True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  Twelve

  DETECTIVE HAYES TRIES TO LINK the pieces. Somewhere, beneath a clip or in a handwritten margin note or in the shadow of a photograph, an implication waits to spring out at him. When Officer Pine leans against the door jamb to the closet-sized office, Hayes looks up from the folders, papers, photographs and scribbled notes, clipped and labeled and filed and stapled in neat piles.

  “What do you have?” Pine asks.

  “One of two things.”

  “Number one?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Right. A crime transpired in mere minutes in an empty parking lot. There are no witnesses other than the victims. I have a stolen armored truck loaded with four million dollars because the banks were stacking the vaults that day. The truck proceeded on its merry way to its next scheduled stop so as not to attract any attention. Successfully, too, I might add. Currently being rechecked for prints and any hair, fabric threads, fingernails. Anything. I have four perpetrators, faces brilliantly concealed, though all appeared to be Caucasian, as best as can be deciphered, maybe thirty to fifty in age.”

  “Well now. That narrows things down.”

  “The weapons are a real help, too,” Hayes adds. “Forty-fives and nine-millimeters. As common as peppermint gum. And I have an unaccounted-for block of time between the robbery and the return of the kid. No clues, no witnesses, no evidence. They just vanished. And don’t forget the victims. Two armed truck employees, the driver and the hopper, dismantled in less than sixty seconds. Not enough time to garner details. I have a distraught young mother, widowed, with unclear memory except for flashbacks. I have a butcher who stumbled upon the kid in a shady parking lot at dusk. Minimal to zilch visibility. Oh. And I have a two-and-a-half-year-old child hostage who has stopped talking.”

  “Okay. Nothing. What’s the second possibility?”

  “Perfection. They pulled off the perfect crime. A heist in an empty parking lot with no witnesses, knowledge of the armored truck schedule that buys them time, perfect masks, typical clothes every other guy out there is walking around in, a stricken widow, a hostage drop in the worst light of day, and oh yeah, my best witness can’t talk.”

  “Don’t forget the cat.”

  “Right. Which the humane society and local shelters have no record of.”

  “So how’s it perfection?”

  “It’s the domino effect,” Hayes explains. “Every vague, indistinct fact, from the use of a child to the lighting of the day, was intentional, falling right into place and bumping the creeps to their destination, probably on a tropical island right about now. I’m sure there are dominoes that I’m not seeing, but the ones that I do see flipped down and around, up and down like magic, every single one moving the crime unimpeded along its path.”

  “I guess we need to find more dominoes.”

  “Yeah.” Hayes turns to glance out the window behind him when a motorcycle thunders past outside. “One that twisted a little when it fell.”

  Amy gathers her purse, stands and straightens her skirt. She’s heard enough. She stopped in at the police department on a whim, hoping to inquire about any progress in the investigation since she’d been fingerprinted over a week ago. When the receptionist sat her in this empty office adjoining Hayes’ until he was free, Amy had no idea she would hear the full truth laid out. When the motorcycle blows past, she takes a resigned breath, walks out of the office, down the hallway, and out the Exit door without saying a word to Hayes. There would be no point in hearing the stacks of paper rifled through again, no point in photographs being unclipped from forms, no point in hearing another version of the same explanation that they’ve got nothing.

  * * *

  George knows without looking. Summer sounds from the hills outside come through his windows. Robins’ song and a distant lawn mower blend with the June air. On Wednesdays, Dean opens up the shop and grinds the hamburger or debones chicken thighs, and George uses the morning to run errands or finish paperwork or get a haircut. Today a noise stops him, and he knows. It silences the robins and drowns out the distant mower.

