by Ron Base
Marcello nodded and sat at the table. Tree poured milk and buttered a slice of whole wheat bread. The boy gulped the milk and wolfed down the bread. Roy Orbison was singing “Love Hurts.”
Marcello frowned at the radio. “Can’t believe you listen to that.”
“One of my many shortcomings. When’s the last time you ate anything?”
Marcello shrugged. “You got my backpack?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Where is it? I want it back.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
Marcello didn’t answer. Tree heated tomato soup and made a ham sandwich with tomatoes, lettuce, and mayonnaise. Marcello slurped the soup and stared at the sandwich. Tentatively he peeled back the bread to peer suspiciously at the sandwich’s innards. “I thought you were gonna put cheese in it,” he said.
“I couldn’t find any cheese,” Tree said. “Go ahead. Try it.”
Marcello studied the sandwich as though it was an improvised explosive device. He picked it up, nibbled at its edge. When it did not explode, he took a bigger bite, then went at the soup, slurping away with a spoon he held like a shovel in his fist.
Tree took out the backpack from a cupboard beneath the counter and put it on a chair beside Marcello. “I want you to listen to me, okay?”
The boy kept suspicious eyes on the backpack.
“I don’t want you to do this again, okay? Disappear like that. I don’t know where you’re hiding, but you’re hurting yourself. You’re not getting enough to eat, you’re not taking care of yourself. I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be scared of me. I’m not going to call the police on you, okay?”
When Marcello didn’t say anything, Tree spoke firmly: “Marcello. Okay?”
The boy said, “Those men came here.”
“You saw them?”
“I told you they were after me. I don’t think you believed me.”
“I believed you,” Tree said carefully. “But I don’t understand why they are after you.”
Marcello munched on more of the sandwich. “They don’t like me.”
“Come on, Marcello, stop this.” The same impatience he demonstrated with his own kids. Age hadn’t improved his parenting skills.
In a calmer voice he said, “This is really serious stuff. These guys broke into my house. They beat me and held a knife to my wife’s throat. So there’s a lot more to this than ‘gee, they don’t like me.’ Why don’t they like you? What did you do? Or what do you think you might have done. Help me out here.”
Marcello continued to work on the sandwich. A tear ran down his cheek. “I just want them to leave me alone.”
“I know.”
“I’m really tired.” He did look drained, as if his sustaining energy had finally run out.
“All right. I’m going to put you in the guest room for a while. But no unexpected departures, okay? I’ll help you, but you can’t keep disappearing on me. Deal?”
Marcello slowly nodded. Tree put him to bed, tucked him in the way he used to do it with his own kids. The boy was asleep instantly. Sleep reworked Marcello from duplicitous street kid into clear-faced innocent. You could build a Christmas story around him. Tree couldn’t help but smile.
He left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. That’s what you did with sleeping children, was it not? You closed the door softly. It had been a long time since Tree had to worry about such things. But yes, softly.
____
Freddie groaned when she got home and saw the sleeping Marcello. She looked at him for a time, her face softening. Hard to resist innocence no matter how troublesome.
They sat on the terrace. Freddie sipped at a glass of chardonnay while they discussed what to do next.
“Last night we almost got killed,” Freddie pointed out. “It just strikes me that Marcello is way above our pay grade.”
“That doesn’t change the fact he is in danger and looking to us for help,” Tree said.
“I hate to keep repeating myself but that’s all the more reason to turn him over to the police.”
“He doesn’t like the police, maybe for good reason,” Tree countered. “Besides, who knows whether they can even protect him.”
“They can protect him a darn sight better than we can.”
“Can they? Look, these guys were here last night. They threatened us within an inch of our lives, and searched the place. They couldn’t find him and we genuinely didn’t know where he was.”
“Therefore?”
“They’ve been here, they didn’t find him. They know the police are after them. It’s unlikely they will come back any time soon. Therefore, the boy is safest right here in this house—as long as he doesn’t run away again.”
“What’s to stop him from doing that?”
“He promised me.”
“Well, then, we don’t have to worry, do we?”
They were interrupted by Marcello’s shuffling, yawning arrival.
Freddie gave him one of her dazzling smiles. “Hey, Marcello.”
Marcello smiled shyly back. “I’m hungry.”
Freddie, all thoughts of calling the police pushed away, took Marcello’s hand and led him into the kitchen. Tree followed.
Marcello wanted a hamburger. Freddie said she didn’t have any hamburger. What about a turkey burger? That sounded okay to Marcello, even though he had never actually eaten a turkey burger.
Half an hour later, they were all seated in the dining room eating turkey burgers. Marcello said he liked his burger just fine, but he didn’t much care for the tossed salad Freddie created with tomatoes, cucumbers, and green onions.
Freddie said, “Why don’t you at least try it, Marcello?” Echoing words forever repeated by worried parents. Somewhat to Tree’s surprise, Marcello responded by dutifully consuming most of the salad on his plate. Impressive. Already, Marcello had listened much more to Freddie than he ever had to Tree.
