As he stood back up, a familiar click from behind jostled him out of his musings. Then a double-barreled shotgun was jammed into his kidney.
“Hands up, mister. Real slow.” She pronounced the o as if she were having an orgasm. Pure Minnesotan.
Czarcik complied. She was big and hardy, capable with a firearm but still clinging to the last vestiges of her country femininity.
“Take it easy,” Czarcik said in his most reassuring voice, the one he used to use on the streets when he had to talk down a dealer with the shakes and a gun. “I’m a police officer from Chicago.”
“And I’m a citizen of the United States of America,” she countered. “And I know my rights. You’re trespassing on private property—so I have the right to shoot you dead.”
She was partially correct, although Czarcik didn’t think he was in a position to educate her on the vagaries of the law, which would undoubtedly be used as precedent were she to make good on her threat and subsequently face trial. Instead, he thought it best to appeal to the less analytical side of her brain.
“You’re right, ma’am, but I came to help you.”
“You got a warrant?”
“I said I’m here to help you, not arrest you.”
She pulled the muzzle back and jabbed him in the rib cage again. “That’s a laugh. Cops coming to help. What’s one all the way from Chicago want with me?”
“May I turn around?” When he didn’t receive another poke, he turned slowly to face her, hands up in a gesture of surrender. She raised the gun and moved it toward his neck, too close for his liking. But he could tell by the tension in her finger that she wasn’t ready to shoot. Looking directly into her eyes, he began speaking in a slow and steady tone, feigning gravitas with every word. The effect was almost hypnotic, as he’d hoped.
Then, in one swift motion, he slapped the barrel to the side, wrapped his fingers around the warm steel, and yanked it from her hands as she cried out in surprise.
In less than a split second, their roles were reversed.
She fell right on her ass and scurried backward until she hit the wall. “If you’re going to kill me, make it quick,” she pleaded, genuinely frightened.
“I told you; I’m a cop.”
She laughed. People like her, who lived in River Run and considered flypaper an acceptable form of pest control, had little faith in the benevolence of the police.
Czarcik placed the stock of the gun on the ground and rested the weapon against his leg. He reached into his pocket for his wallet and showed her his badge. She squinted for what she no doubt considered an appropriate amount of time and nodded officially; for all she knew, it could have been a badge for mall security.
He grasped the double barrel and extended his arm, handing her back the weapon. A peace offering. “Here. Can we talk now?”
She staggered to her feet, took the gun back, and motioned to the couch. There were a million places he would have rather sat—including the edge of a septic tank—but he didn’t want to insult her. They took their places on opposite sides of the couch, and he felt something beneath the cushions crunch under his weight. He didn’t even want to think about what it could be. The bones of dead vermin are brittle.
“I’m looking for Edgar Barnes,” he told her.
“I’m his wife, Mona Travers. He’s given me enough shit; I didn’t want his name too.” Czarcik couldn’t tell if she was trying to be funny. “He in trouble?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Mona shook her head, more annoyed than frightened. Obviously, Edgar and trouble went together like Velveeta and Hamburger Helper.
“Christ, this isn’t about that bitch in a wheelchair again, is it?” she asked, now full of piss and vinegar.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how long are some people going to live in the past for? Edgar paid his dues to society. Too long for just an accident if you ask me. But she sued, like all of them do. We’ve paid her all we can already, so no matter how many of you she sends out to collect, you’re not squeezing another penny out of us.”
His fantasy was brief but powerful—splitting the woman’s head open with the butt of the shotgun. The image disturbed him. Not because of its violence; he was more than at peace with his own basest instincts. But because she had managed to elicit this emotion. He was no stranger to vile individuals so deluded with self-pity they believed themselves the victims of the crimes they committed. This had never made him angry before. If he had allowed himself to care for the real victims—in this case, wheelchair-bound Carlee Ames—his career would have ended long ago.
But then he realized it wasn’t anger he felt. It was envy. Envy of Daniel. Czarcik had read the Reader’s Digest story too, which Daniel had so kindly left in what was now folder number three. Had he been free from societal constraints and ramifications, as Daniel was, he would have killed Ms. Mona Travers on the spot just to restore a sense of cosmic justice to the universe.
Czarcik shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He was getting too close to Hollywood territory. All those stupid movies where the detective begins to empathize with the killer. These films would usually begin with a poorly translated quote from Nietzsche. The one about looking into the abyss. And the abyss looking back.
When he realized he had been silent for too long, he said, “That’s not the issue,” barely remembering what the issue was. “I’m here because we have reason to believe that your husband might be in danger.”
“It’s that ass Cletus,” she blurted out with absolute certainty. A situation like this was in her purview. The fact that a cop might stop by to warn her about her husband’s safety from a man named Cletus didn’t surprise or disturb her. “I told Eddie not to lend him that two hundred. I tell him all the time, he’s got too good a heart. But don’t you think three months is enough time to expect it back?”
Everything about Mona Travers annoyed Czarcik. He was so tired of traveling to places where the perceived theft of the equivalent of one month’s cable bill could lead to murder. He had come to accept this in the city, where you could be killed for anything. But even in the hinterlands, where the faces and the speech were different, it was the same. No one valued life anymore, except their own.
