by Alan Lee
Georgina growled.
The man jerked his head again. “Aight,” he said.
He moved down the hallway, glancing into other offices—two accountants and a travel agent. We heard his heavy boots on the stairs, trudging to the third floor. Nothing up there but locked doors. By the sound, he tried them. Forcefully. Came down the stairs again. Slowly walked the halls. Stopped in my doorway again. Thought more about coming in.
Georgina growled again.
And something in my face said I was more dangerous than the dog.
I said, “What’s your name? I see a girl running around, I’ll tell her her brother’s looking.”
He didn’t reply. Instead he said a very inappropriate word, went down the steps, and the door banged a third time. I walked across my office to verify his departure.
I looked at the girl. She looked back. “All clear.”
She nodded. Looked like someone who just won a battle but fought in a hopeless and pyrrhic war.
“Sit. Any friend of Miss Veronica is a friend of mine,” I said.
“Thanks, mister. I should go.”
“Just a few minutes. I need you to pet my dog.”
“Yeah, okay, I can do that. Sure.” She sat on the chair and held her hand out. She wore three rings and chipped red nail polish. Georgina Princess consented to be petted. With abandon. “I like your dog, mister. What’s it’s name?”
“Georgina.”
She smiled. “Good girl, Georgina. You got a rich person’s name, don’t you. Good girl.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“That guy? He’s so stupid. That’s Elton. Elton the felon.”
“He’s supposed to be protecting you. He protects you and you two split the profits.”
Her mouth pressed into a grim line. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. Miss Veronica said you’re like a cop but not really. Said you don’t try to fuck nobody.”
“Might get that etched into my door. Good slogan. Why’s Elton the felon mad at you?”
“Supposed to be working but I’m not,” she said. She used both hands to scratch Georgina on the rump. “He wants money anyway. How’m I supposed to give him money if I’m not working? Stupid Elton.”
“Who does Elton report to?”
“I don’t know, mister. Nobody, maybe.”
This was the problem Ronnie mentioned—no one looked after the girls. Parts of our society remained in the Dark Ages. The cold little human sitting on my chair, that was Ronnie’s passion; a girl with a broken childhood, a girl trying to make ends meet the only way she knew how, and getting beaten up for it.
I read once that Jesus said, ‘The poor you will always have with you.’ I bet he would’ve said the same thing about prostitutes. Couldn’t solve that problem. Ronnie knew that. But she wanted to protect them as best she could.
I slid my card across the desk, along with a twenty. “Go eat. Go sleep. Call Miss Veronica or me if Elton hurts you.”
She glared glumly at the money. “Why’re you giving me that?”
“I’m sweet on Miss Veronica. And she likes you.”
“You two screwing?”
“Exclusively.”
“Shit, I didn’t know that.” She stood and took the money and the card. “You’re really big, mister. But Elton is mean.”
“I can be meaner,” I said. “If Miss Veronica asks me to.”
I had two months of office work glaring hatefully on my desk. So I spent the rest of the day sending invoices, paying bills dated in November, making phone calls, answering emails. And, because it was torture, drinking Johnnie Blue.
Georgina did not think my lifestyle compelling.
We went home at three. The sun was out, heating the earth to a balmy fifty degrees, so I put a leash on Georgina and decided to walk to Roxanne’s. Waste not, want not, and that included vitamin D.
We lived on a corner lot and hidden just behind a row of boxwoods was a gigantic army personnel carrier, parked half on the street and half on my lawn. It was yellow and capable of carrying at least sixteen…
Ah, it was Gordon Gibbs in his H2. The vacuous husband of Colleen, ex-wife of Ulysses.
He saw me. I saw him. He saw me seeing him. He glowered. It was titillating.
He got out and slammed the Hummer door. Rolled his shoulders forward and puffed up to make himself bigger, like a puffer fish. He didn’t need to puff up—the guy was humongous. Dressed head to toe in Nike, including a headband.
