Wolves were predatory, always looking to fatten themselves up on weaker specimens, typically the sheep, who were docile and compliant herd animals, happier to follow the advice and orders of others than to engage their own powers of discernment. As such, sheep were easy pickings for the wolves of this world. Worms were likely to prey on sheep too, but their strategies were more insidious and deceptive than that of wolves. Worms were opportunists who lived closer to the ground and often concealed themselves wherever sheep foraged.
The decents were just that: well-meaning individuals who did their best to live honest, caring lives. They helped out when they could, when it was convenient to do so and didn’t cost too much in money or time or personal safety. They were sometimes selfish but always felt bad about it afterward, always worried a little about the ramifications of sin and karma. They won Employee of the Month awards and other minor distinctions, and when they crossed the line it was by only a step or two and they usually got off with a warning.
DeMarco was a soldier, of course, in and out of uniform. Soldiers could be herd animals too, never questioning their orders, as DeMarco had been when a young man, in which case they might be as dangerous as wolves and worms, or they could be of the opposite ilk, equipped with their own stringent codes of behavior, their own missions to complete. Some who thought of themselves as soldiers were actually wolves if their intent was not for the good of the target individual or individuals. Jayme, though she did her own kind of soldiering, was in fact an angel, armed always with compassion and empathy and an altruistic imperative to self-sacrifice. Unfortunately, even angels could sometimes turn out to be worms and wolves in disguise. DeMarco had met many false angels in his time, enough to know with certainty that Jayme was the real thing, one of the rare ones in a world so in need of the angelic.
In the end, correct categorization all came down to intent. Benny Szabo was a worm, drenched head to toe in his own slime. Whoever had hired him to assassinate a little girl and an old woman was an apex predator, a wolf-worm hybrid who lived in the damp dirt of secrecy with an avaricious hunger that knew no bounds. With luck, a few honest soldiers and one angel could flush both of them out and bring them down.
DeMarco spent over three hours that morning in the kitchen with Jayme and Flores, having breakfast and discussing their options, then searching online for some hint as to Benny Szabo’s whereabouts. Except for his early and midmorning pee breaks outside, Hero lay on the floor between DeMarco’s and Jayme’s chairs, occasionally looking up, occasionally swishing his tail across the linoleum.
Neither social media nor the directories and information databases available to civilians provided even a crumb. A newspaper obituary for Benny’s mother, Linda Bittner Szabo, provided the only reference to her son. She had passed away “after a long illness” at the age of forty-six, while Benny, her only child, was still in prison.
Without direct access to CLEAN, the Commonwealth Law Enforcement Assistance Network, the trio of investigators could not access the Pennsylvania Justice Network, the FBI’s National Crime Information Center, or NLETS, the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. They would have to wait for information from Lipinski and Boyd. DeMarco could remember a few of Szabo’s old associates, but to shake down any of them would risk alerting Szabo. At the moment Szabo had no reason to suspect that they were on to him. And until they could definitively tie him to the Barries, DeMarco wanted it to stay that way.
In the meantime, another issue weighed heavy on his mind. To Flores, he said, “I’m going to have to call the captain, you know.”
Flores winced. “I hope I didn’t screw things up for you guys.”
“You didn’t. But I promised to keep him informed. Like it or not.”
He did not tell her that his phone had been vibrating in his pocket ever since 8:00 a.m., the time when Bowen would have arrived at his office to find Flores’s letter of resignation on his desk.
Flores kept wincing. “I’m sorry.”
He pushed back his chair and said, “I think I’ll just step outside for this call.”
Jayme flashed him a wink. “That’s one way to get out of helping with the dishes.”
Bowen was, as DeMarco had presumed he would be, boiling over. “Did you know about this? Were you in on it from the beginning?”
DeMarco, standing on the brick path where it ended a third of the way down the backyard, tapped the thin button on the side of his phone three times, decreasing the volume. He knew Bowen well enough to know that an apologetic tone would only encourage the captain to keep venting. “Of course I did. I’ve been trying to make your head explode since the first day we met.”
“This is bullshit, Ryan! Totally unprofessional! Whatever happened to two weeks’ notice?”
“Whatever happened to Amelia Earhart? For that matter, whatever happened to the woolly mammoth? Just think how nice it would be to have a few of those still wandering around.”
Bowen sputtered into his phone for a few moments, almost swearing then pulling himself back from it. After a full fifteen seconds of listening to Bowen’s explosive puffs of breath gradually deteriorating into one long exhalation, DeMarco said, “Is that it, boss? You done?”
“I know you call me boss only to placate me.”
“Why else would I?” DeMarco said.
“All right.” Another exhalation. “Okay. Just tell me this much. Is she there now?”
“Pretty much since the break of dawn.”
“I suppose you’re blaming me for her resignation.”
I blame myself, DeMarco thought. But why get into that? “We could use your help getting some intel on Szabo.”
“What do you think we’re doing here, sitting on our hands? You’ll know something when I know something. I can’t believe you actually countermanded my direct…my…”
“You weren’t going to say direct order, were you, Kyle?”
