by Kate Flora
He pulled a plastic Baggie from his pocket and collected the wad of cotton as they searched the fallen officer for injuries.
"What's his status?" he asked.
"Unconscious," Nurse Joe said. "But we're not seeing any signs of trauma."
Burgess felt his impatience rising as they bent back over their patient. He wanted to know where their real patient was, the girl who seemed to have disappeared. Over the murmur of their voices, as they consulted, he heard a faint rustling sound, just for a second. Then it stopped.
He stepped past them and opened the door to the bathroom.
She was huddled against the wall of the shower, clutching a blue hospital blanket around her. For the second time that day, he bent down and picked her up and carried her out of a dark room and back down a long hall.
When they were back in her room, he looked down at the girl in his arms. Her eyes were open. She was looking right at him, and he thought that she recognized him. "I'm Joe Burgess," he said. "I'm the cop who took you out of that closet. I'm trying to keep you safe."
He thought he could read understanding. "It would be easier to do that if you would talk to us. Tell us who you are and what is going on."
Her head shifted slightly, just the tiniest sign of acknowledgment, and denial. She was trembling in his arms. He had questions that desperately needed answers, but this was not the time. A nurse he knew slightly came in. "She should be getting oxygen, Joe," she said, and so, reluctantly, he put his mystery girl back on the bed.
He needed to talk to Kyle and Perry. Liaise with security and find out what the hell had gone wrong, here and in the morgue. As soon as the man was conscious, he needed to interview the officer who'd been guarding her and get the story.
It would all have to wait until he was sure he could safely leave the girl. Right now, he couldn't imagine there was any safe place in this hospital. Maybe not even in this city. Bad guys were springing up today like someone had sewn the streets with dragon's teeth. He probably needed an army.
For starters, he'd take Andrea Dwyer, their "kiddie" cop. Dwyer was tough, smart, athletic, and very tuned in to the kids she dealt with in Portland. He should have had Dwyer on this case from the beginning. People who would never talk to him gladly talked to Dwyer. She had a knack. And no one was likely to get past her, whatever the failures of the day—and night—suggested about their opposition.
He dug out his phone. He needed Melia over here to coordinate this thing. A patrol sergeant. And Dwyer.
Melia sounded sleepy, but CID lieutenants were used to being interrupted. They needed to be adrenaline junkies, because sleep was a luxury.
"Got a few problems over here at the hospital, Vince," he said. "Our dead baby has disappeared and been found again, our translator got beaten, and someone tried to kidnap our mystery girl."
Melia uttered one of his rare expletives. "Bring me up on it." Burgess heard the thud of Melia's feet hitting the floor, Gina Melia's soft voice in the background.
Burgess shared what he knew. "Haven't had a chance to follow up on what happened with that baby, or look at the security video. We've got a car crash at the ER entrance. Stan and Terry are chasing the driver, and security's holding the passenger. They had the baby in the trunk of their car."
"I don't have to tell you this is nuts," Melia said. "I'm on my way."
"We need a patrol sergeant to coordinate security over here. And see if you can find Dwyer. I need someone to babysit this girl. Somebody who isn't going to lose her again."
"I'm on it. See you in ten."
Burgess wanted to add "and don't tell Cote," but that was not how the food chain worked. Each shiny piece of brass had to brief the shiner brass above him.
Burgess looked down at the scared dark eyes. "Just trying to keep you safe," he said.
It bothered him that she didn't have a name. He didn't want to call her sweetheart, or honey, or little girl. She was a mother. She was a victim. She was a terrified child. She was so many of the things he'd spent his life protecting, all in the same trembling bundle. He hadn't done a very good job for her so far.
As the nurse, whose had the sweetly old-fashioned name Susan, bustled around, getting the girl resettled, Burgess saw that one of the girl's hands—the one that didn't have the dark ring of bruises, lay outside the covers. He reached down and took it in his.
Her dark eyes flashed at him. She didn't move her hand away, and for moment, he thought she was going to speak. Then she closed her eyes, the dark lashes settling against her pale cheeks. In a few moments, she was asleep.
