by Betty Webb
Polk met me at the door, a huge butcher knife pointed toward me. “You get.” He didn’t really need the knife for protection because the odor emanating from his body could have killed the average pro wrestler.
I copied the conciliatory smile I’d used with such success on the sheriff. “Mr. Polk? I just wanted to ask you some questions.”
“You and the rest of them fools in Los Perdidos. All’s you need to know, bitch, is that I didn’t touch no kid. Now get the hell out of here before I shove this knife up your ass.” His right eye looked straight at me, his left at the ground. His face appeared closer to ninety than seventy, but muscle roped his chicken-thin arms. Some strength there, at least enough to overpower a small child.
In situations like this, being a P.I. instead of a cop comes in handy, because unlike cops, P.I.’s needn’t stick to the truth. Ignoring the knife, I said, “You have it all wrong, sir. I think you’re being railroaded and I’m offering my help.”
The blade lowered an inch. An eye, the good one, twitched. “You one of them social workers? Or the press? ‘Cause if you’re a reporter, I’m carvin’ you up right now.” The knife lifted again.
I broadened my smile, not that it mattered. Polk liked kids, not women. “Nope, not a reporter. I’m just an advocate, of sorts, a person who wants to hear your side of things. It’s a disgrace when a man who’s already paid his debt to society gets hounded day after day. What is this country coming to?”
He must have liked the idea of himself as victim, because the knife swung all the way down. “I already got me a lawyer, if that’s what you’re after.”
“And a good thing, too. But you also need a friend, someone who cares about what happens to you.”
“You one of them do-gooders in that ‘Nice Neighbor’ bunch?” A gust of wind kicked more dust through the arid air, making him sneeze.
Nice Neighbor? I had no idea what he was talking about, but went with it anyway. “That’s right, Mr. Polk. I am. And I’m confident we can come up with something to exonerate you.”
After taking a moment to consider my offer, he said, “You want some tea? It’s powdered, but I got some good bottled water. No lemon.” A snicker.
Although I would rather drink rattlesnake venom than share tea with him, I enthused, “That sounds just wonderful!”
I waited for him to fetch me a glass, but instead he gestured for me to follow him into the darkness beyond the door. Now I faced a choice: enter a knife-wielding convicted felon’s lair and get information, or stay outside in the blowing dust and get zip. Remembering Precious Doe’s face as she lay in her hastily-dug grave, I stepped inside.
“Don’t trip over nothing,” he said, as he kicked trash out of the way. “I ain’t big on cleaning.”
Once my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I saw that almost every inch of floor space in the one-room shack was piled with old newspapers, empty beer cans, plastic Circle K bags stuffed with rags, and most worrying of all, unopened boxes of Teddy bears and Barbie Dolls.
Bait.
“Sugar or plain?”
Jarred out of my shock, I answered, “Plain, please.” The fewer contaminates, the better. “By the way, I don’t think I introduced myself. Lena Jones is the name.”
As the desert wind moaned against the shack, he handed me a dingy glass filled with undissolved instant tea scum floating on top of muddy water. “Whatever. Have a seat, Miss Nice Neighbor, and tell me what you’re gonna do for me.”
After watching him plop down on a stack of newspapers, I did the same, studiously avoiding looking at the toys. “First off, Mr. Polk, I want you to tell me about yourself. You have an interesting place here, very…” I paused. He wasn’t a stupid man, just a bad one. “…very rustic. I take it you raise your own meat?” I remembered the rabbit pens outside.
“Yeah, why buy what you can get for nothing? I trap them, bring them home and let them get it on. Got myself quite the breeding stock now. Ever had fried rabbit? You might say I’m what them newspapers call a ‘survivalist,’ and proud to be one. It’s the American way.”
Ah. A patriot.
For the next half hour, Polk treated me to a rambling biography, leaving out his prison record and his liking for children. In his sanitized version, he had spent an unblemished life shooting game and trying to grow a vegetable garden in a landscape that really didn’t want him to. He was fishing for compliments, so I duly rendered them.
