Milk and Honey (28 page)

“I could start now, if you want,” Decker said.

“Schmuck,” she said. “Never could take a compliment.”

She hung up the phone.

Give it a rest
. Linda Darcy’s doctor had told her the same thing. Was that relevant to anything? If she had been anything like Jan, the need to have a child would have overpowered her, her husband, and their marriage.

He reentered the squad room, picked up the envelope from Manfred that was lying on his desk.

Marge stared at him and said, “Ex give you a rough time?”

“No,” Decker said.

“I’ll bet,” Marge said. “What did you ask Manfred for?”

“Information file on the Darcy land.” Decker took off his coat, slung it over his desk chair, and ripped open the glued-down flap. “Of course, I’m sure they deleted all the relevant
facts and figures…but you never know what they might have left behind accidentally.”

“What’d you find out from Mister Mechanic Jim Grains?”

Decker sat down and put his feet up. “He and Linda were definitely screwing.”

“What’s he like?” Marge asked.

“Nothing to write home about. Scared of his wife, just your average stiff. I punched him in the computer this morning, brought up his ten-forty and five-forty for last year. He’s forty-two, and netted $34,862.38. Livable for his large family, but
no
room for leftover.”

“So Linda wasn’t after his money,” Marge said.

“It doesn’t seem so.” Decker sipped cold morning coffee he’d left on his desk and scanned the Darcy papers for ten minutes. When he was done, he said, “Creighton Donaldson was consistent. Manfred had appraised the Darcy land at four hundred eighty-four thou, seven hundred for one hundred acres used for livestock grazing and bee farming.”

“And?” Marge asked.

“And…that’s all she wrote.” Decker closed the file. “But reading
between
the lines, I’d say that maybe Manfred intended to use the land for things other than livestock and bee acreage.”

“Such as?” Hollander asked.

“Developments?” Marge said.

“Oil and minerals,” Decker said. “The file mentions several geologic evaluations done in conjunction with Eagle Petroleum with reference numbers and everything. But it neglects to include any of those evaluations. I’m going to have to ask old Creighton about that.”

“Thar’s oil in them thar hills,” Marge said.

“I don’t know if there’s oil, but I have a hunch someone was doing some digging,” Decker said.

“So what does that and the price of eggs have to do with the crime scene at the Darcy farm?” Hollander asked.

“Maybe nothing,” Decker said. “But maybe Linda was pressing Luke to sell because the bucks suddenly swelled to mammoth proportions.”

“Maybe someone felt she was pressing him a little too hard,” Marge said.

Decker shrugged.

Marge said, “I called Sue Beth Litton, asked her about Katie. She didn’t take the kid in to see the shrink.”

“Big surprise,” Decker said. “They think that kind of stuff is voodoo.”

“But it wasn’t a total loss,” Marge said. “I arranged to interview her parents. They’re back at the honey farm, trying to pick up the pieces. She was not happy about it. Said her parents had already been grilled by Ozzie Crandal and the Fall Springs crew. Pappy and Granny D had gone through enough. But I persisted. We’ve set something up day after tomorrow. Sue Beth says Granny’s still a wreck. But her father will probably talk to us.”

“You know, Margie, I’ve been thinking a lot about those two. I reread Crandal’s initial interview with them, thought about what he said. Then I went over your notes….”

“Yeah?”

“When you questioned Sue Beth Litton about her family being at the convention before she was, you marked a pause by her response.”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“Why?”

“Without looking, I think I asked Sue Beth if she was sure they arrived before she did,” Marge said. “And she hesitated and said she was sure.”

Decker said, “Everyone I talked to at the beekeepers’ convention remembers seeing Pappy D before the Littons showed up,” Decker said. “But no one mentioned Granny D or Earl.”

Marge thought a moment. “That’s consistent with what
Sue Beth said. She saw her dad but didn’t mention her mom or brother.”

“Maybe that’s why she paused when you asked if the whole family was up there when she arrived.”

“Pretty sharp, Sergeant,” Marge said.

“Only Crandal’s notes say that Pappy, Granny, and Earl came up at the same time. I don’t know if he assumed it or they actually claimed to come up at the same time.”