"Poor little darlin'," Susan said. "I ever get my hands on the man who made that child a mother, I'll castrate him myself."
Ten minutes later, Andrea Dwyer came in, bandbox neat and fresh as a daisy, all six feet of her. She studied the girl in the bed and then looked at him. "You've got to stop collecting these waifs, Joe."
"They just keep finding me, Andrea." This was what he got for not going straight home. The gods worked in mysterious ways.
After he filled her in, she patted his shoulder. "I've got this now, Joe. Go catch bad guys."
"You stay here, you may catch some yourself. Just don't let 'em catch you."
Dwyer grinned. "I only look like the girl next door, Joe. I'm actually armed and dangerous."
"I know that," he said. "Call me if—"
If what? If anything happened? The girl said anything? A horde of kidnappers swarmed the place? Dwyer knew all that.
Dwyer had a great smile, and she used it on him now. "I will call you, Joe. Trust me. I will."
She gave him a gentle shove. "Go on now. Lieutenant Melia's down in the lobby tearing his hair out. Kyle's gone all quiet and scary, giving people that cold gray stare. And Stanley has become unusually profane. You know," she hesitated, and then gave Burgess the answer to one of the questions that had been bugging him all day. "That boy needs to grow up. I've never seen anyone react so badly to his girlfriend getting pregnant."
Chapter 9
Down in the lobby, Burgess spotted Melia, off in a corner, talking on the phone. He could tell by his lieutenant's body language that he was talking to Cote and didn't appreciate what he was hearing. Kyle was standing by the door, holding a Sea Dogs jacket. He waved it like a bullfighter's cape in Burgess's direction. "This is all we got, Joe. He was a slippery little bugger."
"Where's Stan?"
"He was here. Then patrol thought they'd spotted the guy and he and a couple patrol guys went out looking."
Burgess sighed. "We're not winning any of 'em tonight, are we? Why don't you go find the passenger, the guy security grabbed, see if you can learn anything. And where did you guys leave Osman?"
"Getting stitched up. We told him to stick around, but I'm not betting on it and we didn't have anyone to watch him. We're getting pulled in a whole lot of directions tonight and not a lot of people cooperating with their local constabulary."
Vince Melia put his phone away and came toward them, straightening his tie. Melia didn't go anywhere without a tie, not even in the middle of the night. He came up to them, glanced at Kyle, then at Burgess, like maybe they were hiding a bad guy somewhere. "You get the guy?"
"We got the passenger. Patrol's still looking for the driver." Kyle waved the jacket. "Got his jacket, though."
"Great. Read it its rights and arrest it," Melia said. "What about our guy who was supposed to be watching the girl?"
"Someone knocked him out. Chloroform, maybe? I left him with a couple of nurses. Left Dwyer with the girl. Nobody is getting past her."
"Let's hope not."
Melia was a dapper guy, but tonight he was looking almost as ragged as Burgess felt. Melia got paid the bigger bucks for dealing with the brass, but Burgess wouldn't have traded jobs for anything. He didn't want to explain their actions, supervise their actions, or justify their actions. He wanted to be taking the actions.
"Look, Vince. I popped the trunk on that car out there, and I've got what looks like a b
ody bag in there. Patrol is sitting on it. I guess it's time to see if it is our missing baby, get him back into the morgue, and find out what bozo let someone walk in and walk out with him like that. Then we've got security video to view, and a couple folks to interview."
"We're gonna need more people on this," Melia said, getting out his phone again. "Who do you want?"
"Sage is good, if he can come in. What did Cote want?"
"Was it that obvious?"
"I'm a detective, Vince."
Burgess thought his city was going to hell faster than the cops could pull it back. He didn't like it when the bad guys won, and lately, it seemed like their thin blue line was getting awfully frayed. Guys off fighting a couple of wars. Retiring early. Taking sick leave like there was no tomorrow. A night like this could tie up a lot of manpower, and it wasn't like the drunks in the Old Port, or the homeless, or battling domestic partners, or the desperate who'd do anything for fix took the night off just 'cuz the cops were busy.
