Boomtown, p.20
Boomtown, page 20
“Push me, Aunt Delia.”
After exchanging a quick hug with Lillian, I comply. Emmaline’s full of herself today, chattering on about her new boyfriend, Freddy, who lives a couple blocks away. Emmaline met him at a playdate, where he gave her a toy airplane, an F35.
“It’s a stealth fighter,” she solemnly declares.
“And what does ‘stealth’ mean?”
Emmaline gives me one of her now-you’re-cheating looks. “You can’t see it because it goes so fast. That’s what Freddy says. It’s invisible.” Before I can ask any more stupid questions, she starts in on her favorite cartoon characters, the Minions. I tune out, as adults tend to do, but I’m still here, laying my hands on Emmaline’s back, pushing her forward. I need this break, this slice of normal existence to keep the horror in check.
We all need it, all my cop brothers and sisters, and I’ve witnessed rapid post-divorce declines when bar and bottle replaced home and hearth. Maybe, when I think of Danny leaving to start his own life, that’s what I fear. I have Zoe, true, but I’ve never been able to sustain a close relationship, the longest gone after a mere six months.
The burgers come off the grill a few minutes later and the conversation shifts to Danny and Mike while Emmaline stuffs her face. Our kids, our domestic lives, all those personal ties that make it possible for me to do my job. I soak it up, eager as a junkie in need of a fix. Still, I don’t have a lot of time, which is why I’m not upset when Blanche calls from headquarters. We now have a search warrant for the Paradise Inn. I instruct Blanche to assemble a small team, no more than five cops, including her. I want as few people as possible looking over my shoulder.
Blanche and her team are in place when I reach the Paradise. I’m not expecting trouble, but we’re prepared, six armed cops, four in uniform, as we march up to the front door. Only to find the door unlocked and the trailer’s interior empty except for a few odds and ends.
“Stand down for a moment,” I tell my crew as I place a call to the office of our district attorney, Tommy Atkinson. Tommy isn’t available and I have to settle for a line prosecutor named Sheila Giannis.
“If the occupants have moved out, anything left behind is considered abandoned,” she explains. “Similar to trash left at the curb.”
“Our warrant is fairly specific . . .”
“Forget the warrant. Look anywhere you want at anything you want to look at. Abandoned means abandoned. Private property rights no longer apply.”
I order Patrolman Frank Baxter to video the entire trailer, every room, every closet, the interior of every drawer, empty or not. There’s no rush, what with the place empty. Or so I conclude until a Sprague County patrol car turns onto the street. It’s going too fast, and stops too short, to be part of any routine patrol.
The deputy sheriff inside dons his Smokey Bear hat before getting out of the car. A voice of authority in Sprague County, he pulls himself up to his full height and raises his chin so high that he looks at me along the length of his nose. If it wasn’t for the Coke-bottle glasses, I’d be intimidated.
“Before you get started, Deputy, we have a warrant to search the domicile in furtherance of a homicide investigation. I can’t let you go inside.”
Hearing this, the four cops standing outside, come to full alert. This is not lost on the deputy, who still hasn’t introduced himself. Or told me what he wants. Not that I need to hear it from his lips. The simple fact that he showed up being proof enough. Somebody made a call to Sheriff Fletcher. Fletcher dispatched this deputy, with more to come.
Which means I can’t wait. I leave the deputy and my team outside as I plunge into the double wide. I’ve got my phone out, ready to record the location of anything that might contain traces of Bruce Angoleri’s DNA. Maybe a used handkerchief with his initials embroidered in a corner. Not happening, but I do find two rooms once occupied by men. A pair of socks in a corner of the only closet in one of the rooms. A torn shirt, possibly soiled, on the floor of the second. Soiled underwear beneath a bed. Hair in a small comb with broken teeth. As it stands, I’ve secured Charlie’s and Gene Casio’s DNA through a federal database. Neither impregnated Corey Miller. That leaves Bruce.
