“Well, if it makes you feel better.”
“It’s Farrell,” I said. “I’m worried about Farrell.”
“Then maybe you should talk to Farrell instead.”
“I’m afraid he may be considering a preemptive strike.”
“All the more reason to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I don’t have to tell him where he is, just that I know where he is.”
The grass was freshly cut and smelled sweet from the rain. Archie was sniffing around an azalea. A man jogged by, heading south on Gay. His face was flushed. I said, “So do nothing. Sit idly by.”
“That implies you have some kind of responsibility about what might happen. How do you figure that, Teddy?”
“You’re right,” I said. “Even God doesn’t go that far.”
Archie’s nose twitched and he turned several times, as if wrestling with the decision before hiking his back leg and urinating on the azalea.
“Just tell me how finding him is going to give anyone peace of mind,” she said.
“You know how sometimes when you’re eating corn on the cob, a kernel gets wedged between your teeth?”
“So it’s not really about Farrell and Isabella. It’s about your teeth.”
“That would be the cynical way to look at it,” I said. “I guess you could argue that all altruism is ultimately a selfish act.”
FRIDAY
10:28 a.m.
The woman who answered the door wore fuzzy bright pink slippers that clashed with the faded floral print of her loose-fitting housedress. She must have weighed at least three hundred pounds. Even her hands were fat, her short fingers protruding from the fleshy folds; I was reminded of Mickey Mouse. Thin, stringy blond hair with black roots and a splotchy complexion. A heavy breather. Small eyes and a flinty, distrustful stare. I handed her one of my old business cards, from the business that had been sandwiched between the first, the Highly Effective Detection and Investigation Company, and the latest, White Knight Associates. She examined the card carefully, holding it within an inch of her small nose, which, owing to the wideness of her florid face, seemed about the size of an olive.
“ ‘Research and Analysis Group,’ ” she muttered. “What’s that?”
“We’re a private research company on contract with the government,” I said. “Specifically the U.S. Army.”
“What’s the army want with Quinton?”
“That’s what I’d like to discuss.”
“Like I told you, Mr. Ruzak. Quinton ain’t here.”
“That’s the whole difficulty,” I said. “His whereabouts.”
She squinted up into my face. My expression was concerned but professional.
“Five minutes of your time, Mrs. Stiles,” I said.
I followed her into the small living room. I smelled cats and stale cigarette smoke. The trek from the door to the weathered sofa taxed her endurance; she collapsed onto the cushions with an audible gasp. I sat in the recliner catty-corner to the sofa and commenced breathing as shallowly as I could through my mouth. My right eye began to water. Cats. I laid my briefcase on my lap, opened it, drew out a file filled with old bank statements, and flipped through it as if I was searching for the pertinent document.
“He ain’t had nothing to do with the army for near six years,” she said.
“That’s right. But this is a special case.”
“The army kicked him out. What’s it want him for now?”
“It doesn’t want him for anything. It wants to give him something.” I referred to my June 2006 bank statement, in which my collected balance was a little less than half the price of an army toilet, and said, “Back pay related to his enlistment incentive that was never fully paid out. Around two thousand dollars and some change, Mrs. Stiles.”
“How much?”
“A little over two grand. See, standard operating procedure is, the army just mails a check to the last-known address, which they did on, let’s see, February fourth, ’08. The check was returned, no forwarding address.”
“He was in prison.”
I looked up from the bank statements with what I hoped was a startled expression.
“Prison?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Then the army sends a letter to the same address, notifying the vet of the returned check, which is a little wacky when you think about it, but that’s the army for you. They try to reach the person by phone, and if all else fails, they refer the account to a private contractor—in this case, me. You wouldn’t believe how much money is lying around unclaimed by former soldiers, and what with two wars going on, the army simply doesn’t have the personnel to devote to the chore of tracking all these guys down.”
“Two thousand dollars, you said?”
“A little over two.” I made up a number. “Two thousand four hundred and forty-five dollars and forty-five cents.”
She shook her head. Did it seem like a lot or not enough? She said, “Quinton never said anything to me about back pay.”
“Most likely because he didn’t know about it. When he signed up, the fine print said he’d forfeit any incentive if he went AWOL, committed a serious felony, or was discharged for any reason prior to the expiration of his TOD.”
“TOD?”
“Sorry, tour of duty.”
“They discharged him for mental problems.”
“He has mental problems?”
“I didn’t say that. The army said that. What Quinton has is a temper.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing for someone in a war zone, but I never served. Anyway, last year there was this court case, went all the way to the Supreme Court, Farrell versus the United States Army. I don’t suppose you heard about that case?… Okay, well, basically the court said the army has to pay every penny to everyone who signed up, regardless of what has happened subsequently, so the bottom line is, Quinton gets his incentive.”
I pulled an envelope from the briefcase. It was an unopened piece of junk mail from a company trying to sell me financial services. How I got in their database as a person who might be in need of financial services, I did not know. She didn’t reach for it. She slumped on the cushions, her flabby arms resting on either side of her corpulent body, her mouth half-open, and stared at the back of the envelope.
