Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  “Even—” I started. Got a warning look from Hugh. Didn’t need to finish the question.

  Jael said, “We have known that Angie was protecting Maria.”

  “And we assumed that when Anderson took Angie with that email trick, he took Maria too,” I said.

  “Yes. That was a bad assumption.”

  “Anderson doesn’t know where Maria is,” I said. “He just had Angie.”

  Bobby said, “If he still has Angie, we have a way to get to Maria.” Bobby grabbed his coat. I grabbed mine and gave Jael a quick peck on the cheek. We had to go back into the storm.

  Seventy-Five

  Whether the cause is zombie apocalypse, bomber manhunt, or nor’easter, being the lone car on the streets of Boston is creepy as hell. Bobby’s SUV crept down Causeway Street, past the TD Bank Garden. The crowds that normally throng around the Garden were gone, replaced by deepening snow, tinted a sick orange by sodium streetlights. I thought about tweeting a picture, then remembered Facebook.

  Texted Adriana.

  Me: Do you have power?

  Adriana: Yeah

  Me: Get on Facebook and look at Maria’s last status.

  Adriana: The one where she says she’s going sledding with you?

  Me: Yeah, did anyone like that status or comment on it?

  A delay.

  Adriana: I liked it, Angie liked it, some of Maria’s friends liked it.

  Me: Angie liked it?

  Adriana: Yeah.

  Me: Thanks. I gotta go.

  Night had taken the city, and the storm clouds were now illuminated from below as the lights of Boston struggled against the darkness. The storm had worsened. Tiny, cold-shriveled flakes canted down the street, driven by a relentless wind. The occasional plow clattered past, pushing snow against the curb and tossing salt into the road. Despite the plowing and salting, the snow continued to win the battle of the pavement, growing faster than the plows could push it aside.

  “You sure that Anderson can help us?” Bobby asked.

  “He’s definitely the last person to see Angie. If Angie has Maria, then Anderson can point us to her. That is, if he’ll talk to us.”

  “Oh, he’ll talk to us,” said Bobby. “I’m not driving through this shit just to get stonewalled.”

  Causeway Street dumped into Commercial. I gazed at the spot where Vince Ferrari had smashed me with his car and taken me to Charlestown for a good murdering. Sal had been there to save the day, killing three guys. The complications of Sal never ended: savior, murderer, father, cousin. His tantrums, violence, embraces, cheek taps, and incongruous Catholic faith bumped and jostled for top spot in my image of him. Fear him, love him, punch him, help him—what should I do?

  It didn’t matter. He was dead.

  Bobby said, “You okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re kind of sniffling there.”

  “Aw, shit.” I pulled off the stupid poofy glove that couldn’t hold a gun and rubbed my cheeks dry as Bobby slid the SUV in a slow arc onto Battery Street. Pulled up in front of Anderson’s place.

  “Let’s do it,” said Bobby.

  We climbed out of the car and pushed through the unshoveled walkway that led to the warm lobby, where we stood in front of a bank of doorbells. I pushed Anderson’s.

  “Yes?” said the intercom. It sounded like Kane.

  I shushed Bobby and said, “Kane, it’s me, Tucker.”

  No answer. I pushed the doorbell again.

  Nothing.

  Pushed it again and employed Bobby’s trick, leaning into the bell far too long.

  “What?” said the intercom. That was Anderson.

  “Dave, we have to talk.”

  “We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

  “The hell we don’t.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be alone?” It wasn’t quite a lie.

  The door buzzed.

  Anderson said, “Get up here before someone sees you.”

  Ridiculous elevator music accompanied us to Anderson’s floor. Warm-toned carpets and wood paneling hid any notion of the storm outside. I knocked on Anderson’s door. He opened it, looked at Bobby, frowned.

  “I thought you said you were alone,” Anderson said.

  “I didn’t lie and I didn’t not lie,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  “I’ve got nothing to—”

  Bobby rushed the door, knocking Anderson back and bulling his way inside. I followed in his wake, closed the door behind me. Kane ran out of a back room, gun drawn.

  Bobby pointed at Kane, then Kane’s gun, then his holster. “Do it.”

  Kane holstered his gun.

  Anderson asked, “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Why would I have a warrant?” Bobby said. “I’m not even here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I said, “It means we just want to ask you about Angie.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not talking about any of this.”

  Bobby took a step forward and punched Anderson right in the nose. Blood spurted down Anderson’s shirtfront. Bobby wheeled on Kane and said, “Don’t even think about it.”

  Kane grabbed a towel from the kitchen, walked over, and handed it to Anderson. “Do you need me to do anything?” he asked Anderson.

  “No. Leave me with these guys,” Anderson said. “One less variable.”

  Kane walked off into the nether reaches of the gigantic condo.

  Anderson said to Bobby, “I’m going to sue the shit out of you.”

  “Who, me?” Bobby said. “I wasn’t even here—right, Tucker?”

  I said, “Can we all just cut the crap?”

  “What the hell do you want, Tucker?” Anderson asked.