You only have to get lucky once. I order Frank Baxter to video every inch of the room, but not to recover any evidence. That job I assign to a patrolwoman named Bonnie Lammister. Just in time too. Sheriff Pickford Fletcher arrives only a minute later. He’s too big to slide out of the marked patrol unit. He has to unfold, one limb at a time, but when he rises to his full height, the man is truly imposing, a giant.
Imposing or not, I’m on the phone to Vern before Fletcher saunters up to me, taking his time, his authority preceding him like a shock wave. In rural counties like Sprague, the sheriff is the law. And that goes double for sheriffs like Fletcher, whose family has been prominent for generations. Unfortunately, Vern doesn’t answer his cell phone.
“You are?” he asks, as if he hadn’t met me a couple days ago.
“Captain Mariola.”
He doesn’t respond and I know he expects me to explain myself. Maybe even to apologize. For my part, I want to call him a hillbilly asshole just to see if he’ll reach for his weapon, the six-shooter tucked into its tooled holster. In fact, I don’t say anything, forcing him to speak first. Whatever we’re doing, it’s ongoing, so if he wants it to stop, he can’t wait around.
“May I ask what you’re doing in Sprague County?”
“Executing a search warrant pursuant to a homicide investigation.”
Fletcher likes to intimidate, obviously, and I think he’d be at it now if he had the manpower to back him up. “Let me see it.”
I resist the urge to make him say please. The only items of significance from Fletcher’s point of view are the address to be searched and the judge’s signature. Still, he makes a show of examining the warrant as he considers his position here. He should be aiding the investigation into Corey Miller’s death. That’s not happening, but does he really have the nerve to impede it? Corey’s been all over the local news for days, the same stations, newspapers, and websites that Sprague County residents go to for their news.
The tension dissolves in an instant when a battered Jeep turns onto the street. Basil Ulrich of the Baxter Bugle is behind the wheel. He guides the Jeep to a halt and hops out, followed by a photographer.
Sheriffs are elected, not appointed, and Pickford Fletcher’s a seasoned politician well into his fourth term. His transformation from brooding hulk to affable giant seems effortless, a conditioned reflex. “Well, Basil, how’re you this fine afternoon?”
“Eager for news, Sheriff.” Basil nods to me. “Afternoon, Captain.”
Fletcher jumps in ahead of me. “Had a report of a break-in.” He jerks his chin at the Paradise. “Turns out the Baxter PD’s executin’ a search warrant. Signed by a judge.” Another grin. “Good enough for me.”
Good enough for me as well. Fletcher and his deputy desert the scene. He can’t stop the search, but he’s not prepared to embrace it either. Basil presses me, but I refuse to comment. Ongoing investigation, the usual disclaimer.
“C’mon, Captain, this has to be about Corey Miller. Everybody knows she worked at the Paradise.”
“If everybody knows, Basil, what do you need me for?”
In truth, nobody needs me. Not here, anyway. I leave Blanche to supervise the activity and cross the street to where Maggie and her dad sit in lawn chairs, enjoying the show.
“Afternoon, Captain.”
“Good afternoon, Maggie.” Out of the corner of my eye, I detect movement inside the trailer, a shadow behind a tiny, curtained window. “You have company? Am I interrupting?”
“No, ma’am.”
“That’s good, Maggie, because if I conclude that you’re obstructing my investigation, I’ll put you in a cage. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”
“Now, see, takin’ that attitude? Makin’ enemies? And just when I was goin’ to offer a tidbit sure to advance that investigation.”
I can’t help it. I smile. “Let’s hear the tidbit, Maggie. Please.”
“The ladies who toiled in the Paradise? You drive down to the southern edge of Boomtown and make a left, you’ll find a Quonset hut, pretty good size. The ladies are bein’ held prisoner in that hut.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Word come to me from a member of the community with a conscience.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MAGGIE MILLER
Me and Daddy cool our heels outside, allowing time for events to unfold. My news caught Mariola by surprise, but I’m not deludin’ myself. She won’t cut me any slack, tip be damned. The woman’s a true believer in law and order, that policin’ belongs to the police. There ain’t no room for street justice in her worldview. Guess that’s modern. Guess my own origins are as primitive as city folk take them to be. Hillbilly primitive, family honor primitive. The police are not your friends, not in Redmond Lake. In the back hills of Kentucky, the police belong to whoever holds the power, political and economic. They’re a blunt instrument ready to smash any threat to those powers. The police, the prosecutors, and the judges, all feeding from a trough provided by the politicians.
