Lost in America

by A. S. French

  He let out a long sigh. ‘You don’t ask simple questions, do you?’

  ‘You wanted to know.’

  ‘So why did you leave?’

  ‘Sometimes you get sick of all the lies and deceit and have to find something else in life before you lose everything which makes you real.’

  ‘And you’ve found that on the back roads of America?’

  America was a distraction, but she wouldn’t tell him that.

  ‘I’m on holiday. What’s important to me is in England, and I’ll return there soon enough.’

  But return to what? If Courtney won’t speak to me, how will I ever get to see Olivia again?

  ‘I think you need a drink before any of that.’ He moved towards a sideboard and opened it. ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘A bourbon and Coke if you have it.’

  He went into the kitchen, and she heard the fridge open and close. He returned with two cans featuring a cartoon bear on them.

  ‘You don’t want to try a local brew?’

  She curled her lips and grimaced. ‘Not if that’s the same stuff I had in the bar. I think that’s what made me ill. I know Americans are no good at brewing beer, but that was gut rot of the first order.’

  He screwed up his face at her. ‘America has a long heritage of quality brewing, and the Bakerstown Brewery has a nationwide reputation for excellence.’

  ‘Is the brewery the main building in town?’

  He nodded. ‘The largest and the most important. It shut down for a month earlier in the year because of an accident, and most of the workers had to take unpaid leave. That wasn’t good for the community.’

  ‘It’s the town’s biggest employer?’

  ‘By a large margin. If we lost that, the town would be in dire straits.’

  ‘What was the accident?’

  Darkness clouded his face. ‘There was an equipment failure, and two people died. That’s the most who have passed away in a single incident since I moved here.’

  ‘Until I arrived.’ He didn’t reply to that. ‘Were the police involved?’

  ‘We were, but not me. Some machinery overheated and exploded. They were lucky more didn’t die.’ He held the can of beer towards her. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’

  ‘No, thanks. The bourbon will do.’

  He put the cans on the side, and she watched him pour the drinks as she scanned his DVD collection, which was full of true crime documentaries and nothing else. She shook her head and turned to the books on the shelves, which were all crime fiction and thrillers. The microwave tinged in the kitchen, and he went for the food.

  Did I eat in the bar last night? No, that’s why I got drunk so quickly.

  Jim returned and placed a plate of spaghetti and meatballs on the table next to her. Then he poured them a glass of wine each.

  Is this his seduction technique, to ply me with booze?

  She was going to warn him about boundaries when he spoke. ‘Wine for the meal, bourbon as an apéritif.’ He downed his in one go.

  She laughed. ‘Apéritif? You’re posher than you seem, Detective Moore.’

  He shook his head while she finished her bourbon. ‘My neighbourhood was poor, a lot of welfare recipients, single parents, and crime. Big drug trade. My father was in the military, but he died when I was five. My mom brought me up on her own. We lived on food stamps. I did okay at school, not great, but not terrible, and decided I’d only have a future if I became a cop. So I did. I worked. My mom died, and then I met Lisa. We had a daughter. I thought all was good, and perhaps it was for a while, but somewhere along the line, it all went to shit, and here I am now.’

  Astrid guessed Lisa was the woman in the photo. She didn’t ask what had happened between them; if he wanted to talk about it, he would. Plus, she’d had enough damaging relationships in her past to understand why he wouldn’t want to expand upon what he’d told her.

  ‘And here you are in Bakerstown when you could have gone anywhere.’

  ‘Things are good here, especially when you consider some other towns around here.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He didn’t hesitate with a reply. ‘Like Morton to the north and Sugar Hill east of that.’ She thought he might show her where they were on a map, but he didn’t. ‘The prescription opioid epidemic blights both places so much, they’re known for miles around as the Twin Pills. There are more dodgy televangelists than you could shake a cross at in those towns, each of them dotted with personal injury lawyers, touting for business with slogans such as, “Been in a wreck and need a check?” In Morton, the owners converted one of the town’s only two hotels into a drug rehab centre.’

  ‘Crime is one of the few human constants, Jim. It’s what keeps you in a job and stops me from getting bored.’

  ‘Speaking of which, what do you think got these five people killed?’

  She twisted the pasta around the fork, and then slipped it into her mouth. It warmed the roof of her palate, but was a taste sensation, bursting with the flavours of garlic and herbs. She ignored the heat and scooped a second between her lips. She gulped it down before replying.

  ‘You said the police found the paper in the mouths of Caitlin and her children; was each piece on their tongues, or right at the backs of their throats?’

  He munched on spaghetti and spoke at the same time. ‘It was as if they were about to swallow the paper when someone killed them. Do you think that’s important?’

  ‘My guess is the killer or killers murdered Cruz and her kids because of something she knew. And it’s connected to the numbers and what they led to. Her helping me after the fight outside the bar gave them the perfect opportunity to cover up the murders. That was their second mistake.’

  Moore sipped at his wine. ‘What was their first one?’

  ‘Not checking the mouths of their victims. If they’d found those papers, you wouldn’t have a lead. If they hadn’t put my passport at the crime scene, they wouldn’t be in trouble now.’

