by Frank Zafiro
“What is it?” Reott asked.
“Nothing,” Crawford told him. “The missing girl’s father is home and wants an update.”
Reott smiled. “Maybe you should send Hart.”
1055 hours
Gio didn’t really know much about Lieutenant Crawford, other than his reputation as a hard-ass. The lieutenant was in charge of the Major Crimes Unit in the Investigative Division and so their paths only crossed at major crime scenes. In those instances, he didn’t exactly have the opportunity to break bread with the guy. Still, when he saw his unmarked police car come to a stop in front of the Dugger residence, he was happy to see him.
He slipped out the front door and met Crawford as he lumbered up the walkway.
“Father’s back, huh?” the lieutenant wheezed.
“Yeah,” Gio said.
“Attitude?”
“Oh, he’s got one,” Gio told him.
Crawford grunted and brushed past Gio, striding toward the house.
Inside, they found the Duggers in the living room. Kathy was still on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket. Peter Dugger was pacing and talking on a cell phone. Gio found cell phones to be the latest accouterment of the wealthy and self-important.
Dugger’s eyes swept over them, but he made no effort to get off the phone. “I’ll be in the day after tomorrow and we’ll re-structure the inspection schedule then.”
Crawford gave Dugger a withering look. Dugger nodded his head at the lieutenant. “Listen, Tammy, just put the Southern inspector on my mandatory sites and set aside the discretionary ones until I’m back. The world won’t collapse.” He listened for a moment, then said, “Then tell Jackson I said it. I don’t care.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and pushed a button, shaking his head. Then he looked up at Crawford. “Three dollars a minute and she wants to worry what some idiot in Atlanta is going to say.”
Crawford extended his hand. “Lieutenant Crawford.”
Dugger shook his hand. “Peter Dugger. You have an update for me?”
“I do,” Crawford said. “As you can see, we’ve had an officer here around the clock since we knew about this incident.” He motioned at Giovanni. “In addition to that, I have a task force of detectives working on your case. The entire patrol division has been briefed on the situation and stopped enough similar vehicles to cause a minor uproar in the black community this morning. Teletypes were sent to all Western States and will be re-sent tomorrow morning nationally.”
Dugger nodded as Crawford spoke, as if he were ticking of a checklist. Then he asked, “What else?”
“There is nothing else, Mr. Dugger.”
“No search parties?”
Crawford looked at him for a moment, then turned and walked toward the kitchen, motioning for him to follow. Dugger set his bulky cell phone on the coffee table and came after Crawford. Gio drifted in behind him.
Once in the kitchen, Crawford said, “Sir, we are doing everything we possibly can to find your little girl. I’m not going to go into every tiny detail with you, so you’re just going to have trust me on that one.”
“I need to know,” Dugger insisted.
Crawford gave him an appraising look. “Are you a boss?”
“What do you mean?”
“At work,” Crawford said. “In your career. Are you a boss?”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” Dugger answered.
“Then you know what I’m dealing with,” Crawford said. “I have to make sure my assets are all being used to their fullest potential. I have to make sure that everyone is on the same page in the way we do things. You know what I’m saying.”
“Of course. Basic management.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m pulling the officer off of this detail and returning him to the street.”
“You’re what?”
Crawford didn’t reply. He met Dugger’s gaze without reaction.
Dugger’s face turned red. “You’re giving up on this case, aren’t you? You goddamn cops are-“
“No.” Crawford’s single word of denial was forceful and it stopped Dugger cold.
“Then what?”
“It’s like I said, Mr. Dugger. I don’t believe a ransom call is coming. I think we’ll need to find your daughter. Therefore, this officer can be better utilized on the street.”
Dugger snorted. “On my way in from the airport, I saw two cop cars parked at a Denny’s restaurant. So forgive me if I don’t think you guys are exactly breaking a sweat.”
“Not true,” Crawford said and Gio was impressed at his patience. From what he’d heard through the rumor mill, Crawford should’ve had three meltdowns by this point in the conversation. “The fact is, though, the rest of city still requires our services. Your daughter’s case is a priority, but it isn’t the only call for service that we have to answer. The assaults, the rapes, the robberies, they all just keep on coming, Mr. Dugger. And we have to answer them.”
“You’re telling me the Denny’s was robbed?” Dugger asked sarcastically.
“No,” Crawford said. “The patrol officers were probably getting coffee or something to eat.”
“Instead of looking for my daughter.”
“Everyone needs to take a break,” Crawford said. “And like I told you, the patrol division has stopped so many blue or brown vans with a black male driver that Bishop Hughes came down to see the Chief this morning.”
“I’m sure that has to do more with the attitude of your officers than the volume of their contacts.”
“You don’t like the police much, do you, Mr. Dugger?” Crawford asked him evenly.
Dugger’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. “I’d like them to do their jobs and find my daughter, Lieutenant.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Crawford said.
“If that were true,” Dugger said, “then my wife wouldn’t be alone in the living room right now, wrapped up in her daughter’s blanket.”