  “What do I want? Well, considering that you gave Sal’s murderer a lift home, I thought you might tell us where you dropped her off. Maybe where she lives. Maybe even where she has Maria.”

  “I don’t know what—” Anderson looked at Bobby, who was absentmindedly making a fist.

  “What I don’t get is why Angie didn’t have a gun,” I said. “If it was her job to kill Sal, then why did she need Kane’s?”

  “Oh, don’t be an idiot, Tucker. Angie wasn’t supposed to kill Sal. She was supposed to bring Maria, but then she showed up without her.”

  “And you didn’t ask her where Maria was?”

  “Of course I asked her. But she wouldn’t tell me. I offered her money, I threatened her, I tried to talk reason. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  Bobby said, “Didn’t try torture?”

  “I’m not an animal, Miller. Unlike you.”

  “Like to keep your hands clean, eh?”

  “So you meant to bring Maria to the meeting?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Anderson said. “I was going to pay Angie a hundred grand to bring Maria to the meeting. She showed up without Maria and told me to shove the money up my ass.”

  “And you still brought her?”

  “There was no point in me going alone, and I was hoping that Sal could talk some sense into her. Apparently, they were almost married once.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, she told me that he got her pregnant and promised to marry her, but then he was too chickenshit to tell Sophia.”

  The horrible puzzle fell into place. “Oh my God,” I said.

  “What?” asked Anderson.

  “This all makes sense now.”

  “Well, good. Glad I could help.”

  Bobby said, “You haven’t done shit. Where does Angie live?”

  “I told you that I don’t know. She calls, we make a plan, she comes over. She can’t be far.”

  I remembered Angie kis
sing me in front of Jael. She’d been carrying groceries. Where was she taking them? Her apartment was blocks away.

  “Where does she call from? Do you have caller ID?”

  Anderson walked over to his desk, grabbed a handset. Stared at it and beeped through a list. “That’s the weird part,” he said. “She called from this number.” Anderson handed me the phone.

  The caller ID said Marco Esposito.

  “But Marco’s dead,” I said.

  “I know that.”

  “This must be Marco’s wife’s house.”

  Bobby said, “That makes no sense. Angie can’t be there, Marco’s wife wouldn’t put up with that.”

  The man cave.

  I said, “Sal told me that he and Marco were sitting in Marco’s man cave, and that Joey came over and killed Marco. I had assumed that Marco’s man cave was in his house—”

  Bobby said, “Marco wasn’t killed in his house.”

  “Well, where was he killed?”

  Bobby got onto his phone. “Lieutenant Lee? Yeah. Yeah. Storm’s fuckin’ terrible. Listen. Do you remember the address where Marco Esposito got murdered?” Bobby paused, held up a wait a second finger. “You’re shittin’ me. Seriously? Sonovabitch. I gotta go. Yeah. Yeah. You drive safe too. Yeah. Yeah. God bless.”

  “So where was Marco’s man cave?”

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  Seventy-Six

  Holden Court, rather than protecting us from the northeast wind, channeled and intensified it. Snow swirled through the court as the windchill gnawed at my face.

  “Sonovabitch,” said Bobby.

  “Yeah, you said that,” I said.

  “She was here all along.”

  Joey Pupo’s apartment, or ex-apartment, still stood at the end of Holden Court. I looked up at the roof that I had travelled so long ago, looked around in the snow beneath me.

  “What are you looking for?” Bobby asked.

  “My cell phone. I dropped it here off the roof.”

  “You’ll never find it.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just wanted some closure.”

  “We’re going to get all the closure we can handle in a couple of minutes.”

  We stood in front of another door off the court.

  Joey came over and killed Marco. “Came over” as in “Mrs. Pupo, can Joey come over and play?” You say that when you live in an apartment building, in a neighborhood, or in a tiny court with entrances on both sides. You say it when the guy who came over to kill your best friend lived three doors away.

  “Angie never left Holden Court,” I said.

  “That’s why I never saw her,” Bobby said.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  Bobby reached to lean on the bell to the first floor apartment, but I decided to try the front door instead. It was unlocked, either an oversight or an acknowledgement that you wouldn’t want to leave someone out here in the storm fumbling for their keys.

  We climbed yet another spiral box of stairs, again to the third floor, the top. I hazarded a guess that the people on the first and second floors would have some idea about a little girl who had come to live in the apartment. A little girl who, a few days ago, had run breathlessly up these stairs while I recovered from a battle with black ice.

  We reached the door. Bobby and I exchanged a glance. Bobby made an after you gesture. I knocked.

  Angie’s voice floated out. “Who is it?”

  Bobby said, “It’s the FBI, ma’am. Please open up.”

  The door opened. Angie looked at Bobby, then with surprise at me. “Come in.”

  Maria sat at the kitchen table, holding playing cards. We had interrupted a game of cribbage. When Maria saw me she dropped the playing cards, jumped off her chair, and ran behind Angie, hiding behind her skirt.

  I said, “Hi, Maria.”

  Nothing.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” I said.

  Maria clutched herself tighter into the skirt.

