David Klein

by Stash (v5)

  Patty said, “Say good night to your father, Andy.” When Bill went out at night for work, he stayed out for a while, sometimes until the next day.

  “Are you going out to catch bad guys?” Andy asked.

  “That’s the plan,” Keller told his son.

  “Can I come and help?” Andy said hopefully.

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Good night, Dad.” The boy kissed his father.

  “You should think about getting ready for bed.”

  “It’s Friday night, Dad. Falcone is pitching now. Is he good?”

  Falcone was a young middle reliever just up from the minors. “I guess we’ll find out,” Keller said.

  He kissed Patty, telling her he’d call at some point. She whispered to him to be careful.

  Despite his team’s poor showing, he listened to the game in the car. By the time he got to Gull, the score was 8–1, the young Falcone getting in trouble right away.

  At Gull, he asked the pretty hostess at the front desk if he could speak to Jude Gates. She was short and thin, with small breasts squeezed together to create a narrow canyon of cleavage. She reminded Keller of a girl he dated in high school, back when he played baseball and believed that someday he’d be the second baseman for the Yanks.

  The hostess informed him that Mr. Gates wasn’t in tonight.

  “Do you know where I can find him? At home maybe?”

  The hostess shook her head. “I don’t know, and I’m not allowed to say. We don’t give out that kind of information.”

  “No, of course not. That’s a good policy.”

  She smiled and tilted her head, as if he’d paid her a personal compliment.

  “What about Andrew Cole? Is he here tonight?”

  “He’s in the kitchen, but he’s pretty busy.”

  “Sure, okay,” he said. Probably true. Most of the tables and all of the bar stools were occupied. The staff moved quickly with trays and plates and glasses. He considered trumping the hostess by pulling out his badge, but decided against it. No need to trip the alarm at this point.

  He left and walked down the alley to the back of the building. He noticed Gates’s Lexus parked there. The van that Brian Raine’s son had identified by plate number was not here; it had been here last time Keller poked around this lot, and he’d run the plates afterward and found it registered to the Upstate Dining Company. The kid had gotten his numbers right. He remembered Nate Raine from the first-grade breakfast, a dreamy kid wearing a gadgety spy watch Andy had been begging for ever since. Andy had taken to him right away and told his father he’d been hanging out with Nate at recess all week. Andy wanted a play date, but that wouldn’t happen if Patty had any say in the matter, which she did. She would not allow her son to hang around with a boy whose mother smoked pot. On the other hand, if for some reason Gwen Raine’s children were taken from her or Gwen taken from them, Patty would be the first to offer a foster home to the boy. That’s just the way she worked. Over the past couple of years they’d had two foster children staying with them, temporary placements—a six-year-old girl for two months, followed the next year by a ten-year-old boy for six months—and while it hadn’t been easy on the family dynamic, it had been the right thing to do and a good experience for everyone in learning to get along with others from different backgrounds and circumstances.

  He looked through the screen door at the back of the restaurant down a hallway leading to the kitchen. The crew passed in and out of his view, waiters and cooks. Orders barked, swearing, plates and pans banging in tuneless percussion. Keller caught a glimpse of Andrew Cole when the chef stepped around the cooking line and checked a plate one of the waiters held, adjusting the arrangement of a garnish.

  No point in calling him out. Keller doubted there would be anything to discover from him.

  Keller next drove to Gates’s house. The windows were dark, at least those that he could see. An eight-foot hedge hid most of the façade of a grand-looking Victorian in the oldest neighborhood in town. Big wraparound porch, fussy moldings and trim over the windows and doors. Exterior lights on the porch and over the garage, likely on timers. So Gates had his van up in the mountains. What was he doing? Cruising the Adirondacks in a love mobile with a married woman from Morrissey? That didn’t compute.

  He drove to the station to get the file on Gates. The dispatcher, who was the newest member of the Morrissey police department fresh and squeaky from the academy, greeted him as Detective Keller. Williams, the night sergeant, sat at his desk, talking on the phone. He nodded when he saw Keller.

  He closed the door to his office and went through Gates’s file containing the same shuffled papers he’d been through a dozen times. Nothing added since he’d begun the investigation, except a handwritten note that Gates had dinner with Daryl Sweet, owner of Sweet Fitness, the same night Keller had taken Patty there. After observing Sweet and Gates at dinner that evening, Keller ran a background check on Sweet; nothing unusual came up. Former NFL player, arrested once in his playing days for DUI and speeding (103 mph in his Mercedes), also suspended for two games after having failed a drug test. While that might be a red flag, the substance in Sweet’s blood was a steroid, considered standard operating procedure for many football players. Now that he owned a chain of health clubs, Sweet could be hawking steroids, but Jude Gates—a restaurateur—seemed an unlikely source for them. Drugs channeled through restaurants were typically the traditional recreationals: pot, coke, ecstasy. Prescription meds usually involved rogue physicians and pharmacies.

  Still, Sweet was worth keeping an eye on. His home address was listed in Chappaqua, well south of Keller’s jurisdiction, but he knew someone in the Westchester County sheriff’s office he could place a call to if he needed help.

