I pulled into a shaded parking lot in front of an inviting restaurant, an old converted mill at the turnoff into town, joining a handful of other cars there. A couple of teenage boys on BMX bikes cruised by and whistled at me, or more probably my classic car. Cutting class or off early? Maybe homeschoolers. I hopped out, threw on my blazer to minimize my handgun print, and then entered the Old Mill Bar and Grille. At least they hadn’t called it “Ye Olde.”
As it was getting past lunchtime anyway I found the bar and ordered off the menu there. Nothing like a bartender on a slow day to give out cheap information. With a virgin Mojito in my hand and the change for a twenty left on the countertop, I put on my best girl-next-door smile and said, “Hey, can I ask you something?”
In his late twenties, of average height with short dark hair and a pleasant, open face, the bartender wiped his way around the change with raised eyebrows. “Keep it,” I said. I’ve found that a heavy tip somehow means more to people than a straight-out bribe. Something to do with their consciences, I suppose.
“Thanks.” He made the bills and coins disappear. “You a cop?”
“No, I am not,” I said clearly. Most bartenders traffic in information of one sort or another and like to know who they’re dealing with so they don’t incriminate themselves.
“What can I tell you?” he said.
“I’m thinking about moving out this direction from the City. Looking for a good special education program and I heard this town has one?”
He beamed, his laminated and bleached smile transforming his face from kinda cute to boyish oh wow, if you like that kind of thing. “Yes, we do. Just one of our several minor claims to fame. Houses in Oake Ridge and Sycamore Pointe are selling like hotcakes, too. Better grab one while you can.”
“You get a cut?”
“Nope, but more people means more customers. As I run the place...” He did an exaggerated nail-buff and inspection.
“Managing and tending bar too?”
“I like to keep my hand in and Mondays are slow. Just wait until tomorrow.”
A young waitress slid a plate with my burger and fries in front of me. I grabbed her elbow, handing her a ten to save time asking for the check. Once she left and I had taken a big bite, I went on, “Where’s the school?”
The barkeep pulled out a paper placemat with a tourist map of the town on it, sketching a route from here to there. “Just a tip for you, though, since you asked about the special-ed program. One of the people there is a little person. Like, you know…”
“Like a dwarf?” I asked, maintaining a disingenuous air. “Well, as long as she’s good at her job.”
“It’s a he, and he’s a, um…”
I stared hooks at him – as in, not-letting-off-of. “He’s what?”
“Black.” The man seemed embarrassed at this earth-shattering revelation, like he’d disclosed that a tuberculosis-spewing leper was teaching school. A bigot, then. My initial kind evaluation of him dropped off quite a bit. I shrugged, said thanks and reached for the placemat.
Hastily he scribbled a number on the corner and a name: Kerry. “If you need any more information, here’s my name and the number to the bar. Cell reception out here sucks. You can get me almost any time between noon and midnight, sometimes later.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I folded the textured sheet and slid it into a pocket. Kerry went back to his work while I wolfed down my lunch, thinking buddy, you just made a wrong turn with me. I could profile with the best of them, but I detested unfounded bigotry like a drunk hates closing time. Probably came from putting up with some of the same shit myself, with my mongrel are-you-an-Indian mixed-race looks inherited from two grandmothers, Japanese and Mexican.
Great for the Department’s diversity index, though, as I’d covered three minorities at once, two nonwhite categories and female. Dad used to say they named me California because I was a living representative of the state’s largest ethnic groups, Asian and Hispanic. I think Mom just thought it was cool and clever.
After I finished I walked back out to Madge, taking the placemat out and looking at it. I almost ripped the corner with Kerry’s number off and chucked it, but decided against. He might still be a resource if nothing more. I didn’t have to like him. Hell, I had a lot of contacts I didn’t like.
Hopping back into the Mustang and waving at an older couple taking a look at her classic lines, I followed the sketch map to the school a scant mile away. In a town of this size, nothing was far from anything.
