The woman didn’t seem very upset about the idea of her kid going to prison. She was probably wishing for it, hoping to get the punk out of her hair for a while. Marvelli was actually surprised to see that the lady didn’t have a totally negative attitude toward corrections. The mothers of convicts usually did.
“So what is it you want to know about that no-good chippy Martha Lee? I told Tom Junior when he married her that she’d be nothing but heartache and misery.” Olivette took another cheek-sucking drag off her cigarette and emphasized her point with a sharp nod.
Marvelli couldn’t hold back his grin. This was why he always liked to begin with the in-laws when he started looking for a jumper. They always had plenty to say. Just like his mother-in-law.
Loretta closed Martha Spooner’s file and set it aside on the couch. “When did you last see your daughter-in-law, Mrs. Macrae?”
“Why? She forget to call in to her parole officer? I’m not surprised. She’s living it up, from what I hear. Don’t mix with the hoi polloi no more. Thinks her shit don’t smell.”
“Have you seen her recently?” Loretta pressed.
Olivette shook her head as she sucked in more smoke. “Hope I never do neither. The little bitch.”
Loretta nodded, and Marvelli watched her face to see if she was losing her patience with Mrs. Macrae. Loretta seemed like the type who expected fast answers. He had a feeling that shmoozing wasn’t her thing. Too bad. Shmoozing went a long way in this job. Renée used to be a great shmoozer, shmooze your pants right off. But these days she didn’t talk very much. Too much talk tired her out.
“Do you know where Martha Lee Spooner is, Mrs. Macrae?” Loretta asked.
“Florida, from what I hear.”
“Florida!” Loretta said, furrowing her brows. “The last address we have for her is Washington Avenue in Margate, down near Atlantic City.”
Marvelli winced. He didn’t want to go to goddamn Florida. He couldn’t leave Renée for that long.
Olivette Macrae stubbed out her cigarette and lit up a fresh one. “Well, I can’t say for sure whether she is or she isn’t down Florida, but that’s what Tom Junior told me. He’s doing time down in Trenton for selling drugs, which by the way I don’t believe he ever did himself. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong crowd if you ask me. It was his dear wife Martha Lee who snitched on him and his buddies, by the way. What I want to know is, how come she got out in two years and the rest of ’em are all doing fifteen in, minimum? You tell me that. How come?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know anything about that, Mrs. Macrae,” Marvelli said.
“Well, it’s a damn shame if you ask me. You only have to meet Martha Lee once to know what she’s all about. Better yet, play cards with her sometime.”
“What do you mean, play cards with her?” Marvelli asked.
“The girl’s a natural-born cheat. Counts cards in her head like it’s nothing. Barely got out of high school, but she’s something else when it comes to numbers. Specially numbers that got dollar signs up front. She’s the one who handled the money for those dope fiends my boy Tom Junior got involved with. She was the brains of that operation if you ask me.”
Marvelli caught Loretta’s eye. They were thinking the same thing. Martha Spooner was a card counter, which explained why she had been living down by the casinos in Atlantic City. If she was discreet and didn’t get greedy, she could’ve made a nice living for herself bilking the tables. So why did she relocate to Florida? Florida didn’t have legalized gambling. Of course, Florida did have the drug trade. South Florida supplied the whole East Coast. Drugs were bigger than orange juice down there. Maybe Martha Lee was up to her old tricks, laundering drug money.
“Do you have any idea where your daughter-in-law is in Florida?” Loretta asked. “An address, even a phone number would help.”
Marvelli winced again. Don’t even ask, he thought. We’re not going down there.
Olivette shook her head as she twirled the end of her cigarette in the beanbag ashtray. “I woulda thrown that little so-and-so’s address in the garbage if I’d had it. Maybe Tom Junior’s got it. I don’t know. Ask him.”
Loretta made a face. She looked very disgruntled, and Marvelli was suddenly disappointed in her. What’d she think, this was gonna be easy? That you just ask a question and get the answer you want, easy as pie? Well, go to the library if you want to look stuff up. When you’re tracking down a jumper, you have to finesse your information. Loretta would have to learn that if she intended to stay with the Jump Squad, which she probably didn’t. He could teach her, though, if she wanted to learn.
