by Alan Lee
My dog whined at the window from inside. Her muzzle rested on the sill, her breath making fog on the glass. She wanted to join her pack, but it was too cold. Right? Dogs get cold, right?
Should I buy her a jacket? Did dogs wear those? Who knew this complicated stuff.
A minute passed.
I said, “I know you’re a marshal. And I know you’re more than a marshal, you and Beck. The unspoken profession of yours. You’d tell me about it if I asked.”
He made a grunt.
“You won’t ask. You have the white man’s honor, señor.”
“I got this feeling, though, you’re pulling strings within that other profession.”
“Por supuesto. Of course I am,” he said.
“Don’t get yourself fired. We’ll figure it out.”
“You think Ronnie isn’t worth getting fired over?”
I grinned. A lugubrious grin, befitting the gloomy circumstance.
“You don’t enjoy the benefits I do.”
“I don’t live for my job. No, amigo. Losing it would change nothing. Besides, I’m…what’s the phrase…I’m playing with house money. I got credit, they owe me. I earned the strings, so now I pull them. Easiest decision of my life.”
“Gracias, amigo,” I said. “I owe you.”
“No. You’re the reason I’m alive.”
“Call it even.”
“Maybe in a few days.” He stood. “Early morning, so I’m going to bed now.”
“On my bedroom floor.”
“I need to sleep well tonight, don’t I.”
“You and Kix, a pair of babies.”
He clapped my shoulder. “Ronnie’s alive, Mack. Darren isn’t stupid enough to hurt her much.”
I nodded. Throat tight.
“We’ll get her back before you deliver his ex-wife,” he said.
“Because once I do, Ronnie will no longer be useful to him.”
“He’ll kill her.”
“That’s what I think too,” I said.
“So we’ll be careful. We’ll do it the right way.”
“Yeah. We will.”
Sunday Morning
Manny
Manny and Beck could have taken her Accord. They could have borrowed a car from the marshal’s office. Or an automated Tesla belonging to JFIC, the shadowy governmental agency periodically calling for their services.
Instead, they howled up Interstate 81 in Manny’s turbocharged Camaro, all 650 horsepower growling for freedom and the American way. Beck couldn’t admit it to him but Manny’s car acted as a safe space for her, triggering serenity. The interior smelled like coffee and good cologne. He kept it pristine, never a fast-food wrapper to be found. One cupholder contained lotion and hand sanitizer and breath mints, and she’d never seen it otherwise. The seats were dark leather and soft and polished. He didn’t allow pebbles or dirt on his floorboard. Rat Pack Jazz or economic podcasts unswervingly played through his speakers, though he made it clear she could change it; she wouldn’t dream of doing so. Nothing rattled or shifted through sharp corners—even the emergency duffle bags in the little back seat were buckled in. When they stopped for gas she knew he’d purchase her a water bottle, unasked, because he always did.
She was his guest, to be kept comfortable, and, like everything else about him, his hospitality was top shelf.
Beck directed Manny off Interstate 66 and over the Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge. A misguided police cruiser attempted to stop the Camaro, until the result of a plate scan waved it away.
Rocky Rickard had recently moved to Georgetown, a brick rowhouse. Manny knew prestige when he saw it. N Street had money—money—and Rocky presided over it from the coveted corner lot. Manny downshifted and parked by the wrought iron fence.
The fence had a gold placard.
“The Harold Hooper House, built in 1830,” read Manny. “The hell is Harold Hooper? All these houses have names?”
He and Beck got out into the chilly Sunday morning air. The light coming through airy clouds was blue.
“Many of the townhouses have historic names and owners, yes. Rocky paid three million for it,” she said. “His townhouse is partially detached and filled with sunlight.”
“Focus, Beck.”
“I thought you’d like to know. John F. Kennedy lived in that house, right there.”
At that, Manny regarded the tony street with greater appreciation, fastening the top button of his ivory sports jacket.
