by Alan Lee
Georgina Princess August watched us traipse by every minute from her dog bed in my room. Her eyebrows perked in concern, but not enough concern to rouse her further.
Timothy, in bed with the latest Malcolm Gladwell book, glanced over his reading glasses as we made our way through the hall again.
“Negotiating with terrorists, I see.”
“Merely acquiescing to the wishes of a tyrant. And getting in some cardio.”
“I don’t recall your mother and I doing this, when you were a baby. I believe we closed the door and let you cry,” said Timothy August, doting father.
“That was back when parents were allowed to parent. Now we’re sensitive and terrified of judgment on social media.”
“Ah.”
“I should probably be reciting literature from the ACLU as we walk,” I said.
He did a shudder. “No. I’m liberal and not even I want to hear that.”
Manny called me on the next circuit. I answered.
“Hola, amigo grande.”
“Grande? Who do you think this is?” he said.
“A cop. You guys always eat donuts.”
“I haven’t had a doughnut in a decade. I’ll send you a photo of my abs right now, amigo loco,” he said.
“How went the meeting with the kingpin?”
“Get this. He’s a woman.”
“Good for her, shattering the criminal glass ceiling,” I said.
“I am but a humble Latino trying to wrap my head around the brave new world,” said Manny. “I think villains should always be hombres.”
“You sexist.”
“I just really like señoritas.”
“El Gato was a woman. Is a woman.” I was referring to a woman from his past. “And she’s a criminal mastermind.”
“But she shouldn’t be.”
“Got it.” I made the turn and started up the stairs again. “What’d you learn?”
“Darren was kicked out of the mafioso and told to relocate to an island in the Philippines, otherwise he’d be killed. He broke the contract and so he’s gotta die, especially because the Kings got a long running feud with MS-13.”
“They know Mario?”
“They think so. There’s a big Mario working with the 18th Street gang. Darren working with him is bad news for the Kings. Means betrayal. If we figure out what he’s doing, the nice criminal lady will buy out Hal New’s contract,” said Manny.
“Saving our lives. Or at least saving us a shootout.”
“Nice of her, sí? We’ll investigate more thoroughly up here. Discern if Darren is planning revenge,” said Manny.
“Great.”
“Discern.”
“I heard.”
“You might need to look that one up.”
“Even Kix knows what discern means,” I said.
I wish you two would hush, said Kix. You are interfering with my caterwauling.
“Is that him? What’s he mad about?”
“Your poor diction,” I said.
“My diction is anything but poor, amigo. What’s your plan?”
“I went to eleven elementary schools this afternoon, with the photos Darren gave me. No one recognizes them thus far. Eleven down, a trillion left.”
“Tell me what Ronnie said this morning, por favor.”
“Not much, only a few words. I don’t know where she is, but she let me know she boarded a small plane for a short trip.”
“Small plane,” mused Manny.
“En español, es avioneta.”
“Gracias. But I speak English fine.”
“Knowing she flew in a small plane doesn’t help me much, though. There are lots of small planes and lots of places from where they can take off.” I stopped at a mirror and glanced at my passenger. Kix's head lolled forward on my shoulder and his arms hung limp. He was fading fast, God be praised.
“It might help. This may surprise you, Mack, but once upon a time me and Beck also took a small plane from the Appalachian Palace.”
“Did you.”
“I am a handsome Hispanic full of surprises and insight. There’s a little airport near the Palace. Called…I don’t know…un momento…” Manny set the phone down and conferred with someone, probably Noelle Beck. He returned and said, “Called Lonesome Pine, the airport. Ronnie got on a small plane near the Palace? I bet she flew out from Lonesome Pine.”
“Lonesome Pine,” I said.
Brilliant detectives always repeat stuff.
“That doesn’t mean the airport knows where Ronnie’s plane went, though,” he said.
“Flight plans aren’t something airports track?”
“Private planes fly from non-towered airports to non-towered airports all the time, and no one tracks them. They don’t communicate with Air Traffic Control and they don’t turn on the…what’s the word, Beck?…transponder. Simple way for criminales to move drugs and people.”
“The heck you say. I didn’t realize the friendly blue skies were the Wild West.”
“The airport might know where she flew but I doubt it,” said Manny.
“Tomorrow, after banging on the door of a hundred elementary schools, I’ll visit Lonesome Pine. Someone will remember, even if nothing was recorded.” I was in Kix’s room now, bouncing slightly, wondering how to get the monster off my back and into his crib without waking him.
“Ay caramba, señor. You are good at this.”
“I better be.”
Tuesday Morning
Mackenzie
Tuesday was cold. I hoped it was warm wherever Ronnie was. She disliked the cold.
I parked my Honda Accord spaceship on Campbell Avenue and went into the Sheriff’s Office. Captain Hayes, head of Court Security, threw me a nod from his desk. I had it on good authority he wanted the sheriff’s job but knew he’d get crushed in the election—he didn’t have a good enough scowl or cheekbones.