Loretta collected her things and stood up. She looked at Marvelli. “Well, I guess we’re going down to Trenton to see Tom Junior.”
Marvelli gave her a dirty look. Yes, of course, they were going to go see Tom Junior in prison, but she’d better not get any big ideas because they weren’t going to Florida. They’d investigate it up here, then pass along whatever they found out to the locals wherever Martha Lee Spooner was. Let them deal with her.
He stood up and extended his hand to Olivette. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Macrae. Sorry to take up your time.”
“No problem at all. If I knew it’d put Martha Lee’s snippy little butt back in prison, I’d let you stay all day.”
Loretta offered her hand to the woman. “Thank you for talking to us, Mrs. Macrae.”
Olivette was reaching over to shake Loretta’s hand when she was suddenly distracted by an eighteen-wheeler that came out of nowhere and pulled to a screeching stop in front of her house. The cab of the truck was shiny black, the trailer dull silver. The door on the passenger side opened and out hopped a hefty young woman in a black leather vest, skin-tight black jeans, and black suede, fringe-top cowboy boots. As the young woman crossed the lawn and mounted the porch steps, Marvelli could see dark roots under a rat’s nest of badly permed henna-red hair. Her upper arms were huge, and she was spilling out of the vest. The porch door banged behind her when she came in, and Marvelli noticed that she had a tattoo on her fleshy bicep, a red she-devil just like the one painted on the Chevy in the driveway.
Olivette Macrae crossed her arms and smirked. “Well, look who’s home? You run out of money again? Or did’ja just miss me?”
The young woman glowered at her, ignoring Loretta and Marvelli.
“This is my darlin’ daughter Ricky,” Olivette said with a smirk.
“Hi, how ya doing?” Marvelli said.
Ricky Macrae ignored him, taking a cigarette from her mother’s pack without asking. She lit it with her own lighter and spewed out a cloud of smoke. “What the hell do they want?” Ricky said to her mother.
“They’re from the state. They’re looking for Martha Lee.”
“Oh, yeah?” She gave Marvelli the once-over and was totally unimpressed. Ricky had attitude to spare.
She sent another cloud of smoke up to the ceiling, then let her gaze settle on Loretta. Suddenly Loretta went pale, brows slanted back, jaw clenched. The look passed quickly, but it was there, Marvelli had seen it. It was fear, he was certain. But why? Ricky was a bruiser, but she wasn’t that scary.
Ricky curled her upper lip Elvis-style and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth. “So whattaya want with Martha Lee?”
Loretta’s face hardened. “I don’t think that’s any of your business really.”
“Oh, no? How about if I slap you across your big fat face? Think it would be any of my business then?”
Loretta didn’t flinch. “Go ahead. Try it.”
Ricky dropped her cigarette and tried to get off a slap, but before she could even get her hand above her shoulder, she froze, mouth open, plucked eyebrows arched high.
The barrel of a snub-nosed .38 was poking into Ricky’s gut, Loretta’s hand around the grip.
Marvelli was speechless. Son of a bitch, he thought. Where’d that come from? Her purse? He hadn’t noticed Loretta going for it. Neither had Ricky obviously.
Pretty damn slick. He sure as hell couldn’t do that. He was always dropping his gun. That’s why he almost never used it. But this Loretta Kovacs, she was all right.
“What’re you looking at, Marvelli?” she grumbled. “You never saw a gun before?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Ricky backed away from the .38 and bumped into the coffee table. She looked a little pale under the rouge.
“That’s what you get for sassing people,” her mother scolded. “I keep telling you, little girl. One of these days you’re gonna be sorry.”
“Oh, shut up, will ya? No one asked you.” Ricky recovered her attitude. She stomped on the cigarette smoldering on the painted wood floor, then locked eyes with Loretta again. They stared each other down for almost a full minute. Finally Ricky looked away and mumbled, “Bitch. . . .”
Loretta ignored her. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Macrae,” she said again, then let herself out and walked down the rickety porch steps to the white Department of Corrections Dodge Aries parked at the end of the drive. The .38 was still in her hand, though, as if she expected trouble.
