by Frank Zafiro
“Do you have any idea why she might’ve run away from home?”
“You mean do I think there were problems at home, don’t you?”
I half-shrugged, half-nodded.
LeMond considered. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “I got the impression that both her mother and father were rather simple people, but not cruel. I just don’t think they understood her.”
“Understood what?”
“What you saw in that picture of her,” LeMond said. “What I saw her do on the stage. What every boy and every girl in this school saw.”
“Which is?”
But LeMond only smiled at me and shook his head. “I don’t know where she’d go, Mr. Kopriva, though I very much doubt she’d go to the homes of those girls she called friends. I don’t even know if she’d stay in River City, which after all, is a very small place in this world.”
And the world is an ugly place, I thought, remembering Marie Byrnes’s words.
“I hope she comes back soon,” LeMond said, “And safely. She is missed.”
16
I spoke with three more teachers, but didn’t learn anything new. After that, Bill was plenty happy to walk me out to the parking lot. That happiness evaporated when I asked him to call a cab for me. He had to wait with me for it to arrive. We stood in silence for five minutes before I tried to rebuild some of the bridges between us.
“You’re head of security here, right, Bill?”
“Yup,” he grunted.
“Probably have a pretty good pulse for the school and the student body, don’t ya?”
“Yup.”
“Did you ever see anything going on with Kris Sinderling that might help me find her?”
“Nope.”
And then we stood in silence for another fifteen minutes until my taxi arrived. So much for making peace.
17
The cabbie that picked me up jawed continuously on his HAM radio, pausing only long enough to ask my destination before resuming his chatter.
I stared out the window and tried to ignore his boisterous comments and loud chuckles. I was surprised when he threw out a few curses. I’d always thought that the FCC had strict rules about that.
I took stock of what I’d learned up at Fillmore High School. It wasn’t much, as far as I could tell. Most of Kris’s teachers were aware of her, but didn’t have any specific insight. Some had seemed harried, some bored. Only Marie Byrnes exuded any true warmth.
And then there was LeMond. He was tough to comprehend. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something off. I tried to reach inside for that sense I used to have, years ago. It was a talent all cops have. All good cops, anyway. And I used to have it in spades. But I discovered that even if it was partially an innate ability, it was also a perishable skill.
I wanted badly to sniff LeMond out. What was his deal? I just didn’t know.
The cabbie took Ray Street down from the South Hill. I watched the houses flit by and I shifted in the seat as he went through the S curves near the bottom. I knew he was planning to take the freeway back downtown. It was the quickest way and that was his job, after all, but I didn’t feel like being there just now. Something about the sterile flow of cars at seventy miles per hour made my head hurt.
“Pull in here,” I said, motioning toward the 7-Eleven at 5th and Thor.
The cabbie shot me a prickly look. “You said Browne’s Addition.”
“I know. I need to make a phone call, though.”
The cabbie slowed and pulled into the parking lot. “You can’t make it at home?” he muttered, not necessarily to me.
I ignored him.
He put the car into park and rattled off the fare. I’d been prepared to give him a decent tip, since I’d cut the trip short. But his attitude sucked, so when he gave me a look that asked if I wanted change, I nodded my head and took every cent.
“Asshole,” he muttered as I slid out of the back seat.
I closed the back door and he pulled away, his tires chirping.
I headed towards a bank of three public phones that stood outside the glass front doors of the 7-Eleven.
The neighborhood used to be one of the worst in town, one that I wouldn’t want to walk around at night without a gun and a lot of luck. The East Central community was heavily black, which in River City terms meant maybe forty percent. When I was in high school, one of my friends called it Little Harlem. Another guy I knew used terms that were a lot worse.
When I was a cop, I found a lot of action in East Central, but no more than in the East Sprague corridor or downtown or the lower South Hill. There were plenty of idiots and jerks to deal with that year in East Central and some of them were black, but I never got the impression that any of them were jerks because they were black, any more than the white jerks were doomed to be jerks and idiots due to their color.
But human nature is divisive and unless there is a bigger threat from without, men and women will begin to divide from within. So some blacks hate whites for things that their great-grandfathers endured and some whites hate blacks for the same reason.
I should know. The scars on the front and back of my left shoulder, on my left arm and my left knee all came courtesy of a black gangbanger named Isaiah Morris. He’d hated me, though if it was because I was white or because I was a cop or both, I couldn’t say. One warm night in August eleven years ago, he’d ambushed me along with one of his flunkies right as I stumbled upon a robbery in progress at a Circle K convenience store.
My knee throbbed slightly as if disturbed by my recollection.
“The Shoot-out at the Circle K,” they called it later, as if in some strange homage to the OK Corral. But I was no Wyatt Earp. I managed to shoot and wound the robber as he exited the store, but Morris and his crony shot me up from behind at almost the same time. I’d fired back as Morris walked up to finish me off. Then Officer Thomas Chisolm arrived. He cuffed a dying Morris and took off after the robber. I heard later that the robber had fought with Chisolm and Chisolm had broken his neck.