“Did he? I’m an admirer of JFK. That hombre knew the value of a statement watch and tortoiseshell glasses. He’s the reason men like me get to wear boat shoes and light slacks with a dark jacket.”
Beck gave an eye roll. “Only you would admire him for that.”
“Only I care enough, señorita.”
Beck sent a text and they approached the front door.
“Don’t knock. I sent him a message. Just wait.”
Manny did, adjusting the .357 under his shoulder. It was too bulky, but he kept it slung low. He smiled into the security camera beside the door.
The speaker blurted.
“Good morning, Noelle. What a pleasure to find you on my doorstep on what would otherwise be a dreary Sunday morning. And you brought your pet.”
“Pet?” said Manny. “Pet with a .357 making holes in your door soon.”
“One moment, please, Mr. Sinatra.”
A housekeeper opened the door. She led them into a breakfast area off the kitchen—the oversized gourmet kitchen with gleaming white marble counters and hardwood floors—and served them coffee.
Rocky greeted them soon. A handsome man with great teeth and dark curly hair peppered with gray. He wore suede loafers, velvet lounge pants, and a gray pin-dot Hanro robe. Looked a little like George Clooney, a fact Manny found unutterable. Rocky sat next to Beck and accepted a cup of coffee.
“You look like money. How do people do that?” asked Manny.
“It’s not money, Mr. Sinatra. It’s arrogance, dermaplaning, minoxidil, and five hundred dollars a month worth of facial lotion.” He tilted his head toward Beck and she rewarded him with an approving smile. “Good morning, Noelle.”
“I apologize for interrupting your morning, Rocky. I wouldn’t if it wasn’t necessary.”
“You are never an interruption.”
“You had to sneak a woman out the back, I bet,” said Manny. He refused to admit the coffee was the best he’d ever had.
“As I explained to Noelle, Mr. Sinatra, I have always been a one-woman kind of man. At the moment, my sights are set on one who’s reluctant.”
“Never fall for a Mormon, Rickard. Everyone knows that.”
Rocky smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you, Rosa. We’ll speak privately.”
Rosa departed for the upper floors.
“I wish this was a recreational call, Noelle, but I intuit otherwise,” he said.
Manny set his coffee down.
“We’re here, Rocky, but also we are not here. This is a personal thing.”
“You’re not here as representatives of the federal government?” he said.
“No.”
“In that case, shall we indulge in heroin?”
“Yes,” said Beck. “Please.”
“Ay! Dios mio, Beck.”
“Only a joke, Mr. Sinatra. I do not indulge in or possess narcotics. Or should I call you Señor Martinez?”
Manny stood. “You have more coffee?”
“Certainly, in the french press. The beans are fresh from Hawaii. Help yourself. Do you take cream or sugar?”
“I look like a communist to you?” Manny poured himself more coffee, black, and returned.
“More like a vaquero. What brings you two?”
“I asked Beck for the favor and she agreed. I think you and me need to swap information.”
“We do?” said Rocky. “I am honored.”
“You know who I live with?”
“Mackenzie August, the private detective who won the tournament
in Naples, perpetual agitator of our enterprises, and your good friend.”
“Darren Robbins just kidnapped his wife.”
Rocky didn’t fake surprise—the shock was genuine and subtle, around the corners of his eyes, and he set his coffee down. He leaned back in his chair. Absently he picked up Beck’s hand.
“Veronica Summers, you mean.”
“Sí. That’s her.”
“Darren’s fiancée. His ex-fiancée. I had the pleasure of meeting her.” Rocky squeezed Beck’s fingers. “At a dinner with friends.”
“You knew Darren faked his death?” said Manny.
He gave Manny a long inspection. Running through some unflinching calculations. A lot went on behind those eyes that Manny wasn’t welcome to, and he knew it.
Finally. “You’ve been a trustworthy ally in the past, Mr. Sinatra, despite being shown certain secrets. I assume our gentlemen’s agreement still holds.”