As he watched Loretta get into the car, Marvelli felt for his own gun in the belt-clip holster under his jacket, just to make sure it was still there. He was still trying to figure out why Loretta had been so spooked by Ricky . . . and how she had gotten her gun out so smooth and quiet. Damn, he wished he could do that.
He looked at Ricky and her mother and nodded toward Loretta. “A very dangerous person, my partner.”
“Dangerous, my ass,” Ricky snorted. She turned and went into the house.
He said good-bye to Olivette Macrae again and went out to the car. Through the windshield, he could see Loretta in the driver’s seat, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for him. Her green eyes were glowing in the direct sunlight.
A very dangerous person, he thought.
She growled when he got in: “What’re you smiling at, Marvelli?”
“Nothing.” He felt for his gun again, wondering what it would be like to go out on a prolonged search with her.
But it was a moot point, he told himself. He wasn’t gonna be doing any overnights, not with her or anyone else. And he wasn’t going to Florida.
No way.
5
The visiting room at Trenton State Prison was painted stark white, and, except for a couple of Formica-top tables and a bunch of blue plastic stacking chairs, it was bare. Loretta was sitting at one of the tables with Marvelli and Olivette Macrae’s son, Tom Spooner, Jr. They were the only ones in the room. A guard was posted outside the door.
Martha Lee Spooner’s file was open on the table, and Tom Junior couldn’t keep his eyes off the mug shot stapled to the jacket. He rubbed his Cro-Magnon forehead and drifted off into his own world again. Loretta wanted to bop him over the head to snap him out of it. She wanted to know where in Florida his wife was because she only had a week—six days actually—to find her. No Martha Lee, no job. No job, no master plan. No master plan, no law degree. No law degree . . . no career, no life, no happiness. No pleasing Dad.
Please, God, she thought, the only other thing I ever asked you for was to lose twenty pounds for the senior prom and you didn’t help me then, so make it up to me now. Make Tom Junior tell us where his wife is. Please, God.
But Tom Junior wasn’t saying much. The former biker was squat and brawny, with a misshapen splat for a nose and a fright wig of dark brown hair. But despite his looks, he wasn’t very scary. Sad was more like it. Loretta studied his face, looking for any resemblance to his half sister, Ricky Macrae. He didn’t look anything like Ricky, but it aggravated her that she was still obsessing about Ricky.
For some reason, when Loretta had first seen Ricky getting out of that truck with her big bruiser arms and her go-to-hell expression, she immediately thought of Brenda Hemingway, and she freaked. What was worse, she’d overreacted and pulled her gun. But why? she kept asking herself. Ricky was just a wiseass kid. She wasn’t Brenda. Why the hell was Loretta still letting her fears run her life? This had to stop, she told herself. It had to, or else she was going to drive herself crazy.
Loretta looked at her watch. No one was saying anything—again—but Loretta was dying to because it was her clock that was ticking. Unfortunately, she’d agreed to let Marvelli do the talking this time—he’d insisted, actually. But all they were doing now was staring at Tom Junior, who was staring at the photos of his estranged wife, tears brimming in his bloodshot eyes. Loretta couldn’t believe what a dope this guy was, pining away from the woman who’d stabbed him in the back. She looked at Marvelli, hoping he’d take the hint and put it in gear, but he was ignoring her, keeping his focus on Tom Junior instead.
Loretta frowned at both of them. She was itching to grab a fistful of Tom Junior’s hair and shake his big stupid head. What the hell’re you doing crying over this skinny little bitch? she wanted to shout. She’s the one who ratted on you and your biker buddies. She’s the one who turned state’s witness to get a reduced sentence for herself while you’re doing fifteen years in, mandatory. Skinny women like that cannot be trusted, you freakin’ bozo! Don’t you know anything?
But then she thought about Brenda Hemingway and Ricky Macrae. The hefty ones weren’t always trustworthy either.