  Nate has bought a bike. He bought into the dream. Two brothers, two Harley Davidsons. And what the sound of that approaching bike engine does is trigger hearing another sound, that of baseball cards clipped to their bicycle spokes. Looking out at the long drive, he sees Nate, nine-years-old and pedaling furiously to keep up with him, flying down the neighborhood streets on simmering summer days. Nate’s voice carried to him, mixing in with the wind and the rat-a-tat-tat of the baseball cards, planning their routes, coasting down hills, dreaming of bigger bikes. Later, in a dark lounge, how many times did his brother’s voice beguile with that same dream? It never stopped, Nate’s way of envisioning the adventure of cruising the open road together on real motorcycles, sans the baseball cards.

  George steps out his front door and waits in the warm sunshine for his brother to pull up, because he just knows it’s him. Nate is still bent on shaping his dreams into real life. The heist went down. So will the bike trip. Those childhood baseball cards meant something. Pretend doesn’t exist in Nate’s mind. Maybe it never has.

  The Harley pulls up alongside the curb, its chrome-spoked wheels spinning to a slow stop. Nate wears dark sunglasses, jeans, black tee and leather boots. “Get on,” he yells over the idle, hitching his chin toward the seat behind him.

  George considers the bike, knowing he’ll get on. Nate will believe he’s giving in to his grin that asks What’s the big deal? Let’s just go for it, man. Feel good.

  But that isn’t what has him step closer. It’s that now he has to keep tabs on how his brother orchestrates his own world, his own laws. And the only way to get inside Nate’s head is to go along with him and observe. To hike his leg over the seat and settle in behind him.

  Then it’s just the two of them moving through Addison’s back roads on a Harley Davidson. This time they don’t end up in a bank parking lot. This time there are no armored trucks or kidnapped girls. This is a good high, meant to bring George back for more. Railroad tracks run dead-center through town, one side of the tracks more rural with old homes with varying roof peaks and gingerbread trim, the other side more congested with tended houses on precise, manicured yards, grocery stores and banks nearby. Nate drives over the railroad tracks, through town to the Turnpike where he weaves in and out of car back-ups, cruising the highway until exiting and coasting around The Green. He parks the bike in front of Joel’s Bar and Grille.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” George says. He drags a hand back through his hair and shifts in the booth. Except for where the entrance door is propped open, not much sunlight reaches into the neighborhood bar. The hum of passing cars and pedestrian voices comes in piecemeal.

  “No I’m not.” Nate fills two glasses from the pitcher on the table between them.

  “What would you call it then?”

  Nate throws back a long swallow. “Buying a bike? Taking advantage of the situation. There’s one with your name on it waiting for you. Jump in.”

  George lifts his glass, watching his brother closely. “Water’s fine?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to spend the cash.”

  “Not so anyone will notice. What’s the big deal with a bike?” Nate turns in the booth, stretching his legs out. “We had plans, remember? The call of the open road.”

  “That was talk, Nate. Bullshit.”

  “No it wasn’t.”

  “Dreams, then.”

  “Yours for the taking.”

  “Not now. That dream was for when we were older. Kids grown, no obligations.”

  “You got any now?”

  George doesn’t answer.

  “What?” Nate asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you holding out on me?”

  “Nothing, I said.” He takes another drink of the beer, setting the mug in front of him.

  “It’s that
woman, isn’t it?”

  George glances toward the door. How did he end up here, sitting in a local bar at ten-thirty on a Wednesday morning, downing a brew with the rising sun, an illegal millionaire keeping a cautious eye on his dubious brother? What the hell happened? His father would turn in his grave. “Her name’s Amy.”

  Nate shakes his head. “Now you see? I’m not the one who’s fucking crazy.”

  “Why don’t you shut up?”

  “What are you doing messing around with that dame?” Nate reins his long legs back in and leans his elbows on the table.

  George considers his brother. “I’ve got an obligation.”

  “The hell you do.”

  “The hell I don’t.”

  “You’re going to screw up, George. The guys won’t like it.”

  “Do you realize what’s happened because of that day? Her girl stopped talking after what we put her through.”

  “We didn’t do anything. She was taken care of.”

  “Right. Ripped out of her mother’s arms, stolen away, guns and crazy bullshit going down all around her. Christ, Nate. She’s not even three-years-old.”

