by Randy Rawls
A solitary tear rolled down Dabba’s cheek as an image of the last time she saw Linda filled her mind. She mumbled, “So cute. I fixed her pretty blond hair special that day. I did it in banana curls like Shirley Temple in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. It was somebody’s birthday, and her kindergarten class was having a party.” She hesitated. “Whose party was it?” She strained to remember. Her head popped up and an angry look filled her face. In a loud voice, she said, “I can’t remember? I want to remember. I must remember everything about my daughter.”
The other passengers on the bus squeezed into their seats, as far from her as they could get. The driver glanced over his shoulder, a worried look on his face. That woman wouldn’t be the first crazy he’d had on his bus. Seemed like it happened more and more often though. He wondered if he should call for police support.
Dabba quieted, then her muttering returned. “Sally. The party was for little Sally Jenkins. She was turning five years old. Linda told me she was so proud to be the same age as the others. Now they wouldn’t call her baby anymore.”
Dabba’s eyes took on a faraway look, a curtain of tears covering them. “Pink. A pretty pink dress. A new one. Linda wore her new pink dress for the party. And pink shoes. Pink shoes, pink socks, pink dress, and a pink ribbon in her hair. My sweetie was a princess in pink.”
Dabba sniffled, looking around the bus. “Where am I? Who are these people? They ain’t parents from Linda’s school.” Her eyes fluttered, and she blinked. Tired. Always so tired. Sleepy.
She dozed, an empty smile on her face, a bit of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.
_____
Hammonds, Bannon, Winthrop, and I sat at the dining room table, the five files in front of Hammonds.
Hammonds tapped the stack. “I don’t lose many cases. That’s not a brag, just a statement of fact. These are five I lost, mostly because they were too guilty for a believable defense.” He pointed to the first. “Donald Kenneth Simonson. He was a Broward County commissioner nailed in an FBI sting for soliciting bribes. They had so much on him about all I could do was plead in mitigation. He didn’t agree with me then, and I’m sure he wouldn’t now, but he got off lucky—only fifteen years. After the trial, he put on a big show in front of the media by firing me and hiring Horace Rheingold. Last I heard, Horace had quit him. Simonson was dirty, too dirty to rescue.”
“And he got elected?” I said. “I don’t find it difficult to believe he was a criminal, but why would anyone vote for him?”
“Chalk it up to Broward County politics,” Hammonds said. “Like Chicago, influence peddling and bribery are part of the county’s heritage. Kind of like neutral wallpaper in an attorney’s office—seldom noticed. Speaking of which, look at Sheila Lively-Wesler? She might not have been as obvious as Simonson, but she racked up enough under-the-table cash to buy a resort island, a large one. She was immensely popular and served for years. Every four years, she swept into office on a landslide. One of those things that makes no sense is people don’t look at results, they just react to what the politician says.”
He hesitated while shaking his head. “Anyway, I had folks volunteering day and night, wanting to testify for her, and I mean some high-powered ones—judges, local athletes, other elected officials. I used as many as I thought the case would tolerate. Too many and the jury tunes out, sometimes going the other way. It was a good trial, but the prosecution simply had more than I could counter. They had the goods on her ex-husband, and he turned on her. He pled out and threw her to the wolves. She got twenty years. She asked me to appeal, but I told her I couldn’t continue to take her money.” He paused, appearing to think. “Let’s say I learned things that left me cold and leave it there.”
“Anything that makes you think either of them could be the kidnapper?” I asked.
He stared at the ceiling. “Either or neither. Both thought they were above the law and thought I failed them. Their egos were out of control. Both of them said things I could interpret as threats. On the other hand, I can’t picture either of them doing anything as violent as this. They were quick to bully the weak, but shied away from the strong.”
“Interesting,” I said.
Bannon tapped the files. “How about the others?”
