by Deirdre Dore
“What about your mother? She knew what happened.”
Gloria Belle shrugged, her eyes never leaving the bag. “She said she couldn’t find it, either. Said they found Charlie, but not the money. She might’ve lied. I think Jane took it.” She shrugged. “But Jessop would’ve killed her if she suddenly had all this money. Maybe Abraham—” She waved the cigarette, dismissing the idea. “You know I don’t fuckin’ have it, so what’s up?”
He sighed. “You know they found the bodies.”
Gloria Belle’s eyes slid to the side. “I heard.” She shrugged again. “So what’s he going to do?” Her fingers were trembling. George knew why she was afraid. Jessop knew that someone had likely killed his son.
Back in the early ’80s, Charlie, Mark, Robert, and the two women, Gloria Belle and Jane, had been supervisors for Jessop, more or less. They had overseen the cooking of the meth at that factory and the gathering of it from others. They’d also kept girls who were for sale until they could be transported. Jessop had sent various couriers to collect the girls and drugs and deliver the money. He often sent his son to conduct the transfer.
Everything had gone wrong that night in 1986. The two kids had been killed, as had Charlie. George hadn’t known until the next morning, when Belle had called him and explained what had really happened, instead of the version Mark had shared with him. He hadn’t believed Mark exactly anyway; he’d intended to visit the old paper mill himself, but then Gloria Belle had called. She said she’d called him because he’d been Charlie’s friend and because he’d introduced Charlie to Jessop . . . and because she’d known that he could get her drugs, and that he would help her. Summer had disappeared that day, while he had been talking to Jane.
George sighed. “He wants me to find the money. He doesn’t know that Charlie is dead. He thinks you must still talk to him, thinks you must know where he is.”
Gloria Belle laughed roughly. “He was stupid to believe Charlie ran off without me. Charlie wouldn’t have done that.”
George thought she was wrong. Her eyes kept returning to the little bag of white powder. Charlie had been the same. If he’d wanted it bad enough, he would have sold Gloria Belle to Jessop to get it.
George knew Charlie was dead. Knew the money was hidden somewhere. He’d never cared much about the money. There was always more money. Money was easy to find. It was the girl he wanted—the girl in the woods.
“Someone else saw her.”
Gloria Belle’s eyes flickered. “Yeah?”
“They were moving the girls to the new house. One of the men saw a girl in the woods—a blond girl—watching them.”
Gloria Belle was very still. “They’re fucking with you.”
He considered that. She could be right. They didn’t have much respect for him, but he was good with the money. Jessop didn’t want him dead. Jessop wanted to keep him pretty happy.
“I have to find her, Gloria Belle.” He could hear the plea in his voice. He knew he shouldn’t beg. He should be a man. His brother, Abraham, had told him that men don’t beg.
“You told me she was dead,” Gloria Belle said flatly, watching him, her gaze averted slightly so she didn’t look directly at him. “You could see her, and she was dead.”
“I thought she was”—he scratched his cheek, remembering—“but maybe she’s not. I dreamed about her. She’s coming closer. I think I’ll find her soon.”
Gloria Belle’s eyes snapped back to the drugs. “Dreams don’t mean shit.”
He’d sighed. She didn’t know anything about the secret of the woods, probably never had. She’d humored him to keep getting drugs. “I’m sorry, Gloria Belle.”
Something in his tone broke her fierce concentration on the heroin in front of her. “What are you sorry about, Georgie?”
“Jessop wants me to kill you once I’ve found out what you know.”
Gloria Belle didn’t look surprised. She took another drag on her cigarette and nodded. “And you need to kill me because you’re afraid of what I’ll say. Is that right?”
George nodded. He was sorry about it, but he wanted more time to find the girl, and Gloria Belle might tell Jessop that he’d known Charlie was dead all those years ago, had known Mark had lied when he said that Jessop’s son had never arrived.
She pointed at the drugs with the fingers holding the cigarette, white smoke wreathing her face like fog. “Can I have that first?”