Marge said, “I’ll call up Sue Beth and check it out. She may tell me that she meant her whole family, but I’ll listen for a hinky tone of voice.”

“You’re good at hinky tones,” Decker said.

Hollander said to Decker, “You make a profile on all the guys Linda was balling? See if they have anything in common?”

“I did,” Decker said. “They don’t.”

“Give it to me,” Hollander said.

“Why not?” Decker tugged the Darcy file out of his drawer, pulled out the profile sheet, made a paper airplane out of it, and flew it to Hollander. “There’re only three on the ‘for sure’ list—Byron Howard, Rolland Mason, and now this Jim Grains. Creighton Donaldson is a maybe. I don’t have any proof on him.”

Marge said to Decker, “I’ve been going over your interview with Linda’s OB-GYN.”

“And?”

“Is it possible that Linda and Byron had an ongoing affair and Katie is Byron’s daughter?”

“I don’t think she’s Byron’s, but I don’t think she’s Luke’s, either,” Decker said. “I think Linda’s affair with Byron was discovered and
stopped
by Darlene before Linda could have become pregnant by him.”

“So we’ve got a missing link somewhere,” Marge said.

“Well, I don’t know who the link is,” Hollander said. “But I’ll tell you something about him.”

“What’s that?” Decker asked.

“He’s got a lot of kids,” Hollander said.

Decker and Marge looked at each other.

Hollander said, “Rolland had five, Byron has five, Grains has six—”

“Oh Christ, talk about being right in front of my face!” Decker was disgusted with himself. “Of course! Linda stopped artificial insemination four years ago. Too much pain, too much cost…She never gave up! She was trying to impregnate herself using men with good track records!”

“It worked,” Hollander said.

“You did good, Mike,” Decker said. “I screwed up, but you did real good.”

“Aw shucks,” Hollander said. “Want to show your appreciation? Find out if your lady has a cousin.”

“What about Donaldson?” Marge asked Hollander. “How many little buggers does he have?”

“Not written in his profile,” Hollander said. “You’re slipping, Pete.”

Decker said, “I don’t know for certain, but I remember several pictures of two little girls sitting on Donaldson’s desk.”

“Linda didn’t screw him,” Hollander said, matter-of-factly. “The dude hadn’t proved fertile enough.”

Decker was about to retort, but was interrupted by a flash in his gray matter. He bolted up and grabbed his coat.

“Where’re you off to, Sherlock?” Marge asked.

“Off to find the missing link,” Decker said.

He made it back to the Manfred development in a record seven minutes, jumping a few lights in the process. His overworked adrenals had caused him to break into a sweat, and his shirt needed a wringing by the time he reached Patty Bingham’s house. When she answered the door, Decker didn’t bother with the niceties. He said, “Where’s your husband?”

Patty said, “He’s not home.”

Decker entered the house, paying no attention to Patty’s high-pitched protests. The place was the same—a pigsty. The TV was blaring, laundry was scattered on the couch, a radio talk-show psychologist was blasting words of wisdom from the kitchen, kids were in various stages of dress. The boy was in his swimming trunks, one of the older girls was in shorts and tank top, the baby sat on the carpet, naked, examining herself.

Patty had on a bikini bra and a pair of cutoffs. Her skin had darkened to a bronze glow, but her nose was red and peeling. Her feet were bare, her toenails were long and sharp and painted bright red. They looked like bloody nail files.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, barging in like that?” Patty placed a hand on her hip and regarded his face. “The name was Decker, wasn’t it?”

Decker nodded. “I need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Bingham.”

“He’s working.”

“Find him for me.”

“He’s an electrician,” Patty said. “He’s out on jobs. What do you want with him? What’s he done?”

“Call his office and have them page him on his beeper,” Decker said.

“Mind telling me what this is all about?” Patty asked.

“The same thing I came here for last time. It’s about a lost little girl. Only now I know her name. It’s Katie Darcy. Name Darcy ring a bell?”

