by Louisa Luna
The mother sneered and said, “Hey, mind your own fucking business, aright? He’s fine.”
Cap and the boy stared at each other for a minute, the boy with a couple of tears on his pink cheeks, both of them breathing heavy.
—
“Is he lying?” Vega asked as Cap drove them down a four-lane state highway.
“He could be,” said Cap. “He’s a liar, generally.”
“No one lies all the time unless there’s a compulsion.”
“I don’t think that’s the case. He just lies to cover his ass like the rest of us,” said Cap.
Vega’s eyes wandered to the signs of small businesses flashing past: AKA COPIER SERVICE, PERSONAL APPEARANCES HAIR SALON, ROUTE 61 BAR AND GRILL.
“You don’t,” she said. “I don’t.”
“Well, Vega, I can’t really imagine the situation where you’d need to cover your ass for any reason.”
“Then you have a limited imagination, Caplan,” she said, turning to him. “So what’s the takeaway?”
“He might help us, and he might not. Traynor, the chief, might help us, might not….”
“So we keep going our own way,” said Vega.
“Yeah. What was Marsh’s brother like?”
“Strange. He’s hiding something, but I don’t know what. I asked him to imagine why he thought someone would send that email, and he had a theory.”
“What was it?”
“That his brother and the Brandt girls were taken by the same person.”
“So who’s the sender of the email?”
“Next-door neighbor, guilty accomplice, doesn’t matter. Point of it is, he’d thought about it, while his mother was completely hard-pressed for an idea.”
“So…” said Cap, taking the exit for Raven Run. “You think that’s suspicious.”
“He also was a little out of it, running his words together,” she said, remembering. Without thinking she touched her lips and said, “Warm.”
“Huh?” said Cap.
“He was really warm. We were outside in the rain a good ten minutes, temperature’s probably forty degrees. He had short sleeves and was warm.”
“Drugs?”
“Seems most likely,” she said.
She thought for a moment and turned her body to face Cap.
“How much trouble you think it would be to find out what happened to Nolan Marsh?” she said.
Cap blew air through his lips in an O.
“Three-year-old cold case, missing vulnerable adult with no viable leads?”
“We don’t know we have no viable leads.”
“Look, Ralz may be Junior’s errand boy, but he knows what he’s doing. If he couldn’t find Nolan three years ago, chances are it’s a lost cause.”
Vega reared back like she’d been pushed.
“Tell that to his mother.”
“Hey,” said Cap. “I don’t like it, but I know that’s how it is. You do too,” he said quietly.
“So what if it is related to the girls? Then it’s not just an exercise.”
“No evidence either way,” said Cap.
Then, suddenly, he looked discouraged.
“But we have to explore every branch of the tree,” he muttered.
“Explore every branch of the tree?” said Vega. “Did you see that on a motivational poster?”
Cap glanced back and forth between her and the road.
“I’m sorry, Vega, are you making a joke at my expense? Do you actually have a sense of humor?”
She ignored him, tapped her knuckles against the window, said, “I think we have to put both cases side by side and see what the connection is. Nobody writes an email like that without a motive.”
“Fine,” said Cap. “When we’re in bed with Junior and Traynor and Ralz we can ask for the file on Nolan. Until then can we focus on WT?”
“Sure. Can you think about more than one thing at once?”
She was honestly not trying to be difficult.
Cap seemed to know that and said, “Why, sure.”
The very corner of his mouth turned up, and Vega thought if that corner ate all its vegetables, one day it could grow into a real smile.
—
They found Jamie Brandt in front of a Kmart talking to a blond woman in a windbreaker with a Fox 29 logo on the back. There was a man loading equipment into the back of a van, and a small group of people handing out flyers. The sun was just about down.
A tall, older woman who Cap thought had a slight hunchback came up to them.
“So,” she said to Vega, indignant. “Any news?”
“Not yet,” said Vega, who seemed to know her. “We need to talk to Jamie.”
