by John Oakes
“Promise you not,” Winton said. “Plus, I couldn’t sleep and I need something to take my mind off… You know.”
Corbin poured his coffee, watched Fox News for thirty minutes in the living room, then ate more cereal at the table. In a bowl. With milk.
“You eaten?” Corbin asked and pointed to the box of cereal.
Winton waved a hand and put his empty coffee cup in the sink. “I would for old time’s sake, but the sugar’ll make me nauseous.”
“Suit yourself. Supposed to eat breakfast.” Corbin brought a load of brightly colored, milk-sodden cereal to his mouth. “All the experts say so,” he said through a big mouthful. Milk dribbled down his chin, and he swiped his arm over it.
Winton’s eye twitched, but he kept his mouth shut, because it was too damn early.
They rode to the central police station, where Corbin checked Winton in as a visitor. Corbin got settled in at his work station, and Winton feigned interest as his brother proudly pointed out how he had not one, but two desks, pushed together at right angles, and the kind of three hole punch that didn’t jam.
“I had to wait a year for Georgina to die of Lupus ‘fore I got my hands on this puppy.” Corbin gave the three-hole punch a gentle caress, then sat back. “Okay. I got about two hours of work here before we can go. There’s coffee and maybe doughnuts in the lounge.”
Winton looked where Corbin pointed, then took in a wider view of this segment of the station. It wasn’t the bullpen, that was for sure. Half the people walking around didn’t even wear a badge. It felt almost like any generic office space.
“Corbin,” Winton asked softly, “why haven’t we put in a missing person report on Lucas?”
Corbin looked askance at his little brother, then cleared his throat and leaned in. “It’s being taken care of. That’s what I was told.”
“Oh?” Winton sat straighter. “Who told you?”
Corbin shifted his weight from one large butt cheek to the other. “I don’t know, exactly.”
“How can you not know?”
“They called on the house line, said not to worry. The department was aware and taking steps.” Corbin parroted the last words in his robotic manner.
“You didn’t ask for a name?”
“The New Orleans Police Department is the best in the world,” Corbin said. “It’s Daddy’s department.”
Winton wanted to roll his eyes, but sat back and pulled out his phone instead, trying to hide his sulking. He texted his wife: Up early. Love you. Have a nice day with your mother.
Missy’s mother was in from Katy, not too far from their house near the Colorado River. He’d suggested they practice that part of the baby’s arrival too. Outwardly it seemed thoughtful of him, but deep down Winton knew it’d help keep Missy occupied and prevent her from checking in too often. Missy was a passionate woman, expressive, with big blond hair and long red nails. Winton loved her boldness, even if it did have a rough edge or two.
Their love affair had been tumultuous to say the least, partly because that’s just how their love was, but partly because they’d both been struggling individually when they met. Though he currently had a fantastic job running a themed resort, most of Winton’s employment history had been spotty at best, usually no fault of his. Unlike the rest of his family, police work wasn’t a fall back option. When he’d been let go from his last real job at the San Antonio city planning office due to supposed “budget cuts,” Winton did what he always did when forced to make ends meet.
Stage Magic.
In his youth he’d been fascinated by illusions, magic tricks, sleight of hand, all of which he’d mastered both because he was part dweeb and because of a fascination with anything that allowed him to manipulate the world around him. And perhaps it helped him impress a few girls along the way. So, while his peers were entering their thirties, filling up their 401k accounts and starting families, Winton was scraping by in a cape and top hat, dealing with credit card debt and the disrespect of children with no filters. One good thing came of it, though, when he put up an ad for a beautiful assistant, and Missy showed up, a little too tall to model, and getting a little too old at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.
“How’s Missy?” Corbin asked, head down over his work.
Now Corbin seemed to remember Winton had a significant other.
“She’s good. Praying for Pops.” She hadn’t specifically said that, but it might soothe his brother.