If anyone was like Wyatt Earp, it was Thomas Chisolm.
The memory caused a bittersweet pang to well up in my chest. I forced it down, patting my pockets for change.
After the shooting, for a brief time, I was the darling of the department. A young cop with stones. Proven by fire. I had the respect of those who’d been through it before and the admiration of those who hadn’t yet.
Within the year, that was all gone.
I ground my teeth, telling myself it was because I didn’t have any change and not because I was thinking about things better left alone.
The bell dinged as I stepped through the glass doors. Warm air and the slight odor of refrigeration washed over me. A white guy in his forties stood behind the counter in his green uniform shirt, eyeing me with a mixture of boredom and suspicion.
I laid a dollar on the counter. “Get some change for the phone?”
He glanced at the crumpled bill and back up at me. “You gotta buy something,” he said simply.
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head no. “Store policy.”
I looked at his stringy hair and two day’s growth of beard on his cheeks. His eyes were still suspicious, but no longer bored. I tried to imagine his work days for a moment, filled with people buying beer and cigarettes, harried travelers stepping off of eastbound I-90, kids coming in for candy, the constant threat of shoplifters and gas drive-offs.
And don’t forget armed robbers, I thought with a touch of both irony and sarcasm.
A name tag hung sloppily above his left shirt pocket. His name was Don. And Don was not going make any exceptions for me.
I went to the cooler and pulled a plastic bottle of 7-UP from the shelf. “7-UP from the 7-Eleven,” I hummed to myself, wandering into another aisle and wondering why some ad guys hadn’t come up with it before.
I thought about getting a Snickers bar, but grabbed a packet of two aspirin instead. Don’
s eyes had lost their suspicion and were just bored again by the time I set the bottle of soda and the aspirin packet on the counter. He rang up both items, announced the total and I handed him a pair of dollar bills. He returned my change.
“It’s a nice racket,” I told him.
“What’s that?”
“The whole not giving change policy.” I held up the drink and the aspirin. “You made a whole dollar-sixty-one for the company.”
Don’s eyes narrowed a little. “You some kind of smart ass?”
I shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”
Don regarded me for another moment or two, his dull eyes simmering with anger. “It’s not my policy, all right? It’s store policy. And I’m on video, all shift long. Okay?”
I held my hands up. “Mea culpa,” I told him. When he didn’t respond right away, I added, “My fault.”
The anger in his eyes softened back into boredom. “Yeah,” was all he said.
I walked outside, the door dinging behind me. The pop bottle hissed when I cracked it open. I threw the two aspirin to the back of my throat and washed them down with a long draft of 7-UP. I leaned against the telephone bank and sat the bottle on the shelf.
With my eyes closed, I breathed deep through my nose. The odor of spilled motor oil and beer rose from the parking lot, but the even stronger smell of watery trash came from the dumpster that I knew was around the corner of the building. I suppressed a cough.
Inside my chest, my heart pounded harder and harder. A flash of white-hot shame shot through me and melted into anger a moment later. I pushed it away. I couldn’t be mad and I couldn’t be sad. Not if I was going to call her.
The receiver sat in its cradle. I could see my shadowy, dull reflection in the hard black plastic. The silver face of the payphone warped my features like a funhouse mirror.
I picked up the phone and dropped in my coins. I didn’t know her direct extension. She’d been promoted a few years ago. It’d been four or five years since I’d called her and that had been at her home. The next time I dialed her number, it was disconnected. I wasn’t surprised.
I dialed the front desk of the investigations unit. Glenda picked up the phone on the second ring, her cheery voice almost singing, “Investigations, Glenda.”
“Detective McLeod, please.” I tried to keep my voice as flat as possible. I doubted she would, or could, recognize my voice, but with Glenda, you never know.
“One moment. I’ll transfer you.”
“Thanks. Uh, what’s her direct line?” I asked.
She gave it to me immediately from memory and I repeated it in my head while the line clicked once and then rang. My heart pounded faster and despite the cold, a small trickle of sweat ran down my left armpit. I clamped my elbow down on it.
It connected on the fourth ring. I felt a brief moment of panic and a small catch in my throat at the sound of her voice before I realized it was her voice mail.
“Hello. You’ve reached Detective Katie McLeod of the River City Police Department. I’m unable to take your call right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. If this is in reference to an active case, please include your case number. Thanks for calling.”
Her voice sounded professional and detached until the end when it lilted almost girlishly during the words “thanks for calling.”
There was a tone and I knew I had four minutes of digital space to leave my message.
“Hi, Katie,” I began. “It’s, uh, it’s Stef.”
I paused, wondering what to say next.
Hey, I know I screwed up as a cop and I know I messed up with us more than once, but hey! I need a favor.
I tried to swallow but my throat was dry. I wished I’d taken a another swig of the soda. No time now. I pressed on before I lost my nerve. “I’m trying to help an old friend find his runaway daughter as a favor. I was wondering…I was wondering if you might be able to help me out a little. With some information.”