A headband! Wow.
“That’s my dog,” said Gordon Gibbs.
Georgina watched him curiously, wondering why a man his size and age wore short shorts.
“This dog? Yours? The heck you say.”
“I knew you’d find it.”
“Her. Who on earth would ever call a dog it?”
“Whatever, Mack. I knew you’d steal it and I knew if I came by a couple times I’d see you walking it.”
“Her.”
He rolled his eyes. “The dog belongs to me.”
“Tell me her name and she’s yours.”
“What?”
“Not repeating it. Do your best,” I said.
“I don’t know it’s name. Who cares?”
“She does, you heartless monster with tiny calves.”
His eyebrows inched upwards. “Tiny? I got more muscles in my calves than—”
“Look at them. So little.”
“Calves are mostly genetic, asshole.”
“Bad genes then? That’s a shame,” I said. “Surprised you don’t fall over more.”
“Give me the dog.”
“Negative, chicken legs.”
He pulled out his phone. “The dog’s legally mine. You think I won’t call the police? They’ll throw your ass in jail so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“Nope. None of that’s accurate. Nothing in those three sentences is true. Call the police. You do, I’ll give you ten bucks.”
“I will.”
I nodded encouragingly. “I got time.”
He didn’t.
His bluff was called.
His momentum stalled.
His complexion darkened.
I almost felt bad for him.
I said, “I’m curious. What would you do with the dog? Shake her until a million dollars fell out? Twist her like a Rubik’s cube and when the pieces align a hidden door will pop open?”
“I don’t know but I’ll figure it out. If that asshole doctor wants it so bad, then the dog’s worth something. Give it here.”
“No.”
“Fine. I’ll take it from you,” he said.
“With those legs? Hah.”
“I can dead lift five hundred pounds, Mack. I do calf raises with—”
“Gordon, shut uuuup. I don’t care. Your poor wife.”
He stepped closer. He was bigger than me. Except for the calves. “I’ll take it.”
“Her. Go ahead.”
He reached for the leash and I slapped his hand. He grunted and shoved me, but I rotated enough so he mostly missed and he staggered off balance.
“What are you doing, Gordon? Is this foreplay?”
He snatched the leash halfway down and said, “Hah. Got it. You’re toast.”
Georgina growled.
I smacked him. Open handed, across the face. My hand is large and strong and I caught him good, not a passing swipe but enough to raise a welt. Enough to hurt my hand. If his head was a bell, the sound would be heard for blocks. He let go and stumbled backwards. It stung. It stung a lot. His eyes watered.
“Are you worried the neighbors are watching and think you uncoordinated and clumsy? I would be,” I said.
“You’re messing with the wrong guy, Mack.” Looked like he couldn’t see straight.
“Thus far, evidence suggests you should be giving yourself this pep talk.”
“I work out for a living. You think you’ll win this fight?” He didn’t want to be crying but he was. Sometimes you can’t help the tears. Hard to c
ome back from that, as a tough guy.
“I do. So does the hand print on your face.”
“I don’t want to kick your ass in public.” He turned for the Hummer. Stumbled a little. “This isn’t over. You gotta deal with me, asshole.”
“Come back with new invectives, chicken legs. I’m tired of that one.”
His Hummer roared and trundled away, picking up speed like a school bus.
Georgina and I considered one another.
“What makes you so valuable?”
I just am.
Chapter 17
The next day.
The world endured.
I sat in my office. Georgina at the heating radiator.
I surfed the internet for Ulysses Steinbeck and found the accident three years ago, written up in the Roanoke Times. He’d been coming down Bent Mountain, reached the bottom—thankfully; otherwise he’d be dead—and careened off the road. The car plummeted less than ten feet; had he gone off at the top, he would’ve plummeted hundreds. He was hospitalized in critical condition.