Winton and Missy didn’t actually get along at first. A week into working together, an argument finally erupted after a performance at an old folks’ home, which escalated into shouting and name calling, which escalated to furiously making out in the back of Winton’s cargo van. Not too much in their relationship had ever changed since then.
He tried to think fondly of those years for at least keeping him afloat and for bringing him Missy, but there were no two ways about it, the stress had been taking an irredeemable toll on him and their relationship.
His phone buzzed, and Missy’s reply came back with a series of Xs and Os and smiley faces. It forced a smile onto his weary, unshaven face.
Now that life was good, and money was flowing, the better side of Winton and Missy’s passion was present without the poorer angels of their nature stirring up disharmony due to stress. Well, most of the time.
Winton’s heart was full, and true contentment seemed imminent, but thoughts of his father and of Lucas upset those feelings, niggling at him like a popcorn shell in his teeth. He pocketed his phone and steepled his fingers before his nose, eyeing the station and its occupants as far as he could see.
Someone had called to assure Corbin that Lucas was being sought. That left two questions: Was the department really looking? And, was it really brass who called Corbin to assure him, or someone else, someone unaffiliated with the department even?
“Who did Lucas work with?” Winton asked without changing his posture.
“If I recall correctly,” Corbin said, gaze flitting from one form to another, “he was in the traffic squad, you know, ticket quotas and that. But he wasn’t staying put.”
“Not staying put?” Winton looked over.
“Not checking in and stuff. SOP. Not radio-ing in his position when pinged. He even disabled his GPS so dispatch couldn’t find him.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Lucas just does whatever he feels like, always has.” Corbin’s voice had a little heat on it. “Got away with it in our house because he was the favorite, and he gets away with it here because he makes people laugh and he’s all smiles. But not everyone is laughing.”
“Corbin, hold up.” Winton leaned sideways over the desk, trying to get a look at his brother’s eyes. “You saying his job was at risk?”
“I am not my brother’s keeper.” Corbin met his gaze. “I hear the scuttlebutt, and I try to keep clear of it. Chevalier is a proud name to wear in this town. Lucas ain’t doing it any favors.”
They each slumped back to their seats, and Winton scratched at his day-old stubble. So that was why Corbin seemed nonplussed by Lucas’ absence. He was mad at baby bro for sullying the family reputation.
Winton always thought Lucas took the whole cop thing just as seriously as Corbin, maybe more so considering the active role Lucas had in policing. He made mistakes, sure, and could be a jackass as Corbin described, but he was a good kid with real potential. That’s what everyone said all along -- his instructors at the academy, his sergeants and lieutenants.
Winton stopped himself.
He realized he’d heard all that relayed through his father or while in his father’s presence. Had Lucas’ overseers all just been buttering the old man up by complimenting Lucas? Were they just glad he was more moldable and useful than Corbin? Either way, perhaps Lucas struggled with the job more than Winton knew.
Winton stood and took a slow turn, capturing a panoramic image in his mind of the dozens of law enforcement and administrative professionals surrounding him, going a
bout their business, laughing here and there, chatting. No one in this part of the building gave a damn about Lucas’ absence.
A detail of the mystery popped out at Winton: His brother’s car had been parked at his apartment.
“Tell me something.” Winton leaned an elbow on Corbin’s desk. “Did they ever find Lucas’ cruiser? Did he turn it in properly?”
Corbin’s head perked up like a Doberman. “Actually, I dunno.”
“Can you ask?”
Corbin frowned. “I suppose I can call down to fleet services.” He reached for his desk phone and dialed. “Hey Sue. This is Corbin Chevalier. That’s right. I’m fine ma’am, and you? Well, I was just wondering if my brother Lucas brought his cruiser back according to procedure.” After a moment, Corbin looked over at Winton, frustrated. “Is that so? Yep that’s the one. All right then. I’m sure it’s being taken care of. Thank you.”
“So?”
“Patrol found it abandoned.”
