by Frank Zafiro
“Just tell him, An,” he said in her ear. “Tell him or I will. Tell him for Fawn’s sake.”
At the whisper of her daughter’s name, Andie’s eyes filled with tears and some of her pretensions melted away.
“Yes,” she said thickly. “He’s here.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “I’ve only spoken to him twice.”
“By phone or in person?”
“Both.” She sniffed and wiped away her tears. She held out her hand to Steve and he put his coffee cup in it. She took several sips while I waited.
Finally, she began to speak. “His name is Virgil Kelley. Fifteen years ago, we had a brief fling. It didn’t last long. He left town and I figured it was over. Then I found out I was pregnant.”
“His?” I asked.
She glanced at me sharply. “I was young and stupid, detective, but I was not a whore. There was no doubt as to who the father was.”
“Did you tell him right away?”
“Of course,” she snapped, then paused. “Well, not right away. It took a few months to hear from him. Then we talked about it. He said he’d be a lousy father. I figured I could raise her alone. Young and stupid, like I said.
“He sent some money. Quite a lot, actually, though there was a period where he didn’t send much at all. Even so, for that first couple of years, I only had to work part-time and was able to go to school on grants. It worked out, I suppose. I sent him pictures of Fawn every year, but he never called or wrote letters. Just sent money with a note that said ‘thank you for the photos.’”
“How long did this go on?”
Andie met my eyes. “It never stopped.”
I motioned toward Steve. “After you married?”
“He still sent money. Of course, we didn’t need it then. I put it in an account for Fawn. It was supposed to be her nest egg. She never knew about it. Or him.”
“Fawn was three when you two were married?”
Both Steve and Andie nodded.
“Did you know about this?” I asked Steve.
He half-shrugged. “I knew about him.”
“Did you know he was in town?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call him after Fawn’s death?” I asked Andie.
She shook her head. “I didn’t have a number for him. I never have had one. All I have is a post office box in California. So I sent the newspaper clipping.”
“When?”
“Two days after you came here to tell us about Fawn.”
“And when did he come here?”
“He never came to the house. He called about a week ago. Then I met him at a restaurant downtown.”
“Which one?”
“Aphrodite’s. We talked.”
“And he told you why he was here. And what he was planning to do.” It wasn’t a question, but Andie nodded anyway. “When was this?”
“A week ago.”
“What’s his story?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know much. He works for some mafia type down in California. He said he fixed problems.”
My eyes widened. “Mafia type? He’s a hitter?”
A trace of a smile touched her lips. “I asked the same thing. He said I read too many mysteries.”
“Then what kind of problems does he fix?”
“I think…the kind that put people in the hospital,” Andie answered. “But he isn’t a killer.”
“He told you that?”
She nodded. “Yes, he did.”
“What else did he say?”
“Not much. Just that he was going to fix this problem, too.”
“Mrs. Taylor, I need to find this guy before he kills more people. Before he — “
“More people?”
“Yeah,” I said. “More people. He’s already killed a guy.”
She gulped air in and let it out in a moan. Her gaze jumped between Steve and me. “Was it…”
“Fawn’s killer? I don’t know. I doubt it.”
Andie looked back down at her knees, that unfocused look in her eyes again.
“What can you tell me besides his name?” I asked her after a few moments of silence.
“I don’t know.”
“What town is he from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where do you send the pictures?”
“Sacramento.” She gave me the box number and zip code.
“You have it memorized?”
She glanced at Steve. “I didn’t want to leave it laying around.”
“I see. Who’s his boss?”
“He didn’t say.”
I sighed. “Did he use any other names? Did he have tattoos? Was he arrested here in River City?”
She shook her head slowly, then said, “He said he was in prison for three years.”
“When?”
“Sometime around when Fawn was born.”
“Do you remember where?”
“I don’t know if he ever said. Somewhere in Southern California, I guess.”
I leaned back and watched her. She stared at her knees with unfocused eyes. Her lower lip was quivering slightly and tears had formed in her eyes, but didn’t fall.
“Can you think of anything else?”
Andie didn’t respond. I took that as her answer and rose from my chair.
Steve rose with me and followed me toward the door. He opened it and held it for me. “Are you going to arrest my wife?”
“I think she’s been through enough,” I answered and left.
“Virgil Kelley,” I told Lindsay. “Write it down.”
He scratched it out on his notepad, pausing at the last name. “E-Y or just Y?”
“I don’t know. Try both. Run him local and WACIC, just in case. Then do him through NCIC. The records might be fifteen years old, so if you don’t get a hit, I need you to call California Department of Corrections directly and get someone to do a hand search or whatever it takes. I want to know who Virgil Kelley is.”
“Okay.” Lindsay wrote down everything I said. “Who is this guy? A suspect?”
“Maybe. Don’t get ahead of yourself, though, Lindsay. Okay? Just run the check for me and stick with it until you get some answers.”
“Will do.” He gave me a fraternal clap on the shoulder and headed back to his desk.
