by Kathy Reichs
I waited.
“Rockett’s a frequent traveler to the Lone Star State.”
“How did Dew learn that?”
“ICE is digging hard. Cell phone records, credit card receipts, the usual.”
“Does Rockett drive?”
“Sometimes. But get this. Sometimes he flies there, but not back.”
“Where?”
“Houston. Or Phoenix, then on to El Paso.”
“Where does he stay?”
“That ain’t clear.”
“Does he ever cross into Mexico?”
“Border patrol has records of Rockett flying to Guatemala, Ecuador, and Peru. Dew is guessing those are legitimate buying trips. There’s no record of him driving from Texas into Mexico.”
I started to ask a question. Slidell beat me to it.
“Or from Arizona, New Mexico, or California.”
“Do his visits coincide with sales to accounts here?”
“That’s just it. They don’t. ICE cross-checked dates against invoices.”
“Maybe the round-trip drives are to pick up legal shipments. Maybe the one-way flights are for something else.”
I didn’t need to spell it out. Every American has read about the porosity of our southern border. Two thousand miles, much of it unpatrolled. Most know about undocumented workers trudging through the desert or trying to swim the Rio Grande. We’ve all heard of coyotes, entrepreneurs who take money to smuggle illegals overland into the country, sometimes abandoning them to die rather than face arrest.
“I doubt it’s that simple,” Slidell said. “Remember, Rockett got nailed at Charlotte-Douglas flying shit in.”
“Cargo’s simple. You pack it, you ship it. People present a much thornier problem. They have to eat, drink, breathe.”
For a few beats we both thought about that.
“How’s this play? Somehow, Rockett gets girls into Mexico. From South America, Eastern Europe, wherever. Either they got their own passports or he fixes them up with fakes. Maybe he don’t even bother. Papers, no papers, he either marches them or trucks them over the border, then drives them east.”
“That plays,” I said.
“One thing’s for sure. Rockett’s not traveling to Texas to catch Cowboys games.”
“No,” I agreed.
More dead air. In the background I could hear phones, figured Slidell was at his desk in the squad room.
“Any luck with Ray Majerick?” I asked.
“Still in the wind. But we’ll get him.”
“What about citizenjustice? Any leads on that?”
“Shot it to the cyber boys, but they’re swamped.”
The doorbell rang. My fingers tightened on the handset. I was expecting no one.
The bell rang again.
Again.
“What’s that?”
“Someone’s here,” I told Slidell. “You’ve got a cruiser outside, right?”
“Once every hour. Best I could do. The department’s hamstrung for manpower.”
“Stay on the line?”
“Yeah.”
The doorbell rang again.
Again, too quickly.
Still clutching the portable, I climbed the stairs and tried to peek through the window overlooking the front steps. The porch light was off. Below the eaves I could make out part of a man’s shoulder and leg, scuffed loafers.
“You want I should dispatch a car?” Slidell asked.
I put the phone to my ear.
“Wait.”
I ran downstairs, crept to the door, and pressed my eye to the peephole.
“Oh, my God . . .”
“Yo, doc? You okay?”
Shocked, I slid back the deadbolt and opened the door.
HIS FACE WAS A HALLOWEEN mask, eyes shadowy recesses, cheeks hollow, jaws stubble-dark.
“Talk to me.” Slidell’s barked demand spit from the phone.
I raised the device to my ear, gaze locked with that of the man on my doorstep.
“I’m fine.”
“What the—”
“It’s a friend.” Level, camouflaging the emotion roiling inside me. “I’m good. Thank you.”
I disconnected. Stood frozen, unsure how to play it. Joyful? Angry? Indifferent?
I flipped on the porch light. In the soft yellow glow I could see red spiderwebbing the whites of his eyes.
“You look like hell.” Opting for humor.
“Thanks.” Ryan’s voice sounded gravelly and hoarse.
“Shall I to try to reboot you?”
“Doesn’t work.”
“Come in.”
He didn’t move.
“If I leave you out there, you’ll run down and terrify the villagers.”
Normally, Ryan would have hit me with a snappy retort.
“This a bad time?” No snap.
“I was about to clean lint from the dryer.” Keeping it light.
“Fire hazard if you let that go.”
I smiled.
Ryan smiled. Sort of.
I stood back.
Ryan reached down and grasped the handle of a draped cube at his feet. As he brushed past me I heard a bell jingle. Scratching. His clothes stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.
I closed the door and turned.
Ryan stood in the center of the room, unsure what to do. He’d lost weight and looked gaunt and haggard.
“He expressed a desire to go south.” Pulling the cover from the cage.
Charlie, our shared cockatiel, looked startled. But birds always look startled.
I gestured to the dining room. Ryan set the bird on the table, replaced the cover, then returned to the parlor. I dropped into an armchair and drew my feet up.
Ryan sat on the sofa but didn’t lean back. “Place looks good.”
“Been a while,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad to see both of you.”
Gran’s clock ticked off a full thirty seconds. The silence felt strained and awkward.
“How’s the birdcat?” Ryan asked.
“Still king of the lab.”