I called the records office and requested the police report. I gave the woman the date and location of the accident and the driver’s name as Ulysses Steinbeck. She’d have it for me in an hour.
Georgina and I left downtown and got on Highway 581, heading north. Following a hunch, we exited at Hershberger—lo and behold, the red light was burning at Krispy Kreme Donuts. Hot and fresh. We eased into the drive-thru, careful lest someone of consequence see our gluttony, and ordered a half dozen.
“Don’t tell Ronnie,” I said and I let Georgina have one.
Was I the best dog caretaker in the world? Or the worst?
A fine line I walk.
Roanoke County Police is in North Roanoke, off Cove Road. I let the dog remain in the car, windows cracked. She watched me go, alert and vigilant, ears tuned forward.
The nice lady in the records office didn’t look at me or like me or do anything to warrant being called nice. She gave me the file and said, “You can’t photocopy it.”
“Take a photo with my cell phone?”
“No.”
“Take it with me?”
“No.”
“Wanna go on a date?”
“No.”
“Fine, I’ll pay.”
“No.”
I had two copies of the police report—the original with hand-written notes and the typed version.
May 12th. Officer Ingram arrived on site at 2:17am, southwest Roanoke County. Car went off Highway 221 approximately fifteen minutes prior. Woman had called for an ambulance and the ambulance arrived five minutes after Officer Ingram. Call originated from cell phone registered to Ulysses. Ulysses Steinbeck’s name and address were listed, taken from his license. He drove an Audi—there was a dark photo of the car perpendicular with the ground, crunched, propped up by two trees, all windows broken. Audi totaled. I saw his insurance information and the car’s registration. One witness—Verna Hardy drove by the wreck and she also called 911 before police arrived. Verna provided nothing of consequence. Ingram noted the night was warm, upper 70s, sky clear, almost a full moon. A picture taken from Google Earth approximated the location of accident, and the officer drew an arrow indicating the direction the car had been traveling. Heading towards Roanoke, away from Floyd, like Ulysses was coming home. Ulysses badly hurt, unresponsive. Officer Ingram indicated he smelled alcohol.
Ingram was good, his report more thorough than most.
A note added later—blood work showed his BAC at 0.26. Jiminy Christmas, Ulysses. Takes hard work to get that drunk.
Ingram saved the best for last. At the bottom of his report—two women were traveling in the car with Ulysses. Neither had identification. Names were Regina George and Lacey Chabert. The two women wanted to follow the ambulance to Carilion Hospital, so they rode with Ingram. He listed their injuries as minor.
Ah hah. A clue! Turns out I could recognize one when I saw it. I’d begun to despair.
Ulysses had been traveling with two women, neither with ID. And I knew those names. Somehow. Somewhere.
I was stimulated.
If Georgina Princess Steinbeck had been in the car, Ingram would’ve written that down. I didn’t expect she had been, but that would’ve been another clue.
I returned the police report and said, “Fascinating.”
“Mmhm.”
"Want a donut?”
The nice lady looked up from her computer. Not at me, but in my direction. “Krispy Kreme? Got extra?”
“I do if you let me make a photocopy.”
She did not express amusement.
Chapter 18
I wanted to call Carilion and ask about the two other women and their injuries, but HIPAA was a foe over which there could be no victory.
Instead I found the number for Officer Ingram, now a sergeant with Roanoke’s K9 division.
“How about that,” I told Georgina as I let her walk around the grass and do her business. “The K9 division. Your people.”
Ingram agreed to meet me for lunch at Macado’s, downtown. Macado's was a local chain with a large menu, cooked everything well, and over-decorated their walls with posters from movies, life-sized curios, and pictures of famous events. Ingram arrived in plain clothes. A short man, black, neat mustache, shaved head, serious expression.
“Off duty?” I asked.
“No. Just easier this way,” he said. Polite but hard voice, as though he didn’t want to be friendly in case he had to cuff me later. “Not everyone likes the blue, especially now days.”