I sat down and looked at my case files, turning the pages but not reading. My mind was whirring.
Virgil Kelley was Fawn’s father. He’s some sort of criminal, a leg-breaker or something. He got the article from Andie Taylor at his PO Box in Sacramento. The mail would take a day or two to get it there. By then, the murder would’ve been four or five days old. Then how long goes by before he checks that post office box? Either way, it took two weeks for him to get up here.
I picked up my phone and called Billings at his desk. He answered on the third ring.
“Billings,” he said in a bored voice.
“Ted, it’s Tower.” He didn’t say anything, so I continued. “I need you to check something for me on this case.”
“I’m kinda busy,” he muttered.
“On a homicide?” I asked him.
“No,” he sighed. “Go ahead.”
“I gave Lindsay a name. I need you to check that name and any aliases he finds for a PO Box in Sacramento, California.” I gave him the box number.
There was a long pause. Then Billings said, “Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’m not.”
“Do you have any idea how many PO Boxes there must be in a city that size?”
“Probably a lot.”
“Yeah, no shit, a lot.”
“I need it done and I can’t do it myself.”
“Well, I’ll put my world on hold then,” he said and slammed the phone in my ear.
I replaced the receiver. It rang almost immediately.
“Detective Tower.”
“John? Matt We
stboard.”
“Yeah?”
“You left me a message to call you.”
“I did? Oh yeah. The Field Interview on Serena Gonzalez.”
“You’re investigating that one, huh?”
“Yeah. I was just wondering if you actually had her hooking or just walking through the area looking like a hooker.”
He paused, thinking. “I don’t remember her ever contacting cars or anything, if that’s what you mean. She was dressed slutty, but she said she worked at the Club Tip Top. At the time, I didn’t believe her. She was too good-looking for that place.”
“Did she say anything about anyone bothering her? Anyone suspicious?”
“Nah. She was a little pissed that I stopped her. Told me she wasn’t a puta. I did the FI, anyway.”
“You stop anyone out there stalking the working girls?”
“No. Just the usual creeps looking for a date.”
“What about the Brotherhood? How active have they been on your shift?”
“Kinda quiet, really. At least until this guy Sammy G. turned up dead. Now everywhere they go, it’s in a swarm of bikes. Three or four at a time.”
“I meant with the girls, though. Any of them suspicious?”
“Not that I saw,” Westboard said.
I thanked him and hung up.
I picked up the phone and called Renee.
“I know it’s a long shot,” I told her, “But can you run the moniker of M? I’m looking for a black male, twenties.”
I heard the tapping of her keyboard. “What’s the connection?”
“The hooker that came in, Toni, told me that Fawn had a boyfriend that supplied her crack. Or hooked her up with a dealer. Something. Anyway, she called him M.”
“M, huh?”
“Yeah. Why? You get a hit?”
“No, no hit. Well, actually about twenty-seven hits, with another forty-two variations. M is apparently a popular letter.”
“Money. Money starts with M.”
“Exactly. Murder, too. But here’s something else interesting for you. On Wednesday of last week, the Sheriff’s Department had an assault out at the Denny’s on Edward Road. A young black male was beaten badly and is still in a coma. He had a little bit of a drug history.”
I brought my fingers to the bridge of my nose and rubbed, knowing I wasn’t going to like the rest of this. “What was his name?”
“Malcom.”
After I hung up the phone, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the white rectangles on the ceiling. Things were coming into focus and I walked myself through the process silently.
Virgil Kelley gets the clipping about his daughter’s death.
He comes to River City and contacts Andie Taylor. What did she tell him? What or who did she give him that she didn’t give me? Or did he just get different results with the same leads?
Either way, he finds out about M. Malcom. He gets what he needs from Malcom and then beats him senseless. The assault doesn’t even make a blip on my radar screen. It’s in the County, not the City. It’s not a murder, not a female and not in the Corridor.
Then what? Virgil skulks around East Sprague and gleans information from the hookers and crack heads out there. I knew for sure that he talked to Grace. I wondered who else I’d interviewed that he’d also talked to. Probably more than a few people, I guessed.
How did he find out Toni knew about Fawn? Someone must’ve pointed her out. She tells him about Sammy G. He must’ve figured Sammy G. would know who killed Fawn. Maybe he thought it was Sammy G. that killed her. Hell, maybe it was.
No, I decided. A guy that won’t smack a woman in the face for business reasons is not my killer. Too practical. Not sociopathic enough.
When Virgil finds Sammy G., what happens? Something bad, because Virgil killed him. But what did he tell him first?
Did he tell him about Rowdy? Because that sick bastard was on my short list.
I felt a tinge of shame. Browning was working the Sammy G. case and had zero leads. Here I was, ten feet away, with a pretty damn good idea who iced his victim and I wasn’t saying a word. I could help out the County detectives with their Malcom case, too, but I wasn’t saying a word. I had two dead girls, almost assuredly killed by the same sick individual who was not going to stop but would undoubtedly kill again, but I wasn’t saying a word. I had a vigilante who was responsible for a death and a good beating, who was certainly planning to kill at least one more person before he was through, but I wasn’t saying a word.