Decker saw it all in Patty’s eyes. Her face crumbled, her lower lip began to tremble. Her eyes turned ugly. She turned to the kids and screamed at them to leave the room. They obeyed without question except for the baby, who began to cry. Patty swooped her up in her arms and comforted her with soft words and a kiss. It took Patty a moment to find her voice. When she did, it came out a whisper.

“Bastard knocked us both up at the same time. Otherwise, I would have left him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this the first time I came here?”

“Why should I have?” Patty fired back. “
I
never seen the other kid. Didn’t know for sure it was her. I never
wanted
to see her.”

“But you knew when I showed you the picture.”

“She had
my
baby’s eyes.
His
eyes, the prick.” She faced Decker, hate oozing from every pore. “So now you come over here and mess everything all up.” She began to cry. “Make me suffer it all over again. Why, if you found out who the kid was…why in the hell did you come back here? To torture me?”

“Linda Darcy is dead,” Decker said.

That snapped her out of her self-pity. “Dead?” Patty sank onto the couch. She sat there for a minute, then eventually said, “Jesus, you don’t know how many times I wished her dead. God, do I feel weird.”

“You ever act on your wish?” Decker asked.

“Oh God, no,” Patty insisted. “No, no,
no
!”

Decker said nothing.

“God, I don’t know a thing about this Linda Darcy, other than the fact that my husband had screwed her. I’d never even seen her ’cept in a pitchure. A pitchure my husband kept in his wallet, till I made him rip it up.”

Decker said, “I need to talk to your husband.”

“No, Sergeant.” Patty Bingham was crying again. “No, you got it all wrong if you think Cliff had something to do with it. Cliff makes mistakes, he’s not perfect. But he’d never, ever do something like…”

“Like what?”

“Like
murder
!” Patty shrieked. “Why? What for? He loved her, for godsake! The affair ended three years ago. As soon as she got knocked up.
She
was the one who broke it off. Said she didn’t need him anymore. Cliff told me all about it six months later, cried on my shoulder, can you
imagine such nerve? I was six months pregnant with this son of a bitch’s kid, and he was bawling in his soup that his whore mistress didn’t love him no more. Then he told me she was carrying his child.” Patti wiped tears from her eyes. “I threw up all over him.”

“What made him think it was his kid?”

“I don’t know. I guess she told him it was his,” Patti said. “I always thought that maybe she was lying until I saw that pitchure of that little kid. My gut knew who she was.”

“I still need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Bingham.”

Patty stared at Decker, a strange expression on her face. “You do that,” she said. “You do that and tell him something else for me. Tell the bastard I’m out of here. Tell him I shipped his kids back to his ex, and I’ve gone back to Mama in Dallas. Tell the bastard I’ve
had
it up to here with him.” She made a slash across her forehead. “I’ve had all that I could take. And I want no more part of it or him!”

Decker found a piece of scrap paper and a pen. He offered it to Patty and said, “Why don’t you tell him yourself.”

Patty pushed her hair out of her eyes and took the paper and pen. She sat the baby back on the floor and said, “Good idea. I’ll do just that right this minute!”

Decker said, “You have your husband’s work number?”

“Take one of his business cards,” Patty said as she scribbled. “On the counter.”

Decker pocketed the card and said, “Maybe I’ll call him from the station.”

“Whatever…” Patty paused a moment, then began her furious scrawling once again. “Whatever you want!” She punctuated the end of a sentence and broke through the paper with the pen point.

“Bye,” Decker said.

Patty was on her second piece of paper. She didn’t hear him leave.

The warrant had
become wet with sweat. Marge dried her palm on her polyester-cotton pants and waited in the driver’s seat of the unmarked for the positions to come over the TAC frequency. Charlie Benko occupied the passenger’s seat, outwardly calm, but he kept shaking his leg up and down, the thing that teenage boys do when they’re nervous or horny. Benko looked at her, gave her a thumbs-up sign, and Marge managed a tepid smile in return.