Hammonds flipped open another folder. “Esteban Edwardo Sabastion. This guy was a lobbyist brought down by his success. In twenty years of working the hallways of Broward County and the city governments, he probably influenced more projects than anyone else in the state. He gave out a lot of gifts and paid for tons of dinners. I still can’t say with certainty that he bribed anyone. Did he buy influence? Yes. But, doesn’t the big contributor to any campaign buy influence? I mean, how many use their thousands to get someone elected without expecting something in return? My experience says between none and zero.
“Our problem at trial was the prosecutor trotted out several elected and appointed officials who were under suspicion on their own. They told believable stories, saying Sabastion attempted to bribe them. There were never any witnesses, but the sheer number of repetitions overwhelmed the jury—or that was my take. The old where there’s smoke, there’s fire gambit. And I couldn’t deny his attempts to influence elected officials. That was his job, and he did it well. Plus, the newspapers blamed him for every over-budget contract in the county forever. In the end, I couldn’t counter the negatives. He went down hard—twenty-five years.”
“I remember him,” Bannon said. “I didn’t work the case, but I was glad when he went down. Of course, all I had were the newspapers and office scuttlebutt. Are you saying he wasn’t as bad as I heard?”
“About all I can say,” Hammonds answered, “is I’ve defended worse, who either got off or received shorter sentences.”
Before Bannon could rebut, I said, “How about this file? Tell us about Mankosky.”
Hammonds leaned back in his chair, looked toward the ceiling, and sighed. “Not one of my prouder moments. Herbert Lowery Mankosky.” He tapped the folder, a look of regret on his face. “I heard about his arrest, but didn’t pay much attention. As far as I could tell from the newspaper reports, he was just another smalltime conman who got himself into a position to embezzle. Everyday occurrence in South Florida. When he initially contacted me, I ignored him. Later, I wished I had stuck with my first reaction. However, he bushwhacked me in a restaurant one night. I couldn’t cause a scene by having him thrown out, so I listened.” Hammonds chuckled and shook his head. “Calling him a conman is not giving him enough credit. After he’d spoken for ten minutes, I was on his team. No way could he be guilty. Without going into details, I agreed to represent him.”
“And?” I said when he paused.
Again the chuckle and shake of the head. “Later I found out he was one of the dirtiest I ever defended. By the time we got to mitigation, I was ready to abandon him and the courtroom. I even gave it some thought. Quit mid-trial. However, I knew that would destroy me as a defense attorney so I swallowed hard and did my best for him. My efforts earned him thirty years, and we parted company. I haven’t heard a word from him since the day of his sentencing and consider myself lucky for it.”
“Sounds like he could be our kidnapper,” I said.
“Possible, but somehow I doubt it. The man was gutless. He worked in the shadows or against little old ladies. My wife could have ripped him apart. Of course, prison does strange things to people. Maybe he developed a backbone.”
“Okay, last one,” I said. “Stevenson?”
He opened the file and flipped the pages for a moment. “Daniel Kelso Stevenson. He was different. He walked into my office and asked if the attorney-client relationship began the moment he opened his mouth. I said yes, and he replied, ‘Good. I’m guilty, and I want you to defend me.’ That was startling. Now, don’t get me wrong. I defend a lot of folks guilty as charged. The police don’t make near as many mistakes as the media want you t
o believe. But it’s seldom I have someone admit it—especially up front.”
“If you knew he was guilty, why’d you take him on?” I asked. “I’d have run for the hills.”
“There was something about him. I could say he was likeable, but it was more than that. Yeah, he was smooth. You expect savoir-faire in a lobbyist. It’s part of the job description. But he was so danged honest—or seemed to be. No matter what I asked him, his response convinced me he was telling the truth—even when he confessed to his worst crimes. Everything about him was a dichotomy. He was a family man who loved his wife and children and put them first. Yet he had no qualms about partying all night with a customer, setting him up with prostitutes, and partaking of their pleasures, if asked. If he had someone who liked to gamble, Stevenson knew the places with games. As he told me, he did whatever it took to make the sale. When we were in trial, the audience and the jury loved him. But the evidence was too much. The only possible verdict was guilty, and you could see the remorse on the jurors’ faces as the judge read it. Stevenson could have gotten seventy years. The judge gave him fifteen. That was the kind of person Dan was. Everyone loved him. Before you ask, no, I don’t think he’s the kidnapper. In fact, of the five, I’d put him on the bottom of the list.”