Beautifully situated near the river on the east side, the prosaically named Granger’s Ford Elementary School turned out to be a modest affair with two major single-story buildings, one larger than the other, with a gymnasium set between them. A dozen cars occupied the lot, along with an equal number of buses ranging from full sized to short.
Clearly, the smaller building housed the special education program. A fenced playground corralled a score of kids, some of whom had visible disabilities – several Down’s, a few in wheelchairs, two with helmets on, and others with less well defined issues. The teacher ratio there seemed high, with at least five adults in attendance. I wondered how they were able to pay for the program, what with school budgets under constant pressure.
Buttoning my blazer to hide my licensed firearm rather than locking it in my trunk risked a violation for bringing it into the school, but I’d rather do that than leave it behind or chance someone seeing me taking it off. Besides, I’d had my clothes tailored special for my weapons. They were hard to spot.
The Office sign with the arrow pointed at the larger building, where I deduced the school principal and administration would be. I turned toward the Special Education building, so marked with its own smaller sign. Inside I saw a hallway but no information desk or window. Fortunately I immediately encountered the teachers’ lounge, which like all of the rooms had a wide handicapped-spec door with a square yard of window in it. A young, fleshy sallow blonde woman sat on a sofa inside sipping from a steaming mug, a plain girl-next-door type in a conservative ankle-length dress and long sleeves.
Not seeing any point in knocking, I opened the door and said, “Hello. I’m looking for someone with the special education program?”
“Oh, yes.” She put down the crockery on the coffee table and stood, which highlighted her height. Tall, about five eleven, maybe one eighty. Not obese, but certainly not skinny. “Let me show you to the school office…” Then she stopped and a frown furrowed her brow. “But I’m sorry, the program director is out sick today.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Maybe you can answer a few questions for me?”
“Of course,” she replied.
In a big city this approach would never have worked. Not only are there a zillion procedures to follow surrounding children, but the urban dweller of the human species is generally suspicious of strangers. Here in this small town, different conditions obtained. Nice to catch a little break.
“That would be wonderful. Can we sit down? Please,” I waved at the sofa. “Drink your…”
“Herbal tea,” she answered. “You want some? Sorry, I’m a bit distracted today.”
Shades of my mother. “No, that’s all right.” I sat beside her, left half facing. “I’m Cally Jones, by the way.” That was one of my aliases when I wanted to stay anonymous. Why? I couldn’t say for sure, though for one thing it avoided having to explain what sounded like a man’s name every time. Occasionally it had been useful in cueing me later that a caller didn’t know me well.
“I’m Linda Davis,” she replied. “Nice to meet you. I’m a speech and communications therapist. What can I do for you?”
“I’m considering moving here from San Francisco and wondered about the special-ed in town.”
“Oh, this program is wonderful,” Linda gushed, warming to the topic. “The best within a hundred miles. People move here just for their children’s education.”
“How can the town afford such a generous system?”
“
We have an endowment that traces back to the gold rush days and a mining baron named Victor Dempsey. He had a disabled son – spina bifida, we think, from the accounts – and he set up a trust foundation at Wells Fargo for ‘crippled children’ as they called them back then. It was a modest amount that provided a few scholarships until the 1980s. The trust manager at the time bought some stock in a tiny little company called Microsoft, and the rest is history. The Dempsey Foundation matches public funds or private donations to programs like ours at three to one.” Linda recited this story as if she had told it many times, which she probably had. Nice, positive, heartwarming tale.
“Fantastic. How do I apply?”
“Well,” her face fell, “we have a two year waiting list for the fifty slots here. I hear the school board is trying to get ten more places added next year but…” Linda spread her hands.
“I understand. It’s still worth checking into, I’m thinking,” I said in encouragement.
“Sure, we can go over to the office and get an application package. What kind of child do you have?”
