I stood just inside the doors for a minute to let my eyes adjust. Same blaring music, same country couture—hats, plaid shirts, tight jeans, cowboy boots. The smell of beer and perfume. The place was packed. I eased along the periphery of the dance floor, looking for her and also for the girlfriends from Wednesday: the tall, big-nosed girl, the wavy-haired blond girl, the Isabella-clone girl. I didn’t see any of them.
There was an empty stool at the bar. Occupying the one next to it was the woman named Nancy. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her jeans were designer-ripped. She was wearing spiked heels. Her lipstick was bright pink.
“Hey, I know you,” she said.
“Randy,” I said.
“Rusty,” she corrected me.
“That’s right.”
I ordered a beer. She was drinking a frozen strawberry margarita.
“So did you get your boy?” she asked with a smile. Good teeth. Just a slight overbite.
“Not in any significant way,” I said.
She was nodding. “Me, either. But where there’s life, Rusty.”
“Ruzak,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Or Teddy.”
“My name’s still Nancy.”
“I’m a PI.”
“Looking for that guy. The wife beater.”
“Girlfriend beater.”
“And you’re here on a lead?”
“More of a hunch.”
“What are you going to do when you find him? Break his kneecaps?”
“Oh, it was never about that.”
“So what’s it about?”
I thought about it. “Not sure.”
“You’re looking for him just for the hell of it?”
“It troubles me.”
“That he beat his girlfriend?”
“Sure, in a general way, you bet. I was talking about the fact that he’s more or less disappeared.”
“So it’s a missing person’s case.”
“No. Not really.”
“You’re confusing me.”
“It happens a lot.”
“Why do you think he might be here?”
“I don’t. I was thinking she might be.”
“The girlfriend.”
“Because she might be in danger. Or not. Probably not. I don’t know.”
She laughed. “What an interesting job you have. People pay you for this? Wanna dance?”
“No.”
“I don’t blame you. You’re not very good at it.”
“I don’t get a lot of practice.”
“By choice?”
“By happenstance.”
“She broke your heart, didn’t she?”
“Who?”
“The author of your happenstance.”
“No. I’m sort of in between relationships right now.”
She signaled the bartender for another drink, bought one for me. I told her that wasn’t necessary, said I was leaving. She told me not to.
“You’re the first guy I’ve ever met in this place who hasn’t tried to pick me up.”
“Not disappointing?”
“Refreshing.”
“Well, I’m on the clock.”
“You’re saying if you were off, you’d try?”
“Like the dickens.”
“Teddy. I like that name. It suits you.”
“Because I’m big and fluffy.”
“Cuddly and soft.”
“Not adjectives too many guys are comfortable with.”
“Warm and snuggable.”
“Good words for blankets and fur coats.”
“You’re going to think I’m a bar hag. Both nights you’re here, here I am on my perch.”
“No,” I said. “I think you’re nice.”
“But you’re not interested in me. You haven’t asked the first thing about me.”
“I’m respecting your privacy.”
“In a bar? Come on, Teddy. Tell me who’s the most significant person in your life. I’m betting it’s your mother.”
“My mother’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.” She fell silent for a moment. “Doesn’t necessarily mean she isn’t.”
“I would have to say my dog.”
“Your dog?”
“Technically not a person, but he relies on me.”
“And that makes him significant.”
“More the fact that it makes me feel good. You know, when I first adopted him, that dog would have nothing to do with me. It took him months to warm up, and now I’m his world.”
“I love dogs. What’s his name?”
“Archie. He’s waiting for me in the car.”
“Let me guess. You adopted him about the time you were dumped.”
“Oh, no. That was years ago. And I wasn’t dumped per se.”
“You dumped her.”
“We dumped each other. She’s married now.”
She sipped her drink. Sighed. I went out on a limb.
“You are, too,” I said.
“Don’t tell on me.”
“I don’t even know your last name.”
“He thinks I’m playing Bunko.”
“Bunko?”
“It’s a card game. Wednesday and Friday nights are Bunko nights. Or so he thinks.” She made a face. “He’s an ass.”
“So why stay married?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re right. None of my business.”
“I’m surprised, that’s all. You didn’t strike me as the judgmental type.”
“I was just remembering what you said before. About women sticking with jerks.”
“He never beat me. He’s just selfish and emotionally constipated. You know. A man.”
“Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em?”
“He cheats on me.”
“Only fair, then.”
“I’m not looking to get even.”
“No.”
“Are you patronizing me?”
“Agreeing with you.”
“You think I’m pitiful. Some middle-aged broad trying to pick up young men to drive away the emptiness for a few hours.”
“Everybody tries that. Not the picking up of young men part. The driving away part.”
“So Nancy hits the bars and Teddy gets a dog.”
“There is this one person,” I said. I had finished my second beer and there was this pleasant glow in my middle and a tingling in my scalp.
