RCC01 - Under a Raging Moon

by Frank Zafiro

  Outside in the parking lot, the warm night air smelled of weak beer and auto fumes. Janice tried to hold Ridgeway by the arm to support him, but he must have found that degrading as well. Instead, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. That fulfilled the same purpose of allowing her to support him, so she didn’t protest.

  When they reached her Saturn coupe, she unlocked the passenger door and Ridgeway flopped onto the front seat. She swung his legs in with little help from him and shut the door. Then she went around to the driver’s side, got in and started the car.

  Ridgeway sat silently as they drove, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Then he turned slowly to Janice and asked with a snarl, “Is this a little Jap car?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her answer. “Because if this was made by those little market-greedy zipper-heads, you can just let me out right now. Little yellow bastards. Shot up my Dad in World War II, killed my brother in ’Nam. Tried to shoot me in ’Nam, but couldn’t do it. Then you know what they did?”

  “Mark—”

  He slapped the dashboard, ignoring her. “The little sonsabitches came over here and bought the auto plant my Dad worked. Then they laid him off. Maybe they were pissed about not killing him in the war and thought they’d come over here and finish the job.”

  “Mark—”

  “Worked, too. He died six months after he got laid off.”

  “Mark!”

  Ridgeway turned to her, surprise registering on his face. “What? You don’t have to yell, Jan.”

  Janice took a deep breath and let it out. “This car is a Saturn. It’s not Japanese. It’s made in the USA. And there’s a difference between Japanese and Vietnamese. They’re two completely different—”

  “Made in the USA? No kidding?”

  “Yes. Mark, you know all this. I know you know cars.”

  Ridgeway shrugged. “It’s not the same as it used to be. Cars used to have a particular look to them, a distinctive style. Now they all look alike. There’s a thousand makes and models now. Nothing is the same as it used to be.” He shook his head, then repeated softly, “Nothing.”

  Janice didn’t answer. She continued to drive.

  Ridgeway was quiet a long while, then asked her, “Really now, this is made in the USA?”

  Janice nodded. “Made in Tennessee.”

  “No kidding. You’re my kind of girl, Janice, driving an American car.” He turned in his seat. “Hey, do you have a gun at home?”

  “Of course.”

  His eyebrows went up slightly. “What kind?”

  “A .357 magnum.”

  He nodded his approval. “Nice gun. Smith and Wesson?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” Ridgeway sighed. When he spoke, his words slurred noticeably. “You are just about the perfect woman, Janice. Are you an NRA member?”

  “No. I’m not into politics. Every two years I vote for the person I think will do the best job. That’s about it.”

  “Well, everyone has a flaw,” Ridgeway mused. “But damn near the perfect woman. I should have married you, Janice.”

  “You’re drunker than a skunk.”

  “Maybe so, but I still should have married you.”

  Janice drove the rest of the way to Ridgeway’s house without saying another word. She didn’t want to remind him that the chance had been there sixteen years ago. Or that she hadn’t seemed so perfect to him then.

  Ridgeway’s house stood in the middle of the 5000 block of North Atlantic. It was a typical two-bedroom, middle class rancher, perfect for a couple with no kids. Janice pulled up in front and shut off her lights. She looked at Ridgeway, who now dozed in the passenger’s seat.

  Somehow, Janice got him awake and walked him clumsily to the front door. She found his keys in his jacket pocket and let them inside. Ridgeway staggered through the door and flopped onto the couch.

  The house struck her as surprisingly well-kept for a house with a single male living in it. The dishes were done in the kitchen. She filled a glass with tap water, then went into the bathroom. Except for a towel on the floor in the corner, it, too, was clean. She found aspirin in the medicine chest above the sink and returned to the living room.

  Ridgeway hadn’t moved. She nudged him.

  “Here, take these aspirin.”

  “Hmmmmmm?”

  “C’mon, Mark. You’re gonna feel like hell in the morning as it is. Take the aspirin.”