  “Tucker, leave Maria alone,” Angie said. “You terrify her.”

  Bobby said, “Why is that, ma’am?”

  “Call me Angie.”

  “Why is that, Angie?”

  Maria pointed at me. “He killed Ma, with the necktie I gave Daddy.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. “I was with—”

  Bobby shushed me. Squatted. “Why do you say that, honey?”

  Maria wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “Nobody is going to hurt you.”

  Nothing.

  Angie said, “Maria, why don’t you go to your room and I’ll tell these men to go home.”

  Maria fled, dodging from behind Angie’s skirt, sliding along the cabinets, and bolting out of the room.

  “What did you tell her?” I asked Angie.

  Angie said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How did she know about the necktie? How did you know about it?”

  “Get out.”

  “You friended Maria on Facebook, used her status to tell Joey where to get her.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Then you killed Sophia.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Did Maria see you kill Joey Pupo too?”

  Angie’s face twitched as a spasm of loathing shot across it.

  “C’mon, Angie. Did she watch you shoot the guy when you rescued her?”

  Angie said, “Of course she did. He still had her tied to that chair. Sick bastard.”

  “For how long?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Angie. “Long enough for me to—” She paused.

  “Drop that envelope at my front door,” I finished. “He had her tied to that chair for an hour?”

  “At least an hour!”

  “Liar.”

  “You’re the liar!”

  “Maria ran through the blood after you shot Joey. She couldn’t have done that if she were tied to the chair.”

  “So you shot him and ran,” said Bobby. “Took Maria here.”

  Another spasm across Angie’s face. The mask was fragile. I decided to see how fragile.

  I said to Bobby, “She realized that Joey was going to want more than blow jobs.”

  Bobby blinked at me.

  “You shut your mouth,” Angie said.

  “Oh c’mon, Angie, it’s obvious. You blew Joey so he’d kill Marco.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You led him around by his little dick.”

  “You’re filthy.”

  “And you’re a whore. You even got Sal to give you his apartment.”

  Angie’s eyes filled. The mask was slipping. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Sal loved me.”

  “Sal loved Sophia.”

  “Sophia? Don’t you mention that name in my house.”

  “It’s not your house. It’s Marco’s house. Did Marco give you the key so you could come up here and fuck him?”

  “Shut up!”

  “You know, he’d call, you’d come up and let yourself in so that he wouldn’t have to get up from his Barcalounger. Then you could bring him a beer and blow him.”

  Angie said, “Stop it. Maria is right in the other room!”

  “And you thought you had Sal wrapped right around your finger.”

  “He loved me!” said Angie, eyes streaming. “He gave me a baby. He was going to marry me, except for that bitch Sophia. Sophia made him—made him—made him do what he did.”

  She was at the edge and I had my thumb on the jagged cut in her mind, the place that would hurt the most if I pushed down.

  I could have stopped.

  If I had stopped right there, Bobby would have had enough to arrest her. He’d arrest her, we’d take Maria and be
on our way. That was all we had to do to wrap this up.

  I could have stopped, but Angie had killed Sal right in front of me.

  “Made you do what, Angie?” I asked. “Made you kill your baby?”

  “He had a name!” shrieked Angie. “Antonio! He was Antonio, named after Sal’s father.”

  “But Sal didn’t want to marry you. He didn’t want a little Antonio.”

  “He did! He told me. He’d finally have a son. Sophia made him do it. Made him force me to get an abortion, lose my womb, lose my baby. I wasn’t a woman anymore.”

  “Oh, you still had parts left.” I hated her so much. “And you sure knew how to use them.”

  The gun was small and round and fit smoothly into Angie’s hand as she slid it from her pocket.

  Bobby shouted, “Gun!” and started to unzip his winter coat. His gloved fingers fumbled at the zipper, pulling it down.

  Angie screamed, “You filthy bastard, you shut your filthy mouth!” She raised the gun at me.

  The little kitchen had no space, no place to move or dodge. I was crammed between a cabinet and the sink. There was no place to get away from the gun. I could only move toward it, so I did. Took a step, reached. Was too slow.

  The gun boomed in the little kitchen as I reached for it. Angie took a step back. It boomed again, then began to track toward Bobby. I turned to see that he had pulled off his glove and unzipped his coat. He reached for his gun.

  Angie’s gun boomed again. She was just emptying it at us. Bobby pulled out his black boxy gun, aimed it at Angie. The two guns boomed together. Blood flew through the kitchen. I don’t know whose. I rushed forward to tackle Angie, but wound up catching her instead, my hands getting tangled in bloody shards of a housecoat.

  I turned to look at Bobby. He slid down the refrigerator, leaving a bloody trail from his shoulder.

  And then Maria ran into the room. Maria, wearing a cotton

  t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and Keds sneakers, ran into the room, made straight for the front door, opened it, and was gone down the steps. I prayed that a neighbor would grab her, that somebody would see her and pull her inside. I heard her sneakers slapping against the steps.

  I called, “Maria! Don’t go outside!”

  The sneakers kept slapping.

  I stood, took a step. “NO!”