“You’re a true original, Mr. Polk,” I said, pleased to come up with a comment that wasn’t an outright lie.
He smiled, revealing tea-colored teeth. “That’s what they tell me.”
Outside, the wind increased, making the shack creak alarmingly. Worried that it might fall down around our ears before I was finished, I hurriedly began asking my questions. “Most people admire your type of self-sufficiency, Mr. Polk, so what’s the problem? Why is the sheriff always after you?”
He looked me straight in the eye, a trait perfected by habitual liars. “Beats me.”
“Maybe because that child’s body was found nearby?”
“Don’t know nothing about it.”
It. Not her. Child molesters never saw their victims as human. “Of course you don’t, Mr. Polk. I know an innocent man when I see one. Now, what can I tell the good citizens of Los Perdidos that might set their minds at rest about you?”
“I don’t give a shit about them folks.”
My smile grew more difficult to maintain. “As much as I admire your independence, popular opinion often motivates law enforcement, which is why image is so important. And right about now, yours needs work.” And wasn’t that the truth? “Some good PR, if you will.”
His face lit up. “Ain’t never thought about that! Here.” He reached to the side, grabbed a soiled Teddy bear, and thrust it at me. “Donate this to the hospital, the whatta-you-call it, peedtrics’ wing.”
“Pediatrics?”
“Yeah. Make sure everybody knows it came from me. How’s that for good PR?”
“That should do it.” I picked up the bear by the edge of its ear. God knows what was on there. Having learned as much from the old man as possible, I set my untasted tea on the floor next to a gray heap of something that resembled a dead mouse, and stood up. Was it my imagination, or had the wind grown stronger? It seemed determined to blow the shack right off the desert. Even Nature wanted Polk gone.
Polk’s next words stopped me half way to the door. “Say, Miss Nice Neighbor. All this time you was here I been thinking. How’d you get that ugly scar on your forehead? You coulda been a pretty woman but that thing makes you look like crap.”
I had long since stopped being self-conscious about my scar, so—curious as to how a child molester would handle it—I gave him an abbreviated version of my story. When I was through, he leered, flashing those terrible teeth again.
“Your Mommy shot you, huh? Oooh, you musta been a bad little girl.”
Somehow I made it to my Jeep without throwing up.
Chapter Six
The sunny streets of Los Perdidos were a relief after Floyd Polk’s dank shack. I pulled into the small parking lot next to the offices of the Cochise County Observer and before going in, tossed the Teddy bear into a litter can near the entrance. I would replace it with a new one, then drop it off at the pediatrics ward with no gift card attached. Damned if I would credit Polk.
The Observer was housed in an ancient adobe. In keeping with Old West style, the porch’s overhang was held up by thick cedar posts, but the THIS IS A NO SMOKING ESTABLISHMENT sign on the front door, with the NO crossed out, added a rakish, contemporary touch.
The newspaper’s receptionist, a bone-thin woman with sagging jowls and an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, motioned for me to sit down on a cheap Naugahide sofa while she finished a phone call. The man on the other end must have been unhappy because she was doing her best to pacify him.
“Look, Max, your editor’s over at that Chamber of Commerce meeting and he
’ll take it up with you as soon as he comes in, but for now, do what you have to do to write the article. No. No. Yes. No. C’mon, what difference does that make? Carolyn doesn’t give a rat’s patootie that you’re scared of heights, so if you want to keep your job, strap yourself into that hang glider and get the story. Just don’t get killed, ‘cause then you’d miss your deadline. Oh, yeah? Same to you, too!” She slammed down the phone, then growled at me, “State your business!”
With a manner so casually rude, she had to be either the publisher’s wife or his mother, so I trod carefully. “I need to see some back issues of the paper. If it’s not too much trouble.”
Behind her, hidden from view by a gray felt partition, a man in the newsroom swore at someone. The victim, a woman, not only returned his curses but added a few of her own. The cussing competition stopped only when a phone rang and the man answered it in a suitably honey-tongued voice.
“Reporters,” the receptionist muttered, glaring at the felt partition over her bifocals. “Mouths like Marines on them, especially the women. Would you believe that one went to Catholic school? Nuns must be different than when I was a kid. What dates did you say you were interested in?”
