Drowning Barbie (20 page)

Chapter Forty

Karl knocked and then let himself in to Ike's office. He did not look happy. He sat down and focused his gaze on a crack in the vinyl tiles at his feet.

Ike rolled back and slouched a little more in his chair. “Let me guess. The DNA test came in and it is not good.”

“Yeah. The body you dug up is our boy Anthony Barbarini. Which means someone in the Bureau will have some serious explaining to do. That someone is not going to be happy since he or she made it very clear to me through an intermediary that I shouldn't find that connection. Now what do I do?”

“You have only two options, Karl. You can tell the folks in the Hoover building the thing they do not want to hear, or you can lie. The only flexibility you have is when you tell them whichever it is you decide.”

“Advice?”

“Well, that is a tough one. I will not tell you to lie. I wouldn't lie and I don't think, in the end, you will either. On the other hand, keeping them in the dark a few more days will not materially alter the eventual outcome. It has been ten years since your goombah was planted in our backyard. It can't matter much if you hold off until next week and stick around for my impending quasi-nuptials and the party to follow.”

“What's quasi about your…you did say nuptials?”

“It's a long story and one for another day. The real question here is not what you will say to your section chief, but what will you do after you've said it? Are you prepared to pursue a career in the Bureau when it might mean a series of bad, dead-end assignments and pushing paper?”

“I don't know. I am just really angry that the incompetence of some agents a decade ago ends by screwing up my life.”

“Ah, a word from someone older and, if not wiser, more experienced in the art of governmental screw-ups. Bureaucrats for the most part are driven by ambition and fueled by political rhetoric. Consequently they never learn history's lessons. We all thought Vietnam taught us something about poking our nose in where it didn't belong and where are we now? Engaged in wars we cannot win, to establish systems that can't be sustained, for people who hate us. It is the nature of the society we have molded in this bright new century to plow headlong into adventures that even a tiny measure of caution would have forestalled and from which we can't seem to extricate ourselves.”

“Thank you, Bertrand Russell. I appreciate the worldview. I really do, but what about this poor slob sitting here right now? What do I do in the face of this inevitable landslide of bureaucratic backlash?”

“Stick around for my party. The two of us will get slightly soused and then decide.”

“I guess that is the best I can do. I haven't told Sam yet. I guess that can wait until after the party, too. So, you're off the hook on this one.”

“Not entirely.”

“No? How not?”

“Well the body in the woods begs a question beyond the obvious one: who is he? Or, more properly, who was he?”

“And what question is that?”

“How did the body of Anthony Barbarini, also known to his compatriots as Barbie, find its way down from New York City to Picketsville, Virginia, and thence into our park? Furthermore, since it did, does that imply we have people down here who are connected to people up there in less than legal ways?”

“Oh.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you should consider staying on awhile. Your bosses might come to see an investigation into that possibility, assuming it has a positive outcome, as sufficiently redeeming to erase the negatives caused by the unfortunate DNA test and the effects it has on some of the Bureau's more senior members.”

“And those ‘senior members,' will they be happy by the results of the investigation and let it go?”

“Well, there are two thoughts on that and which one will prevail depends on the options we exercise now.”

“Options? We? What options? Ike I—”

“Patience. Okay, number one, let us suppose the sheriff of Picketsville, in the spirit of cooperation, of course, asks for help from the FBI. ‘You see,' he, that is I, will say, ‘I have a body tentatively identified by the dental wonks in your system as Tony Barbarini.' And suppose further that same sheriff requests files from the original arresting officers. At that point they are officially ‘outed,' not by you, but by me. Now, if anything falls back on you, it will have to be very public and embarrassing to them, you see?”

“They wouldn't dare do anything?”

“To you? How can they? I'd be the guy who ratted them out. Assuming a subsequent investigation into the stiff in the woods is launched? They'll be told to get over it.”

“You think?”

“Pretty sure. It's what I'd do if I were their boss…and yours.”

“Okay, that could work. What's option number two?”

“I'll let you work on that one. See you tomorrow?”

“Probably, sure.”

***

Ike caught TAK before he left for the day.

“Okay, it's time for your next lesson in policing. This is basic detective work.”

“Sir?”

“I have a job for you, son. Make that two.” Ike produced the evidence bag containing the dollar bill with the phone number scrawled on it. “This bill was found in the dead man's pocket. You know who I am talking about?”

“Dellinger?”

“No, the stiff who was buried in the woods a decade ago. It has a phone number written on it but no area code. I want you to search the history of this number in metro New York—all the area codes, Connecticut, Long Island, New Jersey. Go back twelve years.”

