by Tom Pitts
“Take it easy. We’re going to get her back. What else?”
“What else? Nothing else. They said try not to touch anything ’cause if—they said if—it turns out to be a kidnapping, they’ll have to dust for prints.” He broke down completely, hanging his head back down and spitting his words through his tears. “If. They said if. Fuckers think she ran away—from me. Why would she do that? Why?”
“She didn’t.” Calper lowered his voice, pitched straight and even. “We both know who’s got her. I need you to get a hold of yourself. I need you to be strong here, Gary. We’re going to get her back.”
Gary looked up, his eyes focusing as though he was seeing Calper for the first time. “I’m sorry, would you like a drink or something? I could use one.”
“No. No time for a drink. I need you to get dressed and clear your head. I want you to give me any other details you haven’t already told me. Anything. Can you do that?”
Gary nodded his head. “Why are you helping me?”
Calper didn’t want to say what he already knew. He was the reason they took Linda. He wasn’t sure how Jason DeWildt was going to use the woman, but he was sure his presence was the reason she was gone. Instead, he looked Gary straight in the eye and said, “Because I can.”
Gary lifted himself up from the table and walked toward the bathroom in the back. Calper told him he’d be right there waiting. As he said it, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
“It’s a bad time,” Calper said.
“Are you with the lawyer?”
“No. Not yet. Something came up.”
“Something came up? Jesus, Calper, it’s almost eleven o’clock. We figured this would be a priority for you.” Taber’s tone shifted from sarcasm to real concern. “What’re you doing? Working another case?”
“No. This is most definitely related.” Calper looked at Gary, who walked past him, lips moving but forming no words. “Give me an hour.”
“What’s going on? Why haven’t you been there already?”
“You told me he was back at the doctor’s this evening. I wanted to wait till he was nice and relaxed. Surprise him a little. I’m going to see him, don’t worry.”
“Well, you better get down there quick.”
“Why? What’s changed?”
“Because he just got another call. He’s scared they’re coming back.”
Gary was back at the table, his head once again cradled in his hands. Calper said into the phone, “I’m on my way to see him. I’ll let you know what happens.”
Calper ended the call and pocketed the phone.
Gary asked, “Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to see somebody downtown. Someone who might know something.”
Without hesitation, Gary said, “I’m coming with you.”
“No. It’s better if you stay here.”
Gary picked up his jacket from the couch. “You said you’d help me find my wife. You said the police were useless. If you’ve got a lead or whatever, I’m coming. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait?”
Calper looked at Gary, looked around his empty house. He didn’t know why but he liked Gary. He didn’t feel sorry for him. He empathized, sure, but Gary wasn’t pathetic. He wasn’t sniveling, he wanted to get involved. He wanted his wife back.
Calper said, “Lock up. Let’s go.”
Traffic was light at night and they were down in the neighborhood known as the Fabulous Forties within fifteen minutes. Gary had only driven through this area in his short time in Sacramento, a different world from the suburban tract housing where he and Linda lived. Dennings found the address and pulled into the driveway of a modest two-story dwelling Gary knew was far out of his price range. What was modest forty years ago was now over a million in asking price. When Gary and Linda first moved to the valley, their realtor skipped right over the Fabulous Forties, knowing it’d be impossible for the couple to afford.
“Nice place.”
“He’s a fucking lawyer,” Calper said. “What else would you expect?” He threw the gear shift into park and left the key in the ignition. “You want me to leave the radio on?”
Gary seemed confused. “I’m not coming in? I thought you said he had information about Linda?”
“Information about the assholes who grabbed her. It’s different. These guys are big on attorney-client privilege, you know?”
“Are you his client?”
Calper sighed. “No. But I expect I’ll be extracting some privileged information. Just wait here. I’m not going to sneak out the backdoor and leave you sitting in my damn car.”
Gary said, “It’s a rental.” But Dennings had already climbed out and slammed the door. After he’d gotten a few feet, he returned and knocked on the widow.
Gary powered it down.
“You see anything, you call me. Somebody pulls up, and I mean anybody, you call me. Don’t do anything. You got it?”
Gary nodded and watched Calper stride toward the front door. He reached out and rang the doorbell, and when there wasn’t a quick response, he pounded on the door. After a moment, a man in a housecoat opened the door. Gary couldn’t hear their exchange, but the man seemed to recognize Calper and they both disappeared inside, leaving Gary in the Taurus with the radio on.
“Holy shit,” Calper said. “He really did a number on you.”
He rotated around the lawyer, marveling at the bruised lump that covered most of the left side of his face.
“You should’ve seen it when it happened. Piece of shit. I should have shot him. Breaking and entering, I’d have been within my rights too.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“He grabbed my gun. Just reached out and took it from me. Felt like an absolute idiot.” Kent reflected for a moment, the pain and embarrassment of hindsight rouging the cheek that wasn’t already discolored. He stole himself away from the moment and brought himself back to his guest. “You want a drink or something?”
“You got scotch?”
