by Katy Munger
"Then what?" I asked quickly. "What did you hear?"
"I heard some new voices shouting and they sounded nasally. Like, you know, like…" He struggled for the right words, unable to find the ones he needed.
“Like Yankees?" I asked him, thinking of how strange the people who had come from New Jersey and New York had sounded to me when I’d first heard them down in Florida, before they started invading the Carolinas.
"Yes," he said, his voice growing more confident. "Like that. And then I heard some popping sounds and I knew right away I was hearing gunshots but someone was using a silencer.” His voice broke. "I was afraid they’d killed Candy. But I don't know what happened next because right after I heard the gunshots, someone hit me from behind again. The next thing I knew, I was lying in a ditch and there were ants crawling up my legs, and I could hardly move. I tried to at least get an arm above the ditch, because I heard a car coming and I knew I had to make some sort of signal. The car passed by." He closed his eyes and grew still. I could not imagine how desperate he must have felt, lying on the edge of a field, unable to move, not knowing where he was or if anyone would stop to help him.
"A couple more cars drove by, maybe more,” he said weakly. “I don't know. I lost track of time. Then I think I passed out. After that, I don’t remember anything until I felt someone shaking me and I looked up into a face." Rodney’s eyes darted around the room, as if searching for someone, and he smiled weakly when he saw his sister. “Oh, Freddie. You're here. You're here."
"Yes, I'm here," she said fiercely. She leaned in, kissing him on his bandaged forehead. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay with you. I'll make sure that you’re okay."
"I think it was an angel who saved me," Rodney told her. “He was huge, with golden skin and these big muscles, and he had this soft brown glow around his face. He was leaning over me and asking me if I was okay. Then he was telling me that I was going to be okay and that help was on the way."
I did not have the heart to tell him that his angel had been a church bus driver and that his halo had probably been an afro. Besides, who was I to argue? It seemed to me that angels came in all shapes and sizes.
"Can you tell me anything more about the voices you heard in the club?" I asked. "Like how many guys there were?"
He thought for a moment. “More than one. Three or four, I think. Just guys. No girls."
"Think hard. Did you recognize any of them?"
"The first voice, maybe." He shut his eyes for a moment. "I think it was the dude who owns the club.“
"Rats?" I asked. "Was it Rats? I mean, Sammy. Was it Sammy Templeton?"
"If that's his name," Rodney said weakly. “I didn't know who the other guys were. I’m really sorry."
My god. He had heard poor Rats being murdered. He’d heard shouting and the gunshots. Had Rats been killed trying to protect Candy? Had he been trying to keep the men from taking her with them?
The thought of Rats dying a hero somehow made it worse. I'd never thought of him as being a hero. He was not the type. Had unexpected courage exceeded his natural cowardice? It seemed so sad, Rats finding the guts to stand up to armed men and then being snuffed out, erased, in a millisecond of gunfire. The silence that must have followed that gunshot. The lack of ceremony at his death. The mundaneness of it all. Poor Rats. Poor sweet, sweet Rats. He had deserved a far more noble death.
I stood, lost in thought, trying to piece it together. A Yankee accent wasn't much to go on. "Did it sound like Rats knew the men?" I finally asked. "Could you tell?"
Rodney looked up at Frieda as if she might know the answer, then back at me. "I think he did," he said uncertainly. "I think he said something like he was sick of them treating him like garbage. So he must have known them."
That was something, at least.
The door to his room flew open and I almost wet my pants. If it was Bill Butler, I was toast. Instead, a plump red-haired nurse entered with a brown paper bag. She took a long look at me and then glanced at Frieda, but said nothing. Finally, she walked over to Frieda and asked, "Are you his sister? The guard downstairs told us you were here." Frieda nodded. "These are his personal effects,” she said, handing over the paper bag. “I can get you a key if you want to store them in the locker by the bathroom door.”
She pointed and Frieda nodded mutely as the nurse left to get her a key, leaving the paper bag behind on the floor by Rodney’s bed. Before the nurse could return, I began pawing through it.
