Gone Cold

by Douglas Corleone

  Is Tasha a victim just as my mother was?

  Is Hailey a victim just as my sister, Tuesday, was?

  I stare into the kitchen and watch Tasha with Aubrey. I feel compelled to walk in and apologize. But I know that this argument has already gone too far. There may well be no coming back from it. Too much has been said. By both of us.

  And I still can’t be sure who’s right.

  Probably both of us are.

  Probably neither of us, too.

  That’s the way the world works, isn’t it? Everything infinitely gray, nothing at all black-and-white?

  “Simon?” Rendell is saying. “Simon?”

  I barely hear him over the storm brewing inside my head.

  Chapter 35

  Although the Toxteth riots occurred nearly thirty-five years ago, the reasons behind them are just as relevant in many major cities in the UK today. And in the United States for that matter. Such as Ferguson, Missouri, in the Greater St. Louis metropolitan area, where a young unarmed black man named Michael Brown was recently shot and killed by a Ferguson police officer, igniting months of mammoth protests and civil unrest.

  So it was in 1981 Toxteth, where long-established tensions between the local black community and the Merseyside Police finally erupted into waves of full-scale riots. At the time, Britain was in recession, with unemployment at a fifty-year high. And not surprisingly, the inner-city area of Toxteth was plagued with one of the highest unemployment rates in the country.

  Unfortunately, over the past three and a half decades, not much had changed. At least not with respect to the area’s economic conditions. Whether police-community relations had improved or declined, I didn’t know and hoped not to find out, at least not until I was clear of the city.

  I remained the primary suspect in the murder of Ewan Maxwell in Glasgow, which meant I was a wanted man throughout the United Kingdom. Regardless of how things went from here, I wouldn’t be seeking the assistance of the Merseyside Police. At least not directly. Not without Kurt Ostermann or someone else as a go-between.

  With little to go on, I decided to begin my search of Toxteth much in the same way I began in Springburn. I took out my BlackBerry, opened the browser, and called up a Merseyside pub guide. First I scanned for Caribbean bar names, looking for words like island or tropical or paradise in the title. Next I hunted for spots that featured reggae music. Failing all that, I finally pursued pubs in which one of the main drinking attractions was either rum or Red Stripe.

  Nothing.

  Since there were no overtly Caribbean bars, I took the criminal angle instead. Rather than taking note of the four- or five-star pubs with rave customer reviews, I searched for the dives, the one- or two-star pubs with reviews featuring words like tatty or filthy or scary.

  Much easier to find.

  On the first site I visited, there were three dives to choose from. I settled on one called Down Your Neck (a variation, I assumed, on the American idiom down the hatch), which, according to MapQuest, was located only three blocks east from where I was roaming near the docks.

  * * *

  The reviews for Down Your Neck did the pub justice. Which was to say the pub was indeed a tatty, filthy, scary place. Precisely what I was looking for. I took a seat at the rough-and-tumble bar and ordered a bottle of Fuller’s ESB. No glass, in order to lower my risk of contracting hepatitis A.

  I was the only patron in the place, which worked well, since the bartender seemed like a talker. A young guy with a pierced nose and lots of facial hair, he reminded me somewhat of Casey O’Connell back at Terry’s in the District, though this barkeep was skinny and slightly better dressed. He paced behind the bar as though he were debating whether to pick up and leave.

  Which also served my purpose. I pulled a couple hundred pounds out of my pocket and set it on the bar. As he made a return run, his eyes fell on the cash and lit like stars gone supernova.

  He wasn’t dumb.

  “On the hunt for something?” he said in his thick Liverpudlian accent.

  I bowed my head yes.

  “Puff? Gear? A good rogering?”

  I made a gun with my thumb and index finger and fired.

  The barkeep thought about it then shook his head. “Best I can do is a knuckle duster, mate.”

  He folded his arms and watched for my reaction but I offered none.

  Finally, he nodded. Said, “You’re looking to tool-up, then. How much is it worth to you if I could point you in the right direction?”

  “That would depend.”

  “On what, exactly?”

  I said, “I’m looking for a certain type of salesman.”

  “What type might that be?”

  “A Yardie.”

  Yardie was essentially just a label. Slang spawned long ago from a Jamaican neighborhood called Trenchtown. The title had been slapped on residents of West Kingston’s housing projects, which had been known to most as “government yards.”

  The barkeep stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the counter. “You’d have better luck in London, I’d think.”

  Back in the 1950s, after World War II, Britain’s economy was in the crapper and cursed with extensive labor shortages. In order to fill these job vacancies, the UK encouraged migration from the Caribbean, especially Jamaica, which had once been a British colony. Most Caribbean immigrants went to work in the UK capital for government organizations like the National Health Service, London Transport, and British Rail. But decades later, the population had spread widely throughout England and beyond.

  “Let me be straight with you,” I said. “I’m actually looking for a particular fellow who does reside in Liverpool. Friend of mine said I could trust him. That he’d set me up with whatever I needed at a competitive price. Unfortunately, my friend didn’t have a current contact number for him.”

