by R. A. McGee
“Not funny,” Ross said at the reference.
“If you say so. I got no sympathy. It isn’t like we haven’t been telling people for years that drugs are bad. If you keep using, big boy rules apply.”
“Fair enough. It’s just sad that Danny won’t have her mom around.”
“Is it? She’s better off having a grandma who’s on the level than an addict for a mom,” Porter said.
“What about her dad?” Ross said, changing the subject.
“He was a real winner. Went to prison in Starke for a while, then he got out and overdosed in some fleabag motel.”
Ross grabbed another egg roll. “What was he in prison for?”
“Primarily trafficking the stuff that killed Danny’s mom. There was more shit too—pimping, theft, stuff like that. Classic scumbag.”
“Okay, so mom’s dead, dad’s dead. What else?”
“The detectives interviewed the usual people. People from the neighborhood and from her preschool. No one knew anything. Or, no one wanted to talk.”
“That’s normal, right? Who wants to talk to the cops?” Ross said.
“Sure, it’s normal. But two things stand out to me, and I’m not sure how important they are.”
Ross was focused intently on Porter.
“You’re just gonna look at me like that? It’s kind of unnerving.”
“Stop joking for a minute and tell me what stands out to you. Please.”
“First is that there’s no record of the police interviewing Hector. Strange, considering that’s who Leona told them took her granddaughter. He’s one of the first people they should have interviewed. But they never did. Paper says they tried to meet up with him a couple times and he never showed. So they gave up.”
“Just like that? They just give up on the kid?”
“Not much they can do. The word of an old lady doesn’t carry much weight unless she saw Hector take Danny. Since she didn’t…”
“Nothing,” Ross said as he slammed his fist on the table.
“Easy, Tonto,” Porter said.
“What’s the other thing?”
“Look, if this is bothering you we can—”
“What’s the other thing, Porter?” Ross said, louder than he needed to.
Porter looked at his friend for a few moments, then picked up a piece of paper. “According to the notes, the bus driver was a douche about things.”
“What do you mean?”
“He pulled the ‘talk to my lawyer’ act. The detective believed it was because he was scared to get blamed for anything. Bus driver has a clean record and there was no reason for them to suspect anything. Normal guy, wife and kids. Moved to town from New York a couple years ago. They didn’t push it.”
“Do you think they should have?”
“Maybe a bit,” Porter said. “Cops don’t care if a suspect lawyers up. If they’re doing their jobs right, they have evidence or other witnesses and his statement doesn’t really mean shit. It’s not something that’s generally going to make or break a good case. Sure, cops love a statement, but it’s just the icing on a well-made cake.”
“But the bus driver wasn’t really a suspect, was he?”
“No, and cops hate it when someone who isn’t a suspect lawyers up. They figure there’s no reason to. The detectives aren’t trying to bust them, just get some questions answered. It can be frustrating when the leasing manager at an apartment complex won’t even tell you if a person lives there. Or if a bus driver won’t tell you the last time he saw a missing kid. But it happens sometimes. Sometimes people are scared to talk to the cops.”
“If they all looked like you, I’d be scared to talk to them, too,” Ross said.
“Funny guy.”
The pair fell into an easy silence as they ate, Porter shuffling through papers, occasionally stopping to look one over.
“What’s rattling around in that big head of yours?” Ross said.
“I’m thinking it isn’t looking too great. There’s a severe lack of any intel to work with. I would have talked to the grandma, mom, and dad in that order. I always assume a parent took a kid because of a familial dispute. Then I’d work backward—talk to the people in the neighborhood and then the bus driver and staff at the preschool. That’s where Danny’s loop would lead: the neighborhood, then to school, then back to the neighborhood. With adults, it can be more difficult because they have cars and agendas and shit. That makes them more difficult to track down. Kids are usually easier.”
“Then that’s it? That’s all you can do?”
“I’ve dug through everything. I’m not bullshitting you, there isn’t much here.”
“I know,” Ross said, looking at all the papers. “I know you aren’t.”
“Still, I’m going to go speak with the bus driver. Unless I have a reason to press anyone in the neighborhood for more info, that’s a dead end. Besides, I’m not too popular there now, I’d rather not go back for a while.” Porter recounted the events at the Acres the previous day.
“You gotta be kidding me. Was the guy with the tattoos going to shoot you?”
“He thought he was,” Porter said.
“I agree, you shouldn’t go back there.”
“Thanks, mom,” Porter said.
“No, I’m serious. I didn’t ask you to look into this for you to get hurt. I just thought… maybe… I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”
“You’re emotional, I get it. I have some of Trisha’s old tampons in the bathroom if you need them.”
Ross flung lo mein at Porter, who took it full in the chest, laughing. Ross looked satisfied with his retaliation.
“Don’t worry about this anymore. I’ll go talk to the driver in the next couple days and we’ll go from there. Nothing we can do about it tonight.”
“Think he’ll tell you anything?”
“I can be persuasive.” Porter walked over to the freezer and grabbed his bottle of vodka. He pulled two glasses from a cabinet and a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. He walked back over to the table, where Ross was looking at some loose papers, and sat a glass down in front of each of their places. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, right?”