  He went through the other information in Gates’s file to see if anything stood out. The crossings at the Canadian border had to be significant; Gates was likely getting supplied from up north, at least partially, which was odd because most drugs sold upstate came up from the city, and it didn’t make sense to risk a border crossing.

  Keller checked his computer. There was an alert that the van had hit U.S. Customs earlier that day. He’d previously put a flag on both the Lexus and the van.

  So Gates had gone up to Canada and picked up a supply, but why was he hanging around up in the mountains? Think about that. Mr. Raine had told Keller that his wife had told him that Gates had told her that he had a place up there. Jesus, that’s too many he told/she tolds to be credible.

  He flipped through more paper in the file; his eye caught a photocopy of Gates’s marriage certificate, to a Claire M. Dumont. What the hell ever happened to her? No record of a divorce, no evidence of her at all. That gave him an idea. He went back to the computer, logged in to the Franklin County property database and searched on the name Dumont, Claire M.

  Ding. Now here was a useful piece of information. Two acres and a thousand-square-foot dwelling owned by Claire Dumont at 2364 Old Rainbow Lake Road, Township of Tear, Franklin County.

  Normal protocol called for Keller to notify the Franklin County sheriff and have them check the situation. But that would ruin it for him. When you’re a police detective in Morrissey, you investigated residential burglaries, unattended deaths, vandalism in schools, bad checks passed at Morrissey Square. You submitted to evidence techs the bong found under the school bleachers. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to catch the really bad guys, like his son, Andy, asked if he was going to. There had been that excitement some months back when a perp holding up a Bank of America branch escaped on foot. Security cameras caught the track pants, sweatshirt, brown hair, and long bangs, the thin mustache littering his lip. No visible weapon. They locked down the schools and sent the dogs out. Every squad car on the streets. Then the state helicopters were called in and circled the neighborhood like flying bugs from Mars. Scared the hell out of everyone; the phones at the station lit up like holiday lights. The shithead got away, too, the theory being t
hat he sprinted to nearby St. Thomas Church where he’d parked his getaway car in the rectory lot. That’s where the dogs lost the scent. One of the dogs, Sergio, kept sniffing and staring down Delaware Avenue, straining at her leash. She knew which way that fucker had gone.

  Driving up the Northway and working undercover off a tip from a five-year-old, Detective Keller wondered if he was going to discover a van of narcotics and Mr. Jude Gates on the mattress with the lovely Mrs. Raine—regrettably the mother of the five-year-old—unless Gates surprised him and went the other way, carving her up to repay her for tattling on him.

  Keller didn’t have a feeling one way or the other about it. Patty would pick the mattress and passion; she thought that way and usually was right, but it always surprised and disheartened Keller that people with children could behave so despicably, no matter how many times he witnessed it. Gwen Raine—he didn’t see it in her. She was attractive enough and he saw a gleam in her eye, but getting messy with a guy like Gates, that kind of gleam was a glare, and Gwen Raine gave off a soft light. Her eyes were calm. Her manner lovely and even. Of course maybe that could be attributed to her being stoned a lot of the time. The mellow mom.

  As for the tall, dark, and handsome Gates—Keller wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a fag.

  What could he say, this was how he classified people. In his line of work, you always had to think in terms of types. Types who would do this, types who would do that, although now they called it profiling. He hated to say it, but that was the main reason he believed Sweet could be involved: he possessed certain attributes of a well-recognized profile. Maybe Keller could catch him, too.

  It’s Hard to Kiss You While Driving

  He began his story three years back, his first semester of college, just like her situation now. St. Lawrence had been on his list, he said, so had Clarkson right here in Potsdam, and Colgate in Hamilton. He’d been angling for a hockey scholarship because he’d been the captain of his high school team and third-leading scorer in the league. A few schools offered aid, but it wasn’t nearly enough—you know what it costs a year. At the last minute he registered for community college, and even that was a stretch because he was paying every penny himself, working for a landscaper in summer, plowing snow in winter.

  He ended up joining the National Guard, which seemed like a smart move at the time but turned out to be the worst decision he’d ever made. They recruited him harder than any of the hockey schools had. Two weeks a year, one weekend a month—it sounded like a fair deal. He’d get help paying for school. He’d serve his community, like when that ice storm hit two years ago. Remember that? When the whole northern part of the state lost power. He helped transport food and fuel, moved people to emergency shelters. He knew what it felt like to make a difference in people’s lives.

  He had her attention now. She followed every word, her gaze moving from his mouth to his eyes. Once or twice he caught her checking out his body, a quick scan down and up. He’d taken off his jacket, and his arms and flat stomach showed well in just the black T-shirt. The only problem: she wasn’t drinking. That, and he really wanted to touch her, feared his hand might reach out on its own before he could think to stop it. There were parts of his body no longer under his control.

  “You don’t like your beer. Can I get you something else to drink?”

  “No, I like it.” And to prove it, she picked up her glass and took a few gulps.

  “Keep going,” she said. “I’m listening.”

  You keep going, he thought. Keep drinking.