“Yes, sir, twelve years. Can I ask why?”

“Certainly. Police work is mostly about digging and asking questions. Forensics can get you just so far, then the grunt work begins. The bill was in a murdered man's pocket. We want to know who killed him. The number might just lead us to his killer or not. Either way, it is a loose end. We do not like loose ends.”

“Right, Sheriff, no loose ends.” He turned to leave.

“Wait, I'm not finished.” Ike opened the medical examiner's file and pulled out a photograph. He handed that to the intern as well. “This is a picture of the label in the dead guy's suit jacket. It was hand-tailored and the label tells us who made it. The number inside the pocket identifies who ordered it made.”

The young man studied the photograph. “A. M. Rosenblatt, and Sons?”

“Of New York, yes. Tomorrow you call them and find out who they made the suit for.”

“Sheriff, after all these years, would they know?”

“Oh, they will. If I know about anything, I know about Jewish tailors. You call them.”

The boy frowned and left. Ike made a quick call to his father.

“Pop, do you know any New York Rosenblatts? They'd be in Great-uncle Marvin's line of work.”

“They're tailors? Let me think. Marvin will, if I don't. I'll call you.”

Six o'clock rolled around and he headed out. Ruth wanted to meet and discuss Monday. What she needed from him at this point he could not imagine, but he agreed to meet her in her office. She said she would have food sent in. She also said he was to turn off his phone. That part was not going to happen.

***

George LeBrun enjoyed one positive benefit from his addictive lifestyle—stretching the definition of
benefit
a bit, to be sure. Excesses of booze combined with methamphetamine caused him to experience a form of topical amnesia. His “morning after” is somewhat more daunting than the average boozer's. This morning he struggled to recall anything about the previous night's activities. It was not that George was burdened much with pangs of conscience; he'd never experienced a sense of guilt, at least not since he pushed his sister down the basement stairs and broke her arm. His Dad had beaten the snot out of him then. It would be years before he evened that one out. For him, remembering had more to do with establishing his bearings and accounting for his time, should that be necessary, than regrets or recriminations.

Alex, the owner and proprietor of the road house bearing his name, stood at the far end of the bar and grumbled something about missing the girl and why had she left without notice. He shot an accusatory glance at George but said nothing more. Alex knew that George, if he chose to, could make his life difficult or even end it. His current worry, however did not concern possible consequences of an irate LeBrun. It stemmed from George's slide back into using. Like so many addicts who enter detox and emerge “clean,” he'd started to dip. Addicts always think that they can manage just a “taste.” They can't. Alcoholics, druggies, smokers, you name your personal pollutant, if you're an addict, even taking in a small amount will send you spiraling back into dependency. George had been dipping and the girl had disappeared. Alex frowned, kept his eyes averted, and continued to wipe his counter wondering when George would explode and what godawfulness would emerge when he did.

LeBrun and Alex had a symbiotic relationship. Not a healthy one, like those found in nature, but like flesh-eating bacteria in an old man's leg. George had no interest in or sensitivity to Alex's fears. For him their connection made good business sense and if Alex did not see it that way, there were others waiting in the wings that would. In the meantime, he waited for his scrambled brain to coalesce into some version of normal. Because doing so did not require that he remember much of the previous night, he allowed that time to slip from view, so to speak.

But he did remember two things he considered important. Frankie Chimes had stopped by to cadge some drinks and ask for a small loan. Frankie served as one of George's mules when he needed one. Otherwise he worked at a variety of jobs—none permanent, and managed to embarrass his family by showing up in court to plead to a miscellany of misdemeanors and minor felonies. Frankie had said something he had heard at his brother's house the night before. George thought it was significant, and he struggled to remember it now. This memory connected with Jack Feldman telling him about a call at the church he'd made before he went off duty. That was before he helped clean up the mess in the bathroom, but that didn't have anything to do with the other thing either. He cudgeled his forehead and tried to focus. Failing, he drained his beer and signaled Alex for another. It would come to him in time.

***

Leota had resumed her position across the road and twenty yards to the south of Alex's Road House at nine that morning. Her watch showed four hours had passed and she needed to eat and use the restroom. How did they do it? Cops sat at stakeouts for hours with binoculars pressed to their eyes and were always ready to start their engines and dash off after bad guys at a moment's notice. They never ran out of gas, never went to the bathroom, and always seemed to have food and supplies.

Leota watched too much television.