“Why do you ask?” Ross said.
“I don’t want to send you to work all hung over again. Would you care for your usual reservation on the couch?” Porter said.
“Am I going to need it?”
Porter looked at the pile of papers on the kitchen table. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re gonna need it.”
And they drank.
Ten
Morning must have come sooner for Ross than for Porter because when he dragged himself out of bed, Ross’s spot on the couch was empty. This wasn’t a surprise. Porter wasn’t a huge fan of waking early. He imagined Ross had headed home to nurse his hangover. Porter felt great: Vodka never failed.
He’d planned on taking the day off, a nice lazy Saturday, but changed his mind. The sooner he wrapped things up about Danny, the better for everyone. Ross would take it hard, but he had seen all the evidence last night and it wouldn’t come as an unexpected revelation. Porter had given some thought to contacting the billboard company to see if they would move Danny’s missing sign to another location, away from Ross’s office. Somewhere out of Ross’s line of sight. Porter would pay them if he had to.
Miss Leona had already steeled herself against the knowledge that they would not find Danny. Porter was sure he had given her some abstract glimmer of hope by showing up at her house, but he thought she was a practical old woman. She knew the deal.
Detective Rivera wouldn’t care, much. Sure, she’d love to hit the strip with Vice, but having Porter look at things was a long shot for her. It wasn’t as if she had an emotional attachment to Danny, Porter was sure she’d get over it.
Things could go back to the way they were before Porter had started poking around in a case he had no business looking into.
Porter slipped his gun into his waistband, and grabbed his sunglasses an
d a piece of paper with the address of the bus driver on it. He swung by the fridge to grab a bottle of water, and locked the door behind him when he left.
The bus driver lived in an older part of town, near Temple Terrace. The houses there were old, built when Tampa was much smaller, to accommodate the Baby Boomers’ generation. Now it was a predominately Hispanic part of town. As Porter neared his destination, he saw corner stores turned into tiendas. The car dealerships signs stopped saying Buy Here Now and read Comprar Aqui instead. Porter didn’t get over this way much, but his favorite Mexican place was on this side of town. He thought about stopping for the burrito Cancun, but decided he would wait until he had talked to the bus driver, Abel Quintana.
Pulling onto Quintana’s street, Porter saw the familiar sight: rows of houses in pastel colors. He’d never quite understood the fascination. Most of the houses looked alike, with their stucco sides and asphalt shingle roofs. All had bars on the windows, and it seemed like every fourth or fifth house had a religious shrine in the front yard. Porter checked the address on the paper.
He was close.
The outside of Quintana’s house was no different than the rest of the neighborhood. Parked in the driveway were an old minivan and a new sixteen-passenger van. Colorful graphics reading Precious Adventures in Learning wrapped the van. Porter imagined a take-home ride must have been the biggest perk of being a bus driver.
Porter nosed the Yukon in behind the new van, hopped out, and locked his door. He rang the doorbell.
The television was on and children were laughing. With two cars in the driveway, Porter reasoned the family should be home. He rang the doorbell again.
Still nothing.
He rang the bell a third time, and finally he saw a shadow appear behind the peephole and heard the door being unlocked. A short, thick man answered the door.
“Hey, my friend, whatever it is, we don’t want any. Don’t come back, okay?” Abel Quintana was mostly bald and had a thick mustache paired with the hairiest arms Porter had ever seen.
“I’m not in the selling mood today. My name’s Porter and I’m wondering if I can ask you a couple questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“Danisha Hill. Do you have a few minutes?” Porter said.
Quintana looked agitated and his head darted from left to right and back again. “Listen, Officer Porter, I already told you people I have nothing to say. If you have any questions for me, you’re supposed to ask my lawyer. If you lost his number I’ll be glad to give it to you again.”
“Mr. Quintana, I’m not with the police.”
“You’re not with the police?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m just here as a friend of the family. I wanted to see if you could help me out.”
Quintana’s head darted back and forth again, surveying the street. “All right, then listen. If I wouldn’t tell the pinche cops anything, why would I tell you? Piss off.” The door slammed in Porter’s face.
Porter stood for a moment looking at the door, then turned and walked back to the new passenger van. The driver’s side door was unlocked. Porter reached his hand under the seat and found the lever to slide the seat back on its tracks. He hopped in and, after a brief moment to acclimate himself with the configuration, found the car horn. He pressed down and didn’t let up.
Not ten seconds passed before Quintana’s face peeked from the doorway to see what was happening. He had a look of panic on his face, but disappeared back into the house. Porter continued holding the horn down. The minutes crept by: one, five, ten. All the while, Porter kept the horn fully pressed. Somewhere around minute thirteen, the bus driver came charging out of his house and over to the driver’s side window. Between the noise of the horn and the window being rolled up, Porter couldn’t hear him, but it looked like Quintana was calling him everything but a child of God. Porter motioned to the passenger seat. Quintana stalked around the front of the van and climbed in. Porter let off the horn.