Sometimes, maybe most of the time, humans base their decisions on educated guesses. Having been a detective, I claim an educational advantage. So, what would I do if faced with the info I fed to Mariola? Women imprisoned? A murder suspect currently missing and likely to be minding those prisoners? I’d hightail it to that Quonset hut is what I’d do. And if I was Charlie and got a call informin’ me that Captain Mariola’s at the front door, I’d surely follow.
Charlie’s on the go an hour after my conversation with Mariola, a black dot traveling east from his girlfriend’s home in Baxter. Three minutes later, the dot slides across the southern boundary of the construction zone. It continues straight onto First Avenue and that Quonset hut. God, how I love bein’ right.
Time to go.
Me and Daddy head inside where Rita Lafayette sits on our love seat watching a reality TV show. The woman’s workin’ something over in her mind, has been since she got here. I can see the wheels. They’re still turning, relentlessly, and I suspect she’s reached a state of near paralysis.
“You got any plans, Rita? Folks who’ll put you up? Maybe someplace far, far away? We can drive you to Sheldon, drop you at the Greyhound.”
“You throwin’ me out?” Rita’s angry and bitter all the time, far as I can make out. Now she’s feelin’ a hundred percent betrayed. I can see it in her eyes.
“Wouldn’t think of it. But me and Daddy are leaving now and I don’t expect we’ll be comin’ back. You can stay here if you want. Rent’s paid through the month. But if I was in your shoes, I’d run for it while I still can. Charlie gets his hands on you, he ain’t gonna be in a forgivin’ mood.” I give it a couple ticks. “And what you brought with you in your handbag? It’s not gonna fill your nose forever.”
A pile driver in the construction zone starts up at that moment, the crash of metal on metal reminding me somehow of the church bells in Redmond Lake. I don’t think Rita’s hearin’ it that way. Her mouth is tight and her eyes are spewin’ rage.
“Don’t know where you come from or what you hope to accomplish,” I finally tell her. “But there’s a loaded Glock in the top drawer of my bureau. I was you, I’d keep it close to hand.”
Early on, me and Daddy found us a hidey-hole up in Oakland Gardens, the devastated neighborhood in the northeastern part of the city. The little house we rented looked ready to give up the ghost, what with the mold on the walls and the buckled floorboards. But neither’s been a problem for us because we’ve kept our distance, the house bein’ more about findin’ that private space when privacy was called for. Which it is now.
We do make one stop before we reach the house, the parking lot of a strip mall. The lot’s fairly crowded and I have to search for a few minutes before pulling into an open space next to a Toyota Highlander with tinted windows.
“You prepared, girl?” Daddy asks we get into the Highlander.
“Yessir, I am. Been prepared since I first saw Corey’s face on the television. What happened to her wasn’t right, and I’m not just talkin’ about her murder. The women who worked at the Paradise are currently bein’ held prisoner. Maybe their lives are sinful, accordin’ to some. But they did nothin’ to merit bein’ enslaved. I don’t believe whining helps, and I’m not expectin’ justice in this world either. Not while there’s men like Bruce and Charlie roaming through it. You have to settle for fightin’ back the little bit you can, for takin’ justice one piece at a time, knowin’ you’ll never get to the bottom of the pile. That new demons are born as fast as the old ones die off.”
Jay-Jay’s in the house when me and Daddy come through the door. He’s sitting on a hard bench, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. The furniture in the room is sparse, to say the least. A scatterin’ of cheap pine chairs, a table that’s propped up in one corner, a lamp with a torn shade, unlit, on the table. The only item still new lookin’ is a mattress on the floor. Bruce Angoleri’s lyin’ on the mattress, his wrists and ankles secured with zip ties. His head jerks up when me and Daddy walk into the house. Maybe he didn’t know Jay-Jay from Santa Claus, but he’s figured it out now.