Stackhouse was in her office, shouting into a phone.
“I don’t care what religion that son of a bitch is,” she said. With heat. “He can starve himself. Until he completes the exemption paperwork or a bullshit attorney drags himself or herself in here, we aren’t changing his meal plan.”
She set the receiver down. Her little office rang with the impact.
“Got’damn prisoners. You don’t want to eat our utility grade beef and corn? Don’t skip parole,” she said.
“I would never.”
“Haven’t you found Ronnie yet? Don’t you care?” she said.
“I care. It’s my uxoriousness that brings me here.”
“The hell—”
“Means a fondness for one’s wife,” I said.
“While you’re in my office? You keep words under three syllables.”
I nodded. “Understandable.”
“I’m in a rotten mood since Saturday, babe, thinking about her, thinking about you refusing to accept help,” she said.
“You can help now.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m visiting elementary schools today. Lots of them.”
“Why?” she said.
“I have photographs of Darren’s ex-wife and boy. There’s good evidence she moved here, which means the kid had to attend school nearby. I’m flashing the photographs at each elementary school office, searching for recognition.”
“Hell, give me the photos. I’ll fax them everywhere.”
“It’s too risky to spam the photos. If Darren finds out you’re involved, he’ll kill Ronnie and bolt. And if his ex-wife finds out she’s being hunted, she’ll vanish. I need to do it face-to-face.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“The school receptionists and administrators are reluctant to help. It’s pulling teeth reasoning them through it, even with my license. I want a letter from the sheriff of Roanoke City, urging cooperation with this important investigation,” I said.
“Easy.” She lowered into her swivel chair and started typing on a laptop. “I’ll include my office phone an
d cell phone, and I’ll chew their asses if they call.”
She printed three copies on official stationery, essentially threatening the reader with solitary confinement if they didn’t cooperate. I thanked her. She hugged me and kissed my cheek, which I didn’t hate, and she told me to hurry. Before I was out the door, she was shouting at someone else.
I drove to the Poff Building, which housed the marshal’s office on Franklin, and parked on the street. I didn’t have the credentials for their private lot. The sentry logged my visit, called the Marshal himself before buzzing me through the first firewall. Someone else had to open the door from the inside, leading into the deputy bullpen.
Marshal Bert Warren took me into his office. His nickname was The Bear. I always liked him, the way I liked a sturdy hardwood floor that didn’t squeak—dependable, little maintenance required. Big guy, strong hands.
“Deputy Martinez phoned,” said Marshal Warren. “Asked me to look at some photographs.”
I showed him the photos on my phone. He slipped on glasses and held the device away from his face to see better.
I said, “I have reason to suspect she came through about five years ago. Your previous witness inspector would’ve known her.”
“Yeah, he would’ve. He died, though.” The Marshal used his thumb to flip back and forth between photos. “This isn’t ringing any bells. You’d think I would have access to these files but I don’t.”
“Need to know basis.”
“That’s right. Deputy Parks!” he called, and my ears rang. A man came from the bullpen. Shorter guy, blocky with muscle. He had cauliflower ears. “Take this phone and show the photos around. Ask if anyone recognizes her.”
Deputy Parks took the phone and did as requested.
We waited.
“I know better than to inquire what kind of mess Deputy Martinez has got himself into,” said Marshal Warren.
“This one is my mess. He’s helping.”
“A personal matter?” He said it like he didn’t like it.
“I’m forcing it to be personal another couple days. But if I can’t resolve it, it’ll be abduction, extortion, insurance fraud, and a bunch of other federal crimes. If it helps, potentially I’m saving the government millions by handling it myself."
He gave me a long flat look with eyes that’d seen everything. A man who did things by the book and wasn’t impressed with me.
“That doesn’t help, does it,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Shucks.”
“I suppose it’s best for both of us if I didn’t hear any of that,” he said.
“I suppose it is.”
Collin Parks returned with my phone.
“No one knows the lady in the photos, sir,” he said.
“Thank you, Parks, that’ll be all.”
Collin Parks left.
“Wish we could help more,” said the Marshal. “With your problem that doesn’t exist.”
“It was a long shot,” I said.
“If you’re anything like Deputy Martinez, then you’re unusually good at long shots.”
“Nobody is like Deputy Martinez,” I said.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Tuesday Morning
Ronnie
Mario unlocked Ronnie’s handcuffs and took her to the little bathroom at the end of the hall. It smelled of urine. Two of the three bulbs were burned out. The mirror was broken and the sink produced no hot water, only cold. But the water was clean.
Ronnie brushed her teeth with the brush and toothpaste she’d taken from the Palace. She looked wistfully at the bath and decided she was unwilling to suffer a cold shower for at least another day. Maybe two.
Back in the room. Mario said, “I leave you unlocked.”
“Thank you.” Ronnie rubbed at her wrist where the metal had flayed her skin.
“You can not run.”
“I won’t, Mario.”