Crawford stared at Dugger for a full thirty seconds. Then he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and set it on the kitchen table. He and Dugger stared at each other for another moment, then Crawford caught Gio’s eye and motioned with a jerk of his head.
“Let’s go.”
Dugger didn’t say a word to them as they left.
Once they were at the end of the walkway near the police cars, Gio spoke up. “Nicely handled, Lieutenant.”
Crawford glanced at him to detect sarcasm, but when he saw Gio was sincere, he sighed. “This case is a fucking nightmare.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “My headaches already starting.”
“So we’re done here?” Gio asked.
Crawford shook his head, moved his thumbs to his eyes and continued rubbing. “Nah. We’ll leave the phone trap, just in case. But you’re done here, yeah.”
Gio nodded and said nothing.
Crawford opened his eyes and looked at him. “Tell me you didn’t try to bang the wife, Giovanni.”
Gio looked offended. “No, sir.”
Crawford grunted. “A world’s record. Two whole days.”
“Lieutenant-“
Crawford held up his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
1730 hours
Ray Browning pulled into his driveway and stopped, killing the engine of his department- issued car. He glanced up in the review mirror at himself. The creases in his dark brown skin seemed to get deeper every year, especially at the corners of his eyes and mouth. There looked to be more gray in his goatee, too.
But it was the eyes that held every year and every case.
Browning stared back into those eyes and willed the pain and disgust out of them. He pushed all of the freaks he’d interviewed that day away. He even set aside Amy Dugger. Instead, he thought about his wife, Veronica, and their son, Marcus. He thought of her scent and her softness and her smile. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined his boy’s laugh. His bright, inquiring, innocent eyes.
When all the
ugliness was at bay, he took a deep breath and let it out.
He glanced at the front door of his home. “Be it ever so humble,” he murmured, and smiled at his own little joke. Then he pulled the keys from the ignition, opened the door and walked toward the front door.
“Don’t even think about going through that door and ignoring me, Mr. Browning,” came his wife’s voice from the front yard.
Browning turned to her. She wore loose gardening clothes and a pair of pink gloves. He smiled. “Hey, babe.”
Veronica smiled at him as he strolled across the yard toward where she knelt next to a flowerbed. A pile of discarded weeds lay next to her.
“Cleaning out the beds?” he asked.
Veronica cocked her head at him. “Aren’t you just the smart detective? What was your first clue? The flowerbed I’m kneeling next to? Or the weeds piled next to it?”
Browning let a small smile play on his lips. “Not like there’s a lot of weeds in that pile,” he told her. “Pretty slim physical evidence, you ask me.”
“Who’s asking?”
Browning squatted next to her. “The man,” he whispered.
“The heat,” she whispered back.
He kissed her on the lips. “The fuzz,” he said.
Veronica laughed. “Who ever came up with that one, I wonder? Most slang I can understand, but the fuzz?”
Browning shrugged. “No telling what people will say. What’s Marcus up to?”
“Playing in his room with the train set, same as always.” She shook her head. “That boy needs to get outside more, I swear. Ever since you got him that train set, it’s been like an obsession with him.”
“Maybe he’ll grow up to be a conductor.”
“Could be.”
“Or maybe he’ll grow to be a hobo and rides the rails.” He reached out and touched her cheek softly. “You look nice, girl.”
Veronica smiled, but looked at him carefully. “You flirting with me, Mr. Browning?”
“Maybe,” he said, reaching out and patting her hip. “Maybe.” He rose. “I’m going to go see the boy.”
When he turned to go, Veronica called out his name. He looked over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”
“You okay, baby?”
“Yeah.”
“’Cause you don’t seem-”
“I’m fine, Vee.” He forced a smile. “Just want to see my boy, is all.”
She watched him for a few seconds. For a moment, it seemed she might say something, but then she nodded and returned to her weeding.
Browning headed toward the house. He stared at his car in the driveway, cursing silently. He didn’t like to bring the job home to his family. Even after he thought he’d pushed it away….
He pressed his lips together and let out another deep breath. When he reached the porch, he took each step slowly and deliberately. He felt the cares falling away as he reached for the door.
“Marcus?” he called.
There was no answer. Browning shrugged off his jacket and moved toward the hall closet. He noticed that the sliding door to the back yard stood open a foot.
Maybe the boy got outside after all, he thought. Vee would like that, even if he was probably playing catch with himself, throwing the baseball straight up in the air.
Browning folded the jacket over his arm and walked to the glass door. He slid it open further and stepped out onto the rocked-in patio.
The small backyard was empty.
A small pang of fear twitched in Browning’s belly.
“Marcus?
No answer.
Browning wheeled and strode back into the living room. He suppressed a desire to bellow out the boy’s name, listening instead for the metallic whine and clack of the train set from the bedroom.
He heard nothing.
He took brisk strides down the short hallway and pushed open his son’s bedroom door. “Marcus?”
Empty.
Fear rose from his belly and washed over his chest.
“Marcus!” he boomed.
He checked his own bedroom, then his small office. All empty.
Nothing in the kitchen or the dining room.