I ignored her question rather than spin more tales. “Before we do that,” I interrupted her as she made to stand, “I’d like to know a little bit about the town. Obviously there’s no problem with people with disabilities,” I pulled back my hair to deliberately show my scars, drawing a professionally neutral glance. “What about other sensibilities?”
“Sensibilities?” At that moment Linda seemed even younger than the mid-twenties she must be. I chalked it up to small-town innocence.
“Yes. For example, if I was…” I let that trail off into a question.
“Oh,” she started. “You said you’re from San Francisco, right?” Linda tittered and visibly swallowed her discomfort. “I’m sorry. In some ways we’re modern here, but in other ways, not so much. If you wanted to move here with your, your, uh, your partner, there might be a bit of awkwardness, but no, um, violence or anything.”
Even in 2005, San Francisco was still a code word for decadence, be it dope, sex, music, hippies on acid or the flaming gay lifestyle, everything that had started in the Castro and Haight-Ashbury districts during the sixties of my parents’ generation. I was far from all of those stereotypes, but half of effective investigation was getting people to believe what I wanted and open up. Also, such misunderstandings often covered nicely for asking awkward questions. I didn’t contradict her misconceptions.
“Okay, good. What about race? I’m not white. Will that be a problem?” I had seen a couple of Hispanic kids out in the yard, but I wanted to hear it from her.
“Oh, no, we’re very diverse in that way. I mean, there are laws, after all, and anyway, our program director is black. And he’s…” She sighed theatrically.
I cocked my head, inquiring.
“He’s a little person. And he’s wonderful. The nicest guy you could ever have for a boss.” She seemed sincere, if perhaps trying too hard to praise him to prove her enlightenment and lack of bigotry.
So…Frank wasn’t just a teacher, he was the program director. Easier to threaten, with more to lose and a higher profile in the community. The picture started to fill in nicely. “Oh? Can I speak with him? No…you said he was out sick today. Does he have an office number I can call?”
“Of course.” Linda grabbed a pad and wrote down Franklin W. Jackson’s name and number, handing it to me.
Glancing idly at the paper, I asked, “Has he had any trouble with people here? I mean, being a little person and black as well?”
“No, not that I know of. His house got broken into a few days ago, but the police think that was just a junkie looking for something easy to steal.” Linda shrugged apologetically. “One problem we do have around here is meth labs up in the hills and the trash that comes with them. My dad said it used to be marijuana fields, but with Google Earth and people moving up here those are getting harder to hide. Now it’s bikers selling crystal to the tweakers.”
“Google Earth? What’s that?”
“Yes, it’s something brand-new you can get on the internet. Satellite pictures of the whole world, free.”
“Amazing.” I could think of a few uses for that in my business and made a mental note to talk to Mickey about it. “You seem well informed about the drug scene,” I remarked.
“My dad’s a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, so I hear it over dinner every night. I still live at home. Take care of him since Mom died.”
“Sorry,” I said automatically. “My dad died a few years back and I do the same with my mother, actually.” Then I shut up, wondering just what the hell had prompted me to say that. Not good to open up too much to sources.
Linda said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Time to move out of the house, huh? I understand. I mean, I love my dad, but we both need lives. He doesn’t like my boyfriend and there’s a widow angling for him that I don’t much care for.” She sighed. “Maybe someday. This job is wonderful, but it doesn’t pay well. All the endowment money goes for the kids and the facilities.”
I said, “Listen, speaking of burglaries, I want to go by the sheriff’s office, look at the blotter and ask about the crime around here. You know, just to get all the facts. Can you tell me where it is?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Here,” I said, pulling out the placemat map from the Old Mill. “Can you point it out on this?” If that didn’t work, my GPS would probably find it.
“Okay…” Linda’s face chilled. “Why do you have Kerry’s number on there?”
Alarm bells rang in my head. “I stopped there for lunch and got directions from the bartender to the school. As I don’t know anyone in town, I asked him to write his number down in case I had any further questions,” I lied. I know, what the hell was I doing protecting a flirt and implicating myself, right? All I can say is, it just came out that way. It wasn’t up to me to warn her about her boyfriend’s wandering eye.