“You have Beck’s word.”
“Yes, we knew Darren faked his death. He was becoming unstable, so his responsibilities were removed. He protested. Options were presented to him. He chose wisely and departed under conditions favorable to all parties involved.”
“The options didn’t involve kidnapping Ronnie Summers,” said Manny.
“They did not. Is he holding her for ransom?”
“Says he’ll release her once Mackenzie finds his ex-wife, who disappeared into the witness security program years ago.”
“Good hell,” grumbled Rocky. “What a clown. I argued he be terminated.”
“He’s got a shooter named Hal New, and a Hispanic giant for protection. Know either?”
“Hal New. Hal New,” Rocky said to himself. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Tell me more about the Latino.”
“Name’s Mario. He has two MS-13 tattoos.”
“MS-13.” Rocky’s eyebrows raised.
“Darren was being forced to relocate, I assume,” said Beck. “Where to, do you know?”
“I don’t. I’m more of a consultant.” He patted her hand and stood. Put his hands into the pockets of his robe and looked out the side window at his small garden, dormant in winter. “Do you know where Darren is now?”
“The Appalachian Palace.”
Rocky nodded. “Wise. He’s safe from Mackenzie there. And safe from us. I want you to talk to someone.”
“Who?”
“Someone who needs to know. Someone with a vested interested. The District Kings do not have an official leader, but if they did…”
Manny did a grim chuckle.
“Leader of the Kings might not want to meet with me.”
“Normally maybe not. But Mario the giant Hispanic is intriguing. I’ll arrange the meeting. It should happen today or tomorrow. Darren, I think, is making a deal with the devil.”
Sunday Afternoon
Mackenzie
“A taxpayer in my city is abducted and you want me to do nothing.” Sheriff Stackhouse paced my floor, hands on her utility belt. She wore official work khakis. Not the best Sunday morning garb. On most people.
“Not until I ask. Which I might not.”
“Bullshit.”
“The situation,” I said, “is dynamic and volatile. Best handled by persons unencumbered with rules.”
“I could have that fortress on the mountain surrounded in under two hours, babe.”
“The fortress has been stormed before and it didn’t work. I desire maneuverability, at the moment, not manpower. It’s Darren’s schadenfreude that kept me up last night. We surround the Palace, he’ll send me a video of her dying. Then he’ll kill himself.”
Maybe. Darren might not have the heart for suicide.
She made a sigh and rubbed her eyes. I thought the sigh unnecessarily histrionic but I couldn’t muster the energy to berate her. She said, “I’m really fond of Ronnie.”
“Me too.”
“If she dies, Mack, and I’ve done nothing? I’ll never sleep again, I swear to God.”
Kix sat in his high chair. He set down his spoon.
I’m not allowed to swear to God. I request you don’t either. Also, more juice please.
Jamie Patton trotted down the rear staircase. He was FBI, unofficially called from home on a Sunday morning by the sheriff. He’d helped me before—mid-thirties, trim, thinning brown hair. Friendly face, Glock on his belt. I got the impression he was good at his job, but not aspirational. Willing to help, but not willing to die climbing any Bureau ladder.
He carefully circumvented the main level again with what was essentially a thousand-dollar FM radio, scanning all frequencies. He wore a visor, checking for infrared cameras.
He finished at the table. Slipped off the visor.
“No microphones detected. No cameras. WiFi isn’t hacked. And…” He picked my phone off the table and disconnected a device. Checked the screen. “…your phone’s clean. My unofficial diagnosis is, no one’s monitoring you.”
Timothy August, standing quietly in the kitchen, released some tension from his shoulders.
Jamie finished, “Also, I cannot imagine how you keep your bedroom so clean. Even the closet.”
“You believe this?” said Stackhouse. “His wife’s kidnapped and he’s asking the sheriff and FBI agent to stay out of it. I could shoot someone, I’m so mad.”
Special Agent Jamie Patton gave Stackhouse a flat look.