I looked at the notes I took while Hammonds spoke. Five convicted criminals, all white-collar, all well-educated, one of them, maybe, a murderer and a kidnapper. Which one? After adding random question marks across a fresh page, I turned to Bannon. “The police are running the whereabouts of these five, right?”
“Yes. Chief Elston is personally honchoing it. It’s more than just running names through the computer, though. He said he was going to touch base with a real person to determine if they’re where the records say they are. So, if they’re still in prison, he’s going to speak to the warden. And, if they’re on parole, he’ll track down the P.O. The chief isn’t happy about Mr. Hammonds’ decision to cut us out, but he’s downright pissed at whoever perpetrated these crimes in his back yard. He’ll call as soon as he has something. If it’s good, he just might come out here.”
“I know. I’m not doubting him. I only wish he could hurry.” I looked back at my notes. “Okay, let’s fill the time, John. As a group, you know these people better than anyone else here. Rate them for me. Use a scale of one to five, with five being the most unlikely. Put them in order.”
Hammonds stared at me, then at the folders. “Difficult, but I’ll give it a try. As I said, Stevenson is last.” He picked up Stevenson’s folder and laid it aside, then spread the others in front of him. “Lively-Wesler?” He rocked back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “She had a quality I can’t quite identify. Not ruthlessness, but not gentleness either. Selfish, greedy. That’s about as close as I can come. Let’s say she placed herself before all others. Put her in the middle of the pack, number three.”
“Fine.” I wrote a three beside her name, then added a five beside Stevenson. “We’re left with one, two, and four.”
More thinking from Hammonds, more shifting of the files. “Sabastion, number four. Not as harmless as Stevenson, but close.”
I wrote a four by Sabastion’s name. “Now the tough ones. One and two. Those most likely to murder and kidnap.”
“Yeah,” Hammonds said. “Mankosky and Simonson. Two jewels. Let’s list them that way. Put Mankosky at number one and Simonson at number two. That’s as good as I can do.”
“If that’s what your gut says, we’ll go with it. I have it as Mankosky, Simonson, Lively-Wesler, Sabastion, and last, Stevenson. Let’s see if Chief Elston’s research supports our ranking.” I paused. “Sure wish he’d call.”
I should have become a prophet. The phone rang.
nineteen
The bus stopped at the corner of Royal Ridge and Wiles. Dabba stood and made her way to the front, then paused in the doorway and turned toward the driver. “Next time I ride on here, maybe you could miss a few of the bumps. Bad for my rheumatiz.” As his mouth fell open, she dragged her bag down the two steps.
She looked at the street signs, then scratched her frizzled head. “Ain’t no soccer fields around here. Ain’t nothing but gas stations and drug stores. Same as every corner.” She looked east on Wiles, then west, then back at the names of the streets. “Maybe it wasn’t Royal Ridge.” She thought hard, squeezing her eyes shut with the effort. “Royal something. Dang folks name all the roads the same. But I’m sure Bob said Royal something and Wiles.”
A car stopped alongside her, the female driver waiting for the traffic light.
“Hey, you,” Dabba yelled, waving her hand.
The woman lowered her window a couple of inches and stuck out a dollar.
“I don’t want your money,” Dabba said, grabbing the bill. “Is there another street around here called Royal something?”
The window came down another tentative inch. “What did you say?”
Dabba repeated her question and added, “I’m looking for a soccer field on the corner of Royal something and Wiles. It ain’t here. Do you know it?”
“Must be Royal Springs,” the woman said. “It’s that way.” She pointed east along Wiles. The light changed, and the woman zoomed away like she thought Dabba was a carjacker.