“Who’s the we?” the woman said, nodding to Cap.
“Max Caplan,” said Cap.
“This is Jamie’s mother, Gail White,” said Vega to Cap. Then she turned to Gail and added, “I’ve hired him as a consultant. He’s a former police officer.”
“Good thing you’re a former,” said Gail. “Talk about a bunch of ignorants. Your IQ probably went up fifty points when you walked out the door.”
Cap couldn’t help smiling. He liked Gail White.
“I’ll get her for you. She just did an interview with Hallie Summers from Fox in Philly. She’s just trying to make her cry again, asking her the same dumbass questions.”
Gail seemed to be one of those people who said things without expecting or needing a response. She left then and went to Jamie, who saw Vega and Cap and started to run, saying something in haste to the woman from the news.
“What is it, anything?” she said.
She was puffy eyed and her skin was dry, flaking around her temples and her mouth. Her hair was wet from the rain—she didn’t have an umbrella and didn’t seem to notice. Cap knew the hours were stacking up on her, and soon she would take the slow turn from despair to mourning.
“No,” said Cap. “But we have to check something with you. Will you step over to my car?”
“Yeah, Maggie made these,” she said, handing them soggy flyers.
On each were the most recent school photos of Kylie and Bailey, their stats and the word “MISSING” at the bottom of the page.
“Kylie did have a diary. She kept it at Cole’s house,” said Cap.
“What, really? Where…where is it?” she said, panicky, stretching her neck so she could look into Cap’s car.
“We gave it to the police, but we have pictures.”
Cap held his umbrella over the women as Vega showed Jamie her phone, the image of the last page of the diary. Jamie squinted. Her breath sped up.
“That’s her writing. That’s how she does letters.”
“Good,” said Cap. “Do you know who WT is?”
“No,” she said. “Maybe a boy in her class?”
“We checked the class list,” said Vega. “Only one ‘W’—Wesley McPherson. No WT.”
“Anyone come to mind? William, Walker, Wayne?”
Jamie pressed her hand to her forehead, as if she were applying a compress.
“No, I can’t think of anyone,” she said. “Fuck, why can’t I think of anyone?”
“It might not be an obvious person. We’ll check everyone in the school, every class, teachers.”
“The police are following their leads too.”
“You think this WT had something to do with it?” said Jamie.
“It’s an idea. She wrote some notes about him in the diary too.”
Vega scrolled so Jamie could see the initials.
“Shit,” she said. “Who the fuck is he?”
Cap’s phone buzzed, and he handed the umbrella to Vega and stepped away. He saw Em’s name come up, and he picked up.
“Em.”
“Hey, Cap, can you meet?” said Em under his breath.
“Yeah, when?”
“Fifteen minutes, the luncheonette?”
“Yeah. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Got something for you.”
Cap heard something different in his voice. When Em had first started at the department, he’d been all cocky frat boy, maybe a little too enthusiastic when pinning and cuffing a suspect, calling the rest of the guys bitches when they went home early from drinking after a second shift. If they needed someone to sit on an amped-up PCP freak, they’d send Em, who didn’t care if he got black eyes and chipped teeth before holidays. Then he got his girlfriend pregnant. Then she was his wife and she got pregnant again, the second time with twins. Then Em was tamed because it was simple, Cap knew, because he had the fear, because he had three kids and a wife and a whole life he could fuck up.
But just now he heard it—the old Em, the one who made a prank call to Junior and pretended to be a hooker.
“Oh yeah?” said Cap, smiling into the phone. “Can I have a hint?”
“It’s bigger than a breadbox.”
“Great. See you soon.”
Cap hung up and looked back to the women. Jamie stared at the image of her daughter’s phantom handwriting on the phone; Vega met Cap’s eyes and saw something there. She sniffed, a fox sniffing out a jackrabbit.
—
Vega ran a napkin over a smear of ketchup left on the table by the previous customer. She sat next to Cap in a booth, and Wiley Emerson was opposite them, breathing heavily and perspiring. Rain streaked up the window next to them.