“What?” Winton looked about then eyed his brother.
“They drove it in last night. It’s fine.”
“Fine? Wha—” It was no use. Winton made fists before his face, then, with forced calm, pointed them out like a music conductor. “Where? Where is his cruiser now?”
“The motor pool. Fleet services.”
“Where did they find the cruiser?”
“Listen, Winton, I know you’re a smart guy with lots of questions, but I gotta get my work done before I go meet Momma at the hospital. Otherwise my boss will make me take half of a vacation day.”
“Great.” Winton pushed his hands toward the desk. His brother was truly helpless. “You just focus on that. I’ll uhh… I’ll go see about that lounge.”
That morning, he’d put on the nicest clothes he brought home to New Orleans — a collared, button-down shirt and corduroy trousers with oxfords. So, he was professionally attired and unremarkable as he walked the halls, apart from his size. If he seemed out of place, his visitor’s badge was prominently displayed on his chest. Still, he kept to less-trafficked pathways.
“Is that—? It can’t be.”
He stopped cold at the sound of the voice. He felt intense dismay at being singled out, but also some part of him warmed, recognizing the voice. He stepped back into the doorway of a wood-paneled office.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” the old woman said. “Winton Chevalier.”
“Ah, Wendy? You still work here?”
“Well, darlin’, these chuckleheads still need someone to keep the books balanced, don’t they?” Wendy stood out of her chair, fairly spry for a woman of her years and size. She extended her arms from beneath her shawl, and Winton stepped in to hug her.
Sitting again, she said, “Well, don’t you look handsome. Never seen you with your shirt tucked in. How long’s it been?”
“Ten or twelve years, I’d imagine.” Wendy was a decade older than his dad, yet here she still was, working into her seventies. “I take it retirement sounds too boring.”
“Well, to tell the truth, Katrina and then the recession, it made things difficult. But we’re bouncing back. I suppose I’ll be able to tend to my quilting full time in a year or so.”
Winton rocked back on his heels. Katrina seemed an age ago to Winton, but he’d been in Texas for grad school and had missed it. His family hadn’t been significantly affected, but the storm still loomed large over the community in ways he forgot at times, especially for those who’d lost the most. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
She smiled resignedly the way people do when they’ve weathered life’s storms, both literal and metaphorical.
“But you’ve stayed sharp as ever,” Winton said. “So there’s that.”
“Ha. I guess. What you doing here, punkin?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped closer, feeling his expression darken. “Can I tell you something in total confidence?”
“Well, sure.” She leaned in. “I’m no gab.”
“Lucas hasn’t reported in for two days and isn’t returning any calls or texts.”
“What? Oh my word. Your mother must be in fits.”
“She will be soon. Dad’s going in for the big operation today, so she’s got her plate full. But…” He trailed off not knowing what the state of his family would be in just a few short hours.
“That’s today then?” Wendy asked. “I saw something on the Facebook. Been praying for your daddy every darn day, every darn time I think on him. But Lucas wouldn’t miss that.”
“I know.” He glanced back at her door, then lowered his voice more. “Corbin and some of these police types seem to think he’s screwing around. I have reason to doubt that, but to prove it, I need some access. Nothing crazy.”
Wendy looked to the door, as he had, then murmured, “You tell Miss Wendy what you need.”
FIVE
Fleet services was accessible via a locked door equipped with a card reader. Apart from the police themselves, only the fleet services staff were allowed into the motor pool and the workshop bays. However, it just so happened that in her capacity as a financial administrator and auditor, Wendy had a card that could get her into any door in the entire building. She passed this to Winton as they walked to fleet services, and he slipped behind Miss Wendy’s ample frame as she approached the counter.
“Hello.” A feminine voice greeted Wendy at the counter with a hint of familiarity.
“Hello to you, sugar. I need to know about this cruiser that came in yesterday sans driver.”
“Sure thing.” The keys on a computer keyboard clacked. “That was car 105.”