Frieda stared at me, appalled at my behavior. I didn't care. “Do you have two cell phones?" I asked Rodney, holding up an iPhone encrusted with pink sequins and a plain black Android I’d found in the bag.
"The black one is mine," Rodney said. "I don't know who the pink one belongs to."
But Frieda did. She was staring at the phone with wide eyes. When she looked up at me, she did not have to say a word. I knew. I was holding Candy Tinajero’s cell phone.
“It was found with you in the ditch,” I explained to Rodney. “You don’t remember why you have it? Do you remember anyone giving it to you?”
“No,” Rodney said in a weak voice. “Sorry.”
"I've got to get back now,” I told them. Frieda looked alarmed. "I can't wait," I explained. "I'm sorry. I may have a lead and I need to follow it up. I’m taking Candy's phone with me. Her life may depend on it."
"What's going on?" Rodney asked. He grew agitated and the monitors by his bed began to beep. "What did you mean when you asked if I remembered anything about Candy being taken?" he asked. "Where is Candy? Is she okay?"
Frieda looked to me for help.
"We don't know," I explained. “She's missing. I'm trying to find her. I think maybe the men you overheard took her. Do you have any idea why?"
"No," Rodney whispered. His energy was failing. "If I had seen anyone trying to hurt her, I would have stepped in." He sounded stricken that he had failed her.
"If you had, you might have ended up like Rats," I told him softly. “The gunshots you heard killed him. He was found lying in the hallway right outside the Ladies Room. I think he was trying to get away from them when they killed him.” I touched him on the arm. "I'm glad you're okay. Really, I am."
He looked at his sister. She understood. "I'm not going anywhere, Rodney. I'm going to stay right here with you. You won't be alone. I promise."
Taking care of him brought out the best in Frieda.
"I'm sorry I can't stay,” I told her. “Will you be able to find your way back to Durham?"
"Of course,” she said, not taking her eyes off her brother.
"When the cops arrive, don't tell them I was here with you," I warned. “Just say the hospital called you and that's how you heard about him being here. And you better get him a lawyer quick. I’ll have a friend text you a couple recommendations."
I don't know if either one of them heard me. They were lost in a private world. I took one last look at Rodney Salem, wrapped head-to-toe in tape and gauze like a mummy, and I wondered who was capable of that level of brutality. Then I began to sprint down the hallway. If I was going to find Candy, all my hopes lay in the pink-sequined phone I had hidden in my bra. That and a friend. But at least a friend I knew I could depend on.
Chapter Eight
I called Marcus on the way back to Durham and asked him to text Frieda the names of some good lawyers. “Not one of those grandstanding Raleigh white collar guys, either,” I warned him. “Her brother needs a criminal lawyer. Better make it one from Durham. They don’t mess around.”
“Your wish is my command,” he said snidely. “By the way, hello to you, too.”
“And thanks,” I added quickly.
“Was the trip to Charlotte worth it?”
When I told him that Rodney had overheard a bunch of Yankees arguing before he heard muffled gunshots the morning Candy was taken, Marcus was not impressed.
“How’s that help?" he asked. “Want me to ask the Commander to round up all of Cary and check everyone for
gunshot residue?”
That Marcus. What would I do without him sitting in judgment of my every move? "Look, it’s not like I have a whole lot else to go on,” I said. “In fact, all I really have is Candy’s cell phone. Don’t ask how I got it. Do you think you can get into it for me?"
There was a long silence. When Marcus finally answered, his tone reeked of disapproval. "You have a cell phone that belongs to a kidnapping victim and you're not giving it to the police and now you want me to try to break into it?"
"That's pretty much it," I admitted. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"Not if you're willing to pay me for it. A lot."
"Triple your usual fee?" I suggested. When he did not answer, I knew he would do it for me. "I need to know who she was talking to in the days leading up to her disappearance. I have to know if she was in on it before I risk my life trying to find her."