“I specifically requested that you leave her where she was. And not to interfere.”
“What choice did I have? This is her decision. Let’s just make the best of it, okay?”
“Man oh man,” Bowen said, and DeMarco could picture him shaking his head back and forth, staring out the window, maybe even pacing back and forth. “What a way to start a morning.”
A few minutes later, back in the kitchen, DeMarco smiled at the women. Flores asked, “How mad is he?”
He winked at her. She reminded him of a little bird perched on the edge of the nest, eager to test her broken wing. “Let’s hit the streets,” he said. “Jayme, how about if you take Jefferson and Delaware Townships? North as far as Clark should be good. Dani, Lackawannock and East Lackawannock, and then maybe over to Shenango. I’ll cover Sharon, Hermitage, Farrell, Sharpsville and north if I have the time. But keep it low-key. Circumspect, right? That’s the word of the day.”
Flores said, “So how do we ask about Szabo without asking about him?”
“Ask about his mother or father. Don’t even mention Benny’s name if you don’t have to. Let the other person bring it up. I don’t know anything about his father, but the obituary said his mother loved listening to local bands and attending wine festivals. You know what that means. Hit all the bars that have live music, all the wineries that give free tastings. Just don’t rush it. It’s probably safe to skip the pricier places, stick to the lower end. And don’t appear too interested. I’ll relay any intel I get from the boys at the station house.”
“So what’s the deal with the father?” Jayme asked.
“From what I recall, the old man was nowhere to be found back when Benny got sent away for the Golden Dragon job. His mother raised him. If you can call it that.”
“What does this guy look like?” Flores asked. “Just in case I run into him.”
“Five seven or eight,” DeMarco said. “Caucasian. Maybe one sixty tops.”
Jayme said,
“From the photo I saw, I’d put him at one-fifty max.”
“Age?” Flores asked.
“Midthirties,” DeMarco said.
“Any identifying tattoos?” asked Flores. “Scars, facial features, anything like that?”
“I doubt you will get that close,” he told her. “He’s a born sneak. But let’s say you get lucky and see him bent over a beer somewhere. Keep your distance, keep your eye on him, and text us immediately.”
“Roger that,” she said.
“Just curious,” Jayme said, “but what about Morrison and his so considerate and cooperative friends?”
“We start at the bottom,” DeMarco told her, “and work our way up.”
“They’re all bottom-feeders as far as I’m concerned.”
Great, he thought. One gung ho team member, one seriously pissed off, and one…one what, DeMarco? What are you?
Before he could come up with an answer, Flores was on her feet. She seized his right hand in both of hers and pumped it hard. “Thank you, Sergeant! Thank you for this! I’ll be in touch!” And then she was out the door, her stiff left leg swinging out wide as she went.
DeMarco looked at Jayme. She cocked her head. He cocked his in return. Then they stood, still looking at each other with eyebrows raised. He shrugged. She shrugged. DeMarco bent down to rub Hero’s head.
“The house is yours, fella,” he told the dog. “No parties. And don’t buy anything from the shopping channel.”
Jayme leaned down and pretended to whisper in Hero’s ear. “Just be sure to clean up afterward if you have anybody over. And I could use a nice pearl necklace.” Then, smiling at each other, she and DeMarco followed Flores out into the light. Hero stayed alert for ten more seconds, heard the door click shut, closed his eyes and sighed.
Sixty-Two
Back in the saddle, but bareback
Flores was so excited that she shivered as she drove, heading southwest on Pulaski Mercer Road toward Hoagland, trying to come up with the names of all the watering holes within her assigned sector. Problem was, they were few and far between. Not much at all in the two Lackawannocks but trees and fields. There were Joseph’s and the Middlesex Tavern over in Shenango Township but what else? What the fuck else?
Her foot eased off the accelerator. All of the good places were in Jayme’s and DeMarco’s sectors, especially his. What did he expect her to do—talk to the trees?
She pulled onto the shoulder, sat with her foot on the brake, hands on the steering wheel, and racked her brain. Surely there were some likely places in her sector. Or else why would he have assigned—
He had no faith in her, that’s why. He wasn’t going to risk the high-percentage places on a…on a what? A proven failure?
And for just a moment she felt like throwing open the door, puking into the dirt, crying, giving up, turning around and going home to bed with a big bottle of wine. But then she told herself, No. No, damn it! She wasn’t a failure. And she was going to prove it.
Linda Szabo, Flores figured, would have been a lot like her own Auntie Leña, one of her mother’s younger sisters, the one her mother called a lush, the one always with a bottle of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “What places did Leña go?” Flores asked herself. “I know she went to Quaker Steak & Lube during the summer. She loved the bike nights there. Loved the bikers and the free beer.” It was not summer yet but still, a place to start. “So anything in that general area,” she told herself. “Start there and work your way outward.”
She checked her side mirror, ready to pull onto the highway again, then sat more upright and blinked, as if the morning had suddenly become too bright. What would DeMarco do if she ignored him and went rogue? He would dump her, that’s what. Flores the failure. Flores the washout.