“He give you a hard time, Jay-Jay?” I gesture to a bleeding wound just behind the ear on the left side of Bruce’s head. As scalp wounds go, this one isn’t as bad as it is scary, at least from Bruce’s point of view. There’s a line of blood that runs along his neck, from the wound to the soaked collar of his shirt.
“He was reluctant at first, Maggie, but we come to an understanding.”
“Listen—” Bruce speaks for the first time, but I’m not ready.
“Later, Bruce. We’ll have plenty of time later.” I turn back to Jay-Jay. “You didn’t gag him.”
“Didn’t wanna chance him chokin’. But when I told him to stay quiet or I’d beat him till he cried, the man chose Plan A.”
I’m feelin’ warm now, warm toward Jay-Jay, who left his wife and two daughters to uphold the family honor. The man never faltered, laboring day after day at the construction site, helping with whatever needed doin’.
“Jay-Jay, words are failin’ me . . .”
“That’s a first.” This from Daddy, standing with his feet apart, starin’ down at Bruce.
“Now, Daddy, I know you’re not one to polish another man’s shoes, but this time you need to back off. Jay-Jay’s a hero in my book and that’s the way we’re gonna tell it when we come home. Jay-Jay, you packed?”
“Packed and the trunk loaded.”
I kiss him on the cheek. “Then go home to Janny and your girls. Go be a father again.”
As I watch Jay-Jay’s Tahoe roll down the block, then turn south toward I-70, I find myself wishing I was finished here. We have what we come for, me and Daddy. We have the man who almost certainly murdered Corey and the baby growin’ inside her.
Still, there’s questions to be answered. Not on Daddy’s part. Quick judgment’s been a way of life for him, maybe startin’ from birth. Heavy hands too. Heavy enough for me and Corey to spend as much time away from his company as possible.
It’s evenin’ now, with the sun just above a row of girders at the construction site a couple blocks away. I’m seein’ this because the houses in between have been demolished. Some long ago, some recently. There’s construction all around us, too, though not on this block. Seems no part of Baxter’s immune from development. The city’s reinventing itself, still not sure of the outcome but movin’ ahead anyway.
Little by little over the next couple hours, the construction sounds die off. The shadows deepen rapidly, this bein’ early May, then disappear as the dark settles in. Standin’ at the window, I can see a few scattered streetlights, but most have been out for a long time. The infrastructure’s in need of a serious upgrade, but development marches on. If Boomtown wasn’t lurkin’ on the border, Baxter would probably be called Boomtown. It has that feel.
I can’t say the waitin’ was comfortable with only those hard-backed chairs to set on, but I’m grateful when the neighborhood grows quiet enough for me to hear a gusty wind as it pushes through the weeds and shrubs around the house. It’s time now, but I’m feelin’ a reluctance. Maybe I’m not as tough as I think I am. Maybe I can’t make myself believe that murder justifies murder.
“Okay, Bruce, let’s get you sittin’ up.”
Between me and Daddy, we drag Bruce off the mattress and prop him up against the front wall, with the window to his right. I need to focus on Bruce and keep watch at the same time.
“You know why you’re here, Bruce?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
He manages a defiant tone, but I’m staring into his large brown eyes and reading deer-in-the-headlights. The defiance part doesn’t bother me in the slightest, it being so common in the initial stage of an interrogation. Only this isn’t an interrogation.
“Me and Daddy are puttin’ you on trial, Bruce.”
“For what?”
“For murderin’ Corey.” He starts to speak, but I shake my head. “This trial, it’s not like trials you get here in America. There ain’t no courtroom, and no judge to keep things honest. No lawyer, neither. This trial, it’s more like you might find in China or Russia. In this trial, you’re guilty until you prove yourself innocent.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
DELIA
Gene Casio’s not happy to see me walk through the door. Or Cade Barrow, for that matter, who I collected along the way. Or two members of Cade’s SWAT team, Howard Castle and Sal Grigorio. They’re in uniform, without the RoboCop SWAT gear, but all three are large men. And no more in love with human trafficking—which should be called slavery—than I am.