  Nate blows out a long breath and tops off his glass. “All right. But you’ve got to be careful. That Amy, she could figure things out.”

  “Like what? My face was concealed.”

  “What about the girl? She might recognize you from being on the truck.”

  “She was in shock on that truck. I doubt she’s going to match me up to the crime.”

  Nate takes a long swallow of his beer and eyes George. “So what are you doing? You seeing her, you know, or just checking up on her?”

  George thinks of the day he spent with Amy and her daughter on The Green, right outside the bar he sits in now. He looks from the doorway, from cars passing and kids wheeling by on bicycles, to his brother’s face, contemplating how much his brother should, or already knows. “I’m seeing her.”

  “Damn it. What are you, a martyr? Making things up to her?”

  “What if I am? What’s your beef with it?”

  “You’ll slip, George. You’ll say something, or she’ll wonder about your cash flow, or the girl will somehow remember you.”

  “Stop right there.” George drops his voice. “First of all, there is no cash flow. That money’s a frozen asset. Somehow, someway, it’s all going back, even if it’s dumped off in the middle of the night. I can’t live with that bank account in my kitchen.”

  “You better get used to living with it.” Nate leans back in the booth. He points at George, keeping his voice low. “You start screwing around with returning the cash, you’ll leave a trail of crumbs leading right back to us. I beat the freaking house that day and you’re not going to take me down with some lousy guilt trip.”

  “What? You took me down with that heist, screwed up my whole life, Nate.”

  “I fixed your life. After ten years of walking in Dad’s shoes cutting meat instead of playing ball, you’re finally set. That’s major league cash, man, you can live any dream now. And we worked real hard for it. Someday you’ll appreciate it. Just let that money sit for now. That’s all you have to do. Forget it and resume your normal life. Can’t you get that through your head?”

  “I did. It’s only normal that I see Amy. No one would think twice about how that came about. Fate brought us together when I returned her daughter.” He stands up and looks down at Nate. “So you see, I do have an obligation. There won’t be any new Harleys parked at my home. I’m not going anywhere and I’m not going to stop seeing Amy. You don’t control me, Nate.”

  Nate squints up at him. “Reid won’t like it.”

  George looks at the ceiling with a deep breath. “If he’s got a problem with my life, he can come see me at the shop, okay? Where’s he hiding himself anyway?” He imagines one day walking into town hall and seeing Elliott on the town council, or going to buy a new car and Reid’s the sales manager.

  “I can’t tell you, man. And you’re still being watched.”

  George sits again. “I figured as much. By who?”

  Nate shakes his head. “Listen, when the Feds keep coming up empty with who took that truck, they’ll go back to what they do have and pick it apart. And they have you, George. You. Until that trail is ice cold, you don’t know where Reid is, how we planned it, where we all met, how much of that day was planned months in advance, how much was fucking coincidence and who’s watching who. All you know is that you spent the day at the casino. With me.” Nate leans across the table. “Got it? You’re my alibi. I took care of you, guy. You’re set for life. Now you’ve got to take care of me. Like always, you know? We look out for each other.”

  “You think that’s all there is to this? Family taking care of each other?”

  “That’s right.” Nate stands and clasps George’s hand with both of his in a shake. “That’s right.”

  * * *

  Does color mean anything? Grace lies on her stomach on the kitchen floor, a rainbow of crayons spread before her. Angel bats the magenta beneath the table, then sits under a chair and watches it roll. Grace carefully selects her colors, her fingers coming to light on first one, then another, as though with artistic thought before she wraps her hand around it. Then she slowly covers page after page of her doodle pad with scribbles and squiggles. Some pages bear what looks like no more than a handful of commas; others are nearly filled with a solid block of color as her arm moves round and round, stopping only to select a new crayon before filling in every white space with thick red or green or blue.