Czarcik had no reason to disabuse her of the notion that his visit had something to do with this Cletus character. “What I’m more interested in, ma’am, is your husband’s schedule. Is he employed by a single company? Does he have a consistent route?”
“Been working for Stampft the past two years. Before that, he did a decade or so with Fulbright. Last few months he’s been running potash from the mines in Hastings all the way across the Rockies and into San Diego.”
“Any idea if he uses the same route each time?”
“The fastest route each time,” she clarified. “Sooner he gets there, sooner he gets back, sooner he can go out again to make a living.”
“I assume he can’t make it on a straight shot?”
“Probably could,” she said defensively, as if he was questioning her husband’s work ethic. “But I don’t let him. Seen too many truckers get highway hypnosis and end up in a gully. He usually picks up his haul around quitting time. Drives a few hours and then gets some shut-eye at a rest stop near Rochester. Sleeps there for a few hours and then, depending on the weather, calls it a night again somewhere around Denver.”
“This truck stop in Rochester. He always stops there?”
“They got the nicest showers. Plus, he’s got some buddies out that way. They play some cards and get a bite to eat at that diner over there.”
Czarcik nodded. “When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Just last night. He was making good time somewhere in Utah.”
“That’s good to hear,” he assured her. As he stood up to leave, his foot slipped on one of the magazines, forcing him to grab the couch to steady himself.
Mona misread his look of dis
gust as one of concern. “My husband . . . you think it’s serious?” she asked, as if contemplating the possibility for the first time. “I always tell him to keep that Buck knife right by his side when he’s on the road.”
Czarcik smiled, imagining what Daniel would do if he got ahold of that Buck knife. “I’d rest easy, ma’am. That Cletus seems like he’s all talk, don’t you think?”
As Czarcik walked out the door, he hoped that Mona Travers would chew on that question for a long time.
EIGHTEEN
Czarcik sat in his car, drawing slowly on a cigarette. Breathing deeply. Feeling the smoke fill his lungs, the nicotine course through his veins.
From the moment he pulled up to Casa de Barnes y Travers, he knew that Daniel would never have killed Edgar in his home. In some ways, that was unfortunate; Mona would have made for lovely collateral damage.
But Daniel was too smart.
River Run was the kind of place where neighbors pretended to keep to themselves but were, in reality, acutely aware of outsiders. A visitor would raise suspicions, and if a cop came around later asking questions, they would remember it. Nor could he have relied on the cover of night. These residents were no nine-to-fivers, whose circadian rhythms were in sync with most of the civilized world. They were just as likely to be found outside at three in the morning as they were to be fast asleep in their prefab homes.
Czarcik tossed his still-lit butt onto the front lawn, confident that the ratio of dirt to grass would prevent an accidental flare-up.
If Minnesota, not Indiana, was Daniel’s third port of call—and Czarcik was still firmly convinced it was—he would have chosen somewhere completely secluded to carry out his business. Or busy enough to ensure anonymity. Like a truck stop. And if Daniel put as much planning into every kill as he did Judge Robertson and the Fernandezes, he would certainly have been aware of Barnes’s regular route and schedule.
Remaining in such close proximity to the house made him feel dirty by association, so Czarcik drove away from River Run and pulled into the nearest gas station, parking off to the side of the main building, where customers left their cars overnight to be serviced.
He lit up a cigar and googled Rochester, Minnesota, truck stops. Although there were numerous options, it was fairly obvious that Mona had been referring to the Walter Mondale Rest Area, whose website looked more appropriate for an amusement park than a place that made 90 percent of its sales from gasoline, beef jerky, and CDs of REO Speedwagon’s greatest hits. The color photos of the amenities made it look like a place you almost wanted to visit.
He was about to dial the main number for the establishment when he realized he had missed a call while interviewing Mona Travers. He looked at the number. A BJE extension: Corrine. He called her right back, and she answered on the first ring.
“What did you find for me?”
“Good morning to you too,” she said.
“Good morning, Corrine. Now what the fuck did you find for me?”
“Well, this couple certainly wasn’t hurting for cash if that’s what you were wondering.”
“Lay it on me.”
“They had about a million liquid. Another million tied up in short-term investments—CDs, annuities, bonds, things like that. Two mil in retirement accounts, growing slowly but steadily. And another two invested in the market. Oh, and five hundred K in company stock for a company called CellCom. Basically, these two are the poster couple for responsible fiscal planning. And filthy fucking rich. Assholes.”
“Can you tell me if Daniel recently withdrew a quarter million dollars in cash?”
“I can, and he did. How’d you know that?”
“Don’t worry about it. Can you tell me from where?”
“Did it in person. The Chase branch on Franklin and Madison. You know, the one right by the river.”
“Thank you, Corrine.”
Czarcik hung up. Even if he didn’t believe Chloe’s entire story, he had never really thought this was about money. Now he was certain it wasn’t.