The block was dark and quiet. The house where Douglas Miller aka Rusty Duralt lived was texture-coat blue with white shutters, its front yard an unadorned square of straw-colored grass. A row of flowerless rosebushes had been planted in a side patch of dirt, an open trench for sprinklers bisecting the plot. A lone porch lamp cast a yellow circle on the cracked cement walkway. The shades in front and back were still drawn. Dawn was another thirty minutes away.

Everything taut, yet seemed to be going smoothly. Marge hoped it would remain that way. She’d obtained the arrest and search warrants at eleven-thirty last night, but Miller had been out for the evening. With a jumbo Thermos of coffee, she did her own stakeout, spotting Miller returning at three-thirty, soused to the gills. Rather than make the bust
right there, taking a chance of him decking her or bolting, she called in for backup.

Marge remembered Duralt as having put up quite a fight that day in Booking, swinging his fists at whatever got in his way. Of course, he’d been really pickled that day. Then again, he might be nursing last night’s hangover, no telling what kind of mood that would put him in. If he ran, the back and side doors and windows needed to be covered. If he should try to duke it out, she’d need plenty of men to control him fast.

And someone to get the kid.

“We gonna do something soon?” Benko finally asked her.

“Just waiting until we’re sure everyone is in position,” Marge answered.

“You know, Dotty wanted to come up to the door with us—”

“No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told her. Doug’s violent as hell, who knows what the sunnabitch may try? But she really wanted to do it. She wanted to spit in his face.”

“Well, she’ll just have to control herself,” Marge said.

“You’re sure he’s in there?” Benko said.

“Positive,” Marge said. “And so is Heather—you told Dotty they’ve renamed her Laurie, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“The kids are the problem,” Marge said. “We don’t want him doing something crazy with either Heather or the baby—”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t just grab the kid when you saw it was her,” Benko said. “That’s what the sunnabitch did. Just grabbed the kid. You should have just grabbed her back.”

“Mr. Benko—”

“I know, I know.” Benko waved her off. “System doesn’t work that way. You need papers, you need warrants, you need some asshole judge telling you, yeah, it’s okay to do to
the sunnabitch what the sunnabitch did to you.
You
couldn’t have done it. But
I
could have. You should have called me as soon as you found out.”

“I thought about that, Mr. Benko—”

“Charlie.”

“I thought about it, Charlie, but I wanted to do this the right way, the legal way.”

“You wanted a bust.”

“That’s a really low thing to say,” Marge snapped.

Benko looked contrite. “Yeah, you’re right. Guess I’m a little nervous for Dotty and all.” He let out a jittery laugh. “Good scam you worked out, huh? Diapers for sale. I’m gonna use that.”

Marge said, “Be my guest.”

A crackling voice came through the police radio.

“What’d he say?” Benko asked.

“Shhh,” Marge said. A moment later, she looked at Benko. “We’re ready to roll.”

“Finally.”

“Sure you want to do this with me?” Marge said.

“Hell, I wanted to do this without you.” Benko stuck out his hand. “Nice goin’, Detective.”

“Thanks.” Marge shook his hand, pulled on the door handle, and pushed out the door. “Let’s do it.”

The two of them started up the pathway to the front door, their footsteps loud in the still of the night. The sky was charcoal dust, lightening to ash gray at the eastern horizon. Marge felt her heart race, glanced over at Benko. His face was slack and serious. She checked her watch. Five thirty-five.

They reached the front door. Marge knocked loudly. The Gestapo knock, she called it. They both stood at the side of the door frame, neither one expecting shooting, but neither one wanting to be taken by surprise.

No response.

“You
sure
he’s in there?” Benko asked.

“Saw him go in myself.”

“He could have slipped out the back if you was only watching the front.”

“Could have,” Marge admitted. “But I don’t think so. More likely he’s just sleeping soundly.” She only had to knock one more time before she heard the rustle of activity inside.

“Someone’s home,” Benko whispered.

“Yeah?” a deep, husky voice asked from the other side.

“Police, Mr. Duralt!” Marge shouted. “Open up.”

No response, then the scuffling of footsteps.

“God, he’s gonna be a schmuck about it!” Marge swore.

“Let’s break it down!” Benko said, getting ready to charge.