  ‘In trouble?’

  Astrid downed half her glass. ‘They’re in trouble because they picked the wrong person to mess with.’

  ‘You’re not leaving Bakerstown in a hurry, then?’

  She’d considered it and was close to leaving before deciding someone would pay for what they’d done. Not for framing her, but for killing Caitlin Cruz and her kids.

  ‘I’ll stay if you want me to.’

  Moore grabbed his drink and toasted her. ‘So you believe it’s connected to this human trafficking website?’

  ‘That’s the way it looks. It would help if we can identify those bodies in the cabin, but I doubt we will.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She finished her wine, then poured herself another. ‘Because if they were locals, someone would notice them missing. The killer or killers destroyed their faces, fingers, and teeth to prevent identification that way. Unless…’

  She dropped her fork into the spaghetti as a sudden revelation hit her.

  ‘Unless what?’ Moore said.

  ‘Unless somebody silenced the two in the cabin because they killed Cruz and her children.’

  Moore sat back and pondered her words. ‘But why would Caitlin have those website numbers? And didn’t you say there were three killers at the murder scene, two of them to hold on to the kids?’

  ‘A big enough adult could’ve restrained them, so perhaps there were only two at the house.’

  ‘Let me get this straight: you’re claiming the two people in the cabin killed Caitlin Cruz and her kids because they were looking for those bits of paper.’ He didn’t seem convinced. ‘Three pieces containing numbers which lead to a human trafficking website.’

  ‘I’m not claiming anything; it’s only an educated guess.’

  He laughed. ‘Which school did you go to?’

  ‘Not one I’d recommend to any parents wanting the best for their offspring.’

  Moore pushed his plate to the side, having only eaten half the food.

/>   ‘Why didn’t Cruz gave her assailants the paper? She could have saved their lives if she had.’

  Astrid shrugged. ‘We have too many unknowns at the moment to guess why, but perhaps she knew her attackers, knew they were all going to die regardless of what she did.’

  And maybe she tried to tell Astrid she was in danger, tried to warn her as she patched her up in the kitchen. Not for the first time since that night, she wondered if she’d let Caitlin Cruz and her children down.

  Even if she hadn’t killed them, wasn’t she to blame for what happened?

  8 Looking At You

  Astrid watched Jim’s expression change, his eyes growing wide. Then he surprised her by changing tack.

  ‘I thought you came here to find a grave? Is it a relative or friend of yours?’

  He appeared to be making small talk, something she was never very good at. So she turned it back on him without answering the question.

  ‘How does a big-time Washington Detective end up in a town like this?’

  ‘How do you know I was a big-time Detective before I came here?’

  ‘It’s in the way you handle yourself, the way you move and speak. You have that restless suspicion only gained from years of questioning people.’

  ‘I told you, I liked the name because of my mother.’

  Something flashed beneath his eyes, a glimpse of a life she assumed he’d tried to forget.

  ‘I think there’s more to it than that, Jim.’ She sipped at the wine again. ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  He glanced at the photo, and then back to her.

  ‘I was thirty years married and thirty years a cop. Then I find out my wife’s been cheating on me for three years with my best friend and partner. Some Detective I was.’ He raised his glass in mock salute. ‘I’d say she left me, but Lisa kicked me out of the house, and I was a laughingstock with my colleagues. I searched for the biggest, darkest hole I could and ended up here.’

  She’d heard many stories like it before, but there was something in his expression she identified with: a loss beyond control.

  ‘You had a kid?’

  He hesitated in response, and she scrutinised his expression, recognising what lurked there as a reluctance to talk about himself. She was about to steer the conversation in another direction when he answered her.

  ‘I’ve got a seventeen-year-old daughter, but I don’t get to see her much.’ A grim shadow crawled across his face. ‘Jenny lives with her mother most of the time.’

  Watching the pain consuming every part of him, she was reluctant to continue talking about it. So she scanned the rest of the room and settled on his impressive LP collection, filling three long shelves.

  ‘Is your music in alphabetical order?’

  She was relieved to see a sparkle return to his eyes.

  ‘Of course it is. How else would you store them?’

  Astrid laughed as she stood and checked the records. ‘I never know with you Yanks. You’ve mutilated the English language so much, you might have abandoned the alphabet completely and organised them by spine colour.’

  Jim shook his head and got up, moving to the middle of the first row and picking out a record at random. He held it out for her to see, a live album by Nico.

  ‘Everything in its right place, Astrid.’

  She took it from him and scanned the track listing on the back cover.

  ‘Does that only apply to inanimate objects, or people as well?’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  She removed the vinyl from the sleeve and searched for a record player, finding it in the far corner of the room. He nodded towards it, granting permission for her to drop the needle on the record. She moved to the sound system and switched it on, replying to his question as she set everything up.

  ‘Did you know there are hospitals in certain parts of the world where all newborn babies are entered into a database and identified by numbers and names?’

  He rolled his eyes at her. ‘Most countries have used an alphanumerical system as part of personal identification for decades. Passports, drivers’ licences, ID cards and national insurance numbers are only a few examples.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, Detective Moore, none of those start at birth.’