Because this was my case. My responsibility.
Monday, April 19 th Davenport Hotel, Late Morning
VIRGIL
I woke up to the smell of coffee brewing. My eyes adjusted to the light coming out of the bathroom, which illuminated only a portion of the room. The various signals of pain were still there on my body. I ran my fingers over the cuts and bruises and the improvised stitches.
“Hey,” I said softly, my voice strangely hoarse.
Gina leaned her head out of the bathroom.
“You awake?”
“Yeah,” I said and pushed myself up in bed.
“Want some coffee?”
“Sure.”
Gina’s head disappeared in the bathroom. A moment later she walked out with a cup of coffee and carefully handed it to me. She was wearing a faded pair of Levi’s and a WAZZU sweatshirt.
“Where’d you get the clothes?”
“From home. After you fell asleep, I took off and grabbed a change of clothes before coming back.”
I looked around the room. “Did you spend the night here?”
She smiled at me and crossed her arms.
“Did we…?”
“Like you could have?”
I shrugged and then took a sip of the coffee. The hot liquid slashed against the broken teeth in my mouth and I almost dropped the cup. “Goddamn it,” I muttered.
“Your teeth?”
“Shit, that hurt,” I said and put the cup down on the nightstand.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by an aircraft carrier.” I pulled back a bandage on my left arm and touched the stitches holding the razor cut together. “Good job on the sewing.”
She pointed at the stitches. “That’s the grossest things I’ve ever done.”
“But you did it.”
“I almost puked.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Did you?”
“No, I said almost.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that I’m not a nurse or a doctor. I sewed up your back, your arm and your leg. I refused to sew up that gash on your face.”
My fingers gingerly touched my cheek and felt a bandage. “Was it bad?”
Gina nodded at me.
“Let’s see. Torn up face, fat lip, broken teeth.” My fingers wiggled my nose. “At least that’s not broken.”
“You’ve got a black eye around your left one. You’ve got a good sized cut through your right eyebrow. Bruises all over your body. There’s an especially nasty one near your kidney.”
I touched my back and thought about Mikey’s fist hammering on my kidney.
“Those cuts should really be checked out by a doctor.”
I shook my head. “Can’t do that.”
Gina sat down on the bed next to me. “What are you going to do next?”
“Lay here for a while and lick my wounds.”
She smiled softly at me. “After that?”
“I don’t know. I guess that depends on what’s going on with the Brotherhood.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means, three of their crew are dead in a hotel room down on Sprague.”
Gina’s eyes never changed. She must have come to terms with the killings last night.
“Would you turn on the TV? Find a local channel and let’s wait for the news.”
She grabbed the remote, flicked the button until she was on channel 2.
“You wan
t some breakfast?”
“Yeah.”
She tossed the remote on to the bed next to me. “What sounds good?”
“An Egg McMuffin.”
Gina crinkled her nose. “From McDonalds?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Only for you.”
“There’s a wad of bills in my pants from last night.”
“Not anymore. That’s what you gave me to buy the supplies to clean you up.” She softly patted my leg. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
I read the entire Monday version of the newspaper, finished off two Sausage McMuffins, two hash brown patties and two cups of coffee before I ever climbed out of bed. With each bite and each sip of coffee, I was careful to avoid the broken teeth in my mouth.
When I finally stood up I had to steady myself on the wall.
“You okay?” Gina asked and came to my side.
“Shaky.”
“You look like hell.”
“It’s better than the alternative.”
I shuffled into the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror. Bandages and Band-Aids covered my entire body. What wasn’t covered was black and blue or swollen red.
After I took a shower, Gina helped me change the bandages. She watched me carefully shave and helped me get in to a pair of black slacks and a grey button-down shirt.
When I was finally dressed, Gina kissed me soft on the cheek. “I’ve gotta run. If you want, I’ll be back later.”
“I’d like that.”
She smiled and hurried out of the hotel room. When the door closed, I checked behind the television cabinet and found all three guns were still there. With a careful pull, I freed one of my Glocks. I stuffed it into the back of my pants and grabbed my jacket.
Downstairs, I walked over to the payphone and watched a tall, thin socialite gab away. She must have been in her early sixties, but looked like she’d spent a fair amount of time with a plastic surgeon. The skin around her face and neck were pulled tight and she wore a short haircut that did its best to hide any scars from surgery. The gal was in dark blue slacks with a yellow blazer. Big, gaudy rings covered a number of her fingers while a shiny silver bracelet wrapped itself around her left wrist.
I grabbed a seat nearby and waited for her to finish her conversation. After several minutes, she hung up and hurried away. I walked over to the phone, lifted the receiver and tapped out what seemed to be an endless stream of numbers.