  “Mmmmmm.” Mark sat up squinting. With her help, he took the three tablets and a swallow of water. Then he flopped back onto the couch.

  Janice removed his shoes and lifted his feet off of the floor and onto the cushions. In the hall closet she found a light blanket. Back in the living room, she covered him with it.

  “Goodnight, my little robber-catcher.” She kissed him lightly above his eyebrow.

  “‘Night, Alice,” Ridgeway murmured.

  Janice tried not to be hurt, but failed. Without being quite as gentle, she tucked the blanket around him, dropped his keys on the small table by the door and locked it behind her.

  She drove toward home. Stupid. I’m so stupid. She turned on the car radio. Some bubble-gum pop music filled the small car. Janice forced herself to sing along and tried not to think.

  2148 hours

  Kopriva waited in the parking lot of the elementary school, surprised at how late Katie was. He’d checked with radio to see if she was checked into service yet and she wasn’t. That phone call from her boyfriend must have been a long one.

  Eventually, a police car pulled into the dark lot and glided up next to him. Katie lowered her window. “Sorry I took so long.”

  Kopriva thought she sounded a little strange, like she had been crying. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said shortly. “Where’s this guy live?”

  Kopriva turned on his interior light and read her the address aloud.

  “Okay. Meet you there,” she said and drove off.

  Something was definitely wrong, Kopriva knew. He also knew that if Katie didn’t want to tell him, she wasn’t going to. She had a stubborn streak that way.

  Kopriva drove quickly to the address, parked up the street and walked in. Katie met him behind a tree in front of the house. He noticed that it was a neatly painted white with a well-tended yard.

  Kopriva frowned. He doubted Belzer still lived there. Druggers seldom showed much concern about the house or yard where they lived. Besides, they generally didn’t stay in any one place for long. But maybe they’d get a lead on him here.

  After peering through the window and finding the inside just as tidy as the yard, Kopriva rang the door-bell. A red-headed woman in her early twenties opened the door.

  “Hello?” She said, and then noticed their uniforms. “Oh. Is something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am,” Kopriva assured her. “Can we come in and talk with you for a moment?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess.” She stepped aside and allowed them to enter.

  Once inside, Kopriva noticed the pleasant aroma of a burning candle. No chance this was Belzer’s place. About the only thing druggers burned besides their pipes was the occasionally stick of incense.

  Kopriva asked the woman for her name.

  “Michelle Belzer,” she answered. “Why?”

  “We’re looking for Martin Belzer. Is he your husband or…?”

  Michelle snorted. “Hell, no! Unfortunately, he’s my uncle.” She crossed her arms and frowned. “Why? What’d he do this time?”

  “We just need to talk to him,” Kopriva said. “Does he live here?”

  “No,” Michelle answered. “He did for awhile, but my parents kicked him out. He’s pretty well burned his bridges with most of the family. He does drugs, if you didn’t know.”

  “How long ago was he living here?”

  Michelle considered. “A month or so. His mail still comes here, though.”

  “Any idea where he might be now?”


  “Not really. That’s why I still have a ton of his mail. His Mom and his sister still support him somewhat. Either one of them might know.”

  “Who would be more likely to help us find him?”

  Michelle considered briefly. “My Aunt. That’s his sister. She might help, depending on how she feels about him at the moment.”

  “All right. Do you mind if we check around here really quick? That way we can tell our boss that he’s definitely not here.”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  While Kopriva checked, Katie stayed with Michelle. Kopriva overheard Michelle asking Katie numerous questions about being a female cop. Katie answered her politely, but seemed a little short, which was unlike her.

  Kopriva’s search of the house turned up no sign of Belzer and no evidence outside of the master bedroom of a male living at the house. That completed, Kopriva asked Michelle for the number and address of Belzer’s mother and sister. She read them to him from her address book. Kopriva wrote them in his notebook and thanked her.

  “Anytime,” Michelle said. “That jerk stole eight hundred dollars of my tuition money one quarter last year from my parent’s house. I hope he rots in hell.”