Jolted from the image of potty-mouthed nuns, I studied my notes. “Two-thousand-one, June 25 through September.” After talking to Selma, I wanted to read those articles again. I had a feeling I’d missed something.
The woman’s glare didn’t soften. Instead, she aimed a battery of questions at me so quickly I didn’t have time to answer. “Then you’re hunting information about that Iraqi girl who disappeared, right? You think she’s linked to Precious Doe, right? Who the hell are you? A reporter from somebody else’s newspaper, a paper whose circulation maybe overlaps ours? If so, get the hell out of this office and go do your own research!”
Properly cowed, I handed over my private investigator I.D. card.
Her abrasive manner underwent an abrupt change. “Ah. In that case, I wish you and the sheriff all the luck in the world ‘cause you’re gonna need it. Children going missing or turning up dead, it doesn’t come any uglier than that. Who’ve you talked to so far? Floyd Polk, I hope?”
I nodded.
“A piece of work, huh? How about Duane Tucker?”
“He’s on my list.”
“Hm.” She sounded noncommital.
On the other side of the partition, the cussing started up again, but without true animosity.
Bernice smiled indulgently. “They’re like children, aren’t they? Now, about those old issues. The morgue at this office only goes back a year. Anything older you have to look up on microfilm at the library. Hang on a minute.”
She picked up the phone again, punched in a number, and told whoever answered that a private detective would be stopping by. “Let her use that room near the administrative offices, the one with the coffee pot. She’s interested in Tujin Rafik.” She stopped, listened. “Yeah, poor kid. Why don’t you pull the film and get her off to a running start? Why, bless your sweet heart!”
Smiling, she hung up. “Library’s next to the Wal-Mart. When you go in, ask for Martha Green. She’s agreed to set you up with everything you need. The coffee’s not bad, but stay away from the baked goods.”
I turned to go, then had a thought. “Is there some group in town called the Nice Neighbors?”
She sputtered a laugh. “I think you mean the Los Perdidos Good Neighbor Society, but yeah, they try to be nice neighbors, kind of a combination Welcome Wagon and Anti-Defamation League rolled into one. They formed right after 9/11, when we had some nasty racial incidents in town. Anything you want to know about them, just ask me, Bernice Broussard, publisher of this fine newspaper.”
She stuck her hand forward to shake mine, her fingers resembling dried-out twigs banded with antique gold rings. “Our receptionist is out sick. Again. Small paper like this, everybody wears several hats. Say, you up for an interview? If my reporter survives his current assignment I can send him over to wherever you’re staying. A pretty thing in your nasty line of work, hoo boy, I bet you have stories to tell. Better say yes, ‘cause we’ll get them anyway, but you’ll like the article more if you cooperate.”
Having known more than a few newspaper types in my life and what they could do to you if you played the No Comment card, I mumbled a grudging yes, but added that it would be better to talk with her reporter, if he survived his hang-gliding assignment, but only after the Precious Doe investigation was resolved.
“I’ll give him an exclusive then,” I promised.
“You’d better,” she warned, but with a smile. “Expect a call from one Max Broussard.”
“Broussard?”
“My son, the baby of the family. Still a bit of a wuss, but I’m working on that.” Her hands twinkled gold as she waved me good-bye.
In the parking lot, I checked my voice mail and saw a message from Jimmy, none from Warren. Angelique “Angel” Grey, the actress who had snagged me a consulting job on her television series, had called three times. Since I was due in L.A. Friday for a Desert Eagle script meeting, I suspected all this phone activity forecasted stormy weather ahead. I liked Angel and respected her acting ability, but dealing with her could be difficult. The fact that she was Warren’s ex-wife and the mother of his twin girls complicated our professional relationship, but in Hollywood, business was seldom strictly business. Still, the fat monthly check I received from Desert Eagle’s production company more than financed all my pro bono work.
Deciding to return the calls in the order of their probable ease, I rang Jimmy first and discovered that MicroSystems had turned down the wife-beater’s job application.