The giant shook his head. “No. Quiero decir, no puedes. Sin salida. No intentes escapar, porque no puedes. Si no lo intentas, no te encerraré.”
No, I mean, there’s no exit. Don’t try to escape because you can’t. If you don’t try, I’ll leave you unlocked.
Ronnie nodded. “I understand.”
“Permanece en tu habitación.”
She nodded again. “I’ll stay in my room.”
He stomped downstairs and she heard the beeping of a microwave. A minute later he returned with another bottle of water and a hot egg biscuit, still in a McDonald’s wrapper.
“Thank you, Mario.”
He paused in the doorway to watch her. He had to stoop.
She had slept fully clothed, even in her shoes. She would remain that way, until ready to seduce one of the men. Or all of them, if that would help. Mario’s eyes made her feel like roaches were crawling on her skin.
An hour later, a man came to her room. This was the third man she’d seen in the house.
He was Hispanic, like the others. He was smaller, less sharp around the edges. His face was shaved and he had fewer tattoos. He smiled at her and bobbed his head. In his hand he held a ringing phone.
“Phone for you,” he said.
It was Mackenzie. Had to be. Her heart rate accelerated. She’d been standing at her little window—the cracked pane was covered with brown packaging tape on the outside, and the lower sash was nailed shut into the frame’s sill. Dirty light came through the glass, but she couldn’t see out.
She accepted the phone with trembling fingers.
“Twenty seconds. No more. Okay?”
“Thank you,” she said.
Can’t cry. Can’t cry. Don’t cry. Won’t cry.
She pressed Answer. The ringing stopped. The picture blinked and Mackenzie’s face appeared. She released a little groan. He was in his Accord.
“Ronnie. Tell me how you are.”
“I am unharmed. I promise,” she said.
“Is Darren feeding you?”
“He’s not here. But…” Ronnie held up the McDonald’s wrapper and gave a half smile. “The finest cuisine. But I’m looking forward to getting out.”
“Out of where?”
“A house,” she said.
The man at the door made a noise, like a teacher warning a student, “Ehh ehh.”
“Where’s the house?” said Mackenzie.
She had to tread carefully. If she did this wrong, if she gave them reason, they might not accept Mackenzie’s calls again. “I don’t know. It’s a little warmer, I think, so that’s nice.”
“I’ll find Darren’s ex-wife in the next few days, and you’ll be free.”
“Are…are you sure?” she asked. What she wanted to say was, Are you sure that’s a good idea? After you do, Darren will have me killed.
Mackenzie understood. They both understood. The hope of release was merely Darren’s behavior management tool.
Mackenzie gave a slow nod. A beautiful nod with his beautiful face.
“Trust me, Ronnie. I got this.”
“Good.”
“You’ll be home soon,” he said.
“I…I should go. Call me again tomorrow?”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too.” She forced herself to press end, buying a little goodwill and trust from her captor. She smothered a sob. Her hands shook so much she dropped the phone with a clatter.
The man picked it up. He looked uncomfortable.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Ay. It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not okay.”
Tuesday Morning
Mackenzie
The screen went dark.
My fingers were numb and I dropped the phone into my lap. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back.
Darren Robbins. You son of a bitch.
Ronnie looked okay. She promised she was.
It’s warmer here, she said. That was a clue. She was south. Unless there was an odd February heatwave.
I opened Weather Underground on
my phone and clicked on a national map displaying temperatures. I zoomed in and panned up and down the coast. To the north, in DC and Maryland and farther up, it was significantly colder. New York was getting snow.
So she was south. Most likely in my time zone. Temperatures jumped ten degrees near the South Carolina border.
Keep dropping hints, Ronnie. I’ll zero in.
Tuesday Noon
Manny
Neither Manny nor Beck knew where Darren had lived. Someway or another, they’d figure it out, starting at his office.
The United States’ Attorney’s Office for the District of Columbia was in the heart of the city. Manny parked illegally in the East lot of Judiciary Square, earning a scowl from Noelle. The morning was gray with cold drizzle, and they hustled across 4th Street.
Neither had been inside the DC office of the US Attorney, and if they did this right they’d leave no trace. The plan—get in, uncover evidence about Darren’s potential deal with MS-13, and get out without being recognized.
Manny’s marshal badge and Beck’s NSA credentials whisked them through the first security checkpoint.
Like all of the national’s capital, there were too many people. Traffic coming and going through the doors, security guards waving people into deeper rooms, men and women standing in lines, attorneys talking on cell phones. It made for excellent camouflage, despite Manny’s propensity to earn extra attention.
Near a bank of elevators, Beck consulted a directory on the wall. She searched the floors, stopping halfway up.
“United States Attorney, fourth floor. That’s Darren.”
They boarded an elevator and pressed four. For the moment, they were alone.
“Deep breaths, Beck. I can feel your pulse from here.”
“This isn’t legal. We’re going to jail,” she said. Her words were high and breathy.