"Kyle, you check out Osman and the passenger. Vince, let's go take a look in that trunk."
Kyle was already moving toward the doors to the emergency department. Burgess called after him, "Anyone run the plate on that car?"
Kyle turned back. "While I was running through the streets, chasing after bad guys? Of course I did."
He paused a moment, and Burgess started running the possibilities, his first choice being the Imam.
Kyle, who could often read his mind, said, "Wrong. Another weary black Jap car, but this time it's stolen plates. Stolen car."
"Somebody's being awfully thorough. It's like they were prepared for this," Burgess said.
"Or prepared for something."
Kyle tore a page out of his notebook, walked back, and handed it over. "Have fun with this. I'm gonna go talk to injured bad guys and injured translators. Make their miserable days a little worse."
"Miserable nights," Burgess muttered, and led Melia out to the parking lot.
The patrol officer leaning against the car wore a face that was either "jeez, when can I get out of here?" or "I wish it was anyone but Burgess." Officer Melinda Beck didn't like him. He'd gotten two strikes in her book the first time they'd met. Strike one was that he hadn't immediately recognized her as a woman. In his defense, he'd argue that she was a sturdily built woman, and a vest under the uniform made anyone looked sexless. Strike two was when he'd read her the riot act about not adequately protecting a crime scene. Since then, their paths had rarely crossed.
Like Melia, she was looking a little worn and ragged. Probably about to go on a break when she'd gotten the call. Now she'd been here cooling her heels guarding a car trunk while he plugged some other holes in the dike.
When he'd left patrol, Burgess had thought he'd miss the adrenaline of working the streets, but there had been plenty of action in CID. Sometimes more than his aging carcass was up for. Right now it was reminding him that kicking down doors and carrying people out of burning buildings took its toll, while Beck was looking at him like he'd just come from an orgy of coffee and donuts.
"Evening, Lieutenant, Sergeant," she said. "Really hopping around here tonight."
Burgess heard regret that she had had to stand here instead of being part of what was hopping. "Anyone been snooping around the car?" he asked, as he pulled gloves out of his pocket.
"African guy came out of emergency with a bandage on his head, stopped to stare, then took off. Otherwise, no."
"Shortish guy, kind of a round head, white shirt, glasses?" Burgess said. "Walks like he's got an old knee injury?" He could have said "gimpy like me."
"That's the one."
So their translator had ignored Kyle's request, and taken off. Guy wants to work for the police department but he's got no loyalty or sense of responsibility, even after the cops had scooped him up and brought him here. Burgess wondered if Osman had headed back home, where he might come in for more of the same, or gone into hiding. There was a story there, for sure. Something he couldn't think about right now.
"Anyone come to pick him up?" Burgess asked.
"Woman in an old beater. Wearing a headscarf. I couldn't see her face. Got the license number, though."
"Good job," Burgess said, and wrote it down.
He looked at Vince. "How do you want to do this?"
"The easy way," Melia said. "Unzip the bag and let's see what we've got."
Inside the bag was a little girl, a toddler, by the look, with a head full of blond curls. Perfect. Beautiful. And dead. They looked at each other and swore. Even their expletives were getting a little ragged.
"Either these guys were driving around with a different dead baby already in their trunk, or they took the wrong one," Melia said.
"But Kyle said someone had taken the baby."
Melia shrugged. "Guess we'd better go look in the morgue. See if they're missing two babies. Or if they didn't check after this one was taken and they just thought it was our baby from the fire. There aren't any more bodies in this trunk, are there? And call Stan and get him back here now. We need to sit down, get up to speed on this thing. All of us."
Burgess wondered if this was just one "thing" or a maze of interconnected things. He asked Beck for her flashlight and examined the rest of the trunk. There was a lot of weird stuff in it, things he'd want their ETs to examine and inventory when they fingerprinted the car, including some small electronics in boxes that still bore price tags. But no more bodies.
He returned her light. "Gonna have to ask you to sit on this a little longer, 'til we can get it towed over to 109. You good with that?"