Kent looked at him with derision. “Of course I do.”
“Just a nip. It’s going to be a long night.” Calper watched the attorney walk to a wet bar installed in the main sitting room. Crystal tumblers and crystal carafes. Stuff only assholes or attorneys would have. Calper nodded at the collection. “Just like in the movies, huh?”
“You gotta keep it classy if you want to roll with the big boys.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Rolling with the big boys?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean. Problem is, I’m not sure you know what it means—what it really means—to be rolling with the big boys.”
Kent said, “You want the drink or not?” But he kept pouring. He handed Calper a tumbler with two fingers of scotch and raised his own glass.
“Here’s to your health,” Calper said.
“Smartass.”
After Calper smacked back the familiar burn on his lips, he asked, “Why didn’t you call? You were in contact. You knew you were supposed to let us know.”
“It’s us now? I thought you only worked for them. Like I do. Suddenly you’re a family member?”
“Answer the question.”
“I was in the fucking hospital, man. My brain was scrambled. Practically in a coma. What do you want from me?”
“Taber told you I was in town, right? I’m here to help. Is there some sort of reason you didn’t want me here the night that it happened?”
Kent Paulson sipped his drink and kept his eyes on the ground.
“Don’t like that question? Okay, how about this one. What did they want?”
“Drugs. What do they always want? Fucker emptied my medicine cabinet.”
Calper inhaled deeply and flattened out his voice. “Kent…Kent, Kent, Kent. Why would they think you have drugs?”
Kent didn’t answer
. He glared into his own tumbler before taking another sip.
Calper’s voice pitched up now, teasing the lawyer with a sing-songy tone. “What kind of drugs did they get from you?”
“Some painkillers. Juliet knew I had painkillers prescribed. That’s what they came for.”
“You know, Kent, I’ve never seen you in a courtroom, but it’s safe to say you suck at cross-examination. I mean, you can’t even hold up under it.” Calper set his glass down hard on the table. What little liquor was left sloshed up toward the rim. “You’ve been in contact with her for how long? How many times? And why the fuck were you keeping this under your hat?”
“She was in trouble. She came to me privately, looking for help.”
“Of course she’s in fucking trouble. That’s why we’re looking for her. You think I’m an idiot? You were fucking her. With all your goddamn money and designer suits, you can’t get laid on your own?”
“It’s not that…”
“You can’t afford a hooker? That’s what they do, bud. They fuck you for money, then they leave. They might steal your painkillers too, but they won’t beat you half to death.”
“I’m sorry. I got played.”
“Fucking right, you did. What else did they get?”
“My gun. A .45. Sig Sauer. Nice fucking piece too. Cost me twelve hundred dollars.”
“Don’t say piece. Sounds stupid coming out of your mouth.” Calper threw back the rest of his drink and pulled his cell from his pocket. “You have anything else here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Drugs, Kent, drugs. You have any other drugs in the house?”
Kent shook his head.
Calper took out his phone.
“You calling them?” Kent asked.
“Yeah, I’m calling them. If you’d made this call when you first came into contact with them, we would’ve had this wrapped up by now. Dumbshit. Now they’ve got an innocent woman with ’em and who knows who else they’ve hurt. All ’cause you had to get your pencil wet.”
Kent’s head tilted down to avoid Calper’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck sorry. You’re not sorry.”
Chapter Twelve
Linda watched as the two in front went through their strange ritual. The air in the car, which had reeked of garbage and body odor, was now cut with a sharp vinegary smell that turned her stomach. Jason, the mean one who’d been driving the car, was twisted sideways in his seat as he held a disposable lighter under a blackened spoon.
They’d pulled off Roseville Road in a dark spot under an overpass. Railroad tracks on one side and fenced backyards and gravel on the side where they stopped. The occasional car flew by at fifty miles an hour, but other than that, it was dead quiet.
The girl, the one she’d seen Gary talking to, said, “You fucked it up, Jason. That’s way too much water.”
Jason, with a plastic syringe clamped between his teeth, said, “It’s fine. Tear me off a cotton.” When the brown liquid began to bubble, he dropped the lighter onto the seat and plucked the plunger end out of the syringe in his mouth and used it to stir the goop. The girl pulled a cigarette from a pack in her pocket and tore at the filter with her teeth. When she’d separated a few strands of the fiber, she rolled it into a tight little ball between her dirty thumb and forefinger, and when Jason said he was ready, she dropped it into the spoon.
Linda had witnessed this scene many times in movies, but never in real life. It seemed so clumsy, unsanitary. There was no candle, no packets of white powder, just the smell and the strange black goo. The driver, Jason, the one who was in charge, drew up the liquid into his syringe, then tucked it behind his ear where a mathematician might store a pencil. He held his palm open and the girl placed another needle there. Then he sucked up the rest—almost the same as his but not quite as much—until the little ball of filter made a sick suction sound.
That was it. No needles for their companions in the back seat.