“Here you go,” said Em, sliding a white envelope across the table toward Cap.
Vega placed her palm gently on top of it, intercepting it, and picked it up, opened the flap. Cap raised his hands in surrender. All you.
“I didn’t include the ones that didn’t see anything, or from the Kmart or anything. These are just the people from the parking lot.”
“Three,” said Vega.
“That’s it. It was a slow day over there, I guess.”
“Are they consistent?” asked Cap.
“More or less. One of the witnesses is an eighty-something man; some of his stuff doesn’t make sense, but there’s a type there. You’ll see it—Caucasian male teenager, baseball hat and sweatshirt.”
“Car?” said Vega.
“Tan, white, beige compact.”
“Three witnesses, three colors,” she said.
“Yeah, no one saw plates.”
“No one ever sees plates,” said Cap.
“So they couldn’t see his face,” said Vega. “Because of the hat.”
“None of them got a good look, no.”
“Who took the statements?” said Cap.
“Ralz and Harrison.”
“The word’s getting out?”
“Every cop in Pennsylvania has the description, but they can’t pull over every tan, white, or beige vehicle on the street.”
Cap nodded.
Em tapped all his fingers on the table and bounced back and forth on the seat a little bit.
“I better get back. I told Junior I needed some coffee that didn’t taste like cat shit.”
“Thanks for doing this,” Cap said. “What changed your mind?”
Em exhaled loudly and said, “I’m just thinking about it. Went home to my kids, you know. Jake’s the same age as the little Brandt girl, and I was like, what the fuck am I doing? Why not, why fuckin’ not? Let’s get this thing by the fuckin’ nuts, right?” he said, looking at Cap. Then, to Vega, “Excuse me.”
“Talk about nuts all you want,” she said. “Did Traynor bring in a Fed?”
“Yeah, his name’s Cartwright. He just came in this morning and been locked up with the chief.”
Cap nodded, said, “Look, I shared some information with Junior earlier. We might all be working together real soon.”
“Good. That’s good, right?”
“Right. Thanks, Em.”
Em grinned, looking a little dopey. He turned to Vega, waiting on something, like he’d asked her a question that she hadn’t answered yet.
She stared back, unsure of what he wanted. She glanced at Cap, who made some eye rolls in Em’s direction.
“Oh, thanks,” she said.
“My pleasure,” said Em. “I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, Miss Vega,” he said, standing up from the booth. “Talk soon, Cap.”
Then he headed for the door. He grabbed a toothpick from a dispenser on the counter on the way out and stuck it in his mouth like a cowboy.
Vega watched him out the window for a second longer as he walked through the parking lot, while she handed the envelope to Cap. Please thank you, please thank you, please thank you, she thought, because it helped to practice.
—
A half hour later they were at Cap’s house, their notes and the statements spread out on the kitchen table. Cap put on a pot of coffee and then winced and shook a finger at Vega.
“I don’t have tea,” he said.
“I’m fine,” said Vega, looking over the pages.
“So three people,” said Cap. “Rachel Simmons, twenty-three, getting into her car after returning a Blu-ray player at Best Buy, notices the girls crossing the street, sees one of them hug a boy, presumably the driver, wearing a white baseball hat and light-colored sweatshirt. Girls get into the car, which she thinks is tan. Doesn’t think anything’s strange about it, thinks the girl and boy must be boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Carl Crain,” said Vega. “Forty-five, loading baseball equipment into the back of his truck with his son. He sees the girls cross the highway and thinks, Where’re their parents? Then sees the bigger one hug a Caucasian male dressed in a gray sweatshirt and white baseball hat. They get into the car and drive away. Son doesn’t see anything.”
“And Roy Eldridge, eighty-seven, as he’s being driven by his niece out of the mall parking lot onto the highway, sees a boy hug a girl. Then he says two girls get in the car with Harry. Ralz asks who Harry is. The niece says Harry is Eldridge’s son; Eldridge is old and confused. Thinks the boy in the baseball hat is his son.”
