Utah: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 7)

by J. J. Henderson

  “That’s ironclad, gentlemen,” said Yates. “That’s where we start: no time, and no extradition. Hey, why would she lie? Bottom line, she’s not going to Utah, is that clear?”

  “Whoa, whoa,” said Devereaux. “Hold on here. You’re acting like we’re dealing, but you’ve got nothing to deal. I mean, so you turned yourself in, Lucy. So you have an interesting story to tell. Even if it’s true, technically you done wrong, girl. You done hauled a teenage killer right out of Utah. You know that, don’t you?” He stopped. Lucy, arms crossed, stared at him. She had nothing to say. These guys weren’t bad, for cops, but—they were cops. Enough said.

  Yates watched her, decided to stay quiet. Finally Devereaux went on. “But I’m pretty sure we can get a deal. I guess. Mostly because I think you’re telling the truth, Lucy, and if you are, I think—” he looked at Larsen—”We think, me and my partner here, that you did the right thing. We met the mom, and...”

  Larsen jumped in. “You’ll get your deal, on the understanding you do all that you can to help us find Ellen Longford. And providing, of course, that once we do find her Ellen’s story isn’t too far at odds with yours.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” Lucy said. “And I know this kid. She’s not a bad girl, believe me. She did what she thought was the only thing she could do. She’ll tell the truth when she has to.”

  “You realize, of course, that she will be extradited.”

  “Wait a minute!” cried Lucy. “Why does she have to…”

  “I told you that,” said Yates. “There’s no way she can get out of going back to Utah.”

  “Then maybe she oughta just stay out there on the streets. You know what’ll happen to her in Utah?” Lucy said. “She’ll get her head chopped off!”

  “Actually, if that DVD you’re talking about turns up, and is authenticated, I would guess she’ll do a couple of years in a reformatory of some kind, and then probation,” said Larsen. “If she pleads to manslaughter or whatever. I can’t imagine anyone’s gonna want to take this to trial. Particularly since her father was kind of a local player. They don’t like shit like this to show up in the papers, know what I mean?”

  “What about her pregnancy?” said Lucy. “There’s no way she’ll be able to get an abortion in Utah.”

  “One thing at a time, Lucy,” Larsen said softly. “Let’s take this just one thing at a time.”

  “The main thing is, maybe you boys ought to concentrate on bringing Ellen in, don’t you think?” said Yates. “I mean, you’ve been chasing this kid for a week now. And hey,” he looked around his office. “I don’t see her.”

  “Fuck off, Yates,” Devereaux said.

  Ellen woke up abruptly, and found herself in a dark room under a blanket that smelled of incense-sweetened candlewax and mildew. Streetlight gleamed in an uncurtained window. She sensed other bodies sleeping in the room. She could hear traffic. Her mouth was dry; she’d been breathing with it hanging open, her head lolling awkwardly because—because her pillow was gone. She reached above her head, then groped around wildly, looking for the backpack. Gone! “Where’s my pack, goddammit!” she shouted. “Who took my backpack! Hey, wake up you punks!” She threw off the blanket and jumped it. The air had turned cold, but she hardly noticed.

  “Hey, what,” came a groggy voice from the sofa. “Quiet down.” Ellen recognized the voice of the dragon girl, whatever her name was.

  “Did you take my pack? Where’s the lights in here? Fuck, I didn’t have any money in there,” Ellen said, starting to cry. She pulled her small fold of twenties out of her jeans pocket and waved it around. “I had my money in my pocket. You guys wanted money that bad you should have said so. Shit, I need that pack.”

  The sleepers awoke: the two quiet boys, Zoo and Billy, and the two girls Iris and June. The tall boy with the mohawk was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Adrienne. “Hey, what’s the matter?” said Iris. “I was havin’ this cool dream about swimming in the ocean in Hawaii or something.”

  “Where’s that guy with the purple hair? What’s his name?”

  “Kenny? He probably went home,” said June. “He likes to sleep in his big warm bed in his fuckin’ parents’ big warm house in Bellevue. He’s like totally suburban. Just comes here to pretend he’s cool.”

  “Did anyone borrow my pack for anything? I really need to get it back,” Ellen said. “There’s some really important stuff in there.”