“Here’s what we’d like you to do, Marcello,” Freddie said a few minutes later as he polished off a bowl of caramel pecan ice cream. “We’d like you to stay here with us until we can find your mother or get to the bottom of what the trouble is. How does that sound?”
“Sounds okay,” Marcello said.
“The thing is, we don’t want you to run away. If that happens there isn’t much we can do to help. Understand what I’m saying?”
Marcello said he did.
“That means you’re going to have to stay put the next while, and that might be difficult, but I’m counting on you.”
Marcello finished his ice cream and got up from the table and placed the bowl in the sink.
“Do me a favor,” Freddie said. “Wash out your bowl and put it into the dishwasher.”
He returned to the sink, retrieved the bowl and ran hot water over it. Then he opened the fold-down door of the dishwasher and placed the bowl on the lower rack.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said.
Freddie gave him a warm smile. “It’s okay, Marcello. We want you to feel at home. You don’t have to ask permission every time you go to the bathroom.”
Marcello nodded solemnly and went off down the hall.
They chatted about this and that, not wanting to discuss Marcello or what they would do about him, fearing he might overhear.
Ten minutes passed. Freddie rose from the table. “Marcello,” she called.
No answer. Tree followed Freddie to the bathroom. The door was locked. She rattled the knob and called “Marcello.” Still no answer. She aimed a murderous look at the door. “Marcello? Are you in there? Marcello?”
Silence.
Freddie stepped back then launched a high kick that struck the door just below the knob. A sharp crack and the wood around the lock splintered. Another kick and the door flew open.
The bathroom was empty; the window was open.
“That little bastard,” Freddie said.
Tree went into the guest bedroom and came back a moment later. “His backpack’s
gone. He must have snuck it into the bathroom before he came into the kitchen.”
“He really is a duplicitous little bastard,” Freddie said.
“It’s all right.”
“Why is it all right? How can it be all right? The little shit is going to get himself killed, and I’m going to be guilt-ridden for the rest of my life.”
“He will be back,” Tree said.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I have something Marcello will want.”
He led her into the office and showed her where he had locked the blue cards from Marcello’s mother in a desk drawer.
“You didn’t believe him,” Freddie said.
“I believed him. But I thought I’d take out a little insurance. Also, there is something about these cards that keeps bugging me.”
“What’s that?”
“If I knew it wouldn’t keep bugging me.”
The telephone rang. Freddie and Tree traded looks. “What fresh hell is this?”
“To quote Dorothy Parker.”
“At times like this, you need Dorothy Parker.”
Tree picked up the receiver.
“It’s Detective Cee Jay Boone.”
He half expected her to say that they had just picked up Marcello.
“There have been some new developments.”
“What kind of developments?”
“How’s tomorrow morning?”
“For what?” Tree said.
“Meet me at police headquarters. Nine o’clock.”
21
The next morning, still smarting over Marcello’s latest betrayal, Tree drove to his office. A dozen tourists crowded the reception area, poring over maps and asking questions of the three volunteers on duty. Upstairs, there was a voice mail from his oldest son, Christopher.
“Hey dad, Mom called and said she heard something on the news about you. Someone broke into your house? Hope you and Freddie are okay. Let me know. Whatever happened, I hope it isn’t associated with this detective thing. Not sure what that’s all about. For what it’s worth, Mom says you’re the last person in the world who should be a detective. Not sure I don’t agree with her. Call me. Love you.”
Christopher operated an Internet dating service in Chicago in partnership with his second wife, a former Playboy model named Kendra. And he worried about his dad being a private detective? What a curious world Tree now existed in; his son ran an Internet dating service; he was a private detective. Each thought the other crazy.
He called back and got Christopher’s voice mail. Tree told the voice mail he was okay, that three men had broken in but they hadn’t hurt him or Freddie and ran out before they could take anything. He did not comment on his first wife’s observation that he was the last person in the world who should be a detective.
After all, she might be right.
At ten minutes to nine, Tree came down the back stairs and into the parking lot. Tommy Dobbs was just getting out of his car.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Tommy said.
“Tommy, I don’t have time for this right now,” Tree said.
“Have you seen my story?”
“No.”
“It’s online.”
“I don’t read newspapers online,” Tree said.
“The police have been giving me a hard time.”
“No kidding. I mean what the hell were you doing outside my house at that time of night?”
“An investigative piece.” He sounded defensive.
“An investigative piece? On what?”
“You.”
“Tommy, I’m not some organized crime figure. You don’t have to stake out my house in the middle of the night.”
“Okay, maybe I got carried away, but it’s lucky for you I did. I saved you and your wife, didn’t I?”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“I’ve got to go,” Tree said. He opened his car door and got in.
Tommy leaned in the window. The sunlight glinted off the Ray-Bans and made his acne stand out. A kid, Tree thought. Just a big, skinny kid. He was struck again by the notion that he was staring at himself.
“My editor wants a follow-up,” Tommy said.