Ryan nodded, but didn’t call out or search for Birdie as he normally would.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I went to the kitchen. Ryan didn’t follow. Cranking up the Krups, I thought of the times we’d shared the task, grinding beans, measuring water, arguing the mix was too strong or too weak. What the hell had happened?
When I returned to the parlor, Ryan was sitting forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped and hanging between them.
He accepted the steaming mug, then turned his head to stare out the window. To stare away from me?
I resumed my place in the armchair, legs tucked beneath my bum. Steeled for the words I was about to hear. The final severance.
At length, Ryan’s eyes rolled my way. He set down his untouched coffee. Cleared his throat. Swallowed.
“She’s dead.”
“Who?” Totally thrown. “Who’s dead?”
“Lily.” A strangled whisper.
Saying his daughter’s name unleashed a torrent of emotions Ryan had been battling to hide. His nostrils blanched and his breathing turned ragged.
A bubble of heat formed in my chest. Tears threatened.
No!
I flew to the sofa, pulled Ryan to me, and held him close. Sobs racked his shoulders. I felt hot dampness on my shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured again and again, feeling helpless in the face of such devastating grief. “I’m so, so sorry.”
At length, Ryan tensed. He pushed from me, sat back, and ran his palms down his cheeks.
“Captain America, reporting for duty.” He smiled, clearly embarrassed.
“Crying is good, Ryan.” I took his hand.
“Man tears.”
“Yes.”
He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I thought you should know.”
“Of course.”
Ryan yanked
a hanky from a jeans pocket and blew his nose.
“When?” I asked softly.
“Ten days ago.”
No wonder he’d returned none of my calls. Remorse overwhelmed me. But with undertones of pain. Why hadn’t he reached out for my support?
“What happened?” I asked.
I was certain of the answer. Ryan had shared his daughter’s recent history. The drug escalation, culminating in heroin addiction. The dealer boyfriend. The arrest for shoplifting. I was one of the few in whom he’d confided.
The past year, Lily had appeared to be turning a corner. She’d seemed happy, was attending rehab.
What do we really know about others?
“Overdose.” Ryan patted a pocket. Remembered where he was. Dropped his hand to his lap.
“It’s okay to smoke.” It wasn’t. I hate the smell, hate what cigarettes do to the carpets and drapes. To people. But Ryan needed a crutch to steady his nerves.
I went to the kitchen for an ashtray, knowing I had none. Returned with a saucer.
Ryan shook a Camel from its pack. As he lit up, I noticed a tremor in his hand.
“Guess we each choose our own poison,” he said.
I watched Ryan inhale hard, hold the smoke deep in his lungs, let it out slowly through his nose.
“They found her in an abandoned duplex being used as a shooting gallery.”
I’d been to a heroin den once, as part of a team to collect a corpse. I could still picture the horror. Stained mattress. Used needles. Bugs. The reek of urine and feces.
“She was wearing a T-shirt we bought in Honolulu. She loved it, made me memorize the proverb.” His voice again sounded husky. “Hele me kahau ‘oli.”
I reached out and stroked his face.
“Go with joy,” he translated.
“You did everything you could, Ryan.”
A tear broke free and rolled down his cheek. He backhanded it roughly. Took another drag of his Camel.
“Guess it wasn’t enough.” Bitter.
What could I say?
When Ryan learned of Lily’s existence, she was already in her teens. He’d never cradled her as an infant, never shared her joys or comforted her fears as a child. I knew he regretted his absence from her life. Knew he felt responsible for her addictions. Her death.
Under the law, Lily was an adult. Ryan couldn’t tell her how to live or what to do. Still. I could imagine my own sorrow and self-recrimination should something happen to Katy.
Parenting transcends rationality. Always you think you could have done more. Always you blame yourself when things go wrong.
“I should have concentrated more on Lily and less on the job, on strangers who don’t even know my name. I should have focused on her. My own daughter.”
Ryan’s pain was a raw wound. There was nothing I could do but listen.
“Funny. The things that come back. Meaningless moments. One night she came into my bedroom to play a song she’d downloaded from iTunes. I remember exactly what it was. Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole’s ‘Over the Rainbow/Wonderful World.’ ”
Ryan’s haunted eyes searched my face. “Is that all we had, Tempe? All I ever gave her? One lousy vacation in Hawaii?”
I placed my hand on his. “Of course not.”
“Then why is every memory tied to that trip?”
“It’s still too soon.”
He snorted softly. Shook his head.
“You should stay here,” I said. “As long as you like.”
“I have to go.” He drew deeply, then stubbed out the Camel.
“Now?” Disbelieving.
“I’m sorry.” He shot a hand through his unwashed hair. A gesture so familiar it tore my heart.
“Go where?” I asked.
“Away.”
I looked a question at him.
“I need to move. Move and keep moving.”
“Ryan—”
“I’m sorry.” He rose and started for the door.
“Please.” Imploring. “Stay.”
“I’m not fit to be around people.”
“Where are you headed?”
He hesitated. “South.”
“You can have the study. I’m busy with a case. You’ll hardly see me.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He read my expression to mean something it wasn’t.