He’d followed her gaze to the drugs and nodded. “Sure, Gloria Belle. All you want.”
She’d laughed, and it was her old laugh, and it made him sad. “Thanks, Georgie. You always were a peach.”
George felt tears sting his eyes at the memory. She’d been so beautiful once, so beautiful and now she was dead, waiting by the river for someone to find her. George lifted his binoculars again and looked down at the small graveyard that belonged to the Collinses. He could see his nephew, Brent, standing next to Gloria Belle’s daughter, Raquel. She was beautiful as well, but she couldn’t sing.
He didn’t like that Brent was involved; he didn’t want anything to happen to him. Jessop had already demanded that George find the money and find out what happened to his son, but George didn’t need to do either, didn’t want to do either. The money had been with Charlie but would undoubtedly end up in an evidence locker, and it was clear—to George, at least—that the unidentified bones of the young man they’d found in the millpond belonged to Jessop’s son Nick.
George knew that Jessop would likely want to close down operations in Fate because of this. He’d want to gather all the current supply, any evidence, and remove all witnesses to that night in 1986 and to the current operations.
“Jane.” George shook his head and sighed. He had a plan for Jane. He needed her anyway, to find the girl in the woods, but Jessop would want her dead for what she knew, for what she’d helped to do all these years. He didn’t feel quite as bad about her as he did about Gloria Belle. Jane was hard to like, but she was family, and it was never good to hurt family.
7
RAQUEL HAD TAKEN a week off work to actively search for her mother, but she hadn’t found any sign of her. She’d had to go back to work today, the prosecuting attorney had needed her to testify against one of the creeps they’d arrested a few months ago for trying to solicit sex from a minor in a chat room dedicated to horseback riding, of all things. Tomorrow, Raquel planned to visit Jane; permission had finally come through from Jane’s doctors and the Feds. Apparently Jane’s mental stability had grown even shakier while she was in custody.
Raquel pulled her hair out of the bun she wore while working as she walked through the parking garage toward her bike. She held her helmet and backpack with her uniform in her other hand. She’d stayed and worked her regular shift after court, so it was almost midnight, and the garage was mostly empty.
Her boots echoed in the concrete structure, bringing to mind every horror movie she’d ever seen. She ignored the slight uneasiness and kept walking toward her bike. This was the secured garage for the police officers and support staff.
“Hey,” Brent ventured.
She jerked, automatically swinging the helmet, cursing.
He took a step back and held up his hands. “Sorry.”
“Shit, Brent,” she muttered. “You scared the fuck out of me. What are you doing in here?”
“I know people.”
Raquel’s eyes narrowed a little. “You know cops?”
He shrugged. “I know the chief.”
“Huh. Figures.” He kind of reminded her of Tavey.
He lifted his eyebrows slightly, as if to acknowledge that she had a point.
Raquel didn’t know why she was surprised. He was famous. And charming. And good-looking. Little wonder everyone fell all over themselves to talk to him. She hadn’t seen him in a week and found herself surprised all over again by his effect
on her.
The harsh white lights in the garage cast strong shadows on his face. His slightly hooded brows shaded eyes that were steady on her face. His hair, receding slightly from a high forehead, was mussed, as if he’d been sleeping in his Jeep. He had a big nose and wide, well-shaped lips. He was attractive, not gorgeous, but Raquel remembered touching that mouth with her fingers, remembered tracing it slowly.
She swallowed, sorry for a moment that she couldn’t just indulge in her attraction to him.
“I was worried about you. I got a call from someone who has a lead on Gloria Belle. It might be crap, but I’m supposed to meet him in a half hour. I thought you might want to come with me,” he said.
He thought I might want to come with him. She narrowed her eyes. Understatement. But really she didn’t want him involved at all. It was her fight, not his or anyone else’s. Gloria Belle was her mother, after all; Raquel was responsible for finding her, and she didn’t want anyone else getting hurt in the process.
