by David Putnam
“Sure, come on back later and the first one’s on me.” Meantime, my hands had been working all on their own mixing a Cosmo, her favorite drink. I set it in front of her. I wanted to blurt out, to ask her—no, to beg her—to tell me why she was there. I had to know if my life, as I knew it, was over. She slid up onto the stool, took the drink, and sipped. “What an absolutely beautiful view. This is a hell of a place to work, Bruno. You did good.”
My mind clicked in on the obvious reason for her appearance. Wally Kim. What a dumbass for not thinking of it outright. She was there for Wally Kim. I had promised John Mack I would give Wally back. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. Of the eight children I had saved from abusive homes, Wally Kim had a good father, one I hadn’t known existed when I’d liberated Wally. Through the South Korean embassy, I’d set up a meeting to give Wally back. The meeting was scheduled for tomorrow. The embassy called early in the morning after Marie had gone to work, and I hadn’t told her yet. I could have called her at work, but she was going to be upset. I wanted to tell her in person, hold her in my arms and whisper it in her ear, be there to comfort her.
All the kids we took were doing great, flourishing in their new healthy environment, one that none of them had ever had. I regretted that we had not had the time to prepare Wally or the other children emotionally for Wally’s departure.
That was how Barbara had found me. Somebody from the embassy must have called her, told her where I was hiding out. Maybe that was why she was sitting at the bar sipping a Cosmo. Maybe the cops had already raided our bungalow, seized all eight children, which included my grandson Alonzo. Marie, the love of my life, and my father may now be in custody, pending extradition.
All because of me.
My heart sank. Of course, this was the only logical conclusion. We’d had a good run. Why had we thought we could get away with it in the first place?
Barbara set her drink on the bar and looked back down the beach. “That guy who just walked away, the dried-up old fart who looked like an old kicked-around walnut, that was Melvin Milky, you know. He made me as a cop.”
I took up a white towel and wiped down the bar. “Don’t know who you’re talking about. Didn’t see him.”
She nodded as if she believed me. She pulled out a slim cell, from where I couldn’t guess, and texted while she talked. “I am absolutely sure that was old Melvin.” She finished her text and took up her drink. Had she just made up the name Melvin Milky for Jake Donaldson, and was using it as an excuse to text her backup to swarm in?
“Okay,” I said, “come on, tell me. I can’t stand it anymore. Why are you here?”
She sipped her drink, her expression unreadable.
“Barbara?”
She smiled, set the glass down. “I think you know why.” She nodded behind me.
My stomach dropped the same as if I’d been in a high-speed elevator falling a hundred floors. The police were waiting out there, I knew it, could feel it. She must’ve been nodding toward her backup. I thought of Marie and the kids and Dad.
I got mad. “I didn’t think you, of all people, would come this far to stab me in the back like this.”
She chuckled. “Bruno, what the hell are you talking about?”
I didn’t like being the fool. I spun around. No storm-trooper cops were creeping up. A few tan and lobster-red tourists milled about the pool, drinking and talking. The place was quiet. I looked up at the television. The station was replaying the interview with Montclair Chief of Police Barbara Wicks, on a continuous loop like the press does with sensational incidents.
I spun back to face her, pointed up, over my shoulder. “The kidnapped kids? Those kids? Barbara, I don’t have those kids. You’ve made a long trip for nothing.”
Her smile fled, shifted to stone-cold. “Now what are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”
She leaned over the bar, reached out, placed her hand on my arm, and said, “I need you to come back and chase down the guy who’s taken these two little girls.”
CHAPTER SIX
Barbara didn’t know about my kids. She didn’t know about Wally Kim. Could it be that her sole purpose in traveling all those thousands of miles down to Costa Rica was to ask me to…no, no way in hell. That didn’t compute, not at all.
“I can’t step a foot back in the States. You know that.”
