Ruby smiled nervously. “Sounds nice.”
“Your mother and I are tired of these cold Midwest winters. We can’t afford a condo, so we looked into buying a trailer or an RV. It’s used, but still in good shape.” Sophie slid into the booth across from Ruby and said, “We want some comfort. I think we’ve earned it.”
“Of course you have,” Ruby said. “Wait, are you moving down there?”
“Maybe. If things go well. At the very least, we’ll be snowbirds.”
Ruby’s chest constricted. Her parole would end soon, but she wasn’t ready to be out on her own. She didn’t even have a car. On her Walmart salary, it would be a while before she could get one. She’d been counting on help a little longer. She’d been counting on living at home. “What about the house?”
Sophie studied Ruby’s face for a moment. Then she said, “Can you take care of it for us?”
“You won’t sell it?”
“Heavens, no. Not unless we have to, and we’re far from that.”
“I can stay here?”
“We want you to stay here, unless at some time you decide to join us in Florida. I know you can’t leave the state right now. But someday you might want to.”
Ruby wouldn’t have asked the next question with her mother present. But she’d always been closer to Sophie. Sophie never lied to her—never that she knew of, anyway. Her throat tightened around the words. “Do you trust me?”
Sophie cocked her head and appeared to consider the question. Then she said, “Yes, I trust you. We trust you. Do you trust you?”
The door opened and Lois came in carrying a carafe of hot coffee and three mugs, their handles hooked around her fingers. She looked toward her and said, “Well, what do you think?”
Ruby said, “It’s great. Which one of you is planning to drive this beast?”
*
Morgan Holiday coasted into her parking space on the third level of the county garage. She sat for a few moments, letting the CD player finish. The bass vibrations soothed her. She remembered Matt Burnett, the kid she used to babysit, and his love for Notorious B.I.G. She’d been thinking about the past a lot since her mother’s death, especially about the losses that other people had endured. Matt’s mother had been born in Vietnam. Ruby was only fifteen years old, still a child herself, when Matt came into the world. She abandoned him almost immediately, and his grandmother and her partner raised him. They’d done a good job. Matt never wanted for much. Ruby was the only one in that family who’d wanted more than a quiet and simple life.
Morgan’s mother had told her those things after her father’s death. For a short time the two of them had been confidantes. But it didn’t take long for Morgan to see that she was taking care of her mother more and more. Morgan couldn’t deny the hint of the illness that she saw.
When Morgan was fourteen, her parents had argued about letting her babysit for the little grandson. Her father had insisted that Morgan needed to “stay closer to home.” But her mother overruled him, saying, “Those women don’t have something catching. She’ll be as safe there as she is here.” Morgan missed that mother, who’d been smart and pretty and confident. Her father had been the police officer, but her mother had been the fearless one.
The song ended. Morgan blinked away the image of melting ice on her mother’s thin housecoat. She turned off the ignition but was frozen in place. She reached for the door handle several times before her hand moved. Although she couldn’t articulate it, losing her mother had personalized death for her. She didn’t want to go back to work as a homicide officer. She’d been at her job long enough that she could have her choice of assignments. Life had been much simpler when she wrote parking tickets.
As she exited the car, she felt as if she’d plunged into a cold lake. The freezing air in the parking garage hit her face. Places on the concrete floor were icy. She walked around several hazardous spots, entered the elevator, and watched the door slide shut.
Redick was sitting at his desk staring at the phone. He looked up when she entered and said, “Hey. How you doing?”
Morgan shrugged. “I’ve been better.”
“Understandable.” He motioned for her to pull a chair over. “You feel well enough for an update on the sniper murders?”
“Sure,” Morgan said, sitting. She felt a little twist in her gut. What was it? Obviously he had to keep the investigation moving without her. Now he wanted to fill her in. She couldn’t run a homicide investigation and stay home in her bathrobe eating devil’s food cake. A moment before, she’d been ready to quit the department, and now she resented the fact that Redick had continued in her absence.
“I went back up to Ben Curry’s apartment Wednesday. He didn’t answer the door, but I could hear someone moving around in there. I went to find the super and was told he was out. So I went back almost every day. I just couldn’t catch him. I considered getting a warrant, but we don’t have enough. Curry is a registered sex offender, and so was one of our victims. Nothing connects them, nothing tangible, that is. Anyway, I just finished talking to the owner of the building. He’s going to meet me over there first thing in the morning. By now, of course, if Curry had been in there, he could be long gone.”
“He’ll have time to get rid of anything incriminating.”
Redick shook his head. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
Morgan remembered a conversation with Henry on his last day of work. He’d said he thought the sniper was a woman. He could feel it. Often hunches were more reliable than physical evidence—not in court, of course, but they sure helped with investigations. She said, “This has been a strange case from the beginning, hasn’t it?”
They were both quiet for a moment. Then Redick said, “The last time I was up there, a cold draft was coming from under the door. Like a window was open or something.”
“Maybe he left by the fire escape.”
“I had a uniform watching the alley. I don’t think he got out. I’m pretty sure someone was inside.”
“In the apartment?”
“Yeah.”