“Marcus!” he cried out again, his voice catching this time.
Oh, Jesus, someone has taken my boy!
His heart thumped heavily in his chest, pulsing at his temples.
It couldn’t be, he reasoned.
How?
Browning swallowed and forced himself to think. The gate to the back alley didn’t lock. They could have parked in the alley, come into the back yard and grabbed Marcus there. But the slider door was open. Did Marcus leave it open or did those sonsabitches come into his house and snatch his son right next to his own train set?
Thought fell away again and panic rushed through him.
He staggered into the living room. “Marcus!”
Veronica yanked open the screen door. Worry creased her features. “What is it?”
Browning opened his mouth to answer.
The closet door where Browning usually hung his coat burst open. Marcus Browning leapt out. He extended his arms wide and yelled, “Boo!”
Browning’s eyes snapped to him.
Marcus lowered his arms. His expression became concerned. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”
Browning sank to his knees, relief washing over him. He beckoned to his son. “Come here,” he whispered thickly.
Marcus smiled and stepped into his father’s embrace, throwing his small arms around Browning’s neck. Browning drew him close. He stroked his son’s hair. He breathed in the scent of his skin and the fabric softener on his clothing.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Marcus repeated.
Veronica’s hand settled onto his shoulder and squeezed.
“Nothing,” Browning said. “Everything’s all right.”
Marcus hugged him tightly. “I hid pretty good, huh?”
“You did.”
“When I jumped out, did I scare you?”
Browning kissed his son’s head and gave him another squeeze. “Yeah. You scared me.”
He felt the boy’s smile against his own cheek. “Love you, Daddy.”
Browning smiled himself. “Love you, too.”
“Want to see what I changed with my trains?” Marcus asked eagerly.
Browning patted him on the rear. “Sure. Let’s go check it out.”
Marcus broke away from the embrace and sprinted down the hall.
Browning rose. He looked at his wife. Her eyes held a momentary question, but as soon as he met her gaze, the question became understanding instead. Maybe not of the specific facts, he knew, but she understood what she needed to understand.
Veronica took his coat from him and kissed him softly on the corner of the mouth. “Go check out those trains,” she whispered.
Browning looked at her for another moment, told her a thousand things in that glance, then turned and followed his son down the hall.
ELEVEN
2310 hours
Traffic was light as Katie MacLeod cruised down Mission Street. She pulled into the parking lot of a dry cleaner’s that was closed and fished her cell phone out of her bag. It was an extravagance she couldn’t have afforded if she worked day shift. The company charged over two dollars a minute during those prime hours. But at night, she had thirty free minutes a month and only paid a quarter a minute after that. So it was an affordable luxury.
She dialed Kopriva’s number. He answered on the third ring.
“Hey, girl,” he said.
“Hey, boy,” she said back. “What are you doing?”
“Watching TV,” Kopriva said. “Doing sit-ups during the commercials.”
“How many?”
“Just twenty-five.”
“Per commercial?”
He laughed. “Per break. And I’m starting to hate advertisers,” he said.
Katie laughed back. “Well, keep it up. I like those tummy muscles.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What are you watching?”
“Clint Eastwood.”
“Which?”
“The Outlaw Josey Wales,” Kopriva answered.
“Is that the one where he’s in Mexico?”
“No. It’s the one where he’s the outlaw after the Civil War.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen it.”
“Yeah, you have. We rented it back before Christmas. It’s the one where he shoots the rope on the ferry.”
“Oh, yeah. With the carpetbagger guy.”
“Exactly. What are you doing?”
“I am on routine patrol,” she said, quoting an inside joke they shared.
“How is it?”
She thought she could hear a tinge of envy in his voice.
“It’s slow,” she told him, even though it hadn’t been. “But it’s my Friday.”
“That’s great. You want to do something after I get off work tomorrow?”
Katie smiled coyly. “Yes.”
He seemed to sense her smile in the tone of her voice. “You’re a naughty girl, MacLeod.”
“Shhhhh. This is a cell phone. People will hear. The secret will get out.”
“It’s safe with me,” Kopriva said. “You want me to come over after I finish with another one hundred boring and pointless phone calls?”
“That bad, huh?”
“Either it’s a crap lead or it’s someone trying to cash in on a reward.”
“Is there a reward?”
“Not that I know of. But that doesn’t stop them from trying to cash in.”
Katie shook her head in disgust. “Nothing like a little personal tragedy to bring out the vultures.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Anyway, I can come by around five-thirty, if you want,” Kopriva said.
“I’ve got a subpoena to court for tomorrow,” Katie told him. “I’m supposed to testify around nine. So I’ll probably go home and sleep after that. Why don’t I just meet you at your place?”
“I’ll have to clean,” he joked.
“You have all night,” she teased back.
There was an eruption of gunfire in the background on Kopriva’s end.
“What was that?”
“A couple of trappers just tried to kill Josey Wales.”
“Oh. I assume they failed.”
“To hell with them fellers,” Kopriva quoted in a barely passable Clint Eastwood imitation. “Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms.”