  Do they mean anything, the colors and changing hand pressure on the pages? Do they express her daughter’s confusion? Anger? Fear? Amy wants to take a few pages herself, pick up the crayons and scream her hand arbitrarily across the paper. She imagines a real scream emanating with the crayon motion. When she looks at Grace, she hopes for it. Any noise, any word or sound coming from her baby’s lungs can release that day.

  Amy pulls her own sketch pad from the kitchen drawer, lifts the cover and sees the black gun and her daughter’s stunned expression. Come on, Gracie, she thinks. Just let it out. Scream, for God’s sake. Scream. But nothing, nothing ever comes.

  So she folds the pages of her pad back to a clean page. Then she gets down on her knees beside Grace and sets her pad on the wide-plank wood floor. Angel walks over, stepping lightly. She stops and curls her feet beneath her, watching as Amy shifts her legs and lies flat beside her daughter. She reaches for a brown crayon and presses hard on her own page, her arm moving in slow and angry circles.

  * * *

  Once Nate drops him back home, George changes into the same white shirt and black pants he insists his help wears. Before leaving, he picks up his mail, setting the bills on the kitchen counter. Nate’s tiled wall rises before him, looking like a panoramic view of a stormy sky, dark gray stone tiles marbled with streaks of cream. He reaches a hand around the side and slides out the fifth stone up from the floor. His fingers find the release beneath the tile, allowing him to pull out a drawer from the wall, a drawer concealed by Nate’s craftsmanship. A drawer deep and wide enough to hold two large black duffel bags.

  Two black duffel bags that weigh on him always, even as he walks past the wildflower beds and up the green-painted stairs to the front porch of Amy’s farmhouse on his way to work. A pot of geraniums sits on a bistro table between two white wicker chairs. The inside door is open and he sees into the house but hears no noise. No chatting voices or rattling pots from the country kitchen with decorative baskets hanging on the heart-dotted wallpaper. No romantic tunes playing on the radio, no telephone ringing in the room where a red ceramic rooster and pewter creamer sit on top of an old wooden potato bin. From the cool shade of the porch, he knocks on the screen door just as Amy rounds the corner.

  “Well hi there,” she says, walking over and unlocking the latch. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Hey, Amy,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d swing by on my w
ay to work.”

  “No, not at all,” she says, smiling. “Come on in.”

  She holds the screen door open for him as he steps inside, turns back to her and hesitates for only a moment before raising his hands to her arms, leaning in and kissing her lightly. Her hand rises to his face and he takes it in his, asking “How are you today? Everything’s good?”

  She leads him through to the kitchen, talking as she does. “We’re doing all right. Grace is napping right now.” When he leans against the counter, she crouches down and picks up crayons from the floor. George bends and scoops up the last few, setting them on the table. Amy pulls out a chair and sits. “Did you have lunch?” she asks. “I’ll make you a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks.” He still stands, watching her set one crayon at a time in the empty box.

  “Grace was doing some coloring.” Amy sets the crayon box in a drawer, then goes to the sink and squeezes a dab of dish detergent onto a sponge and washes and rinses the few lunch dishes in the sink, not saying anything, as though he’s not there.

  “Did you go out anywhere this morning?”

  “Just for a quick errand.” She turns to the blue farm table and wipes sandwich crumbs into her hand, then reaches for the coffee decanter, fills it with water, sets it back and turns on the coffee maker.

  And what George notices is that she’s not talking at all while she doesn’t stop moving: drying her hands on the dish towel, rehanging it on a chair back, reaching for white coffee mugs from the cabinet, pulling out spoons from the silverware drawer, straightening the forks while she’s at it. Doing anything, anything, anything, but talk. He finally steps behind her at the cutlery and reaches around, taking both her hands in one of his and closing the drawer with the other. They stand there like that, motionless, until he hears her whisper.

  “She won’t talk, George.”

  He turns her to him, pressing a strand of blonde hair from her face, waiting for her to say more.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she continues. “Every day she’s more and more quiet.”