  “You have a name for him?”

  “Sterling,” I said. “Lennox Sterling.”

  The bartender frowned. “Never heard of him, mate. But for the right price, I might be able to connect you with one or two of his brethren.”

  I pushed the cash across the bar, said, “That’s all I have. The rest is reserved for the merchandise.”

  He quickly flipped through the bills. Satisfied, he stuffed them into his pocket.

  “Right, then,” he said. “I’m gonna give you a name and an address, mate. But if things go pear-shaped, you didn’t get either from me. In fact, you and I have never even met.”

  Chapter 36

  TWELVE YEARS AGO

  “We have a name and an address for the man who drove you to the airport,” Rendell says. “But he has no criminal record, not so much as an unpaid parking ticket. And he’s been with the limo company for eighteen years.”

  “But you’ll check him out,” I say, “you’ll check his alibi. And if it doesn’t pan out, you’ll get a search warrant, right?”

  “Of course. But just so we’re clear, I don’t like him for this. Neither does West. He’s married with two teenage boys, one of whom is headed off to Duke on a full scholarship this fall.”

  We’re seated across from each other at our kitchen table. I look over my shoulder to make sure that Tasha’s out of the room and out of earshot.

  “Where are we with the teachers at Hailey’s school?”

  “West and I have interviewed each of them. Twice. And not just the teachers but everyone on staff, from the maintenance workers on up to the principal. We’re checking their alibis but so far every single one of their stories holds up. We haven’t found a solitary crack.”

  I push aside a copy of this morning’s Washington Post. Hailey’s disappearance is the most sensational criminal investigation since the Beltway sniper attacks that took place over a three-week period last October.

  I lower my voice. “Still no word from my father?”

  “Not yet. But we have a pair of agents down in Virginia Beach looking for him. So far we’ve been able to confirm that your dad made it
down there on the day he was supposed to. My people are canvassing the community to learn what, if anything, he’s been up to since.”

  “Okay.”

  He looks into my eyes. “One of your father’s neighbors suggested he may have an ongoing relationship with a woman down in Raleigh. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  I shake my head. “Why wouldn’t he have brought her up to Virginia Beach, then? Or told his staff he’ll be in North Carolina for at least part of the trip?”

  “Your father’s neighbor suggests the woman may be married.”

  I nod. “Of course she would be.”

  “And affluent.”

  “She’d be that too.”

  “Actually, your father’s neighbor thinks her husband is the one who is well-to-do.”

  As I flash on my recent arguments with Tasha I sink deeper into the table.

  He places a hand atop mine. “Let’s try to retain focus on what’s important, Simon.”

  “Speaking of married women,” I say in a near-whisper, “any progress on that other question?”

  He lifts his hand and sighs. “We’ve looked at her computer, her phone records, credit card and bank statements. We’ve discreetly asked friends, family, and neighbors. We’ve even talked to some old high-school boyfriends. There is absolutely nothing to suggest an affair.”

  I don’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. A bit of both, I suppose.

  “It’s a stranger,” I say softly, staring down at my hands. “Isn’t it?”

  “On that front, we have officers combing Georgetown and the surrounding neighborhoods, asking whether anyone’s seen a strange vehicle parked or driving slowly around the area. So far, nothing. But that doesn’t mean we won’t catch a break.”

  I flash on the few people from our community that I’ve seen on the local news. They’re terrified that their own children aren’t safe. Some are keeping their kids home from school since it’s so close to the end of the school year anyway. But there’s more than just fear in those faces. There’s a certain peace. They’re not happy that Hailey was taken, of course, but they’re thanking whatever gods or stars they believe in that it wasn’t their child. They’re grateful. And who can blame them?

  Learning that your child is missing is worse than receiving your own terminal diagnosis.

  Worse than anything that I can think of. Because every version of this story ends the same way in my head. With me finding out what happened to my baby girl. And then wishing like hell that I hadn’t.

  I know now. There will be no ransom demand.

  I know now. There won’t be a change in the heart of the bastard who took her.

  I know now. There will be no hidden clue that leads us straight to her like in the movies.

  “You look utterly exhausted,” Rendell says to me. “Why don’t you go upstairs, Simon? Shut the lights, close the curtains. Just try to get some sleep.”

  I look into his eyes, pale and blue like a swimming pool. Almost beautiful, I think.

  “With all due respect, John,” I say, “but are you fucking kidding me?”

  Chapter 37

  The address the bartender gave me was located on Lander Road, a few blocks east of the docks. It was a quiet road lined with aging two-story redbrick row houses that resembled sections of South Philly. This afternoon the area looked and felt like a ghost town, a long-unused set on a studio lot in Burbank. Even the shops at the end of the block—a barber, a pet groomer, a bodega—were shuttered as though in preparation for a category-five storm.

  Closed, I thought at first. Then realized they were more likely out of business.

  A number of pubs I’d passed had suffered the same fate.