“The army never tried to call here,” she said.
“Well, they said they did.”
“Never sent no letter, either.”
“Well, I’m sure you never got one, but they could have used the wrong address. Is this his address?”
“He’s been in prison.”
“Not still in prison?”
She shook her head. Then nothing. I said, “Where is he?”
“He ain’t here.”
“I understand, Mrs. Stiles. But surely you have some way of getting in touch with him.”
She thought about that. Or she was thinking about something. Definitely thinking, though.
“Couple days ago,” she said finally. “This woman calls here looking for him. Says she’s with Bureau of Prisons and they got some personal effects of Quinton’s needs returning and she wants to know where he is.”
“Oh, really?” I asked politely.
“Only after I talked to her, I called the Bureau of Prisons, and they don’t know what I’m talking about. Now here you show up asking about Quinton because you got something of his.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you, Mrs. Stiles.” My mouth had gone a little dry. She hadn’t offered me anything to drink. Very unsouthern of her.
“In two days, two people come looking for the same thing.”
“But for different reasons,” I said. “Though I see your point. It is a funny coincidence.”
“Now I know she was lying,” Mrs. Stiles went on. “Got her stone-cold on it. She wasn’t who she said she was and maybe you ain’t who you say you are.”
“Okay,” I said. I shrugged nonchalantly, dropped the envelope back into my briefcase, and stoo
d up. “I understand, Mrs. Stiles. You can’t be too careful these days. Can’t even say I blame you. But I do have a check for two thousand four hundred and forty-five dollars and forty-five cents for your son. Call the army to check it out, and then give me a call—you have my card.” Why the hell did I give her my card before the pitch?
“Can’t you leave just leave the check with me?” she asked.
“Oh, no. I have to check ID, get a signature, and … and everything before I hand it over. They’re very strict about that. I was thinking there’s really no need for you to go out of your way. I mean, Quinton is a grown man. He’s a big boy and he can handle his own affairs, right? Have him give me a call. Or better yet, give me his number and I’ll call him.”
She stared at me for a second. It was a very long second.
“I don’t got his number.”
“If you don’t know where he is or how to get in touch, why would you ask me to leave the check with you?”
She didn’t say anything at first. Then she said, “I ain’t playin’ no games with you, mister.”
“There’s got to be a reason,” I said reasonably. “I’m guessing it has something to do with the bad temper you mentioned.”
“Quinton never had it easy,” she said. She seemed on the verge of tears. “It ain’t his fault. You got no idea what that boy’s been through.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
“He’s a good boy. Made straight A’s in school till he fell in with the wrong crowd, started drinking and doing the drugs. I begged him to get off ’em. Drink killed both his daddy and his uncle. He’s got a temper and he’s headstrong, but he’s got a good heart. People just don’t understand him.”
“What about a girlfriend?”
She shook her head vigorously. “He don’t have a girlfriend.”
“How do you know? I mean, if you don’t talk to him.”
Her face darkened. “I’m going to ask you to leave now, Mr. Ruzak.”
She lumbered behind me to the door. I turned and said, “We both know the truth, Mrs. Stiles. Maybe you don’t know where he is, but you know how to reach him. Tell him I was here. Tell him I have something for him. My number’s on the card. We’re open twenty-four/seven.”
12:41 p.m.
Meredith Black stirred two packets of Sweet’N Low into her iced tea and said, “I really shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Consorting with an alleged felon.”
“You’re a homicide detective. Don’t you consort all the time?”
“Not on my lunch hour.”
She tasted her tea, added another packet. Her salad came. I hadn’t ordered a salad, so I sat with my hands in my lap, worrying with my napkin. We were lunching at the Market Cafe, the Hilton’s restaurant. It wasn’t bad, for hotel food, just overpriced. I had ordered the French dip; Meredith the club sandwich on wheat, hold the turkey. The waitress had asked why she didn’t just order a BLT, and Meredith gave her a withering look, one she probably reserved for alleged felons and lippy waitresses. She had pulled back her silky black hair, tying it off with an orange-and-white Scrunchie. The first game of the season was coming up and Meredith was a big Vols fan. Her lipstick was very red, which clashed with her orange top, in my opinion, and her nails were very long and manicured. I knew she was married, but she didn’t wear a ring, and I wondered if that was a security issue: The less a suspect knew about her, the better.
While she picked carefully through her salad—was she looking for something in particular or trying to avoid something?—I pointed out the one bright spot in the affair: I couldn’t lose my license for committing a felony, because I didn’t actually have one.
“Ruzak the optimist,” she said. “Always looking on the bright side.”
“Or Ruzak the naïf. She calls the army and I’m busted.”
“I’ll alert the desk sergeant to be on the lookout in case she reports you for impersonating an officer.”
“I wasn’t impersonating anyone. I was misrepresenting myself.”
“Not sure I grasp the nuance. Not sure Quinton will, either.”
“That’s the main thing,” I said. “She’ll tell him about me. He’ll be curious. ‘Why is this dude looking for me? What’s his deal?’ Almost better that she saw through the ruse. With some people, it’s an incentive as powerful as greed.”