“I found out there had been ongoing petty cash shortages in the PTA group where he served as treasurer, and that’s what did him in,” he said, a bad connection breaking up some of his words. “Not his propensity to beat up women.”
“Like I told you, in the end it always comes down to money. By the way, how was your date the other night?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
“With Lydianna? We had a great time, talked for hours,” he enthused. “She’s as smart as she is pretty. Even owns her own company!”
If Jimmy’s luck ran the way it normally did, Lydianna’s company was either fraudulent or teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. After our last dust-up, though, I knew better than to share my cynicism. “Just take it slow, okay?” It wasn’t unheard of for Jimmy to show up for a fourth date with an engagement ring.
He laughed. “Have no fear, kemo sabe. I’ve learned from my mistakes.”
Knowing that neither of us ever did, I rang off and placed more calls. Warren wasn’t answering, neither was Angel. I left messages for both. On the way to the library, I stopped off at the Wal-Mart and picked up some Teddy bears and, not being a fan of a certain clotheshorse named Barbie, a couple of Dora the Explorer dolls. For good measure I also bought a Tickle Me Elmo, figuring hospitalized kids could use a few laughs.
The Cochise County Library, Geronimo Branch, a sleek but characterless building, not only had a bike rack out front but also a hitching post to which was tied a scruffy pinto. Side-stepping the road apples the pinto had deposited on the cement, I went inside.
The library was relatively small, so it was easy to find Martha Green, a tall, slender woman with short black hair and dark hazel eyes that didn’t miss much.
After I introduced myself, she said, “You’re staying in Selma Mann’s guest cottage, aren’t you?”
Word sure gets around. “Yep. Nice place. Quiet.”
“Better watch it or you’ll gain ten pounds. Selma’s one fierce cook.”
She abandoned the books she was shelving and showed me to a room no larger than a closet, but nevertheless decorated with a large photograph of Geronimo. This time the old warrior sat behind the wheel of a Model T, looking like he was on his way to a business meeting. On the desk below rested a microfilm reader, a printer, a stack of film canisters, a Mr. Coffee, some mugs, and
a dish of irregularly-shaped cookies that nevertheless made my mouth water.
Seeing the direction of my glance, Martha said, “I don’t recommend them. Our head librarian bought that cookbook Daughters of the Desert published last month, and she’s working her way through the pastry section with very mixed results. The coffee’s okay. If you need anything else, just ask.” She paused, and added. “You know, we’re all heartbroken.”
“Over Precious Doe?”
“Of course, the poor lamb. But over Tujin, too.” With that, she closed the door, leaving me alone.
Thanks to the film Martha had preselected, I immediately found what I needed. The first mention of the missing Iraqi girl was tucked in the bottom right corner of the front page of the Monday, June 25, 2001, edition of the Cochise County Observer. Underneath the same, sad-eyed school photograph I had seen earlier, the story read:
GIRL MISSING
Los Perdidos—The parents of Tujin Rafik, a seven-year-old Los Perdidos girl, reported her missing last night when she failed to reach a friend’s house where she was supposed to attend a birthday party.
Her father, Meki Rafik, 46, who works at Apache Chemical Company, said, “This is a safe neighborhood, and Tujin told us she would be fine to walk there. When it grew dark and she was not back, I called the parents. The mother answered and told me Tujin was not expected at the party. I asked to talk to the father, but he said the same. Why would my daughter lie to me about this? I do not understand.”
Tujin’s mother, Ciwangul Rafik, 22, was unavailable for comment.
Sheriff Bill Avery said that if the girl wasn’t found soon, he and his deputies would conduct a house-to-house search. “The father told us that because of her language difficulties Tujin was having trouble in school, so there’s every chance that this is just a runaway. We’ll probably find her at a friend’s house. But don’t worry, we’ll stay on this until the child is reunited with her family.”
Yes, I’d missed a couple of things when Jimmy had shown me the articles back in Scottsdale. For starters, the age of the missing girl’s mother—twenty-two—meant that she had given birth at fifteen. Her husband was more than twice her age.