“Or looks like his son. And the niece didn’t see the boy or the girls.”
“Right.”
“It doesn’t say anything about what Harry looks like,” said Vega, staring straight ahead.
“No, but the niece wouldn’t necessarily know that. May not be relevant either. Eldridge is almost ninety and prone to bouts of”—Cap looked back at the statement and read—“ ‘disorientation and aphasia.’ ”
“We could still check. All of them, see if their memory’s been jogged at all since they talked to Ralz.” She took a deep breath and tapped her fingers on the table. “Maybe he didn’t write everything down either.”
“It’s a possibility,” said Cap, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “They were probably rushing trying to talk to everyone at the mall who might have seen something. That’s a lot of statements to take and only two police.”
Cap looked at his phone. A text from Nell: “Have you seen the news??? Break in your case. Turn on 6.”
“What is it?” said Vega.
“Nell. My daughter. Says there’s a break in the case.”
Cap went to the living room and dug the remote out from the couch, turned on the TV, and stood there with his arms folded. There was footage of a boy, a teenager, long-limbed and lanky, being led out of a cruiser, a sweatshirt pulled up over his face, and up the steps of the station. Cap recognized most of the cops standing on the steps, waving off the press like mosquitoes. Ralz guided the boy through the front doors.
“—brought in for questioning this evening,” said the anchorwoman. “The police are releasing no information about the underage suspect except to say they have reason to believe he may know the whereabouts of Kylie and Bailey Brandt.”
The image cut back to the anchorpeople with their moderately concerned expressions and moderately detached commentary.
The woman said, “Kylie and Bailey Brandt were last seen at the Ridgewood Mall on Sterling Road East and Highway 61 last Saturday morning. If you have any information regarding their whereabouts, please call your local authorities. Scott?”
>
Scott had a downcast sort of look and said thoughtfully, “Terrible.” Then, a pause. “A Reading man pleaded guilty to two counts of homicide this morning—”
Cap muted it. He turned to Vega, who had the phone pressed to her ear.
“Who are you calling?”
“Jamie Brandt.” Vega’s eyes focused as she listened to a voice on the other end. “Why?” she said into the phone. Then she pulled it from her head and tapped it, held it out in front of her.
“That’s Sonny Thomas,” said Jamie’s voice, sharp and strained on the speaker.
“The boy who lives in your apartment complex,” said Vega.
“Jamie, it’s Max Caplan. Why would the police want him? Did you tell them anything about Sonny you maybe forgot to tell us?” Cap said, feeling his heart rate speed up.
Something about it wasn’t right, he knew, but it was useless to try to pin it down now.
“What’s ‘Sonny’ short for?” said Vega, staring at Cap.
“What?” said Jamie, distracted, her mother’s voice in the background.
“Sonny,” said Cap. “The name, is it short for something?”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” said Jamie, realizing. “It’s Wilson. Wilson Thomas.”
Jamie said she had to go and hung up on them.
“Why did we cross him off our list again?” said Cap, agitated.
“Jamie didn’t think he was a viable candidate.”
He shook his head to some internal rhythm.
“You have a lot of experience letting your clients call the shots?” he said with an edge.
“Only when their arguments make sense,” said Vega. “How would a fifteen-year-old who lived a few doors down from the Brandts coordinate the abduction, stash the girls somewhere, and then keep showing up at home, business as usual?”
“It’s possible,” said Cap.
“Not probable,” said Vega.
“The kidnapper is someone who’s not probable,” said Cap. “Otherwise it would be obvious who he is.”
“Did Em call you back yet?”
Cap glanced at his phone.
“No.”
“Then we can’t do anything. Junior’s going to want Sonny alone in a room before his mother can get a lawyer to him—he’s not going to call in the witnesses until tomorrow midday at the earliest. Let’s talk to them first.”