She stared past him into the darkness. "Just fine, Sarge."
He was sorry she was taking this personally, but policing wasn't a popularity contest at the best of times, and he was in no mood for attitude. If she wanted to end her shift and get out of here, she could call her patrol sergeant and make arrangements. If Beck had been a man, he wouldn't have thought twice about this.
They left her staring into the darkness and headed back inside as Burgess called Stan Perry and told him to come in.
"Jeez, Joe," Perry gasped over the thud on his running feet. "Not now. I think we're really close."
"We need you here, Stan. Patrol can chase the bad guys for a while."
He heard Perry draw a breath, prelude to an argument, and cut it off. "Melia says now, Stanley. He needs to talk to all of us."
Perry barely kept the whine out of his voice as he said, "Yes, sir."
Late nights and crazy cases made their normally dysfunctional family even more so.
They detoured through the emergency department to find Kyle. Found him glaring down at an African-American man in FUBU jeans and a dirty gray hoodie. The man had a bandage on his face and someone was wrapping his wrist with gauze. Kyle was watching the tender ministrations with the expression of someone contemplating dismemberment.
"Lieutenant. Joe. This is Akiba Simba Norton. Age twenty-three. Last known address Lewiston, Maine. We wouldn't even know that much if Mr. Norton hadn't been carrying a wallet. He has thus far shown a marked disinterest in speaking with us."
Kyle bent down over Norton. "According to our records, his last known arrest was last week in Lewiston for knocking down an elderly lady and taking her purse. Lady went to the hospital, Mr. Norton went to jail. Lucky for him, some kind soul posted bail. Mr. Norton is already on probation for a similar offense. He's been informed that he's under arrest for violating the conditions of his release. Never mind the conditions of his probation."
Norton seemed to be engaged in the detailed study of one of his shoes, which were new and expensive.
"Lieutenant Melia, Portland police, Mr. Norton," Melia said. "Can you confirm that you are refusing to speak with us?"
Norton shifted his head and gave Melia a look that was pure eye-fucking attitude. The whites of his eyes were yellow and bloodshot. He looked like someone coming off a four-day high. Smelled like it, too. "That's right, motherfucker."
/> "Mr. Norton also has five brand new hundred dollar bills in his wallet," Kyle said. "He seems disinterested in explaining where he got them."
New bills meant fewer people handling them. Which might mean fingerprints.
The young Indian doctor who was bandaging Norton went on as though none of this was happening.
"Doctor," Burgess said, "how soon will Mr. Norton be ready to leave?"
The doctor looked up. "Going to finish this bandage and he's all yours, Officer."
"Sergeant," Burgess said. "Keep an eye on him, Terry. I'll be right back."
He went to tell the patrol sergeant in the lobby that they would need someone to transport Norton to the jail. "They can book on a probation violation and violating bail conditions. Expect there will be more coming. He and his buddy have a dead baby in the trunk of their car."
Sergeant Kenny Munroe grinned. "Never rains but it pours, Joe. I'll get Beck—"
"Beck's still sitting on the car," Burgess said. "'Til we can deal with that baby."
"Oh, right. I'll take care of it." Munroe turned away, talking into his radio.
Stan Perry slouched in, looking like a man who wanted to pick a fight, and headed straight toward him. "Listen, Joe, I—"
Burgess cut him off. "In here," he said, jerking his chin toward the emergency department. "Vince wants to talk to us."
"I was gonna get that guy, Joe." His phone rang and he turned away to answer it.
Burgess went on talking. "And you're the only one who could do it? We need to talk about the dead baby. About an attack on the officer guarding our mystery girl." Every time he said "dead baby" his stomach twisted. He'd long ago learned to keep it off his face, had never been able to get his gut to go along.
They came back through the door in time to see Mr. Akiba Simba Norton grab a pair of scissors off the tray, grab the slight Indian doctor around her neck, and start dragging her backward toward another door. Mr. Norton, it seemed, was not especially grateful for the services he'd just been given. One of the problems with the welfare system, Burgess thought, people given things all their lives without working for them or paying for them didn't value what they'd had.