Still, he was pretty stubborn, and he knew whom they were meeting.
“Who is it?”
He shook his head, smiling a little. “You’ll find out.”
Raquel grimaced. It had been worth a shot. “All right, tell me where we’re going and I’ll follow you there.”
Brent shook his head. “Ride with me.”
“No,” Raquel said simply, and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Damn.” He looked disappointed. “I cleaned the Jeep and everything.”
“Really?” She was incredulous. “That’s what you did today? Cleaned out your Jeep?”
“It’s one thing I did. You told me you wouldn’t ride in it anymore unless it was clean.”
She had. She’d also told him that she wouldn’t sleep with him anymore. She wondered if he’d somehow mixed the two things together. Clean the Jeep = Get Laid. He was a man, after all.
“Where are we meeting?”
“Not far away, a few blocks over at the skating rink.”
“A skating rink.”
“Uh-huh.” Brent rocked back and forth on his heels a little, clearly pleased with himself.
“Fine.” Raquel caved in. He could always bring her back to her bike. She didn’t like parking it on the streets in this part of Atlanta. The station that Major Crimes used was in an older section of town, one that hadn’t yet been gentrified, and the bike called too much attention.
“Great,” he said, magnanimous now that he’d won. “My Jeep’s parked right over here.” He gestured for her to precede him and Raquel reluctantly moved forward. He stepped in sync with her, so that they were walking side by side in the dim, slightly damp air in the parking garage. It had rained earlier, and the air smelled of exhaust and rain, a combination that Raquel always associated with the city.
He was wearing jeans, a plain gray T-shirt, and loafers. She’d changed into a similar outfit, gray jeans, a green shirt, and black motorcycle boots. She’d been planning to put on her leather gear in the garage, but she’d just leave it in her backpack and put it in the back of Brent’s Jeep for now. Either way, they were going to stand out at the skating rink, not just because of their clothes but also because they were older, and strikingly different in height, skin color, and intensity.
When they reached his Jeep, Raquel sighed. It was even rustier and less attractive than it had been before. She walked around to the passenger side, jerking open the door and pulling herself in. He had cleaned it. The crumpled papers, receipts, notepads, and fast-food bags were gone. The smell remained, but that didn’t bother Raquel as much as the clutter had.
She didn’t say anything, just dug a small purse and her badge out of the front pocket. Her gun was in a concealed holster under her shirt.
“Smart.” He nodded to the small wristlet, which held an emergency credit card and a few hundred in cash. She liked to be prepared.
He pulled out of the space with the careless certainty of someone whose car had more dings than the back wall of the shooting range and started down the ramp that led to the exit. There were two exit gates, one for guests and the other for employees. Brent took the one for guests, but the guard at the gate waved them through when he recognized Raquel.
“So what’s the story?” she asked, only a little breathless as he took the turn out of the garage without pausing to look for oncoming traffic. Her Ducati reached ridiculous speeds, but she did that on purpose. She scared herself to prove she wasn’t a coward, that she could handle the high-performance machine. She’d also taken numerous classes, but this was different in any case. She wasn’t in control here—Brent was—and she didn’t care for it.
“So, I talked to all the people you talked to, only I think they actually spoke more than five words to me. I wouldn’t take it personally. I have the benefit of A, not being a cop, and B, being famous.”
“Hmm . . .” Raquel mumbled noncommittally. Half the people he’d talked to probably would have considered shooting him for a dime bag, but he was a grown-up. She couldn’t control what he did, but she could make sure that she didn’t involve him any more than necessary. She could make sure that she didn’t care about him any more than she already did.
The skating rink wasn’t far away, just two blocks down the street and about a half mile on the right. He pulled into a disreputable parking lot with a brick wall spray-painted with various gang signs and greatly enlarged human body parts. A lone yellow light sputtered next to the brick wall, casting sickly shadows beneath the cars.
The skating rink was next door to the parking lot, its faded blue sign proclaiming SKATE RINK. FUN! FUN! FUN! There were more lights highlighting the sign; only one of them was burnt out.