  “Kenny’s always taking stuff,” said Iris. “He’s got like, tons of money, but he’s a thief and shit. But he’s always bringin’ us food from Mommy and Daddy’s, so we don’t mind when he comes.”

  “Do you have the phone number there? I mean can I call him? I’ve gotta get that pack back,” Ellen said. “I...oh, please, I...Oh, man, you don’t know what...”

  “I’ve got the phone number,” Iris said. “But his stupid mom will answer, and if he’s there he might not take the call.”

  “Just tell me the number, please,” said Ellen. He had the video—and the knife. She didn’t even know where Bellevue was.

  “Hey, no problem, Alice,” said Iris. She said the number out loud.

  “So where’s the phone?” Ellen said. “Is there a phone? Does anyone have a cell phone?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said June. “It’s in the kitchen.” She sneered. “Alice, nobody’s lived in this house for like seven years. And none of us can afford cells. The nearest phone is down on Broadway.” Ellen started for the front door. “Kitchen door, Alice. And through the hedge, please.” Ellen ran back through the house, out the back door, and across the yard in the darkness. She slipped through the hedge, down the alley, and ran for Broadway, repeating Kenny’s parents’ phone number like a mantra.

  She found an unoccupied phone booth in a supermarket parking lot, fed it quarters, and quickly punched in the Bellevue number. After four rings a machine answered. A woman’s voice said it was the Fordham residence and leave a message. After the beep Ellen spun her wheels for a few desperate seconds, then said, “This is for Kenneth. I need the backpack you borrowed immediately. Please return it as soon as possible. This is important. Thanks.” She hung up, then called the cabin.

  Another machine message. “Hi, this is Lucy R. Please leave a message. The owner of the cabin is out of town until next Tuesday. Ellen, if you call, I just want you to know that I have found a lawyer to work with us. His name is Jack Yates, Y A T E S, and you can find his office number in the phone book. Please call me back here, or call him. I’m turning myself in today, honey. I think it might be time for you to do the same. Please leave me a message, and call him too. Take care of yourself, Ellen. Bye now.”

  After the beep, she said, “Hi, Lucy, it’s me. Ellen. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I’ll try the lawyer. Somebody stole my backpack. You know what’s in there. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. I wish I could talk to you right now. Lucy, where are you? Please answer the phone, Lucy. Please.” she hung up the phone.

  She called information, got an office number for Jack Yates, and called. Another voicemail. Gone for the day. Call back during business hours, blah blah blah. She slammed down the phone and stalked off down Broadway. She walked to the end of the commercial part, then crossed the street and walked back the other way. Not knowing where else to go, she went back to the crash house, uncapping the plastic bottle and feeding herself three more valium on the way. There was nobody there. She crawled back under the same mildewy blanket and pulled it up over her head and laid in the dark. She wanted to cry, but wouldn’t let herself. Even stoned, she didn’t feel there was space or time for the luxury of tears.

  Lucy and Jack Yates faced each other across one of the two-tops in the bar in Campagne, a high end bistro they’d gone to on Jack’s recommendation after doing their legal dance, first at his office and then at the federal building. The bar was warm, candlelit, atmospheric, but not like New York. Lucy noted that, on arrival. Everybody looked too respectable. There were no jaded, Gitane-sucking 50-y
ear old beatniks, no fashionably wasted 25-going-on-19-year old waifs wearing tomorrow’s fashions from 1977, no one that looked on the lam or on the loose or weird, wired, or wacked out. The mix was lacking, the ladies looked proper, there were no trendy kids, and blazers abounded. Jack wore his jeans and his buckskin coat; somewhere north of 40 years old, six feet seven inches tall, with his wavy longish brown hair he was the wildest card in this high-living bourgeouis pack. Lucy wore black pants, black shirt, black jacket, black shoes, and black and white vertically striped socks. She had worn a blue dress that afternoon, to the federal building. Jack had been able to get the whole thing handled in an hour, and got Lucy released on her own recognizance in spite of her lack of ties in the community. Mostly because Jack was a known player in town and the court simply assumed he was good for what he said. Which in this case was that Lucy would not disappear again. And so now they were celebrating, sort of. “I really oughta be out there now looking for her,” Lucy said.