She took a sip and stared at me, said, “You know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
“Why me? And don’t try that old saw that it’s because I’m the best at this kind of thing. I won’t buy—”
She waved her hand, “No, that would be ridiculous and you know it.”
“Oh, thanks for that, Barbara.”
She laughed, “You know what I mean.”
I waited until her laughter died. “Tell me.” I didn’t want to know, not really. This had to be some link back to my old life, and it wouldn’t be good. None of my old life had been good. That wasn’t true, I had met Marie in my past life, and she was the best thing that ever happened to me, bar none.
Barbara again lost her smile, “You’re my only chance, and you know me, I wouldn’t be here, hat in hand, asking, if there was any other way. I wouldn’t ask you to hang yourself out like that.”
This time I was the one who couldn’t speak, and only nodded.
Her cell buzzed on the bar. She left it, not caring if I saw it, displaying a little trust. I couldn’t read the text upside down and didn’t want to. She said, “It’s about your boy Milky.” She nodded over her shoulder in the direction Jake Donaldson had walked off. She pushed another button and a photo came up on her cell screen. I didn’t need to turn it right side up to recognize Jake. She picked up her phone, moved it closer for me to see. “That him? That the guy who just walked off?”
“Nope, close, but it’s not the same guy.” Of course it was, but I wasn’t going to rat.
She looked surprised, “Maybe you’re not the right guy for this job. Maybe I’m wrong. The Bruno Johnson I used to know has changed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Used to be, no matter what, with you, a crook was a crook was a crook. Robby said you were a bulldog when it came to ‘fighting the tyrannical oppression of the underprivileged.’”
The name “Robby” coming from her lips caused me to cringe. With it came a stab of grief and sorrow. At one time, Robby had been a good friend. “Maybe,” I said, “but that was then, this is now. Times change. You change with them, or get eaten up.” My own words came out cold, desolate. But I was alive, and Robby was the one taking the cold dirt nap.
“All right, all right,” she said. “Let me tell you a story and, if you still feel the same, I’ll let you tell me whether or not I should drop the hammer on your friend Milky.”
“That’s okay, this hypothetical Milky, he told me all about it, and it sounds like what happened might’ve been a terrible accident.”
I didn’t really think that. By his own words, Jake, aka Milky, had swung his front door open with the intent to fire, with the intent to kill. That was murder no matter who stood there, friend or foe. But were there extenuating circumstances that mitigated his actions? Years ago, in my book, before I went to prison for gunning down my son-in-law, there had been no such thing. You did the crime, you went down for it, hard or easy, your choice.
Barbara began, “Milky used to live in Fresno. He killed a black guy on the sidewalk out in front of his house. It started with a stupid argument that turned to racial slurs. Milky pulled this huge hogleg from his waistband and, without provocation, shot him dead because he was black.”
Any empathy I might have had for Jake was gone. Barbara had no reason to make up this story. Jake had now morphed into the kind of animal I had chased while on the Violent Crimes Team.
Barbara continued, “According to the report, Milky had the gun under his jacket, out on the sidewalk. He shouldn’t have had the gun out there in the first place, which pro
ves intent. Milky claimed that the victim came at him with a knife. Milky fled the scene and, by the time the deputies arrived, there was no knife. There were no witnesses. The Sheriff’s Department handled the incident and could not get the DA to file. And here’s a little bit of ugly irony for you. The sheriff screwed up and released the gun back to Milky. Maybe they had to, but I wouldn’t have. Milky left Fresno because it got a little too hot. Too many people wanted a piece of him. When he happened to settle in our little town of Montclair, I was working homicide and caught the case. He blew this guy right off his own porch. Point blank, right in the heart. He thought it was his Hispanic neighbor. Again, no witnesses. Again, no other motive than prejudice. He ran like most all of those cracker assholes do. And, until right now, we had no idea where he’d landed. We issued a warrant and we’ve been looking for him ever since.