“You’re right. This was a mistake. I just . . .”
“A mistake?” Masking the anger and hurt.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Stay, Andy.”
“There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
With that, he left.
I hurried to the door and watched him recede into shadow, tears hot on my cheeks.
Halfway down the walk he paused, turned, and slowly walked back toward the porch.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I wish you’d let me help.”
“You have.”
He spread his arms. I ran into them. They closed around me. I molded my body to his.
He hugged me hard. I smelled stale smoke, leather, and a hint of cologne.
As we embraced, headlights curved the drive and lit our bodies. Blinded, I couldn’t tell if the car belonged to Slidell’s surveillance team.
The vehicle accelerated, blew past us, and turned right onto Queens.
Flashbulb images. A box. A severed tongue. A bloated, bloody face.
Mistaking my sudden stiffness for dismissal, Ryan pulled away.
“I’ll miss you.” Kissing his fingertips and pressing them to my cheek.
“Don’t go.” I may have spoken the words, may only have thought them.
Ryan strode down the walk and rounded the corner. A car door slammed. An engine kicked to life.
I shut and bolted the door. Leaned against it, struggling to process. He hadn’t asked about Katy. About my travels. I’d been to a war and he didn’t give a damn.
In his time of suffering, Ryan had shut me out. The rejection felt like a knife to my heart.
Seriously? The man’s daughter is dead and you’re miffed he didn’t call or query your recent concerns? Have you become that self-centered?
I pushed from the door, ashamed of my pettiness. I had one foot on the stairs when the phone rang.
Excited, I snatched up the handset.
It wasn’t Ryan.
“Yo, doc.”
“What is it, detective?”
“That sounds as enthused as a dead trout.”
“Why are you phoning?”
“Got a shocker for you.”
It was.
“REMEMBER ARCHER STORY?”
“The younger brother of John-Henry, the man who died in the flea market fire.” Maybe. “What about him?”
“Archer and John-Henry were partners in S&S Enterprises.”
“Right.” Drawn out and ending high. A question. I had no idea where this was going.
“S&S. Story and Story. They owned John-Henry’s Tavern, a string of convenience stores, a whack of storage centers, and a bunch of other shit. Nice little money machine. But they were tanking on other investments.”
“The Saturn dealerships and the pizzerias.”
“You got it. But the bros weren’t exactly circling the drain. They’d diversified. And buried their investments in layers and layers of umbrella LPs and LLPs and other legal bullshit.”
“What does this have to do with Candy and Rosalie?” Ryan’s visit had left me drained. I wanted to curl up and sleep until the pain receded.
No. What I wanted was a drink. Cabernet or pinot noir until euphoria, then oblivion. But I knew how a binge would end. Knew the self-loathing that would follow. I’d been down that road. Wouldn’t travel it again.
“Will you let me finish?” Slidell snapped.
My sigh conveyed impatience equal to his.
“Turns out one of these little shelters is SayDo.”
That got my attention. “The Passion Fruit Club.�
��
“The Passion Fruit and four other massage joints. Names are real magic. I’ll spare you.”
“Holy shit.” Facts were winging. John-Henry Story. The US Airways club card in Candy’s purse. The Passion Fruit.
“Yeah. Holy shit.”
“How did we miss that?”
“It took time to untangle the mess. The guy I had working it got diverted to another case. And I got sidelined with the damn MP.”
“Now what?”
“Now I figure out how to get to Archer Story.”
“Just bring him in.”
“I do that, he’ll lawyer up tighter than a frog’s nuts.”
I ignored the metaphor. “You can’t even question him?”
“Based on what? He owns skin joints and we think maybe the personnel director offed one of the hookers?”
“What about a nasty habit called human trafficking?” I felt like screaming.
“The raid turned up dick.”
“Of course it did. Someone tipped Tarzec, so she moved the girls and sanitized the place.”
Silence.
“Will you at least check out the other massage parlors?”
“I got nothing to get a warrant. And, needless to say, my credibility took a nosedive after the fiasco at the Passion Fruit.”
“Jesus, Slidell. These people killed Candy. And D’Ostillo. They’ll kill again if they feel threatened. These girls mean nothing to them.”
Slidell was silent a moment.
“There’s a SayDo joint up in NoDa. I’ll swing by tonight. Unofficial like.”
“Keep me looped in.”
“If it makes you any happier, I dropped in on Rockett for a little more face time.”
Slidell didn’t seize the opportunity for humor on that. Good sign.
“And?”
“He told me I could suck his dick.”
When we’d disconnected, I went upstairs for a long, hot bath. And realized I still hadn’t seen Birdie. I’d been distracted by Slidell’s call. Then Ryan showed up. Then Slidell phoned again.
Had the scamp slipped through the open door while Ryan and I were on the sidewalk? Stupid not closing it. He loves to sneak out, I suspect mainly to get my attention. I always find him in the shrubbery, within inches of the foundation.
Cursing, I trudged back downstairs and out the front door. Called his name. No cat.
I circled the building, my annoyance increasing each time my summoning went unanswered. Eventually, I expanded my search onto the grounds.