“I’m here on a routine inspection. If I knew anything about a kidnapping, and I don’t, it wouldn’t involve the Bureau until the suspects or victim cross a state line. But…I know nothing about a kidnapping. And I suggest you don’t either, until he asks.”
“Got’damn it, Patton.”
“Before you go,” I said. “A hypothetical question.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Let’s say you wanted to find someone. Potentially in Roanoke, or maybe not. She changed her name and you don’t know the new one. You don’t know what she looks like. No social, no fingerprints, no tax ID, no license plate. Could you find her?”
“She doesn’t want to be found?” he said.
“No.”
“Do you have a motive? Is she hiding from someone in particular?”
“I’m positive of nothing,” I said.
“Unless she makes a mistake, I couldn’t find her. And even if I did, I wouldn’t know it. That’s looking for a needle in a stack of needles. You need proof positive. DNA, a photo, a social, a name, something.”
“That’s my conclusion too,” I said.
And mine, said Kix helpfully. Also, juice? Yes?
“Hypothetically when do you start looking?”
I said, “Later today. And I’ll find her.”
I hadn’t told him everything. I knew she had a son, and I knew approximately when she’d arrived. Plus I’d get a photo from Darren.
“Hypothetically, this missing person is not the person who was abducted? But the missing person is somehow related to the abduction? The abduction I don’t know about?” he said.
“The missing person is related to the abduction. You might say, there are two missing persons.”
He shook my hand. Squeezed extra hard, which was the best way to convey solidarity or condolences. “You’re in a mess, Mackenzie.”
“Somewhat self-inflicted.”
“I will help the minute you ask. You have my number.”
“I do.”
“I wasn’t here,” he said.
“Never.”
He left through the back, pausing to pet an anxious Georgina Princess.
The sheriff was still glaring. At me. At Timothy. At everything.
“Gonna tell me what that word means?”
“Means I caused it. I wounded myself,” I said.
“No. Not self-inflicted, you ass. You said it a minute ago. Shaken feud.”
“Schadenfreude.”
“That’s it,” she said.
“Open a dictionary. It’ll be good for you.”
“It’s another word for dick
, isn’t it.”
“It is not.”
Language! You’re adults, for heaven’s sake!
Stackhouse took a deep breath. Frustration, though unfathomable, was apparent. A lesser man would’ve admired the stretch of her uniform.
“Mackenzie…”
“I’ve been told I become even more witty in times of duress,” I said. “At the moment, I’m under some.”
“I’m trying to bear that in mind because you’re acting like a schadenfreude,” she said.
“Maybe you better not try.”
“What happens now?” said Timothy.
“I do research,” I said, “and wait for Darren to contact me. We meet tomorrow morning.”
“How can your father help? And his favorite girlfriend?”
“Watch Kix. And the dog.”
“I want to do more,” she said. “I need to.”
In that case, said Kix, get me JUICE!
“He’s under some duress too. He misses Ronnie,” I said, patting my furious son.
I took Georgina Princess to my office downtown to get my laptop. While there, I checked the mail and left phone messages at Brad Thompson Law and with another personal client, explaining I’d be out of commission for a week.
Before leaving, I opened the drawer and removed my bottle of Johnny Walker blue, still half full. With a thunk I set it on top of the desk.
There it would remain until Ronnie was found. Only then did I deserve celebratory indulgence. I clicked off the light and locked the door.
We returned home to begin research.
The first envelope Darren had received from his son was postmarked from the Roanoke office. But that office served all the local municipalities and counties. The letter could’ve been dropped into a mailbox in Roanoke, or Botetourt, or Floyd, or Franklin County, or Craig County, or Blacksburg, or a bunch of other places.
The second envelope was stamped Greensboro, North Carolina. However! I discovered through a brilliant and intrepid Google search, Roanoke’s post office has closed and consolidated with Greensboro. Starting a few years ago, all Roanoke’s mail had the Greensboro stamp.