“That’s fine,” Tree said, “but I want you to quit following me. You need a quote or something, great. Call me. But don’t get all weird about this and turn into some sort of stalker.”
“I’m not a stalker.” He sounded offended by the notion.
“Then quit acting like one.”
He left Tommy standing in the parking lot, shoulders slumped. Marcello and Tommy. He was surrounded by lost boys.
____
Tree drove along Causeway Road onto Periwinkle Way, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror, half expecting Tommy to follow, relieved when he didn’t. The last thing he needed right now was an overzealous young reporter, the ghost of himself, trailing him around.
He turned right onto Dunlop Road and parked in the city hall parking lot. If you veer to the right, you end up at the city hall itself. Tree went up the stairs on the left and then took the long walkway to the bright blue door that marked the entrance to the Sanibel Police Department.
Inside, the offices looked as though they had been renovated the day before. No grimy walls or donut-eating cops here. Everyone looked as though they’d had oatmeal for breakfast. Everyone that is except Cee Jay Boone. She looked as though she had eaten nails and was not happy about it. “You’re late.”
“I got tied up at the office.”
She grunted. “Follow me.”
A hallway with a linoleum floor you could eat off led to a small conference room. Detective Mel Scott slumped in a chair at the head of the table, flanked by an Asian male with spiky hair, wearing a dark suit and a blue tie. It was not every day you saw someone in a tie on Sanibel Island. The kid was practically a tourist attraction.
Seated across from the tourist attraction, an African American woman with glossy hair falling in a smooth wave to her shoulders glanced up from her Blackberry. Her business suit featured purple pinstripes, more elegant than the tourist attraction’s suit. Tree looked at her, and then looked again, longing to get out his reading glasses to make sure. His vanity wouldn’t allow it.
Cee Jay Boone was saying, “Tree, these are FBI agents. They’ve come over from Miami to have a word with you.”
The Asian male shot to his feet pumping Tree’s hand. “Shawn Lazenby.”
The woman leaned forward to offer a cool firm handshake. “Savannah Trask.”
Even without his glasses on, he could see that in her early forties she still had that breathtaking coffee-smooth complexion. He caught a familiar scent as she took her hand away from his.
Mel Scott gave Tree one of his trademark scowls. “Anything wrong?”
“Not at all,” Tree said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been called into police headquarters first thing in the morning and introduced to FBI agents without warning.”
Cee Jay Boone said, “Why don’t you sit down, Tree? Would you like coffee?”
“I’m wondering if I should call my lawyer.”
Cee Jay looked over at Savannah Trask. “What do you think, Agent Trask? Has Tree any reason to call a lawyer?”
“No, of course not.” Savannah’s eyes fixed on Tree. “We want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“Please, take a seat,” Savannah Trask said.
Tree eased himself into the empty chair.
Cee Jay Boone gave Mel Scott a look. He rose from the table. “We’ll leave you to it,” he said.
Mel followed Cee Jay out the door. It closed behind them, leaving him alone with the two agents.
“You’re a local private detective is that right?” This from Agent Shawn Lazenby. He consulted a notebook on the table in front of him.
“That’s right,” Tree said.
“How long have you been a detective
?”
“A month,” Tree said.
Shawn glanced up from his notebook. “You said a month?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re licensed by the state of Florida?”
“Obviously.”
Shawn Lazenby’s gaze returned to his notebook.
“You met Reno O’Hara when he came to your office. Is that correct?”
Tree nodded.
“According to the local police, he threatened you.”
“That’s right. He said he was looking for someone. He thought I knew this person.”
“Why do you suppose he thought that?” Savannah Trask’s voice was neutral.
“I have no idea,” Tree said. “I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Has that changed?” A follow-up question from Savannah.
“Has what changed?”
“I mean, do you now know who Reno was looking for?”
“I understand he was looking for his son, Marcello.
“After he visited your office, did you see Reno again?”
“I was following a woman named Michelle Crowley in connection with another matter. She met up with O’Hara in Naples and had dinner with him. I believe O’Hara might have seen me and was one of three intruders who invaded my house later that night.”
“Mickey Crowley being one of the others?”
“Maybe her husband, too. Dwayne Crowley. He was in Coleman, but he might be out now.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.” Shawn Lazenby gave him a sharp look.
“I’m pretty certain I saw him in Naples. For just a moment, but I think it was him. Can’t you check this out? It shouldn’t take long to find out if Dwayne’s still in jail.”
Neither agent said anything. Savannah Trask cleared her throat. “Let’s go back to Marcello. Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
A flash of irritation signaled Savannah’s dislike of that answer.
“Whoever killed Reno O’Hara will be looking for the boy,” she said. “The sooner we find him, the sooner we can protect him.”
“Why would the FBI be interested in either O’Hara or Marcello?”
Shawn Lazenby said, “That’s information we’d just as soon not divulge at this juncture.”
“At this juncture,” Tree repeated. “At what juncture might you be prepared to divulge it?”