  Jim pursed his lips as Nico sang about a marble index. ‘You’ve seen evidence of this, then, on your spy missions across the globe?’

  ‘Perhaps. Or maybe it’s only an urban myth to confuse the masses, like tales of lizard people and the Illuminati stealing the world’s children for their evil cravings.’

  He didn’t seem amused by her words. ‘Groups of perverts abduct kids every day of the week all over the world.’

  ‘Kidnapping.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If someone takes a kid, it’s kidnapping. Abduction is when it’s an adult.’

  He shook his head at her. ‘You’re using semantics with me now?’ He increased the volume on the music centre just as Nico warbled about waiting for the man. ‘And you said we murdered the English language.’

  It was Astrid’s turn to shake her head. ‘Well, you can’t spell a lot of the words, can you?’

  ‘We’ve simplified the language, made it easier for everyone by getting rid of superfluous letters.’

  Her laugh tickled her bruised ribs. ‘Get you with the big word. Superfluous indeed.’

  Astrid’s enjoyment surprised her. She scanned the record sleeves as the music filled the room. The sound quality was as good as anything she’d heard, and she wondered if Jim’s sound system had cost him a month’s wages.

  ‘Everything about you Brits confuses me.’

  Astrid examined the rest of his collection. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, are you English or British?’

  ‘I’m both. England is a nation-state within the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.’

  ‘But isn’t there two Irelands?’

  She laughed again and wondered if he was messing with her. ‘I’ll explain this to you using records from your collection.’ She went to the front of the first row and pulled out a pristine looking copy of Revolver. ‘The Beatles were English, from Liverpool.’ She placed it face up on the table, then got Let It Bleed and put it next to the scouse mop tops. ‘The Stones are, of course, also English, but from London, so your table now represents the north-south divide.’

  He crossed his arms. ‘Are you trying to wind me up?’

  ‘Bear with me.’ She removed two more albums. ‘Here we have Tom Jones and Shirley Bassey, two of Wales’s finest tongue warblers.’ She put the Jones album on top of the Bassey one on the table. ‘These two enjoyed some steamy tongue encounters of a different kind at some point, so we’ll leave them together. Now, we go to Scotland.’ She moved back to the collection. ‘So, let’s see what you have.’ She grinned at the cover of the next selection. ‘Why, Detective Moore, what do we find here?’

  He took the Sheena Easton album from her hand. ‘That’s the wife’s. She must have left it behind.’

  ‘Okay, Jim, put it with the others as we get to the heart of the matter.’ She pulled two more records from the shelves and gave them to him. ‘Thin Lizzy represents Ireland, and the Undertones are from Northern Ireland.’

  The Nico record finished playing as he looked as confused as she’d seen him so far.

  ‘Am I holding on to these?’

  ‘For now.’ She collected the other albums she’d placed on the table. ‘Great Britain is a geographical term referring to the island, also known simply as Britain. It’s also a political term for the part of the United Kingdom made up of England, Scotland, and Wales, represented here by the records in my hands. It includes the outlying islands that they administer, such as the Isle of Wight, but I can’t think of any musicians from those islands off the top of my head.

  ‘The United Kingdom is purely a political term. It’s the independent country that encompasses all of Great Britain and the region now called Northern I
reland, which you have there with the Undertones, because where Thin Lizzy came from seceded from the rest of the Union in 1922 to become an independent sovereign nation.’

  While he peered at her as if she was mad, she removed Revolver from its sleeve and placed it on to the turntable. The music sprang from the speakers as Jim poured them both another drink.

  ‘We’ll have a bit of whiskey in the jar later, but how about we finish this bottle of wine first?’

  She put the records down and took up his offer. ‘You read my mind, Jimmy boy, and you have an impressive record collection, but I wish your lot had found my phone. There are thousands of albums on it.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find it, eventually.’

  The tone of his voice told her it was unlikely as she moved to the window. The building was a large house converted into four smaller apartments, two up and two down. Moore had the first one on the ground floor and spent little time in the garden, from what she saw outside.

  ‘This is the perfect place for people to disappear.’

  Is this why I came here?

  ‘You mean the ideal spot for someone to set up a human trafficking business?’

  ‘Do you get many missing person reports through here?’

  He shook his head and drained his glass. ‘Hitchhikers and drifters appear at either end of the highway all the time. We could lose a small population that way and never know.’

  ‘Have you heard from the FBI about the website?’

  Moore collected the plates. ‘I expect they’ll be in touch tomorrow; if not, I’ll ring them.’ He glanced towards the bedroom. ‘You have the bed tonight, and I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

  Her suspicious mind wondered if this was a ploy to make a play for her. He must have recognised the doubt in her face.

  ‘I’ve been working so many shifts this last month, I always end up asleep on the sofa. The guys down at the station call me a couch potato.’ His laugh was supposed to ease her caution, but it didn’t.

  ‘No, it’s okay, Jim. I like to sleep with my eyes on the door, anyway.’ She grabbed a cushion and settled into the weary-looking furniture.

  ‘Suit yourself, but be aware I’ll be up at five.’