“And it’s here in the motor pool?”
“Yeah huh. Right out in row A, close by.”
“Thank you, dear. Now where did you get those beautiful earrings?”
Winton crept out from behind Wendy, staying under the counter, then hugging the wall to the glass door. He slid the card through the reader, heard a click and opened it.
He was caught out in the open. His eyes darted side to side. Garage bays opened ten yards to his left, and there was nothing but asphalt and cars to his right and front. Shoulders back, he stalked with purpose out into the parking lot until hidden behind the first cruiser that could block him from view. Banging sounds and the whirring of power tools kept on without interruption. He let out a breath, looking for sign of anyone else in the lot. If he was going to be caught on a security feed, Winton needed to avoid giving anyone reason to review it.
NOPD cruisers had their number stenciled on the roof, the bumper and the hood. Winton chose to thread his way between the front bumpers of the parked cars looking for number 105. He found it near the end of the row, and once inside, discovered a ticket book on the passenger seat, some sort of food wrapper on the floor below it, and a can of energy drink in a cup holder. Nothing immediately jumped out to Winton as useful evidence.
A small black compartment lay open next to the cupholder with a slim, black rectangle laying at its bottom, barely visible.
“His phone.” Winton snatched it up and pressed the buttons, but the thing was dead. “Damn.”
Winton pocketed the phone and continued his search, using his own phone’s flashlight to illuminate the crevices between and under the seats. The easiest way to check under the seat of a normal vehicle was from the back seat, but a NOPD cruiser’s back seat was all blocked off like a miniature prison cell.
Winton laid his torso in the foot well, feet kicking above the asphalt, and shined his light. He dug out more wrappers and receipts. It appeared cop cars were suspect to the same litter as any car. As Winton swept his light around, something glinted amongst the tangle of wires and cables beneath the powered seat. Before he could identify it, he heard voices approaching. Low, masculine voices.
“What number was it again?” one man asked with a Cajun twang.
“105,” came the gruff reply.
Winton shot his hand under the seat and fumbled for the object. It was long and relati
vely smooth. He was able to pluck it out without it getting caught and popped it in his pocket with the phone. He shut the door quietly and ran past the next two cruisers, crouching down low on the other side of the row behind a passenger door.
“This’ll be it,” the gruff voice said.
“Don’t see why we gotta search it again. Already did a once-over,” the Cajun said.
“Must be he wants something specific we didn’t find last night.”
Winton poked his head up by the passenger’s side view mirror and peered through the windows.
“It was dark, but what’d we miss?” The Cajun opened the driver’s door and held up one of the fast food wrappers. “Oh, I’d never eat there. The lady was rude to me when I asked for Ranch dressing for my fries. Said I had to pay extra. No respect. What’s this country coming to?”
Winton got a good look at the Cajun. He was a pot-bellied man with a buzz cut and a doughy face with a generous double chin. The other man was shorter and barrel-chested, with a prominent nose, dark eyebrows and thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “Just look, asshole,” he said.
“First thing in the morning,” the Cajun whined, “and I ain’t even had my first Diet Pepsi yet.”
Winton fished the shiny object out of his pocket and regarded it in his hand. It glinted like pure gold in the morning sun, about the length of his hand and the width of his thumb, odd knobs at either end.
“I don’t even know what we’re looking for, Sarge.”
The gruff sergeant slammed a door shut. “I can’t find anything either, for the life of me. Remus can piss and moan all he likes.”
“If he says he needs it, he needs it.” The Cajun had a pleading look on his face. “We need it, too.”
“Ain’t nothing to be found, Rab. We could look all day.” The sergeant slammed the door shut and stalked back down the lot. The Cajun threw the food wrapper back into the cruiser and followed.
Winton waited a minute before making his way back into the building. Then, careful to sneak below the fleet services counter unnoticed, he retraced the route he and Wendy had taken from her office.