  Ah, Kopriva thought. Revenge.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “You’ll have to settle for jail, though. I’m not in charge of hell. Yet.”

  Michelle laughed at his joke as he and Katie left.

  Back in his car, Kopriva plugged in his cellular phone. He’d bought it for use on the job when it became apparent the department could never afford to supply officers with one. It had proven to be a valuable tool.

  Katie pulled her car next to him. “So?”

  “So now I call mom and sister and see if they will give me a lead.”

  Kopriva dialed the sister’s number. The line was busy.

  “Busy,” he told Katie. “You think Michelle is in there ratting us off?”

  Katie shrugged. “Doubt it.”

  “Me, too. But you never know.”

  Katie let out a small snort. “Yeah, you never know.”

  Kopriva dialed the mother’s number. The phone rang twice, then a male voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Hello? Is Mrs. Belzer home?”

  “No. She’s not here. Can I help you?”

  “Depends on who you are,” Kopriva said.

  “I’m her son.”

  Kopriva smiled in surprise. “Martin Belzer?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  Damn! His smile faded, but he thought quickly. “It’s the United States Postal Service, Mr. Belzer.”

  “Who?”

  “The Post Office, sir. Actually, Mr. Belzer, we were hoping to locate you. My name is James Zurn. I work in misdirected mail and forwarding addresses. I understand you used to live at—” Kopriva paused, pretending to shuffle through some papers. “At 1814 N. Quincey. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, sir, we’ve been getting mail back from that address stating that you are no longer there. However, we show a last name of Belzer still residing there.”

  “Yeah. My brother lives there. I moved out a while back.”

  “I see. Okay, well, if you can give me an updated address, I’ll enter it into the computer right now and you should start getting all your mail again.”

  “I’m living with my mother right now,” he said and gave the address.

  Kopriva had him repeat part of it several times and complained, “This computer is slow sometimes.”

  In the car next to him, Katie chuckled. “You’re pushing your luck,” she whispered.

  “Maybe that’s why the mail takes so long,” Belzer joked.

  “Actually, sir, if you compare the US Postal system with other western nations in Europe, we are fourteen to seventeen percent faster on average. Only Japan and Denmark have a faster mail system.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re cheaper, too,” Kopriva added.

  “Oh.” Belzer was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Isn’t it kind of late to be doing this kind of thing?” His voice held a tinge of suspicion.

  “We’re on twenty-four hours in this department, sir. It’s the only way to keep up.”

  “Oh.” Suspicion remained in his voice.

  “Besides,” Kopriva said, “we catch a lot of people on the phone between five and ten PM. Everyone who works, basically. We generally try not to call after ten, though.” He glanced at his watch. It was 10:08 PM. “Anyway, Mr. Belzer, you should have restored mail service immediately and receive all your misdirected mail within three days. If you have any problems, call the customer service department between eight and four and they’ll help you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Kopriva hung up and let out a deep breath. He looked over at Katie.

  She raised her hands and clapped them together several times in mock applause. “Stef,” she said, “you are the king of bullshit.”

  “Hey, I had to think of something.”

  “No, it was beautiful,” she said. “A work of art. Now what?”

  Kopriva gave her the address. “We go get him.”

  “Meet you there.”

  The drive was a quick one. Kopriva felt good. Proper trickery was fun to use. He had acted in a couple of plays in high school and this was sort of the same thing. Only here, he had to be quick on his feet and ad-lib. The key was to keep it simple and as close to the truth as possible.

  Belzer’s Mom’s house was smaller than Michelle’s, but the yard was equally well-tended. Kopriva wondered if lawn care was a family fetish. He and Katie stole up to the house, and he peered in the window. A male sat in the easy chair watching TV. Looking at the back of the man’s head, he couldn’t tell if it was Belzer or not. He motioned for Katie to knock. As soon as she rapped on the door, the man stood and nonchalantly strolled to the door.