"Isn't she supposed to be the nice one?"
"Yes. But isn't that what people always say when someone gets caught? That they never dreamed so-and-so could do such a thing because they were so damn nice?"
"No one would ever say that about you," Marcus pointed out.
"I'd never get caught," I said cheerfully. "If you do this for me, I promise I'll make sure Bill Butler gets the phone when you're done."
"And how are you going to do that without incriminating one or both of us?"
Oh, that Marcus. He was such a worrywart.
"I'll mail it to him anonymously."
There was another silence. "Is that all you've got?" Marcus finally said. “He’ll know right away that it came from you. Durham postmark? You live three blocks away from the main post office. If your face was on the stamp, it couldn’t be more obvious.”
"I’ll think of something. And you're my only hope." I was starting to feel desperate. "You've got to get into it for me."
"You know, Casey, you could be heading off on a wild goose chase. Have you thought about that? That maybe the answer is right here, closer to home, staring you in the face?"
I realized that Marcus was not telling me something— something important to the case.
"What is it?” My voice grew stern. "Marcus Dupree, if you don't spill the beans, I'm going to show up on your doorstep and I'm not going to leave until you tell me."
And I would, too. In fact, I had. Twice. Each time Marcus had given in. But only because I threatened to keep showing up on his doorstep waving fistfuls of cash and he did not want his neighbors thinking he was a drug dealer.
"There's no point in trying to keep it from you, is there?" He sounded resigned.
"Nope. What did you find out? Don't tell me that sad parade of bikers Bill Butler brought in paid off?”
“It did not. But your absence did not go unnoticed. You better have a really good excuse when you explain why you rushed off. One that does not involve me.”
“Fine. What aren’t you telling me? Was there another anonymous phone call?"
"No. But it was a phone call. Late last night. To the Tinajero parents. From the kidnappers.”
"They have a trace on the line, right?" I asked.
"Apparently. Because they were able to trace the call."
"Why didn't you tell me this right away?" I demanded.
"Since when have you ever let me get a word in?"
"Who was it? Who did they trace the call to?"
"Cody Sherrill."
"I don't believe it." I said flatly.
"Believe it. He didn’t even bother to use a burner. They're bringing him in now."
"That man is smarter than that," I said. "That's why he's never been caught."
"Well, he's been caught now. It looks like he had her kidnapped for the money."
"I don't believe he did it. Something is wrong." I thought about the night before and the timing of a late night call. If it really had been Cody Sherrill calling, he had waited to call until after he had met me at The Blue Note Grill—and after he had failed in whatever he’d had in mind for me.
"The only thing wrong is that you're barking up the wrong tree,” Marcus said.
"No, I trust my instincts. I'm bringing you Candy’s phone and then…"
"And then what?" Marcus interrupted. “Are you going to turn yourself in for withholding evidence and hope they throw you in the same cell as Cody Sherrill so you can cozy up to him?”
“Definitely not,” I promised, ignoring his skepticism. Marcus always sounded apprehensive about my ideas. But the way I looked at it, it was okay if I rushed headlong into proving my theories. I had Marcus to do the second-guessing for me. “What about you? How are you going to get into her cell phone?”
“I'm going to try the easy way in first and hope that she has a password I can guess."
I thought about that and had an idea. "I'll give you some suggestions when I get to Durham." Candy’s password had to be in that life of hers somewhere. And I knew just who to call for help.
After I hung up from taking to Marcus, I gave Frieda Salem a call. When she finally answered her cell phone, she sounded harried. "How's Rodney?" I asked.
"He's okay. He's sleeping now."
"The cops there yet?"
"No, but I think they might be on their way. The nurse came back in and she was looking at Rodney like she wanted to pull every plug in the room. Then she asked me to give her his personal effects back."
"You gave them back to her?" I asked anxiously.
"Yes. But I did not tell her about you taking the pink cell phone. I don’t think she knew it was gone. She didn’t even check. I think she got the bag from someone else and brought it to us without looking in it."