She didn’t seem to hear me. “And I’m not trying to get his attention. It’s not something that really interests me anymore. I just want to feel alive. You know? Not so numb. Who is she?” So she had heard me.
“My secretary—boss.”
“Oh, one of those types. Office romances are recipes for disaster, Teddy.”
“She doesn’t know. Well, she may know, or suspect, but she would never acknowledge it.”
“She’s married.”
“Live-in boyfriend. A firefighter.”
“And she gets to you.”
“When I’m around her, I feel this sensation, like I’m expanding or, more precisely, like the room’s shrinking, and when I hear her voice, there’s this undertone or something, like an undercurrent or a riptide, and I feel this panicky feeling that I’m losing my balance or I’m walking along the edge of this three-hundred-foot cliff and the ground is not sturdy beneath my feet.”
She was staring at me. “You know what I would do if I were you?”
“Tell her?”
“Fire her.”
Just then, I saw her over Nancy’s shoulder: the long-nosed girl, sitting alone at a table on the other side of the dance floor. I stood up, told Nancy I’d be right back.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m leaving after this one. There’s something about talking to you that depresses me.”
I navigated my way to the table, weaving between the undulating torsos. The long-nosed girl looked up and said, “That seat’s taken.”
“That’s okay,” I said. I handed her my card. “I’m looking for Isabella.”
“She isn’t here.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Is she with Jason?”
“Fuck off.”
“You know about Quinton.”
“I don’t know anything. Fuck off.”
“Can we start over? My name’s Teddy.”
“My name’s Get the Fuck Out of My Face.”
“I’m concerned about Isabella. She may be in danger.”
“Teddy was the name of the asshole who threatened her with a gun.”
“I could call her. I have her number.”
She shrugged. “So call her.”
It seemed like the next logical step. I was getting nowhere with Ms. Get the Fuck. I went outside, glancing back at the bar before I left. Nancy was still sitting there, and there was a fresh margarita in front of her. There’s something about talking to you that depresses me. I never considered myself a moribund person. At heart, I always believed I was upbeat, an optimist. Not a million laughs maybe, but thoughtful and empathetic, a listener. Maybe it was the margaritas talking. Another beer or two and Mr. Budweiser would be calling Felicia to confess his undying love for her.
Was it love? Or was it just a deeply felt, nearly debilitating crush? Isn’t love, by its nature, something you’re just sure of down to your shoestrings? Do people in love really walk around wondering if they’re in love?
Isabella didn’t pick up. The call went to her voice mail, and I disconnected without leaving a message. It proved nothing, her failure to answer. She probably was screening her calls.
MONDAY
9:21 a.m.
Felicia sat in the visitor’s chair, crossed her legs, and said, “What are you doing Friday night?”
“This Friday?”
“I wouldn’t ask, but I’m in a bind.”
“You want me to baby-sit Tommy.”
“No. Dinner. My place.”
I thought about it. “Bob,” I said.
“He will be there, yes.”
“He wants to meet me.”
She didn’t say anything.
“He’s thinking, after all this time, he still hasn’t met Ruzak,” I said.
“Sevenish. We’re having chicken.”
“I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”
“And it would be helpful if you also brought a date.”
“A date?”
“You know, a companion of the opposite sex. Or the same sex. It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not gay.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But you slammed date against same sex.”
“Why do you nitpick?”
“Why is a date important?”
“He isn’t the jealous type, but I’m picking up on some vibes. I want to put his mind at ease.”
“What if he interprets it as a transparent ploy?”
“What are you nervous about?” she asked. “It’s just Bob.”
“Bob’s been offstage for so long, it’s like sitting down to dinner with Godot.”
“Again with the obscure reference.”
“What about our agreement?”
“That you’re a social retard?”
“That we keep our personal lives personal. This is a definite overlap.”
“I thought I made that clear, Ruzak. It’s for Bob. He wants to meet you. So Friday night he meets you and then he has met you.” She stood up. “And Wally Michelson is holding for you.”
“Who?”
“Your attorney.”
He got right down to brass tacks.
“Ruzak, you want to guess who I just got off the phone with?”
“Quinton Stiles,” I guessed.
“And you know what he wanted to know?”
“I’m guessing the name of the person who hired a PI to track him down.”
“Accused me of it. He owes me a tidy little bundle in legal fees.”
“And you didn’t tell him who because that would be a violation of attorney-client privilege.”
“I’m not your attorney.”
“So you told him?”
“I’m also not an idiot. But if I could give you a piece of advice free of charge … Don’t push this boy, Ruzak. He is not someone to be pushed.”
“Did he say where he was?”
“No, but he was very mysterious about what he’s up to. I didn’t understand, you don’t understand, nobody understands what he’s dealing with right now.”
“Did he say anything about Isabella?”
“He said, ‘Did you hire a motherfucking PI to harass me, motherfucker?’ That’s more or less what he said.”