The three of them in the back seat watched as the two in front began to search for veins to shoot the stuff into. In the pale dome light of the car, the girl looked and quickly gave up. She rolled down the waist of her jeans and stuck the needle in what appeared to be the fleshiest part of her frail body. Linda wondered if the point of the needle would slide through what little fat she had and break off on her hip bone.
As she slowly depressed the plunger, she said, “I give up. I can’t see shit in this light.”
Jason, with the needle again in place between his teeth, peered closely at his wrist, alternately squeezing the forearm and running his fingers over clusters of tiny scabs, looking for a spot to poke. When he’d decided, he dug the needle in, pulled back the plunger, then dug farther. After a few moments of this, Linda couldn’t help herself; she groaned and whispered, “Jesus.”
The big one on her left said, “Shut the fuck up.”
Jason remained focused until a tiny bloom of blood appeared inside the syringe. He gently pressed the plunger down, slowly letting only one or two ccs out before pressing it again. It was close to done when a bluish lump appeared at the injection site.
“Shit,” he said.
And the girl said, “You’re missing it, you’re missing it.”
“I fucking know, Juliet. I can fucking feel it.” He eased back and toyed with the plunger some more, a breath trapped deep in his lungs. When the tiny vacuum air bubble in the syringe began to shrink, he pushed again till the liquid was all gone and he plucked out the needle.
The ugly blue lump, though, continued to grow on his wrist. It was crowned with a dark spot of blood, and Jason licked it off as he exhaled with satisfaction.
Neither of them nodded out, or passed out, or threw up, or showed any other signs of succumbing to heavy narcotics. Not the way Linda expected. The both appeared just as they had before they shot up.
Jason turned in his seat and said, “Now it’s time for a little Q and A.”
“What’d he say?” Gary hadn’t bothered to turn the radio up. He’d sat the whole time in silence with his eyes pasted on the lawyer’s house.
“Not much. He’s fulla shit. He’s been fucking the girl. You know the one, from across the street? Juliet Forester is her name. Anyway, she showed up to get some pills from him last week and DeWildt kicked the shit out of him.”
“I mean, what’d he say about Linda?”
“Nothing. He doesn’t know anything. He was scared we’d find out about the girl.”
Gary let out a long shaky sigh. Back at square one. He looked out the window and the street was dark, quiet. Not a single car had passed the entire time he’d sat there. He’d come all the way downtown with Calper and nothing had changed. He glanced at his cell resting on his thigh, hoping for the wink of the message notification light. It hadn’t rung, but he checked for missed calls anyway. From Linda. From the police. Anyone.
“What do we do now?”
“Well, I have some calls to make. I’d like to set up a base. If they call this jerk,” Calper tipped his head in the direction of the lawyer’s house, “which I don’t think they will, not now, not with what’s changed, he’ll let us know. I have no doubt of that. But the most likely scenario is they call you. Or me. You want to go back to your house? I have a motel room nearby. We could wait there if it makes you more comfortable.”
“Home,” Gary said. “Home is fine.”
“You want me to stop along the way? For a bite, a drink, anything?”
Gary barely shook his head. He felt sick. Food was the last thing he wanted. He felt exhaustion wash over his body. An unwelcome tide that fought against his overstimulated brain.
“You mind if I smoke?”
Calper shrugged and told him to crack the window.
“All right, if you ever wanna see your man or that stupid little dog of yours again, you better answer this shit straight. You got it?”
Linda nodded her head, her eyes trained directly on Jason’s.
“Bomber, give her a smack.”
“What?” Bomber sounded like he didn’t understand the request.
“A smack. You know, so she knows we’re serious.”
Bomber blinked once or twice, deciding how to handle it.
Linda started to speak, and, without warning, Bomber elbowed her in the face, mashing her nose down. Blood began to run from both nostrils, flowing over her lip and into her mouth. In seconds it was dripping from her chin.
“You broke my nose,” she said, and tried to touch it with her fingers.
“Keep your hands down,” Jason said. “Bomber? Again.”
This time Bomber had to twist a little beside her so he could use his right fist. He punched her hard on the temple.
Linda saw white. A flash of pain so intense it replaced the steady throb on the right side of her face. She felt the left side of her head begin to swell, growing with each quick beat of her heart. The smaller boy on her right recoiled, but stayed quiet.
“But you haven’t asked me anything.” She was sobbing now, pleading.
Jason leaned toward her, wincing his lips into a smile. “You want me to ask you something? Okay. Why was he there?”
“Where?” she said. “At my house? He’s my husband. He didn’t do anything.” The blood flow from her nose increased and it was warm and bitter in her mouth. She thought she knew what blood tasted like, but this was something different.
“No, not your fucking husband. Not that wormy piece of shit. Juliet, what’s his name?”
Juliet’s eyes were lidded and glassy. The drugs they’d shot now having an effect. She sang out the name in a reedy rasp, “Gaaare-reee.”
“Yeah,” Jason said. “Not Gary. Fucking Calper Dennings.”
“Who?”
Jason looked to Bomber. “Give her one.”