“That sucks.”
“It does suck.”
We ordered sandwiches and chips and ice water. I wanted a beer but knew he wouldn’t.
“You’re looking into the Steinbeck accident,” he said.
“You remember it?”
“No one forgets something like that. Wasn’t the last straw, but maybe second to last. Couldn’t handle accidents anymore.”
“Ulysses was in bad shape.”
“Blood everywhere. Glass sticking out of his skull. Like someone jabbed big shards of windshield into his brain. He’d been thrown, bouncing around the tree trunks.” Ingram shook his head, looking down. “Only so many memories like that I can handle.”
“I worked homicide in Los Angeles, a while back.”
“So you know,” said Ingram.
“I know.”
“Now you’re private? Helping Steinbeck?”
“I am.”
“Good for you."
I said, “You know he has amnesia.”
“I visited him. Didn’t remember me. What’d he hire you for?”
Our food came. He surprised me by saying grace before we tucked in.
A man of principle and faith and unafraid to express it. One day I’d be a fully functioning adult and might do the same.
Halfway into our sandwiches I said, “Steinbeck hired me to find his dog. But also he hired me to find out what was going on during that period of his life. He can’t remember—he’d been acting out of character before the crash. The answers might bring some peace of mind.”
And maybe two million dollars were at stake.
He wiped his hands with his napkin and drank water. “You want to know about the two women.”
“I want to know about the two women.”
He chuckled, though he didn’t find it funny. “Regina and Lacey. I remember. Said they had no identification and I didn’t feel like searching them. It was a bad night. So I let it go. Unprofessional, I realize.”
“Were they torn up?”
“Yeah, beaten up bad but nothing broken. Not like Ulysses.”
“Any guesses?” I said.
“Yeah. I got a guess.”
“Prostitutes?”
“Don’t think so. Didn’t have the look. Again, just a guess. But I think one of the women was his daughter.”
“Egads,” I said. I was shocked. Hadn’t expected that.
“On the report I w
rote down ‘woman.’ She said she was twenty. But she wasn’t,” said Ingram. He finished his sandwich and played with the chips.
“Pretty girl? Blonde hair?”
“You got it. I met his ex-wife too. Don’t remember her name, but they had a resemblance.”
How about that. Alex Steinbeck had been in the car.
Mackenzie August, flabbergasted. Flummoxed. Poleaxed.
“Her name’s Alex,” I said. “Why would she lie about who she was?”
Spread his hands, palms up. “Got me.”
“What about the second woman? Same age? Alex’s friend?”
“No, older. Don’t remember much about her appearance. Caucasian. Thin. Don’t even recall her hair color. Like I said, rough night. Maybe his sister?”
“Doesn’t have one. Rumors are, he had taken a lover.”
He grinned. “Taken a lover.”
“It helps sometimes if I talk like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Does it? Maybe I should try.”
“How long did you stick around?”
“At the hospital? Most of the night. Wrote up the report. Waited until the blood came back, for the BAC. Waited until his ex-wife arrived and I spoke with her.”
“What happened to the two women? One of which presumably is Alex, his daughter.”
He looked pained. Played with his chips some more. “Told you already, it was a rough night. And I wasn’t professional enough. The two women left right before the ex-wife arrived. Intentional, I think, looking back. And then somehow, standing in the hall outside the operating room, the ex-wife crying and asking me what happened…I couldn’t find the courage to tell her about two women being in the car with him.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I do. My superiors found out, they would.”
“No dog in the car, right? At the scene of the accident?”
“No dog.”
I sighed and rubbed at my forehead. “I need to talk to Alex again. About that night and the other woman and her involvement.”
“She lied to me about something, could be obstruction.”
“If she did, I’m not telling you. She’s gonna hate me enough as it is.”
“Why’s that matter?” he asked. “She hates you or not?”
“I’m not sure. But it does. She’s famous on Instagram.”