  I checked the numbers on the buildings (only one of every four or so still had one hanging), and found the address I was looking for directly in the center of the block. I stepped back to try to gauge whether any lights were on in the second-floor apartment and, more important, whether there was any movement. But all the shades were drawn. Not just at the address I wanted but everywhere, it seemed. For a moment I thought the bartender had taken me for a mark. But if he did, it would be a first for me. One of my assets as an investigator, is that I had the look of someone who’d come back for you if you fed me bad information. Especially if I happened to pay well for it.

  So I climbed up the six cracked cement steps to the outer door. Wasn’t surprised to find that there were no name tabs next to the intercom. If there were, I’d have been looking for a Mr. Kordell Rickets.

  I considered the buzzer, then thought better of it. With my good hand, I pressed firmly against the door near the frame. Then I pushed. When the door budged, I knew a kick wouldn’t be necessary. A shoulder would suffice. Which was a plus because it meant significantly less noise. And, since I hadn’t been going to the gym regularly for the past eleven months, no chance of pulling a groin.

  A single shot to the green wooden door knocked it open and almost off its hinges. I caught it on the rebound and closed it behind me before starting up a flight of creaky, weathered stairs.

  When I reached the second floor, I found only one apartment door. The hallway was thick with the stench of smoke, but I couldn’t tell whether it was fresh or had developed over time by seeping into the yellowed walls and ceiling. Maybe a combination. I listened carefully but heard no music, no television, no ringing phones. No conversation, no pets, no signs of life whatsoever.

  Not exactly a booming small business, I thought, even for a weapons dealer. But then, maybe Mr. Rickets was out to lunch. If so, I was sure he wouldn’t mind my having a quick look around.

  I tried knocking first.

  When I received no response, I withdrew my handgun from my waistband and threw my shoulder into it again.

  The door flung open. From the frame I could see the kitchen and the living/dining area. Tidy for the most part. But marijuana and tobacco were fighting it out for olfactory superiority. Near the windows where a bit of light was slipping through the shades, I could see the smoke hanging in the air, thick as the fog you’d expect to encounter in London. So dense that if not for the frigid air, I might have thought the flat was on fire.

  Quietly, I stepped over the threshold. To my right was the kitchen area. To my left was a short hallway that ended with an open door. As I moved toward it, I finally heard a sound. Faint, as though it might be coming from another apartment.

  I poked my head into the room. Saw an attractive young black woman sleeping soundly across a double bed. She was wearing headphones, which was where the sound was emanating from. Music. The Beatles, whereas I’d been expecting Bob Marley. First Zoey, then Scottish gangsters too polite to enter a family-owned bed-and-breakfast, and now this. So much for stereotypes.

  She opened her eyes. Which startled me as much as seeing a strange white man dressed in full black biker armor standing in her bedroom with a gun must have startled her.

  When she opened her mouth to scream, I started toward the bed. Held my bandaged left hand to her lips and practically begged her to remain silent.

  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  She was shaking, either from terror or cold or both.

  When I looked down, I realized she was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt.

  I did my best to calm her. First by tucking my gun back into my waistband. Then by removing my hand from her lips.

  Once she had settled down some and controlled her breathing, I grabbed random clothes from the closet and asked her to get dressed.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” I said as she slipped into a pair of jeans.

  “Usband,” she snapped.

  “All right, husband, then.”

  She shot me a dirty look.

  “Where is he?” I prodded.

  “G’way, mon,” she cried as she pulled on a jacket over her T-shirt.

  “I’m not going away until you calm down and answer my questions. Where’s Kordell?”

  She shru
gged her small shoulders in defiance. “Dun know.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “He catch you here, you done, mon.”

  “That I believe. And that’s why we’re going to do this quickly. Tell me where I can find Kordell and I’ll leave.”

  “Dat’s a lie.”

  “No; it’s the truth.”

  “You aks and I tell. Den you kill me dead.”

  “No, that’s not how this is going to go down,” I said. “I give you my word.”

  “Wutless,” she spat.

  I shook my head, took a step forward, looked deep into her dark brown eyes. “My word is one of the few things I have left that isn’t worthless.”

  She said nothing.

  I said, “Now, let’s try a different approach. Tell me your name.”

  She hesitated but finally said, “Imogen.”

  “A beautiful name,” I said. “All right, Imogen. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Her eyes kept darting to an ashtray sitting on the makeshift nightstand next to her bed. A large cone-shaped joint lay in the middle of it.

  “You want that spliff?” I said. “You can have it if it’ll help calm you down.”

  I took her silence as acquiescence. Reached for the joint, handed it to her.

  She placed it between her lips while I searched for a light. Once I’d given up she pointed at the small armoire across the room. On top of it I found several cheap lighters, a few pipes, and a package of rolling papers. I grabbed one of the lighters, turned to her, and thumbed the flint wheel. Held the flame to her joint as she took one large pull then another.

  “All right,” I said as she blew a stream of smoke into my face. “Now that our heart rates have returned to normal, how about you and I go have a brief chat in the living room?”

  * * *