“Wait a second!” Marge held his arm, radioed the situation, then took a credit card and caught the lock. The door opened. Benko stared at her.

Marge said, “Sometimes the easy way works. Cover me.”

The living room was dark and quiet.

“Where did the sunnabitch go?” Benko asked.

“We’ve got to get to the kids.” Marge radioed in for backup through the front door, then said, “I’m going down the hallway, Charlie. You stay on my ass.”

“Got it.”

The center hallway was pitch-black. Marge groped the side of the wall for the light switch, found it, and flipped it up. She counted five closed doors that fed off the passageway.

She opened the first, found the light. A thousand Marges stared back at her. A mirrored room. In the center was Nautilus equipment, a weight rack filled with barbells and dumbbells and an Exercycle. She pushed back a sliding mirrored closet door. It was filled with sports paraphernalia—basketballs, handballs, rackets, fishing rods, baseball mitts, and bats.

No Duralt!

She closed the door to the room, then cocked her head in the direction of the next door.

A tiny bathroom illuminated by a night-light. She popped the main switch. The shadowed grays turned into blue foil wallpaper. The sudden whoosh of a ventilator fan. Empty.

On to the next door. When she turned on the lights this time, she saw a hump under the covers on a double mattress atop bare box springs. Marge looked at Benko, then walked over to the covers and pulled them back. The woman was huddled in a fetal position, wearing a pink shortie nightgown. Her dark hair was tied up, her skin riddled with goose bumps. Marge recognized her as Bonnie Duralt, the same woman she’d pulled the Pampers scam on.

Marge said, “Where is he, Mrs. Duralt?”

She answered, “He’s not here.”

“Where’d he go?” Marge fired back.

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon, lady, do better than that!” Benko yelled at her.

“I swear it!” Bonnie pleaded. “He just said, ‘I gotta get out of here, Bonnie.’”

Marge felt her stomach churn. “He have a weapon on him?”

For the first time, Bonnie looked up. “You’re the
Pampers
lady!”

“Well, now I’m a police detective, so answer my questions!” Marge ordered. “Does your husband have a gun, Bonnie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cut the bullshit, Bonnie,” Marge said. “Now, try again. Does your husband have a gun?”

Bonnie was shivering now. “He keeps one under the pillow.”

Benko’s hand went under the pillow. “It’s not here.”

Bonnie squeezed herself into a tighter ball, tears streaming down her cheeks. Two uniforms came into the bed
room—one was a Hispanic named Ramirez, the other a blond named Sutton.

Marge asked them, “Somebody guarding all the doors?”

“Yessir, ma’am, Detective,” answered Sutton.

“Then the suspect has to be somewhere in the house. Consider him armed and dangerous.” Marge focused in on Bonnie. “Get up, Bonnie. We’re going to go get the girls.”

“The baby’s mine!” she cried out.

“I know,” Marge said. “But we need the kids and you out of here—safe.”

Bonnie blurted out, “It’s his little girl, ya know.”

“Not no more, lady,” Benko snapped. He hoisted Bonnie up by her arm. “Let’s go.”

Marge gave him a “Cool the rough stuff” look, and followed Bonnie to the girls’ room. It had been done in blocks-and-teddy-bear wallpaper—a homemade job, since the seams weren’t aligned. The windows were draped with pink gingham curtains. Against the wall were two cribs, between them a white nightstand with a Humpty-Dumpty night-light. Marge peered inside the cribs. The children were sleeping undisturbed. At least Miller had the good sense to keep them out of it—for the time being. The baby was on her stomach, nose squashed against the crib’s mattress. Heather was on her back, her face red with sleep, soft wisps of hair framing her face.

Up close, she looked quite different from Katie Darcy, her features more refined, a little older. Marge told Bonnie to take her baby, and Marge handed Heather over to Sutton. The child opened her eyes, looked at the patrolman, then slumped on his shoulder and went back to sleep. The baby continued sleeping in her mother’s arms.

Marge said, “Ramirez, you, Benko, and I will cover the others until everyone’s out of the house and into the car. Suspect may be watching, and we don’t want any shots fired while we’ve got the kids in our hands.”