  “Mañana, señorita,” Jack said. “Give yourself a break.” He sipped his red wine, poured more into their glasses. “You haven’t had a night off in a while, Lucy. Why don’t you try to relax?”

  “Hey, if...what’s his name...I’m sorry. Your son...”

  “Alexander.”

  “If he ran away would you be out partying, Jack?”

  “Hey, I don’t know. Of course not. But Alex is five, Lucy. And Ellen is not your kid.”

  “Besides my dog she’s the closest I’ve ever been to having one—or being responsible for one, anyway.”

  “Hell of a lot of fun, huh?” he grinned. “Not to make light of it. If it wasn’t for Alex I’d probably be a fucking cokehead. Or at least a drunken fool half the time. When his mother left me I swear to God I just about lost it. I’m just glad I had to keep myself together for him.”

  “She actually left you for another woman?”

  “Yeah. You wouldn’t think she was lesbian, to look at her. But sure enough, this tattooed, dope-smoking dyke glass artist charmed her away with all this earth mother witch talk. Lucky for her I’m a nice guy, otherwise I could have sued her ass up and down the block and gotten full custody of Alex.”

  “That would have been cruel, Jack.”

  “I know. Cruel and unconstitutional, the way I see it. And I was sorely tempted.”

  “Well, in any case I guess it all worked out for the best.”

  “Maybe so. I mean, I suppose Audrey was meant to be living that way, but I sure didn’t see it coming. I mean, we had a fucking royal wedding, with nine million relatives and friends, and a photographer and a video guy, high class catering up the wazoo, at this incredible suite on top of the Smith Tower. The whole stupid package. Four years later she dumped me for a dyke.”

  “Lesbian, Jack. Lesbian.”

  “Sorry, I know. I’m just...”

  “Bitter.”

  “Yeah, well, wouldn’t you be?”

  “I don’t know. Sure. Friend of mine lost her husband to another man, and she figured in a way it was easier than losing him to another woman. I mean, it was obviously not her failing but a force of nature, know what I mean?”

  He sipped wine. “Intellectually, yes. Emotionally, no way. Too weird.” The food arrived. “But fuck it, let’s eat, eh? Let’s celebrate: Lucy Ripken’s home free at last!” He held up his wine glass. Lucy followed suit.

  “To finding Ellen,” she said quietly. “The most important thing in the world to me right now.”

  “To Ellen,” Jack said. “And to you, Lucy, for—well, for calling me. The case is interesting, and the down time’s been great.” He smiled at her.

  She liked this man. He was tough, but soft in a big-hearted way, or so he seemed; willing to get pissed off, but able to see the other side of the story. He was tall, long-haired and handsome, too. That didn’t hurt. Plus she trusted him. He was sharp, and knew how to play the courts and the court players. Most important of all, he had taken some of the load off her shoulders, and put it on his own. At two hundred bucks an hour, she would go broke fast, but at the moment she didn’t care. At the moment she had good food, good wine, and a real live grown up man to share it with. Were it not for Ellen, lost out there somewhere, Lucy would have been perfectly content.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LOST AND FOUND

  Ellen rode gently towards sleep as her second round of valium kicked in. Zoning out slowly she promised herself that tomorrow she’d be good; meanwhile how could she possibly have rested without dope of some kind? With the DVD gone she was dead meat. She intended to run far, far away, but if they caught her, what chance would she have without it? Even if Lucy had seen it. Why should anyone believe either of them? Even though she was a grown-up, a respectable, responsible lady, Lucy was a bad girl too. Ellen knew that. She’d known it the minute she saw her. That’s why she’d hidden in Lucy’s truck, and that’s why Lucy had taken her across half the country. Because of that Ellen knew they wouldn’t believe Lucy either. Not without the DVD. The way the world saw kids like her nowadays, they’d think she, Ellen, made it all up as an excuse, that she just didn’t like her daddy because he was strict, and since she was adopted they’d figure she had bad blood, like he always said, and never think she might be telling the truth when she said he fucked her a hundred times, a thousand times it seemed like!