I imagined her face while she listened to this message. The image hurt.
No stopping now, I thought. I rattled off Kris Sinderling’s name and birth date, as well as Matt’s. On a whim, I threw in Gary LeMond’s, too. All she could do was say no.
“Anyway, if you can, that’s great. If not, I understand. You can call me back at—“ I looked for the number on the payphone. In the place of a number was a bold message that read, “No Incoming Calls.”
Years ago, pay phones in high drug traffic areas were used to make drug deals so often that the police department and the communities asked the phone company to turn off the function for incoming calls. A few years later, cell phones became so prominent and inexpensive that the practice tapered off, but some phones still had that limitation.
I glanced quickly at the other two phones and saw the same bold message.
“Damn,” I said out loud. When I realized that I said it directly into the phone I almost repeated the word.
“This phone doesn’t take incoming calls. Listen, uh, I’m going to walk over to Polly’s Café. I’ll stay through lunch. If you can make it, you can. If not, like I said, I understand. Maybe I’ll try you back tomorrow or something.”
I paused again, words sticking in my throat, just like they always did when it came to her. Finally, I said a hurried “thanks” and hung up.
18
Polly’s Café was nearly empty by the time I arrived. The thick smell of syrup and grease hung in the air. An old rock song I couldn’t quite remember the name of was playing through tinny speakers. The sign next to the register directed patrons to seat themselves, so I chose a small booth in the corner where I could watch the door. My feet ached from walking in cowboy boots.
A bony-hipped waitress with sagging jowls brought a glass of water and a menu. I put her in her fifties and her poofy hair had the thin, frail look that matched my guess. Her name was sewn on a patch above her left breast. It read, “Phyllis.”
“Anything to eat, hon?” she said, her voice warmer than I expected.
“Coffee,” I said.
She jotted a quick ‘C’ on her notepad and looked up at me expectantly. When I didn’t answer, she said, “Special today is pretty good.”
“What is it?”
“Two eggs, bacon & toast.”
I shrugged. “Sure.” It’d work for a lunch, too.
“How you want those?”
“Scrambled.”
“And your toast?”
“Sourdough.”
She scrawled my order and tipped me a wink. “Be right back with your coffee.”
My initial image of her as a sourpuss quickly dissipated.
I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. It’d been about thirty or forty minutes since I’d called Katie. Even if she’d received my message shortly after I left it for her, it’d still take her time to decide whether or not to help, then some more time to run the names I sent her. More yet if she decided to print anything off or pull a report. Then the time to drive down here.
The clock on the wall above the cash register read 10:14. I said on my message I’d wait through lunch. That meant one o’clock at least.
I opened my eyes again as Phyllis put a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. “Food’ll be up in a few minutes, hon,” she said.
“Thanks.” I sipped the hot brew. It was a lot better than what I had in my apartment. “Is there a newspaper box around here?”
She held up her finger and walked away toward the breakfast bar. When she returned, she plopped a newspaper on my table. It had been folded and re-folded and the sections were out of order.
“Customers leave ‘em behind all the time,” she said. “You’re welcome to it.”
I thanked her.
“Not a problem, hon,” she said and hurried back to the kitchen.
I sat and drank my coffee while reading the paper. I started with the sports section and read the local writer’s take on the River City Flyers’ chance of making the playoffs. Afte
r the game I went to, they’d traveled up to Creston the next night for the second half of a home and home and dropped another game. That one was a more respectable 3-1, but it still counted the same in the standings. The local sports writer blamed the coaching and called for the head coach’s dismissal if the Flyers didn’t make it into the post-season.
The reporter played Monday morning quarterback with the coach. Here he was, in the midst of the good fight, and someone on the sidelines was filleting him in the press. I knew how it felt. After the shooting at the Circle K, there were a couple of articles that suggested racism on my part. As if I had somehow chosen to have a gangbanger attack me. But logic didn’t seem to matter much to the press when it got in the way of their agenda.
And it wasn’t just the press. A number of letters to the editor accused me of the same thing. Later, when I really had messed up in the Amy Dugger case, these same people were able to say “I told you so.”
I moved from the Sports section to the Entertainment section and found I was unfamiliar with more than half the celebrities that were being written about.
Phyllis returned after a few minutes and slid a hot plate of food in front of me. I surprised myself by being hungry and I ate while I read. The eggs were too soft, but the bacon was crispy and the sourdough wasn’t soggy with butter.
I made my way eventually to the front page and scanned through national and international news that barely held my interest. I read them anyway.
When I finished my meal, Phyllis took my plate and re-filled my coffee and called me “hon.”
The Region section of the newspaper was the part I always hated when I was a police officer. All the local stories not worthy of front page status were printed in that section, along with editorials and letters to the editor. After the initial shootout at the Circle K, which had been front page material, most of the potshots the newspaper took had been in the Region section.
Today’s section was fairly mild, however. A few letters in favor of the President and a few opposed took up most of the letters to the editor section. The Police Beat detailed a few arrests and a search warrant executed by the Sheriff’s Department.