Linda’s lips pouted, suspicious. “What is it you do, anyway, Miss Jones?” Her demeanor had cooled, and now a bit of the cop’s daughter showed through the innocence.
“I’m a bail bondsman. I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable.” I tore off the corner with the name and number and held it out to her. “I’m not really into…”
She stared at the bit of paper in my hand. “Oh!” Linda brightened up again. “You’re a lesbian, aren’t you? I forgot already. You seem so normal.”
I bit my tongue – really, just for a moment I did – and smiled. “No harm, no foul.” And then, because I just couldn’t resist I added, “I’ll trade his number for yours if you like.”
Linda blushed to the roots, but didn’t look as horrified as I expected. “Oh, thank you, no, but thank you. Thanks anyway.” I’m not sure either of us knew what she was thanking me for. She marked the location of the sheriff’s office and I left before I made her poor little head explode.
Chapter 3
The main sheriff’s department office turned out to be up in Coulterville. What I found was a deputy’s substation, a single room hole in the wall next to the post office. It had only two desks: one for a receptionist to man the phones and the radio, the other with a plate that said Deputy Sergeant Michael Davis on it.
Fortunately the deputy was out. He’d likely spot me for a snoop or a former cop right off.
I hadn’t reckoned with the intense concentration of the bored receptionist, a middle-aged small-town tornado named Marilou Monroe.
“Hope you got a license for that thing,” she said before I’d gotten three steps in the door. Sharp clear eyes looked me over from beneath a dyed-blonde perm. She wore a too-short skirt and a too-tight blouse that pushed up a fading but ample bounty of cougar’s cleavage.
“Yes ma’am, I do.” I decided to be careful with a sharp cookie like this. “I’m doing some bounty work out of the Bay Area. Got a tip one of my jumpers might be around here. Tweaker. Likes easy burglaries. Targets old people, the handicapped, anyone who he thinks can’t fight back.” I pulled my b
ondsman’s license out and showed it to her.
Marilou glanced at it, and then at the right side of my face. “Ex-military?”
“Ex-cop. Little disagreement with a pound of C-4.”
“Ouch.” Marilou sketched a salute. “I figured you was on the job before or somethin’. I used to work for Santa Clara PD before I moved out here. All right, Miss. I’ll pull the blotter, but I can already tell you he might have hit one of our citizens. Frank Jackson, our special education director. Had a break-in last Thursday. Stole a couple of gold chains – you know, those Afro-Americans really like their gold chains.”
Yes, she really did say “Afro-Americans.” Marilou and my mom would get along just fine, both stuck in the sixties and seventies.
“Nothing else?” I asked.
By this time Marilou had retrieved an oversized logbook from a shelf and opened it on her desk, shoving aside a brimming ashtray. “Here we go. Two gold chains, eighteen carat, about forty grams total. That’s over a thousand dollars’ worth at today’s silly prices. A boom box. Oh my, they do like their music and their bling, don’t they? And a laptop computer. That’s all he reported.”
“Serial numbers?”
“Here.” Marilou wrote down the boom box and the laptop’s make, models and identifying digits, along with a number and street. “Here’s Frank’s address and home phone. You didn’t get it from me. You know, against policy and all that, but us good ol’ girls got to stick together, right?”
“Damn straight,” I played along. “Fellas never give us any credit, do they? So this Frank Jackson, you think he’d mind if I talked to him?”
“Naw, he’s a sweetheart. Too bad he wasn’t a bit taller or I’d be baking him some pie myself, if you know what I mean.”
I put on surprise. “Too short?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you. He’s a midget. I mean, dwarf. You know, like a mini-me. Little person, he keeps making me say, but a woman like me can’t keep up with every goddamn PC change to what people want to be called every five years like clockwork. By the way, what are you? Indian?”
In a Bind Page 3