“Oh, and the slug, went right through Fredrick Landsberg, the victim. We dug it out of a kid’s playhouse across the street. It matched. Milky used the same gun, the .44 Mag that he used to kill that sixteen-year-old kid in Fresno.”
A sixteen-year-old? To make matters worse, Jake had gunned down a sixteen-year-old kid!
Barbara cocked her head a little like she always did when trying to decipher a problem, trying to decide to say something further. “Be careful. I saw Milky when he left, what he did with his hand.” She mimicked Jake Donaldson and made a gun with her index finger, her thumb as a hammer.
I asked, “Wasn’t this Fredrick Landsberg his best friend?”
She scoffed. “Landsberg’s wife told me that her husband met Milky that same day at a filling station, and Milky paid him forty bucks to help him protect his property against the influx of, ‘the Mechican scourge.’ And she said it just like that too.”
I was stunned. How had I totally misread Jake? I didn’t know what to say. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll lay low for a while and then take off. He’ll go to Panama or Cuba.” I didn’t say the words with enough conviction to convince even myself.
She continued, “We never recovered that gun. The psych profile report believes that he’s probably devolved mentally, and in some sort of freaky way, worships that gun. Bruno, he looked right at me tonight. He knows me from Montclair. I was the patrol sergeant working overtime the day of the shooting. I’d been the one to respond out to his house earlier that same day to mediate a neighborhood disturbance. And, get this, it was over some bathtub cheese. So watch yourself, the way this went down, me walking up, he might think you ratted him out.”
“Perfect.”
She said, “I’ll notify the FBI and tell them he’s down here, but there’s not much they can do if he’s wanted for murder. Costa Rica won’t approve the extradition if there’s a possibility of the death penalty.”
I said, “Forget Milky, answer a simple question about this other thing, about these two kidnapped kids. Why me?”
She took another sip as she probed my eyes. This close examination made me uncomfortable. She finally smiled and reached with her hand to touch me again. I stepped back.
“Okay,” she said, “for several reasons.” She raised a finger to tick them off. “One. I know it’s trite, but it’s true, you are the best at what you do. Robby said you were the best he’d ever seen at tracking down assholes. And with that man’s ego, you have to know how difficult it was for him to say.”
I wished she wouldn’t keep saying his name.
“Two. Because I know who’s involved.”
“If that’s the case, put a team together and follow the suspect. Pick him up in the morning and put him to bed every night. He’ll trip himself up.”
“We can’t find him, and you know how important time is in a kidnapping.”
“Listen, I know you have people who are good at turning over rocks. The news reports said you have a joint task force with Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. Get John Mack. He’s good.” I’d said John’s name to see if she’d react. He was the only one who knew where Marie, my dad, and the kids had landed in Costa Rica. While I spoke, I started having a bad feeling about where she was leading me.
She was good, didn’t even twitch. John Mack had been the one to tell her where I lived. Had to be. But I had trusted him with my life or I wouldn’t have told him. He had to have a good reason for telling her.
John Mack had the skills; he would have no problem tracking down this suspect, but he still had a job and a career to consider, where I didn’t. If John found the suspect and the suspect didn’t want to talk, John wouldn’t put the guy’s nuts in a vise like I would and twist until he gave up the kids’ location.
“You want someone off the grid to come in and black bag this guy, that’s it, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer, just stared.
“No?” I shook my head and looked into her eyes, trying to glean the answer she found so difficult to utter. “It’s something else, isn’t it? It’s because of who it is, right?”
She nodded.
“Who is it? Tell me.”
“He left a note, Bruno, said he’d only deal with you. He wrote your name in the note, Deputy Bruno Johnson. I have the note. Only my department knows.”
“Me? Why me?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t answer because I’d asked the wrong question.
I said, “Who?”
“Bruno, it’s Jonas Mabry. Not the father, Micah—the kid. Jonas.”
My head swam and my knees went weak. I grabbed the bar for support.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In an instant, I was transported back to that day the house bled and relived the incident, complete with all the regrets. The water. The blood. The two dead girls. The race to the hospital with Jonas Mabry.