  Eeeeyuck, she could remember how it felt to have him crawling all over her, making her touch him, putting his thing in her mouth, then opening her legs and....she clamped them shut, and squeezed her eyes shut, and then...relaxed in a druggy wave. This was good, good to have a chance to think about the bad things without panicking, without freaking out. Drugs that let you do that were good. They gave you peace, and you didn’t have to forget to find it. They made a haze, and through that haze the truth was visible but lost its cruel, sharp edges, went soft and out of focus.

  So tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow she’d find that stupid boy and get the truth back—or maybe she’d head out of town. She’d seen a train passing on those railroad tracks down by the waterfront, with the doors thrown open on the black interiors of empty freight cars. She didn’t have to take a bus or hitch a ride out of town. She’d seen movies where hobos rode the freights. Why couldn’t she do it too? She rode the imaginary sound of the freight train clickety-clacking down the track into a dream of a train moving under water. She rested, safe in a boxy dark red freight car, breathing air, looking out on a world of water. She could see fish swimming, flashing silver, and though she dream-sensed that she wouldn’t be able to breathe out there, she knew she’d be fine as long as she stayed in the freight car, rolling along the undersea tracks.

  At the other end of the ferry Lucy and Jack strolled through off the boat ramp onto Bainbridge Island. Somehow her hand slipped into his, and she felt a slight but undeniable charge as the warmth of his body surged up her arm. She considered how she would respond to the inevitable question. Fortunately, her dog simplified the answer. And so when he asked, “Would you like to come over to my place?” she answered, “Sorry, Jack, but I’ve got my dog back at the cabin who hasn’t eaten since this morning. Plus he’s in a strange environment and not used to not seeing me for this long.”

  Over the hilly roads of Bainbridge they cruised in his black car. Neither said much until they turned off Fletcher Bay onto the dirt road. Lucy directed him through the assorted forks and turn-offs until they reached the cabin. He rolled to a stop and turned off the engine. They sat in the dark for a moment. “Well,” he said. “I guess it’s goodnight time, eh?”

  “You want to come in for a, I don’t know, a cup of coffee? I’d say a nightcap but I don’t know if there’s anything to drink in there.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Thing is, I’ve got a dog at home too, plus I’m supposed to pick up Alexander at 8 in the morning so his mother can go to some eco-feminist conference in Bellingham.”

  “Hmmm. Well, how about a quick coffee then?”

  “You got decaf?”

/>   She opened her door. “Of course I have decaf, I’m a coffee wimp like most people over 30. So come on in.”

  “No way you’re over 30.”

  “Oh please, Jack. Get real. It’s been a while since I hit that bump.”

  “Well, you look great, whatever your age is.”

  “Someday maybe I’ll tell you.”

  He followed her up the stairs to the porch. She opened the door and let the dog out for the usual frenzied greeting. Claud had been miserable, now he was happy. He lived entirely in the present. Dogs were good that way. He ran off into the woods on dog business. Lucy turned up the heat, put dog food down, put water on to boil, and then joined Jack Yates on the sofa.

  His long, lean body seemed to take up the whole room. They stared at each other. He grinned foolishly. She did the same. Then she quickly leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss lingered, their lips parted. By the time the kettle whistled, buttons were unbuttoned, shirts had fallen open. Then Claud barked softly at the door, ready to come in for a late dinner after night patrol.

  Lucy stood up and buttoned up, let the dog in, then went to make decaf. “Milk or sugar, Jack?”

  Laying back on the sofa, comfortably disarrayed, he smiled. “Both—with a side of Lucy.”

  “Let’s have coffee and talk this over, Jack,” she said. “Hey, I like you too. You can see that. But—”

  “Lawyer-client relationship and all that jazz, eh, Lucy?” He sat up.

  “Well,” she came over with a tray, put it down and sat by him. “It is an issue.”

  “Doesn’t have to be,” he said.

  “You’re right, but regardless of that let’s not jump too fast. I don’t know. I’m too much at loose ends right now. Crashing around, chasing after Ellen, don’t know where I’ll be living or what I’ll be doing. I don’t want to feel like, I like you because of, well, you know, the situation.”