  Kopriva smiled and a thrill went through him.

  It was him.

  Kopriva stepped onto the porch and prepared to force the door back open if Belzer tried to close it once he saw who was on his doorstep. The door swung open and Belzer stared at them for a moment, obviously surprised. The faint odor of marijuana smoke wafted through the door.

  “Martin? Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?” Kopriva played it low-key.

  Belzer blinked at them, shocked. “Okay,” he said and stepped aside to let them in.

  As soon as they were in the door, Kopriva put him into a mild wrist-lock. Katie took the other arm. When he encountered no resistance, Kopriva made no attempt to use further force. He told Belzer he was under arrest.

  “For what?” he complained. “I’m just watching TV here.”

  “You have several warrants.” Kopriva handcuffed him and began to search. Katie pulled a plastic bag from her pocket and held it for Belzer’s possessions.

  “What warrants? I thought I took care of those,” Belzer said, not convincing anyone in the room.

  “Evidently not.” Kopriva continued to search. He came across an orange-brown chunk wrapped in a baggy. “Uh-oh, Martin. What’s this?”

  “Crank,” Belzer said dejectedly.

  Kopriva hadn’t expected an answer, but he didn’t quibble. “Before I go any further, let me ask you something. Are there any needles on you? Because if I stick myself on a needle, I am going to be one ticked off hombre.”

  “They’re in my sunglasses case. In my flannel pocket.” Belzer stared straight ahead.

  Kopriva pulled the case from Belzer’s breast pocket. Inside, he saw two needles, a spoon, some cotton, and some water in a small plastic bottle. “How long have you been shooting this stuff?”

  Belzer sighed and hung his head. “Too long, man.”

  Kopriva completed his search, then walked to the seat where Belzer had been sitting. An empty marijuana pipe lay on the small end table. Kopriva didn’t see any marijuana nearby. He picked up the pipe, which was still warm. He put it to his nose and sniffed. The stron
g aroma of marijuana flooded his nostrils.

  “Should I leave this for your Mom?” he asked Belzer.

  “No, man. It’s mine. She doesn’t need to know.”

  “I suppose not. Do you have keys for this place so we can lock up?”

  “They’re in my jacket there by the door. Left pocket.”

  Kopriva walked to the coat rack by the door and picked up the heavy, black leather jacket.

  “Left pocket,” Belzer repeated, enunciating each word clearly. He watched Kopriva intently.

  Kopriva checked the left pocket and found a small key ring.

  “That’s them,” Belzer said quickly.

  “You want this jacket?” Kopriva asked.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Belzer shook his head. “No.”

  Kopriva began to search the jacket. Belzer sighed and shifted his feet, nervously. Kopriva found needles in the inside pocket and a small vial of clear liquid.

  “What’s this?” he asked Belzer.

  “Water.”

  “Water? Yeah, right. You’re so nervous about me finding your needles and water.”

  “I’m not nervous about nothing, man. It’s water.”

  Kopriva shrugged. “All right. Play it that way.”

  “I’m not playing at all.”

  “Let’s go,” Kopriva said, motioning toward the door. “Do you want me to bring this jacket now?”

  “What jacket? I never saw that jacket before in my life.”

  Kopriva shook his head with a rueful laugh. “Martin, you need to find another profession. You suck as a liar.”

  Belzer said nothing.

  Kopriva locked the door as they left and walked Belzer to his car. Once he was secured in the back seat, Kopriva broke out his drug field test kits. Katie stood nearby, watching with mild curiosity.

  A sliver from the methamphetamine chunk immediately flowed orange.

  “Bingo,” Kopriva muttered.

  He tested a few drops of the “water” for methamphetamine with no reaction. “What do you think?” he asked Katie.

  “It’s not going to be heroin,” she said with a shrug. “The only other drug I know that people shoot with needles is coke.”

  Kopriva retrieved a cocaine field test kit and dropped three drops into the vial. He broke the ampoule inside. The vial flowed an instant, bright blue.