“Uppity bitch coulda give me a ride,” Dabba said. “Acted like I got the measles or some kind of fancy flu.”
She raised a hand and crossed the street, paying no attention to the traffic signal. Brake lights flashed, fingers flew, and words were hurled, but she made it across without getting hit. “This way, that woman said. It’s this way I’m gonna go. Shortest way to Linda.”
_____
She started life as Deborah Livingstone, born to lower middle-class parents in Hartford, Connecticut, one of two children. Her father was a plumber with a small business that kept food on the table, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads, but provided few luxuries. At an early age, Deborah and her younger brother learned to appreciate the value of a dollar.
Like others of that generation, her parents expected Deborah to grow up, marry, and carry on the Livingstone heritage of being a good wife and mother. That’s what she did.
At nineteen, with her father’s help, she purchased her first car. The salesman was Morgan Burton, Jr., son of the owner of the dealership. While it wasn’t love at first sight, it was close enough that they were married a year later. Another year passed and Linda was born.
Deborah settled into her role as mother and housewife, never questioning that it was her destiny. Morgan worked long hours, learning the business from the ground up with the expectation he would take over when his father retired. Linda was a happy baby who grew into a chortling toddler. Life was good in the Burton household.
Linda was her father’s daughter following him everywhere when he was at home—first, with her eyes, then crawling, then toddling. He retaliated by treating her like a princess and Deborah like a queen. As Linda began to form words, she tried to emulate Morgan, but Deborah was too tough for her to pronounce. It came out Dabba, and Dabba it stayed. Soon, Morgan used Dabba, also. It became Deborah’s new name, one that never failed to make her smile when she remembered its origin.
Dabba and Morgan took on the mantle of respectable middle class. She joined a sewing circle, became a Red Cross worker, and volunteered at many activities. On Wednesday afternoons, she played party bridge with friends, swapping recipes, and catching up on gossip. Morgan joined the Rotarians and in his fourth year, became president of the local chapter. If there was a social or civic event within their range, one or both were involved. Burton Auto Mart thrived, and Morgan rose to Vice-President.
When Linda turned five, she started kindergarten and distinguished herself with her quick learning and bubbling personality. Her teachers doted on her, sending notes home to Dabba and Morgan extolling Linda, saying how much they enjoyed having her in their classes.
Morgan and Dabba wanted another child—Dabba because she loved being a mother and Morgan because he yearned for a son. He remembered the joys of following behind his father and wanted to share the same experiences with his son. But for reasons no doctor could explain, Dabba did not become pregnant. Even as they told one another they had years to conceive, they spoke in a tentative way about adopting a boy.
Then the nightmare began, the nightmare that turned Dabba’s world upside down. It started the morning Dabba dressed Linda all in pink and dropped her off at kindergarten.
When Dabba went to the school to pick Linda up, the teachers were surprised. They had seen Linda get in a car with a woman they thought was Dabba. They looked so much alike, it was uncanny—or so they said. Dabba was furious, saying they didn’t protect her daughter. Morgan was slower to blame the school, expecting the police to have Linda home soon. His expectations went for naught.
Dabba spent each day driving the streets of the city, looking for Linda. She was likely to slow and stare intently at any little girl with blond curls, especially if she wore pink. Dabba’s car became known to authorities as anxious mothers called in complaints of stalking.
Morgan buried his emotions in work and civic activities. His father retired, urged to do so by Morgan, and he became President of Morgan Auto Mart. Sales doubled, then tripled under his whip-cracking leadership.
Conversations between Dabba and Morgan became tinged with anger and blame, then ceased. All thoughts of adoption disappeared into the pink haze of Linda’s disappearance.
As the police lost interest in the case because of time, lack of leads, and other priorities, Dabba’s search area widened. Soon, she spent days away from home, looking in the nearby countryside, cities, and towns. The house on Utah Street was more and more unoccupied as Morgan slept at the office, and Dabba slept in her car or any motel that happened to be handy. No longer did they share a home.