She shut off the engine. Leaned her head back and closed her eyes and tried to keep from crying.
The cell phone jingle jerked her upright. She grabbed the phone from its holder, looked at the screen. Oh God, her mother again.
She thought about ignoring it, silencing the ring. But really, what else did she have to do?
“Hello, Mama,” she said.
“Daniella, what’s wrong? Why do you sound that way?”
“Nothing’s wrong. You just caught me at a bad time. I’m a little busy right now.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m working, Mama. What would I be doing?”
“Well, it’s a sad day when a child is too busy to say hello to her only mother, isn’t it?”
“I said hello, Mama. Why did you call?”
“I called because I miss you. I’ve been lonely for you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Then why don’t you visit more?”
“Mama,” Flores said, ready to end the call. But then she had a thought. “Hey, I was just thinking about Auntie Leña a while ago. What is she up to these days?”
“What do you want with Leña?”
“I don’t want anything with her. I was just thinking about her. It’s been a couple of years since I even talked to her.”
“You need to stay in touch with your family better. I always tell you that.”
“So where is she now? Last I remember she was with some guy up around Warren.”
“You see what happens when you don’t stay in touch? You lose track of your own family.”
“Mama, please. Is she still living in Ohio?”
“She’s been right under your nose all this time and you’ve never even spoke to her. Not three miles from where you live in that hardware store. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Right under my nose where? And I live above the hardware store, not in it, Mama, as you well know.”
“I’m surprised you never run into her. You didn’t know she was living there?”
“Living where, Mama? Can’t you for God’s sake just tell me where she lives?”
“She lives on Charleston Road with some woman now. I don’t think there’s any hanky-panky going on, though. Not that it would matter anyway. The woman’s name is Margo and she seems very nice. I talk to her on the phone sometimes.”
Flores had stopped listening, was thinking that Leña might have a solid tip on where a lowlife like Szabo would be hanging out. She had been a lowlife herself once upon a time. Probably still was. Flores started her engine, figured it was worth a shot. Better than interviewing the freaking trees anyway. She cut in on her mother’s ramble to ask, “What’s her address, Mama?”
“Why would you want to go there? She won’t be there now.”
Flores blew out a breath. Squeezed the steering wheel. Evenly, she said, “Where will Auntie Leña be right now if she isn’t at home?”
“She has a job now.”
“Wonderful. And where does she work?”
“You should visit her sometime. Catch up. She asks about you all the time.”
“I intend to go visit her, Mama, if you will tell me where she works.”
“I thought you were busy working today.”
“I’m on a little break.”
“How nice of them to give you a break! Do you get one every morning? You should call your mama more.”
“I will, I promise. Where is Auntie Leña working right now, Mama?”
“Do you know where the VFW is?”
The Hickory VFW was a few minutes behind her. “The Hickory one or the one near Daffin’s Candies?”
“It’s right across the road from the Historical Society. She keeps asking me to go there, but I say what for? I don’t drink spirits and I am not going to start now just so I can say hello to my own sister.”
Flores told herself, Okay, the Hickory one. “Are you saying she tends bar there?”
“I told you that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Mama. Thank you. I have to say goo
dbye now. I will call you again in a day or so.”
“How is your leg, my darling? Is it doing okay?”
“It’s doing fine, Mama.”
“Do you still have to wear the brace?”
“Always, Mama. I always will. I have to go now. I love you. Bye.”
“What if—” was the last thing she heard her mother say before she tapped the little red phone icon to end the call, then rammed the gearshift into Drive.
Sixty-Three
Of old acquaintances seldom thought
While Jayme and DeMarco were panning for information in other parts of the county, and coming up with only the tiniest of flakes, Flores found a promising vein in her Auntie Leña. After their initial reunion in the VFW bar—when Leña had loudly introduced her to the entire room with “Hey, everybody! This here is my beautiful niece, Daniella! I haven’t seen her in years! She’s a state po-po now so all of you lowlifes better watch your step!”—Flores sipped the glass of iced tea her aunt kept refilling.
Leña looked like a different woman from the one she remembered: at least forty pounds heavier, but happier, more energetic, no longer morose and complaining. She had given up cigarettes and all alcohol but for an occasional wine cooler. Wore no makeup now except for “a bit of foundation,” and spoke with such fondness and enthusiasm of her housemate Margo and their “womb to womb” women’s circle that Flores had to wonder. “You have to join us,” Leña told her. “You have to. There are some real healers in our group. You’ll be amazed. I know I was.”
It was an interesting idea but not the reason why Flores was pumping herself full of iced tea she did not want or need. She hadn’t expected to find the VFW barroom so busy in the middle of the morning and was waiting for the right moment to deflect the subject, which, for the past fifteen minutes, had been Dani herself. Leña didn’t mind continuing their conversation as she moved up and down behind the bar, drawing beers from the taps and serving platters of eggs and burgers and other meals passed to her from the kitchen, but Flores kept reminding herself of DeMarco’s word for the day, circumspect, so she did her best to be patient.
When All Light Fails Page 23