“What is?”
“Curiosity.”
“Which you could look at as greed, too. The greed for knowledge.”
“Hey,” I said. “That’s pretty good.”
She waved her hand. “I’ve been hanging around you too much.”
My food arrived. Blobs of grease floated leisurely upon the opaque surface of the jus. The fries were a bit soggy. The waitress asked if I wanted more tea; I said I did, but she never came back with it.
“But I gotta tell you, Ruzak, I’m with your gal Friday on this one. I don’t see how pinpointing his whereabouts accomplishes anything.”
“Only one thing: keeping a promise to a friend.”
“Something that could come back to haunt you. And your friend.”
“Plus, it’s bugging me.”
She was smiling. Meredith Black had inordinately long canine teeth. Fair skin, smoky gray eyes, raven hair, long teeth. Maybe she was a vampire. “That’s two things,” she said.
“The guy gets out of prison and disappears. Why?”
“He wants a fresh start.”
“Or he’s had three years to plot his revenge and he’s setting up his alibi.”
“Okay, let’s assume for the sake of argument your scenario is the correct one. How does finding him foil his nefarious scheme?”
“It puts him on notice.”
“And putting him on notice will convince him to drop it and get on with his life. No way he can get away with it when T. Ruzak’s on his case.”
“This isn’t about me,” I said.
“Here’s the more likely scenario: Quinton Stiles wants nothing to do with Isabella. If he was obsessed with her, he wouldn’t have ceased all contact months prior to his release. He never would have stopped. Obsessions tend to intensify over time. That’s why they’re called obsessions. He would have written, he would have called, and the minute he was free he would have been at her doorstep. And every Quinton-less day that goes by makes that scenario less likely. He’d stalk her; he’d harass her friends; he’d certainly try to do something about the new boyfriend. My guess is, he will repeat the pattern with a new girl, and that’s the person in the most danger here: the next girl. She’s the one in need of protection, not Isabella.”
“That would be hard to do,” I said.
“That would be impossible to do. Even if you knew who she was, Teddy. Even if you sat her down and showed her the pictures of what he did to Isabella. Even if she wanted protection. If someone really wants to hurt you, you will be hurt.”
“Unless you can…” I searched for the word. “Nullify the threat.”
“You’re thinking that’s your friend’s idea.”
“I’m afraid it might be.”
“All the more reason to break your promise.”
“Here’s what’s odd: I’m not sure who I’m trying to protect now. Isabella from Quinton, Quinton from Farrell, Farrell from Quinton, or all of them from themselves—Isabella, Quinton, and Farrell.”
She laughed. “Maybe you should add your name to the list. I pulled this kid’s rap sheet, Ruzak. Not somebody to be messed with.”
“Hard-core,” I said.
“You want my advice? Do nothing. He’ll be back in prison in another year on another felony and this time the time will be hard. Everybody will be safe from everybody.”
“But that plan entails some innocent person getting hurt.”
She dropped the fork on her plate and threw up her hands.
“What’re you going to do about it, Teddy? Really. What’s the alternative?”
“I don’t know.”
> “Yes, you do.”
“I thought it was the best answer, based on the fact that you’re a homicide detective.”
That broke the tension. Her shoulders relaxed. She smiled, laid her hand on my forearm.
“This isn’t so hard, gumshoe,” she said. “You need to ask yourself, based on all the facts, who’s the person most at risk here, right now, not in some undeterminable future … who should you be most worried about?”
I didn’t have to think long. “Farrell,” I said.
“Then you know what to do,” she said.
6:49 p.m.
“I know what to do,” I told Farrell. We were sitting in my office and above us the ceiling fan lazily turned. Felicia had installed it to tamp down the fumes rising from the dry cleaner’s on the first floor. It was almost seven and the day was still bright; Knoxville was only about an hour’s drive east of central time and in the summers the sun lingered till well after nine.
“So do I,” he said. “Didn’t think there was ever a question about that.”
“He’s going to call me,” I said.
“You’re sure about that?”
“And when he does, I’ll come clean.”
“ ‘Clean,’ ” he echoed.
“I’m a PI hired by you to protect your daughter.”
“And that will do … what?”
“What you wanted me to do.”
“Find him?”
“Protect Isabella.”
“How does that protect Isabella?”
“Unless she’s lying.”
“About what?”
“The breakup. But then there’s Jason. I don’t know her very well, but women are more monogamous than men in general. Every bit of evidence we have indicates she’s moved on.”
“I talked to her,” he said.
“About the breakup?”
“About the break-in. She says she’ll think about it, but she’s pretty pissed, Ruzak.”
“You can’t really blame her. You think a personal apology would help?”
He shrugged and I nodded. It could go either way.
“You were just trying to help,” he said.
“With which the road to hell is paved. It all boils down to intent, Farrell. Mine. Quinton’s. Yours. And the only one I’m a hundred percent sure about is my own.”
The Highly Effective Detective Crosses the Line Page 5