“Got it,” Ramirez said.

“Move with caution,” Marge reiterated. “Apprehending the suspect isn’t as important as the kids.” She turned to Bonnie and said, “Don’t try anything stupid with the baby in your arms, Bonnie. You’re in enough trouble as is.”

Bonnie didn’t answer, but the frightened look in her eyes told Marge that she’d cooperate. Ramirez went first through the hallway, covered it from the front end. Marge and Benko stood at the threshold of the kids’ room and covered the passageway from the back.

As soon as the children were out of the hallway, they were quickly escorted out of the house and into waiting patrol cars. Sighing with relief when the children were out of the way, Marge figured out her next move.

Miller hadn’t been caught leaving the house. He must be hiding somewhere inside the dwelling.

Hiding somewhere.

Anywhere.

With a gun.

Marge told Benko to check the other rooms off the hallway, Ramirez to take the living and dining room, she’d take the kitchen and service porch.

The kitchen was compact, crowded. The countertops done in some sort of cheap terra-cotta tile, the grout cracked and grimy. An unopened jar of peanut butter, a dirty knife, and a trail of crumbs decorated the left side of the counter; the right side held three empty beer bottles. The sink was filled with dishes sitting in six inches of milky water. Above the sink was a greenhouse window, its shelves holding a half-dozen wilting plants. Behind her were the oven, the microwave, and the cooktop. Marge opened all the cabinets, the door to a walk-in pantry, and—just to be sure—the oven door.

Empty.

She went on to the laundry room right off of the kitchen. The washer and dryer were empty. She stood to the side and opened the broom closet.

Nothing.

But only for a moment.

In the abstract, she saw it all, the iron arcing down on her head. But it happened so fast, all she could do was ward off some of the impact and swear. She felt its weight crash into her forehead several times, felt herself go dizzy. A gush of blood streamed into her eyes.

“Shithead!” she screamed. She saw him race through the back door, heard the popping sound of gunshot. She staggered over to the back door, felt cool air fill her nostrils, but knew she was losing it. A moment later, Benko was helping her down.

“Chrissakes!” he was yelling. “Stay put, Detective.”

“Did they get him?” Marge cried out.

“Got away,” an officer told her. “He fired shots, Detective. They’re after him—”

“Get him, Charlie!” Marge was sobbing, holding her palms against her head. Blood was oozing from her fingers, seeping out of her hands. “Get the fucker!”

“Just as soon as help—”

“Go
get
the fucker!” Marge demanded through tears. The pain was searing through her head. “Now!”

Benko ran outside.

Officers on foot scouring the block. Above came the crackle of helicopter blades—a giant flashlight from above. Dawn was adding color to the pepper-tinted sky. People were milling outside their houses, covering pajama-clad bodies with worn terry-cloth bathrobes, feet stuffed into slippers. Unshaven men with messy hair looked confused, the women gossiped. The approaching
wheeeee
of an ambulance cut through the early morning air as shrilly as an alarm clock.

Benko scratched his head and wondered in what direction Miller had taken off.

“Sunnabitch,” he heard himself mutter.

A shriek came from his right. The front yard of the house
next door. “Over here!” yelled one of the officers.

Benko charged in that direction. “Where?” he asked.

“In the bushes,” the officer said. He had his weapon drawn, but stood at a safe distance. “I thought I saw something move in the Eugenias.”

“Careful, he’s got a gun,” Benko said.

“I know that,” the uniformed officer said. His name tag said Van Horn.

Benko took a step forward, a big enough step to feel the wind of a bullet whiz by his temple. He hit the ground and swore. “It’s over, Miller!” he shouted.

“The fuck you think!” a gravelly voice shouted back.

“Charlie!” screamed a feminine voice. “Charlie, are you okay?”

Benko picked his head up, saw the outline run toward him.

“Dotty, get the fuck down!” he hollered. “He’s hidden in the bushes, and he’s got a gun.”

“You asshole!” Dotty stood, shrieking at the bushes.

Another pop of the revolver.

Benko cursed as he crawled toward her, tried to yank her down, but she pulled away.