"Good. But I need your help some more. I want you to think hard. Go back to when you first met Candy in elementary school and all about her life since then. Can you tell me anything that might help us guess the password to her phone?"
Frieda told me what she could remember. As she searched through her memories of Candy, I scribbled notes as I drove. It was a good thing that the highway was nearly empty since I was weaving back and forth over the line like a Saturday night drunk. I wrote down a litany of dead pets, a couple of early boyfriends, favorite foods and colors, plus birthdates, and anything else that Frieda could think of. By the time she was done, I was closer to Durham but not a whole lot closer toward guessing what Candy’s password might be. I needed Marcus to come through.
●
“You expect me to be able to read this?" Marcus complained. He was standing in the shadow of a dumpster next to the Durham Police Department headquarters, staring at the pieces of paper I'd torn out of my notebook to give him.
“For godsakes, Marcus. I’m in a hurry. It's easy enough to read."
“Really?” He held a piece of paper up. “Because it looks to me like you had a series of strokes while writing this with your left foot.”
I snatched the paper from him and began to decipher the handwriting. Marcus copied everything down in his own ridiculously perfect penmanship, using the stenographer’s notebook he carried everywhere with him.
“Hurry up,” I said. “It literally stinks. Why are we skulking around the dumpster anyway?”
“So everyone thinks you’re an informant and not a felon,” he said snidely. “Would you prefer to meet in the lobby, perhaps with a spotlight on you and a big blinking sign that says, ‘Withholding evidence!’ behind you?”
I glared at him and continued reciting what Frieda had told me. When I was done, Marcus looked at me expectantly.
"What?" I asked.
"The phone," he said, sticking out a hand.
"Sorry," I mumbled. I handed it over to him. “Call the second you have anything."
"Of course," Marcus said. "Now go. I haven't heard anything about Cody Sherrill being taken into custody, but I know at least four local departments are looking for him now. I'll call you if I hear anything."
On impulse, I gave him a big hug. Marcus looked startled. "What was that for?" he asked.
"I
don't know," I admitted. And I didn't. But I didn't have that many friends, and seeing Frieda with her brother? Well, I guess it made me want to make sure that the friends I did have knew that I appreciated them.
"Go," Marcus demanded, shooing me away. "I need to take this upstairs and use my super secret special encryption software on it before the Russians ask for it back." He always talked about his inventions like he was about to present James Bond with yet another amazing secret weapon.
“Can I see…?” I began.
“No. Go.”
●
I don’t do waiting very well. I’m more of an instant gratification kind of girl. But I knew it would be at least a couple of hours before Marcus worked his way through possible password combinations for Candy’s phone and probably more.
My flickering engine light still worried me, so I passed the time buying quarts of oil and bottled water to store in my trunk. Five-pound bags of Peanut M&Ms were on sale so I bought ten pounds worth and added them to my emergency stash. You can never be too prepared. After that, I tried calling Burly but he was still angry at me for ignoring his warnings. I knew this because he not only would not talk to me, he made a point of promptly answering every time I called him, then hanging up without saying a word.
I was afraid to go home for fear Bill Butler was looking for me, so I sought refuge at Cocoa Cinnamon for an hour, drinking coffee so good I was pretty sure they were putting Ecstasy in it to keep the customers coming back for more. Then I succumbed to the lure of the maple and bacon doughnuts at Monuts, whispering my apologies to the Krispy Kreme gods as I did so.
I was going to be ten pounds heavier by the time Marcus got into Candy’s phone if he did not call soon. Fortunately, he worked his magic in near record time. By 5:00 PM, I was starting to crawl the walls of the Townhall bar, where I was working out my nervous energy with a game of pool while watching some Roxboro bikers at the bar chat with each other like a bunch of fifth grade girls. I half expected them to start braiding each other’s hair, at least those who had hair. About twenty minutes later, when I was thirty seconds away from succumbing to a craving for alcohol, Marcus finally called and threw me a lead.