“Fun, fun, fun,” Raquel repeated under her breath and surreptitiously felt for her gun under her shirt with the side of her arm. She and Brent exited the Jeep and approached the front of the building. Brent was carrying a black camera bag over his left shoulder, his stride loose and casual.
As they came around the corner, she could see a green cloth awning above the entrance that had seen better days. There were gaping holes in the covering, and the rain earlier had soaked the fabric and made it sag in between the metal supports. An outdoor spotlight blazed down on it, casting everyone below in darkness while puffy clouds of smoke drifted out from under it and through the holes; Raquel thought some of it might actually be from cigarettes.
Brent took her hand, and Raquel glanced at him. Her instinct was to remove her hand from his grip, but she was aware of the looks that were already being directed their way. She couldn’t see their eyes, but she felt them on her, and they were not particularly friendly. Whatever his play was, she’d support it for the moment. She didn’t have any idea what he’d told his contact, maybe he’d said she was his girlfriend. His hand was warm and calloused, like he did outdoor work. She’d noticed it before and wondered what he did to get hands like that. She wouldn’t have thought that a documentary filmmaker did anything that would earn him those kinds of calluses.
They drew closer to the awning, and Raquel could now make out individual bodies, the shape of someone’s head, a flash of gold teeth, and shiny jewelry. Raquel wished she’d put on some lipstick.
“Hey, man,” one stellar young gentleman called, “that’s some shawty you got there. Whaddya say we share?”
“Dude, shut the fuck up,” said another kid. “You don’ know what to do with dat.”
“I don’t see what’s so special.” A woman’s voice. Raquel could see crossed arms over a massive chest.
“She looks familiar, man. We know her?” Another voice, this one farther back and gravelly, like he’d scraped it off the river bottom.
Brent smiled at them all as if he didn’t have a damn care in the world. Raquel found herself half believing that smile herself, even though she thought he was an idiot.
“Hey, guys,” Brent greeted them
. “This is Raquel, my producer. We’re filming a documentary about the resurgence in popularity of roller rinks in the U.S. thanks in part to stars like Beyoncé using them in videos. I thought this rink would make an excellent setting for the documentary. I’m meeting someone inside, but if any of you are interested . . .” He trailed off.
It took everything Raquel had not to stare at him in astonishment. What the hell?
“You making a movie?” one skinny Latina girl asked, her skepticism evident in the lift of one plucked brow.
“Sort of,” Brent said. “I’m here to talk to Bean about it.”
There was a general murmuring in response to that statement; clearly Bean was someone important.
“Well, shit, man, why didn’t you say so?” A skinny kid with a buzz cut, light golden brown skin, and a plethora of tattoos walked toward the two of them. He held out his hand for Brent to shake.
“Sorry, man, Bean said you were coming. I just thought, you know, you’d be little or skinny or somethin’, like Woody Allen, and I wasn’t expecting there to be a girl wit you.”
“That’s cool.” Brent shrugged, shaking the kid’s hand. “I’m Brent Burns.”
“Tristan.” The kid cast his eyes over to Raquel, taking in her pretty face, the delicate stature, the don’t-fuck-with-me glare.
He seemed surprised, like he’d just realized something.
He jerked his head in the direction of the rink. “Come on, man, Bean’s this way.”
Brent and Raquel followed him, and the small crowd under the awning parted, allowing them through.
The steady beat from the music hit Raquel first; it mixed with the smell of smoke and flashing lights, and the colorful blur of bodies moving in endless circles in the rink that dominated the center of the room. There were bells, whistles, and the steady thrum of wheels in constant motion.
The kid led them through the crowd, which stared at Brent and Raquel as if they’d come from a different planet, each person hitting the one next to them to get their attention. Raquel ignored the stares, letting Brent pull her along past the skate rental counter and into a kind of café, where an older black gentleman with white hair and suspenders seemed to hold court, sitting in an orange plastic chair and holding a cane.