  The rest he didn’t have much to say about. The call to duty came. He went, he wasn’t scared. In fact, he liked the idea of being a soldier. Someone had to stand up to those chickenshits. He just hated the desert, that’s all. Spent forty-six days there, until someone along the roadside tossed a grenade into his Humvee, and Aaron’s buddy saved his life. Pounced like it was a fumble in the Super Bowl. He’d never seen someone react so quickly in his life. Or die so instantly.

  Aaron: the lucky one. This guy he hardly knew sacrificed himself to save Aaron. He still couldn’t get over it. But, Christ, was he grateful. Who wouldn’t be. I’m still alive. I keep reminding myself of that. But now he had to do something big and important with his life to make that soldier’s selfless act stand up.

  “I was supposed to get a titanium plate and plastic surgery, but it never happened and I hated the hospital almost as much as I hated the desert. I was discharged and put on a waiting list. Now I’m missing part of my zygomatic bone.”

  She giggled when he said zygomatic, then covered her mouth and apologized. “It’s the name of these obscure body parts,” she said. “My problem is with my iliotibial band. See what I mean? One of my problems, I should say.”

  “Your what?”

  “Also known as a pain in my knee. It’s a running injury.” She picked up her glass again and took another sip. She almost missed the shelf setting it back down and he helped her, guiding her hand, a reason to touch her, a rush when he felt her warm skin, come and gone like an eyeblink.

  She told him she ran on the Saints cross-country team but had developed this thing called ITBS and couldn’t race this week; in fact, the race was tomorrow; in fact, she really had to get back to campus.

  “But you said you’re not racing.”

  “I’m still part of the team and going to Plattsburgh with them.”

  She looked around for her friends and he quickly pulled her attention back, afraid he might lose her. He risked touching her hand again and she didn’t flinch. Like petting an exotic and unfamiliar creature.

  She said, “I’m so hot.”

  “Like I told you earlier.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  But he could see she liked what he said.

  “You want to go outside for some air?”

  “Definitely. I could use that.”

  “Drink up,” he said, and finished his beer while watching her take another sip of hers. He led her down the hall and out a back door marked emergency exit that was propped open with a brick.

  In the parking lot, in the cool night air with the ground and cars still wet from the earlier rain, he told her she had beautiful lips. He asked if he could kiss her.

  She let him kiss her and he knew from her reaction—she tensed and drew back—that he’d started out too hard. He tried again, more gently this time, acting like she did have beautiful lips and he was honoring them. The simple act of kissing this girl weakened his knees. He’d not had that pleasure or comfort in too long.

  When he finished, she said, “Wow, I’m feeling a little dizzy, but I didn’t drink that much.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  She looked around. They were alone in the parking lot, leaning against the side of his truck. She kissed him again, then stopped abruptly and said she really had to get back to campus because her team’s bus was leaving early in the morning for a meet.

  “I’ll drive you,” Aaron offered.

  “That’s okay—my friend …” She stopped and laughed. Her friend—who said they’d give her a ride?

  “I don’t mind. It’s not far. Come on. You can call your friends on the way and tell them you got a ride with me.”

  He pulsed from the X he’d popped earlier, although the half life must have spent. Still the glow, but not so radioactive. He’d sorted through the package from Jude and then driven all the way to Glens Falls to check out his buddy Guy who was home with his girlfriend, Rose. They each did one of the X tabs, monogrammed with an exclamation point on one side, yellow as the mums he’d planted. They got wrecked and listened to music and when Guy started making out with Rose, Aaron tried to get in. She pushed him away and made a face and sound like she’d stepped in dog shit. Guy got all puffy and ended up pushing Aaron and so he punched Guy twice, knocking him into an aluminum table that collapsed and Rose yelped. He’d fucked that up but when he got back in his truck he saw his phone on the seat blinking a voice mail,
a beacon from a goddess as he discovered when he listened to the message. He couldn’t remember what she looked like but thought he could pick her out if he saw her again.

  “Come on, get in.” He unlocked the door and held it open for her. At first he worried he hadn’t used enough—a single squirt into her glass when she went to the bar. Either he hadn’t used enough or she hadn’t drunk enough of her beer, because when he got her in the truck she spoke clearly and said she appreciated the ride because at least she’d be able to get four or five hours’ sleep before meeting the team bus in the morning. She also noticed when he headed out in the opposite direction and she pointed out that Canton was the other way.

  “Oops, old habits,” he said, and did a U-turn and passed the bar again, which she took a long look at as if trying to place in her memory.

  Part of him regretted he’d put the G in her drink. She was being nice to him, he might not have needed it. Too late now. What was done was done. And it turned out he had used enough and even timed it perfectly because once they were turned around and heading toward Canton she opened her window and yelled out “Road trip!” and pulled her head back in and said, “I always wanted to do that.” She began to laugh and said she was feeling kinda drunk, at least she thought that’s what it was—could he believe she’d never been drunk in her entire life, that’s right, not once, even though she practically grew up in a bar or maybe that was the reason why she never got drunk because she’s seen a lot of drunk people and witnessed how it can ruin your life or at least make you very stupid and sick for a few hours.