She squirmed in the seat and began to reconsider the reasons why she still sat parked opposite the Road House staring at its entrance. Darla's backpack hadn't been in the barn, so that meant she had flown away somewhere and she would be safe for awhile. Maybe she'd come back after LeBrun had been put away, this time for good. She picked up her camera from the seat beside her and shot another series of pictures. She caught the entrance and parked vehicles, making sure that the license plate on the car she thought was LeBrun's stood out in sharp focus. She would have a record of what she did, even if she wasn't sure anymore why she did it. Her camera had come in handy after all. Not for Darla as it had been intended, but for the record she started to compile of her time in Picketsville. No, she wasn't on the girl's trail now. Something else, something more primal drew her to this spot. She had a moment of clarity and realized what she really needed was a reckoning with LeBrun. She desperately needed to make things right, somehow. The past two decades had to count for something, for God's sake. She focused the camera again and ran off four more shots of the Road House—front door, second-floor windows, parking area, and a long shot of all three.

Chapter Forty-one

During her second night hiding in the church, Darla stripped off her clothes and washed them in the kitchen sink. It felt funny standing naked in the near dark. It wasn't that she'd never been like that in a public place before. She blotted out that memory. But this was a church, for God's sake. She sponged, dried off with sheets torn from a roll of paper towels, and put on the cassock she'd taken from the closet upstairs. It was much cooler for sleeping. She wished she could wash her hair but didn't dare soak it in the sink and run the risk of missing a sound or a light. Besides, she hadn't the heart to touch it since Grace Somebody styled and cut it at that beauty salon.

“Now doesn't that look better?” Grace had asked her at the time and spun the chair around so that she could see herself in the mirror. The salon seemed filled with mirrors. Darla never looked at herself if she could avoid it. “Honey, you're beautiful.”

Was she? Ethyl the witch said she was ugly and that nobody'd ever want her for anything except for what was “down there.”

“No, I'm not,” she'd said.

“Not? Honey, well, you just look at yourself in the mirror. See? Let me put a dab of blush and a touch of lipstick—”

“No!”

No, not beautiful. She'd heaved herself out of the chair, stuffed the five- and ten-dollar bills in the woman's hand, and dashed out the door. Thank goodness the damned cop was gone. But…was she, maybe, okay-looking? Leota said that, too. People tell you shit like that all the time and then they screw you any way they can. She shook her head, finished toweling off, and went in search of hangers.

She found some in a closet and hung her wet things on them and placed them on the pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling of her lair. They should be dry by morning. She returned to the kitchen. As long as no one came into the church, she lingered in the kitchen enjoying the space and cooler air. Just enough ambient light filtered through the windows to allow her to move around without lighting a candle. Only if she needed to search for something specific, would she light a candle stub. As long as it didn't flicker, she felt sure it would be barely noticeable outside.

She rummaged through the larder and found enough to make a decent, albeit high in carbohydrates, dinner. She pulled up a chair and sat, her mind wandering a bit. It was a luxury to do so now. She tried to remember what it had been like before. She couldn't remember much about what life had been like before turning six, way too much since. There were a few years when things were, like, good and all. The picnics at the spring in the woods. The woods…that's where. She shuddered. That's where her mother lay now. How'd the bitch ever get there? Who should she thank for sending her to hell?

As she spooned creamed corn from its can, she thought that of all the places she'd lived over the seventeen years of her life, this might be the best. The thought made her laugh. The sound startled her. Darla never laughed. But the thought was too funny. She was living in a self-imposed prison cell, hiding all day and only coming out at night like a vampire or something, and eating food stolen from church people, and this was the best? Too funny.

She knew that Leota tried, but had no way of knowing how painful her tries at fixing her up had been. First showing her the pictures. “See, weren't these good times, weren't you happy there?” And then the other stuff. When you've had to go through what she'd been through, people saying stuff like “forget and move on” or “embrace the bright future” or “become an empowered woman” were like feeding cotton candy to a starving man—pretty, sweet, and would rot your teeth. Darla knew about rotten teeth. What kind of future could she have with this body wrecked by the armies of bastards who made her spread her legs and have sex with them—and worse? And, you can forget the part about finding a nice man, having a family. There were no nice men, only perverts and slimy bastards, and family was not something she had ever known or could have herself. Satisfying her mother's habit had taken care of that.