I snapped out of the memory and returned to reality. My current life was still running full tilt. I was in Costa Rica tending bar in a cabana on the beach with Barbara Wicks sitting all alone, her Cosmo glass empty. She must’ve recognized my need to zone out, to relive that horrible event, and didn’t shake me out of it. Why would she? The memory only served to further her cause.
Sweat beaded on my forehead and rolled down into my eyes. My voice croaked. “Micah Mabry, the old man?” I swiped at the salt burning my eyes.
“No, Bruno, you heard me. I said Jonas Mabry.”
I had heard, but my mind, for protective reasons, had blocked it out. His name in this context made me sick to my stomach, reminded me of failure, one strongly attached to a heavy dose of guilt.
Jonas was the small child I’d held in my arms as I rolled code three to St. Francis. He’d survived, only to be shoved into the foster care system. His father had had a nervous breakdown over grief and guilt. The last I’d heard, the father, Micah Mabry, had not responded to treatment. I couldn’t blame him. Under the same circumstances, I’m not sure I would have been any different.
“Why me? What does he want with me?”
“He said in the note that he wants to pay you back for what you did. Are you going to go, Bruno?”
“Pay me back? That doesn’t make any sense, not when he kidnaps kids to get my attention.”
“Bruno?” I had waited too long to give Barbara Wicks my answer. She said, “If for nothing else, you do owe me.”
She didn’t need to throw that one out there. I had all but decided to go. How could I not go, given the circumstances? I had saved Jonas Mabry, only for him to be ruined by the social welfare system. I had known better. Why had I not adopted him myself? The opportunity had been ripe for adoption. I went to see him in the hospital, housed in intensive care for three weeks, not expected to live. After they moved him to a regular room, his father still had not come to see him. I brought him books and read to him. He didn’t say a word for several weeks. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to see your own mother standing over you with a gun. The hospital discharged him, and social services placed him in a good home. I saw to that, vetted the folks myself. He didn’t want to go with them; he wanted to stay with me. Then I
was transferred to the Violent Crimes Team and my schedule turned hectic, all but impossible. The job became my life and we lost touch. Regrets. Twenty years ago I was a different person, still too selfish and self-centered. I wanted my career and didn’t want to be burdened with a second child. I was already caring for a young daughter.
Jonas would be twenty-six now.
I asked, “What did the note say?”
She took out a crumpled-up piece of paper that had been in her pocket the entire flight down. She smoothed the note on the bar. I didn’t want to look, words a magic carpet to the past, someplace I didn’t want to ever revisit. But I had only moments ago. The letter printed in all capitals, crooked, written with a shaky hand: “TWO DOWN, ONE TO GO. I’LL ONLY SPEAK TO DEPUTY BRUNO JOHNSON. GET HIM. DEPUTY BRUNO JOHNSON OWES ME A GREAT DEBT THAT NEEDS TO BE SETTLED.”
I couldn’t believe this note came from the child I knew. Now he’s a psychotic. “So there’s going to be a third?”
“Yes.”
“And you think I’ll have some emotional connection with Jonas, and will be able to get through to him, and get him to tell me where he’s stashed the kids, is that it?”
“Yes.” But she looked away.
“And?”
She didn’t answer, which meant, worst case, I’d run Jonas down, ask him nicely and, if that didn’t work, ask him the hard way. I did have an emotional link to Jonas and, under normal circumstances, I would not be able to interrogate him in the manner she thought I could. But if he had taken two small girls—just the thought made my blood turn hot with anger. Of course I would go. How could I not?
I would have to explain my departure to Marie. I’d met Marie the night almost three years ago when Robby Wicks took me into custody for the killing of my son-in-law, who’d abused my grandson to death. I did two years and got out on parole. That’s when Marie and I started our relationship full of romance and love and caring and respect. Now I had to tell her I had to go back. No way did I want to hurt her like this.