Back in the car after grabbing a coffee and taking a leak, Czarcik dialed the main number for the Walter Mondale Rest Area.
After explaining who he was, he was put on a brief hold before being transferred to a cordial young man who introduced himself as Riley Coates, vice president of regional operations. Expecting absolutely nothing, Czarcik was floored when Riley replied that his request—the archived video feed from the entrance to the rest stop—would be fairly easy to obtain. This kid could give those dimwits back in Chicago a lesson in efficiency, he thought. After a few more questions, Czarcik thanked the man and promised he’d be in touch.
Next, he placed a call to Chloe Langdon. Before she answered, he felt a flutter in his stomach and dismissed it as acid indigestion.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Chloe, it’s Paul Czarcik.”
She waited a moment before happily exclaiming, “Detective, hello.”
There was no time for pleasantries. “When Daniel left, you don’t have any reason to believe he didn’t use his own car, do you?”
After a few seconds, she said, “Only if he thought someone had discovered who he was. Identified him. And as far as we know, that isn’t the case. I guess it’s possible he could have ditched his car right away and bought another one. I mean, it’s certainly not here or at his office.”
“Then can you give me the make and model? And the license plate too?”
“It’s a midnight-blue Lexus GS 350. And the license plate . . . can you give me a minute?”
Czarcik chewed on the cigar, which had burned itself out about halfway down, as Chloe went to locate the paperwork for her husband’s automobile.
Nothing suspicious about this. In today’s world of smartphones, voice recognition, and single-touch calling, nobody remembered numbers anymore. Still, in missing persons cases, where a loved one vanished, a license plate was a lifeline and would usually be memorized by anyone with a vested interest. As long as that person wanted the missing found.
“Paul?” She startled him, partly because she used his first name instead of “Detective,” which she had favored. He liked the way his name sounded coming from her lips. “It’s DAM, like Delta Alpha . . . Meatballs, and then the numbers three-four-seven.”
“D-A-M three-four-seven,” he repeated back to himself. “OK.”
She gave him some time and then giggled nervously. “I guess you’re not going to fill me in?”
“Honestly, Chloe, there’s not much to say. I reviewed the files you gave me, and I’m trying to ascertain where your husband might go next.”
“And . . .”
“And I’m not sure yet.”
More awkward silence. “But you’ll let me know?”
“I promise.”
The rhythm of their call bothered him. It was too intimate. Too easy. Too unlike the conversations he had with strangers whom he viewed with barely concealed contempt.
“Where are you?” she asked quietly, lending further credence to his thoughts about their interaction.
“Minnesota. But I’ll be home in a day or two.”
“OK, let me know. Safe travels.” Unnerving. And if he was really being honest with himself, everything about Chloe Langdon unnerved him.
He wasn’t sure why. But like the dogged detective he was, he would find out.
And there was an added benefit. He would get to see her again.
A few hours later, Czarcik rolled into the Walter Mondale Rest Area.
After taking another leak and grabbing another black coffee, he found the management office, where he was immediately met by one Riley Coates, who arrived bearing a gift: a terabyte hard drive containing all the footage from the security camera between the dates that Czarcik had given him.
The kid would make a great partner, thought Czarcik, if only he didn’t have such stupid fucking hair. It was bright red and styled—or whatever the opposite of styled was—in a miniature afro. With
his freckles and bad teeth, he reminded Czarcik of Alfred E. Neuman.
“Here it is, Detective,” Riley said, “just like you asked.”
“It’s all on here?” Czarcik was amazed at just how much media could fit on such a small device.
Riley reached out and tapped the drive that Czarcik now held. “Everything. The camera is mounted right by the entrance, angled to get a shot of the license plate of every car that enters, for situations like this, I guess. Although to be honest, nobody has ever requested it before. Least not as long as I’ve been here, which is a good three years.”
Czarcik made sure to appear satisfied. “I don’t owe you anything for the trouble?”
“For the trouble, no. The only thing that cost anything was the drive, and I cleared that with corporate. Said they were more than happy to help out in an investigation.” Riley paused for a moment. “You know, one of the things we have to overcome here is people’s preconceived notions of truck stops. Lot of people think we’re just gas pumps and restrooms, maybe some maps back in the day, but we actually provide a lot more services—”
Czarcik touched his imaginary hat and pointed to the kid—a gesture of gratitude—and began to walk back to his car.
“Hey!” Riley called out to him. “Any way you can tell me what this is all about? We just don’t get much excitement around here.”
Czarcik considered his request. After all, the kid had gone out of his way to help. Then images of that horrible Mad magazine mascot filled his head.
“No,” he said, and continued to his car.
The holy trinity of nicotine, caffeine, and cocaine allowed Czarcik to make excellent time on his trip back to Chicago. The only traffic he hit was just outside Milwaukee. A Brewers game had just let out, and ten thousand drunken fans were attempting to inch their way onto the highway. It was too late to take the bypass, so Czarcik found himself packed in with the other vehicles, stopping and starting, lurching forward by the inch, trying to find a break in the traffic to jump lanes.
Rain Will Come Page 15