A flash of headlights outside sent her scurrying back into her bolt hole. As always, she left the door ajar. She would close it, but only if people headed toward the kitchen. Leaving it open let her hear a little of what they said. This time, no one came downstairs. That was a good thing because she'd left her half-eaten can of corn on the counter. She heard the organ groan to life and then singing. She liked singing. It would be nice, she thought, to sing in a choir like that. Those people had no idea how lucky they were. The music lasted an hour and a half and then doors slammed and all was quiet again. She slipped out and retrieved the can, finished it, and dropped it in the garbage. She closed the door and laid down on her improvised futon. Tomorrow, she thought before dropping off to sleep, tomorrow I will find something to read. There must be a magazine or a book around here somewhere.

She rolled on her back and stared at the pipes that held her drying clothes. They made an eerie pattern against the raw sub-flooring of the rooms above. She thought of all the times she'd spent staring at ceilings, disengaging her mind from what was happening to her body. That big pipe would probably support her weight. Maybe instead of a book, she'd look for some rope.

No, not beautiful. How could she be after all that?

***

“Of all the places you've lived, Ike, which would you say was the nicest?”

Ike and Ruth had taken refuge in the upstairs study of the president's house on the university campus. As the proverbial cat had been let out of the bag, his presence on the premises did not stir the controversy it once had. Some of the faculty still resented it but for a different reason now.

“Oh, I don't know. What qualifies as nice at one age becomes something else later on. I grew up here, mostly, except when my father held some office or another in the commonwealth. Then we lived in Richmond. But definitely here in Picketsville for those years. I liked Hartford and Boston as a student and there are a few places in Europe I could return to. I don't know. All things being considered and except for a blip a few years ago when it seemed everything went south, life has been good to me. Certainly good lately, murder and mayhem notwithstanding, so…here, I think”

“Was that a compliment? Never mind, I won't press my luck by asking. I posed the question because I can't get your missing girl out of my mind. What do you suppose the answer would be if I were to put the same question to her?”

“God knows. I can't imagine.”

“Neither can I. Okay, here's another one for you. Consider carefully before you answer. If they find the girl and if she is still intact—”

“Intact?”

“Alive and more or less mentally stable, if she is ambulatory and sentient, I guess…I don't know, just work with me here. If she were, would you consider taking her in?”

“Wow, that came from way out in left field. You mean would we, the newly outed married couple whose behavior has already raised eyebrows across the county, would we further our reputation for outlandishness by adopting this parcel of very badly damaged goods?”

“I wouldn't have described it quite that way, but, yes, that is what I mean.”

“Ah, well, there is no easy answer to that. However, for starters, I don't see us, at our present ages…
my
age, then…siring a clutch of children. As much as our parents lust after grandchildren, I suspect it is not in the cards for us, is it?”

Ruth shrugged. “There is no accounting for taste, my dear old Granny used to say. That old saw has nothing whatsoever to do with this situation exactly, but if she were here, that is what she would say. She would mean it as ‘who knows what fate has in store for us?' Stranger things have happened and it is a peculiar world filled with unexpected twists and turns, but, no, you're right, little bundles of joy, the inevitable consequence of carefree lovemaking followed eventually by hours of labor pains, do not loom large on my horizon. Does that disappoint you?”

“No. But, on the other hand, if the stork were to accidently hit our chimney or the cabbage patch, should happen to produce one anyway, that would be grand, too.”

“One of the things that makes you so lovable, if that word can be applied to a hick sheriff, is that you are easy, Schwartz. So, can you answer my question?”

“Sitting here in this amazingly comfortable den provided by the trustees and endowment funds of Callend University, it is not easy to imagine anything I would want to add to my already complicated life.”

“That's a no?”

“Wait. That said, there are times when people need to step up. That girl, should she turn up and, in fact, be eligible for the move you suggest, will have nothing to look forward to except at best a series of foster homes or group homes. Any one of which would be only a marginally safer situation than the one she grew up in. My guess, she'd be on the run again within six months. If we took her in, there would be a slightly better chance she could assemble a life approaching normal.”

“Then it's a yes?”

“As long as you understand that as a meth baby she might have some permanent brain damage. Perhaps not, but in any case she will need years of therapy. Also it is likely that she may not trust us, me certainly, for a long, long time if ever. In the end even our best efforts may end with her running away, having a psychotic break, or attempting and possibly succeeding at committing suicide. If you are okay with that, then it is a yes.”

“Who do we talk to?”

“You are ahead of yourself. First, we find her, then I get on the phone, my father calls in some favors, and we'll see. But first, we have to find the girl.”

“And you have your people looking.”

“I do and, unfortunately, I am afraid so do others.”