

“Dude lives up on the roof across the street from that address,” Dez elaborated. “Spooky guy. Be careful going up there. He doesn't like visitors, but if you knock with this,” he said, slapping the bills lightly on the underside of the table, “he'll be cool.”

I slid out of the chair and stood to leave.

“Hey,” Dez said, and I turned back to him. “Good luck.”

I was dialing Billy's number as I climbed into the Fury. He answered on the first ring.

“What do you have, Max?”

“An address and a possible witness,” I said. There was a moment of silence. It was the first positive news since his wife had been scooped off the streets.

“Give me the address, and I'll run everything I can through the computer before I meet you there, Max. If it's an old building, I won't be able to get blueprints online, but I have a contact at the county planner's office who might be able to pull the file and give us a description.”

Billy and his contacts. I read him the warehouse number.

“And the witness's name?”

“No name yet, Billy. But he apparently keeps a close eye on all the comings and goings in that neighborhood. I'd like to get a chance to talk with him before the feds show up and spook the hell out of him.”

“We'll have to bring them in,” Billy said, still hanging on to his legitimacy as an attorney even though he may have committed a dozen crimes stripping his wife's computer, bugging her office, and downloading the entire collection of files from the courthouse database.

“Give me an hour lead-time before you call them and I'll meet you there. It'll take them some time to get their team together anyway.”

“OK, Max. Your call,” Billy said, and hung up.

My friend trusted me, even with his wife's life potentially on the line. I was grateful. I knew that if the tip on the witness—described as kinda spooky—was good, then he was likely to give me some information for a bundle of cash a lot quicker than he would if there was a phalanx of federal agents swarming all over the block. And I had no doubt there would be a swarm. The Marshal's Service and the FBI had been shut out of all potential leads and would be itching for anything they could move on. They'd come in heavy, and that was never a way to get good info from a marginal guy who “lives up on the roof.” I'd need to do that on my own.