I thanked him for the heads-up and hung up. Felicia was standing in the doorway.
“Well?” she asked.
“He’s very serious about anybody knowing where he is.”
“I mean about Friday. Are you coming?”
“Sure. I mean, why not? I’ve always wanted to meet Bob.”
“Why?”
“I’ve heard so much about him.”
“From whom? I never talk about him.”
“You have.”
“When?”
“Now and then.”
“Name two things you know about Bob.”
“He’s a firefighter and you met him at a CPR demonstration. He was sucking on a doll’s face.”
She laughed.
9:47 a.m.
Farrell answered on the twelfth ring in a voice thick with sleep. Or maybe it was booze.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s Ruzak.”
“I know who it is. What do you want?”
“How’s Isabella?”
“Fine. She’s sleeping it off in the living room.”
“So she’s at your place?”
“I had to pick her up after my shift. She was passed out at Jason’s and he had to go to work.”
“And no contact from Quinton?”
“You know the answer to that. That’s not why you called. Look, I got her to say ‘I’ll think about it.’ She wants a new car, so maybe I’ll use that.”
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Not for my sake.”
He grunted something unintelligible into the phone. I went on. “He’s freaking out a little.” I told him about the call to Michelson. “I don’t know how many enemies are on his list, but sooner or later he’s going to get to her name.”
“And when he does, I’ll handle it.”
“Here’s the thing, Farrell. It’s … it’s kind of like losing your brakes while you’re doing ninety on a dead-end street.”
“Here’s my thing, Ruzak. What’s it going to take? I never really hired you, so I can’t really fire you, so how do I get you to pull your big fat nose out of this? It’s none of your business anymore.”
“You want me to go away.”
“Now you understand.”
Five minutes later, I was on the phone with Meredith Black. She agreed to the favor and said she’d be in touch. Felicia came back in the room and sat down in the visitor’s chair, crossed her legs. What was it? Those flawless knees? That cute crinkle when she laughed? The faint smell of peaches in her hair? Or was attraction always greater than the sum of its parts? At least I had finally come to the point where I could admit there were feelings. What was holding me back? Not Bob, not really. More likely the 1 percent doctrine: the chance she might get up and walk out the door forever if she knew. I didn’t think she would, but she might, and I put the odds slightly higher than 1 percent.
“Let me guess,” she said. “As a kid, you poked at anthills.”
“Why can’t I give Farrell what he wants?”
“Because it isn’t about Farrell. It isn’t even about Isabella.”
“Well, it’s got to be about something.”
“Look it up in your psych book. OCD.”
“I already lo
oked that up. Three times.”
Felicia laughed. Her nose crinkled. I looked away.
TUESDAY
10:11 a.m.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said to the man behind the desk. His desk was huge; the office was small. The window behind him overlooked the exercise yard—basketball court, a workout area with barbells and padded benches, a jogging track. On the far side of the yard, a tower rose over the razor wire that ran along the top of the maze of chain-link fencing. The sky was cloudless, the sun already high and hot.
“Anything for Meredith,” the man, whose name was Proctor, said. “We go way back. Graduated from UT together. Where’d you go to school, Mr. Ruzak?”
“Oh, a couple places,” I said, and moved quickly on. “Quinton Stiles.”
“ ‘Quinton Stiles,’ ” Warden Proctor echoed. On the credenza behind him was a large photograph of Proctor shaking hands with the governor. Next to it was a picture of him and his family with Goofy looming behind them, big Disney hands draped over their shoulders.
A large file lay in front of him on the blotter. He opened the file but didn’t refer to it. He remembered Quinton Stiles.
“Rocky start, but by the time of his release, a model prisoner.”
“What was rocky about the start?”
“Like a lot of young offenders, he fell in with the wrong crowd.”
“A gang?”
He nodded. “A particularly nasty crew called Kein Mitleid.”
“That sounds German,” I said.
“Because it is German. Means ‘no mercy.’ ”
“Neo-Nazis?”
“To call them neo-Nazis is to give neo-Nazis a bad name. White supremacist thugs is a better label. An offshoot of an outfit called the White Aryan Nation. The Nation kicked them out when they became too extreme for even its taste.”
“So it isn’t your normal, everyday prison gang.”
He shook his head. “WAN claims membership in the thousands, with chapters in every state, and they’re on watch lists in every state, though the vast majority is here in the South. The local chapter is down in Polk County somewhere. Here at Brushy, there’s probably fifteen to twenty hard-core former members under the Kein banner, plus a few pledges or plebes, or whatever the hell they’re called. They zeroed in on Quinton from day one.”
“Why?”
“He’s poor, uneducated, and, most importantly, white. They offer kids like him protection from the other gangs, the Latinos and the blacks, and of course, from the older bulls who like fresh meat.”
The Highly Effective Detective Crosses the Line Page 7