They arranged to meet at the apartment house in the morning. Morgan went through a stack of papers and files waiting on her desk. Redick left before she did, stopping to say, “I’m glad you’re back. You were the lead on this case. I need you.”
Morgan stared at the office door for a while after Redick left. He needed her?
*
That night, Morgan stopped at the market on impulse. She wanted to get something with nutrition in it, even if it was a TV dinner. She didn’t grab a cart, eyeing the ten-items-or-less register. When she walked down the fresh-fruit-and-vegetables aisle, she found she actually wanted some. This was rare for her, but having lived on sugar for a while, her survival instinct was probably running up a flag. She stopped at green peppers, grabbed a plastic bag from a roll, and, not having a lot of experience in the produce aisle, tried to figure which end came open.
“That’s her!” Then came the sound of little feet running toward her. She turned, and there was Dominic Brown, Chelsea’s son. He hit her legs at about thirty miles per hour, and she grabbed the vegetable bin to steady herself.
“When are you coming to my house?” Dom asked.
“Soon, I hope.” She scanned the area for his mother. There she was, heading toward them.
“Hello,” Morgan said as Chelsea reached for the kid.
Chelsea glared at her. Then she grabbed Dominic’s arm and gently tugged him away from Morgan’s legs. “Come on, Dom. We got to go.”
Morgan stood blinking for a few seconds. “Is something the matter?”
“Not at all,” Chelsea said. “But I don’t associate with women like you, and I try to keep my son away from them.”
Morgan watched as Chelsea led the boy away. Had she done something wrong? This felt too much like Texas and Chelsea Payne’s reaction when she said the word “lesbian.” Morgan hadn’t known what she did wrong then either. Women sure were touchy. Morgan was tir
ed and running on nothing but chocolate cake, but she went into motion. She hurried to Chelsea and the boy, who now sat in the cart. “What happened?”
“Oh, please,” Chelsea said, dramatically shaking her head.
“Yes, please. What have I done to upset you?”
“Look. I thought we might be friends, maybe even more than that. But I was wrong.”
“We can be friends,” Morgan said. “I want to be friends. Dom wants to be friends. You weren’t wrong.”
“You just aren’t particular enough about who you make friends with.”
“What?”
“Vic.”
Morgan had to think hard about that. She’d actually managed to put Vic out of her mind. “The woman in the bar?”
“Ah, so you do know what I mean.”
“I had too much to drink,” Morgan said sheepishly.
“I’ll say.” Chelsea turned her back to the boy and lowered her voice. “Vic does that with all the new women. You’re just another notch in her belt. By the next day, every lesbian in town knew about you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t owe me any explanation. We aren’t dating.” Chelsea turned and pushed the cart away.
Morgan sighed but didn’t go after Chelsea. There was no point. She tossed the unopened plastic bag on the display of salad dressing and rushed out of the store.
*
Fred Cohen was waiting inside the front door of the Leland Apartments when they arrived. He looked like he was seventy-five to eighty, with more hair in his ears than on his head. Detective Redick shook his hand and introduced Morgan as his “boss.” Cohen’s hands were thin. Morgan had touched dead bodies warmer than his hands. They followed him slowly up the stairs. He’d take one step up, turn and say something, take another step, and turn again.
“Man my age should be retired.” Step, stop, and turn. “But I need the extra income.” Step, stop, and turn. “Have three buildings in this area.” Step, stop, and turn. “No one to help.” And so on. “I hired a man to do maintenance and collect rent. He doesn’t do either very well.” Cohen made the corner and started up the next flight of stairs.
He went on stopping and talking. Morgan looked around as they reached the landing of the second floor. A long dark hallway stretched before her. The place smelled musty and faintly of urine. She’d been in roach- and rat-infested places like this several times. A baby was crying in the distance and, from somewhere near, a toilet flushed. They climbed the creaking stairs to the third floor. The old man was getting winded. “—can’t understand why he’s never here.”
Redick knocked on Curry’s door. He waited a moment then knocked again, calling, “It’s the police, Mr. Curry, open up.”
At length Morgan and Redick indicated that they were ready. Cohen pulled a large ring of keys from his pocket and tried five of them before one worked. He stepped back, saying, “You two go ahead. I got a complaint about some problem with the door to the roof.”
Morgan noticed the stale smell of cigarettes first. Then she realized that the air was cold even though steam radiators had heat waves rising from them. The living room was small—a couch, two chairs, a nineteen-inch television, with a computer in the corner. The coffee table contained a full ashtray, dirty dishes, and empty beer cans. Redick turned on an overhead light and roaches scattered. The bare bulb cast menacing shadows. Redick disappeared into the kitchen, then called to her. “Found the source of the cold air. You better come in here.”
Two windows faced the alley. One had been shattered, bloody shards of glass still on the ledge. The broken window was somewhat clumsily covered with cardboard and duct tape. Redick was kneeling near an overflowing trash can. He looked toward her and said, “Dried blood spatter. Looks like we got ourselves a crime scene.”