“Mr. Quintana, thanks for changing your mind and coming out to see me. I think we got off to a bad start.”
“You’re crazy, man, crazy. I have neighbors, man. What you think they gonna say? They gonna call the cops, man. They already call me and complain. What are you trying to do to me?”
“I’m not trying to do anything, but I do need your attention. Now that I have it, I’ll ask you a couple questions. It’s probably best if you answer. You were the last person to see Danisha before she disappeared, right? What do you remember about that day?”
“I already told you once, shithead, I’m not telling you anything. I’m not telling the cops, I’m not telling you, I’m not telling anyone what I know.” His face was red and he was trembling.
“You know something you’re not telling?”
“I didn’t say that,” Quintana said.
“Actually, you did just say that. Saying ‘I’m not telling anyone what I know’ implies that you know something, but aren’t talking. That’s a problem for me. Let’s try it again. What do you remember about the day Danisha was taken?”
“Screw you, man. I’m gonna call the cops myself. This is harassment. This is a violation of my rights, man.”
“It’s not a violation of your rights. I’d explain, but I’m sure you wouldn’t get it. Just tell me what you remember, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I’m calling the cops right now. They gonna arrest you for breaking into my van,” Quintana said. He lunged out of the van and ran into his house.
Porter watched the man leave, then got out of the van and walked back to his truck. Having no desire to explain why he was there to the cops, and wanting no record of him having been at Quintana’s house, he decided to leave. He backed the truck out and left the pastel neighborhood. That burrito Cancun seemed like a perfect idea, and he was sure he was going to need the energy.
Eleven
As Porter shoved bites of the chicken and shrimp burrito into his mouth, he considered the conversation with the bus driver. What was Quintana so worried about? Why not talk to the cops? Porter understood why people in the Acres were reluctant: Violence was very real there. Misguided or not, if you got labeled a snitch, you were in trouble.
But the old neighborhood Abel Quintana lived in wasn’t nearly the same. It had seen better days, but the working-class residents wouldn’t bother him for talking to the cops. He had to know that. What was making him so resistant? One would imagine a preschool bus driver having at least some soft spot for children. Didn’t he want to help find Danny?
Porter shook his head and finished the last of his water. He hated that Abel Quintana had been so difficult to deal with, but he had to find out what the man knew, even if it was something small. The investigator in him wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew. With no legal means to put pressure on him, there weren’t too many other options. He paid the bill and headed out to his truck, dialing Rivera’s number as he walked.
“Rivera.”
“Tina? It’s Porter.”
“Christina, asshole. Christina. You know what, just stick with Rivera. What do you want?”
“I have a question about the Hill case.”
“It’s Saturday, Porter.”
“And you answered your desk phone. What does that say about you?”
“How do you know this is my desk phone? Maybe I’m at home right now and you’re interrupting my time off.”
“Doubtful. Why would you give a random guy, Ruas’s friend or not, your personal number? No cop gives out their personal cell if they can help it.”
“You got me. I can’t have some weird guy calling me at home, can I?”
“If you’re into that sort of thing, I guess you could.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know why you’re at the office on the weekend. I was planning on leaving you a message. They told me the LTMU cases weren’t a priority. I can’t imagine the sheriff pays a rookie overtime to sift through them.”
“
I use the office gym,” Rivera said. “Saves me money. I check email before I leave, which I’m doing now, so unless you have something interesting to say, I’m going home.”
“Before you do, was there anything about Abel Quintana that you didn’t give me, because of the privacy policy?”
The phone disconnected. Porter looked down at the blank screen, which turned dark, then instantly lit up again, ringing and vibrating. He didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway. “Yeah?”
“Hey asshole, we’re supposed to be keeping your involvement in this thing under wraps, remember? They record the phones at the office. Do you want me to lose my job?”
“I’m just asking,” Porter said. “Something seems off and I wanted to know if I was missing anything.”
“What else is there? Didn’t you read the file?”
“I’m just grasping at straws. Anything you think you may have left out?”
“Nothing that could help you,” Rivera said.
“Don’t sweat it, I’ll keep thinking. What’re you doing tonight?”
“What, you going to ask me out for a drink? Fischer already had something to say about what you told him,” Rivera said.
“He deserves it. I wanted him to feel like the pile of shit he is.”
“Well, it worked. He asked me why I wouldn’t get a drink with him sometime. Looked pretty hurt.”
Porter had to stifle a laugh. “Too bad for Fischer. No drink for us, but I may need to give you a shout late tonight. Are you available?”
“Don’t call me tonight, Porter. I’m grumpy when it’s late.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Tina.” Porter hung up.
Porter drove to the nearest gas station and filled his tank. He headed inside, took a piss, and bought a pack of sunflower seeds and water. When he finished paying up he went back to his truck, got into the front seat, and headed back to Abel Quintana’s.
It was dusk by the time he reached the mouth of the neighborhood. From his earlier internet recon, he knew the street Quintana lived on made a large loop, then led back out the way it went in. One way in and one way out. Porter moved his Yukon into an obscure corner of the pharmacy parking lot across from the neighborhood’s entrance, and waited.