Tom Junior let out a shuddering sigh then. Marvelli furrowed his brows deeper, patiently waiting for Tom to go on with the story he’d started ten minutes ago. But Loretta still wanted to shake Tom Junior and tell him to wake up. He was doing hard time at a maximum-security state prison, for chrissake. He was supposed to be pissed off, angry, mad as hell! He was supposed to be cursing and pounding his fists on the table, turning on his dear wife Martha Lee the same way she’d turned on him. Except he wasn’t doing that. He was crying for her, the stupid jerk.
High on the bicep where the sleeve of his blue work shirt had been cut off, Loretta noticed that there was a tattoo of an anatomically correct heart dripping blood with a banner spiraling around it. Printed on the banner was: MARTHA LEE & ME—FOREVER. He really loved her, the dumb sap. He wasn’t gonna give her up. Damn!
Marvelli leaned over the table. “Listen to me, Tom. I’m gonna ask you again. Do you know where Martha Lee is? That’s all we want to know.”
Tom Junior swallowed hard. “I’m still thinking.” His eyes never left the mug shots.
Loretta bounced her knee. The map of Florida was burned into her brain. A city, a county, anything that’ll point us in the right direction, she thought. “Come on, Tom. We’re waiting.”
Marvelli gave her a dirty look.
She crossed her arms and gave it back to him. So what if Marvelli was the senior officer here? He didn’t know everything. And it wasn’t as if he were on the verge of a big breakthrough with this mook.
Marvelli turned back to Tom Junior. “What’s the problem, Tom? Just tell me. Your mother already told us that Martha Lee is in Florida. If you know where in Florida, just tell us. No one has to know it was you who gave us the information. I give you my word.”
“That’s not it.” Tom Junior wiped his eyes with the back of his stubby index finger, squeezing out a tear. “What I’m worried about is Martha Lee. What happens to her if you pick her up? She’s got a kid, a little girl. It’s mine, I think. What’ll happen to her?”
“Martha Lee will go back before the parole board, and they’ll decide if she has to go back to prison to serve out the rest of her original sentence. Social Services will take care of the kid. Or maybe your mother can take her.”
Tom Junior just shook his head as if it were hopeless. He touched one of the photos of Martha Lee and looked like he was going to start blubbering.
Loretta started bouncing her knee again. Come on, Tom! Today!
Tom Junior let out a long sigh. “I don’t expect you to do me any favors,” he finally said. “But just promise me one thing, okay?”
“What’s that?” Marvelli said.
“When you catch up with her, do
n’t tell her I told you anything, okay? I don’t want her to hate me.”
Loretta threw up her hands. “Why?! She didn’t have any trouble giving it to you up the yin-yang—”
Marvelli glowered at her. “You mind, Loretta?”
She shut up, but her knee kept bouncing. “Sorry.” She stared down at the tabletop and focused on Marvelli’s clasped hands. There was a gold wedding band on his left ring finger. She’d noticed it before, back at the office. She wondered what his wife was like. A big-hair bimbo, probably. An Italian-American princess who worried more about her nails than her marriage. But Loretta had a feeling Marvelli wasn’t exactly the faithful type. He seemed too casual about things, too off-the-cuff, and he was a real slave to his appetites. He’d finished off that whole tray of cinnamon buns this morning, didn’t he? What kind of self-control is that?
“Where is she, Tom?” Marvelli asked. “Come on, you want to tell us. I can see that you do. Just say it.”
Tom Junior exhaled his turmoil. “She’s . . . well, she’s supposed to be in a place called—” He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Marvelli urged. “Just say it. She’ll never know it was you.”
Tom Junior looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. “All right, all right. . . Bonita Springs. It’s down by Fort Myers.”
Loretta’s face fell. Bonita Springs? She knew Bonita Springs.
“How do you know she’s there?” Marvelli asked. “Did she write to you?”
Tom Junior shook his head. “My sister found out.”
“Your sister Ricky? Ricky Macrae?” Marvelli looked at Loretta. “How does she know where Martha is?”
Tom Junior hesitated.
“You’ve come this far, Tom. You may as well spill the rest.”
Tom Junior looked from Marvelli to Loretta, then looked down at the mug shots again. “Ricky hired a private investigator to find out where Martha Lee was. Now she’s got a contract out on Martha Lee’s head.”
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