Morgan heard something then. Either the rats were as big as cats or someone else was in the apartment. She put her forefinger to her lips, motioning to Redick. The sound came from the direction of the bedroom that was just off the kitchen. Morgan held her weapon out in front of her and approached the open doorway. “This is the police,” she called out. “Put your hands in the air and come out slowly.”
She waited and nothing happened. She’d started to wonder if she’d been mistaken when she heard the sound again. A child was coughing. Redick touched her shoulder and nodded toward a narrow closet door. He pointed his weapon at the ceiling with one hand and pulled the closet door open with the other.
On the floor, among old shoes and dusty boxes, a little girl sat wrapped in a dirty blanket, her face streaked with tears and snot crusted on her upper lip. Her dark blond hair was tied with mismatched rubber bands in pigtails. Morgan couldn’t really guess her age from where she was, but she was probably less than seven or eight.
Morgan holstered her gun and knelt before the child. She extended her hand but the youngster drew away. She could hear Redick back in the kitchen radioing for Forensics and Social Services. “My name is Morgan,” she said. “What’s yours?”
The child buried her face in the blanket.
An empty Cheerios box and a cookie jar were wedged between the girl and the back wall. Morgan wondered how long the kid had been alone. “Are you hungry?”
The child met her eyes and nodded.
Morgan extended her hand again. “Come on out, then. We’ll get you something to eat.”
The girl’s voice was a raspy whisper. “McDonald’s?”
“If that’s what you want.”
The little girl crawled out of the closet. It was the smell that told Morgan the kid’s story. The blanket reeked with sweat and urine, and something else. She recognized the starchy smell of stale semen.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alonzo Thomas learned early that it was easier to want less than to have more, so he was grateful for what came his way. This year his only grandson was home safely from his third tour in Iraq and was driving all the way from North Carolina to spend Christmas with them. Alonzo’s wife had been baking Christmas cookies all week. He had both the twenty-fourth and the twenty-fifth off work. On this last pickup before Christmas, several houses on his regular routes left tips in Christmas cards, attached with ribbons to trash cans. Each would contain ten or twenty dollars. At quitting time, after a long day and the usual trip to the dump, he pulled into Ralph’s lot, parked the truck, and got out. When he started toward his car, old Grady came rushing out of the office waving his arms.
“Wait. ’Lonzo, you got to take another truck to the dump.”
“I just come from there. It’s quitting time.”
“If you empty Number Four, I’ll pay you and your crew time and a half. It came back from the garage stinking to high heaven.”
Number Four was Alonzo’s regular truck. It had broken down one morning about two weeks before. They’d only worked a couple hours before it quit running. There wasn’t near a full load in it. “It’s going on seven,” he said. “They close at seven.”
“I called out there. She’s waiting for you.”
“What’s a little smell? We’re in the trash business.”
“Double time.”
Alonzo sighed and turned back toward the line of trucks. “I got to call the wife.”
Once Alonzo had talked to her, he was okay with the extra trip. As they drove out of town and toward the landfill, he imagined sleeping late in the morning, then going shopping with that tip money. Number Four had been out of commission with some kind of fuel-injection problem. It had died in the middle of an intersection and was towed back to the lot. All this time, the mechanic had been waiting for a part. Alonzo had been doing his route in the standby, an old truck that shook and rattled but ran fine. Certainly larger loads of trash had set longer in the winter without being dumped. But Grady was right, something in the truck smelled horrible.
After twenty-seven years on the job, Alonzo figured he’d seen about everything. The sights and smells had stopped bothering him so long ago that he could barely remember th
em ever getting to him. But he would allow that winter was easier. A frozen landfill didn’t reek, and often snow covered the worst of the trash.
“Smells like something died back there,” Tashaun complained.
“Sure does,” Alonzo said. “Probably somebody throwed a dead dog or cat in the garbage can.”
They were quiet for a few blocks, then CJ said, “Remember the day we found that dead guy over on the west end?”
Alonzo thought that both Tashaun and CJ might quit after that day if new jobs had been easier to come by. He’d been raised in the South Side of Chicago. Coming up, he’d walked out his door on more than one occasion and seen a dead body. People where he came from just stepped around it until someone tipped the police. Back then the police halfheartedly investigated. But even the dead man’s family didn’t ask too many questions.
Although Tashaun had been in prison, he didn’t seem to have the capacity to forget that dead man, especially when CJ had talked about nothing else for weeks. Alonzo finally told her that he wanted a new topic or quiet. When she protested, he told her he could have her transferred to another truck. She’d shut up then because she was the only woman hauler, and she knew the other drivers didn’t want her. This night Alonzo only needed one of them, but he didn’t want to decide which one, so he’d made them both come along. They rode the rest of the way from town in the cold cab of the truck silently.
Just two days past the shortest day of the year, it had been dark for over two hours when Alonzo pulled the truck up to the entrance. The old girl who worked the gatehouse was waiting for them and ready to go home. Alonzo paid her, and she swung the gate open, then jumped on the running board. “Take her back to the left, past the dead pine tree.”
“Aw, come on. I almost buried the last truck to the axle out there earlier,” Alonzo said. “That left-hand lane is narrow and rough. I don’t want to spend Christmas digging this here truck out.”
Retirement Plan Page 24
