The Fear in Her Eyes

by Grant McKenzie

  “So who the fuck are you to make that creepy-crawly so scared?”

  Ian kept his own fear off his face and shrugged. “An innocent man?”

  There was a moment of palpable silence before a crooked grin broke upon the man’s thick lips. “Hell,” he said. “That would scare me, too.”

  20

  Helena lived up to her reputation and secured the bail Ian needed to walk out of court in the direction of the street rather than back to the cells.

  Deputy District Attorney Rolando Aguilar followed Ian and Helena out of the courtroom. Although he hadn’t been part of the prosecution in this case, he appeared in the audience as an interested observer. Freshly showered and changed out of golf duds into fine-dining casual, he had strolled down the aisle and casually slid onto the bench seats directly behind the prosecutor’s table. Like a wedding or family reunion, where you sat mattered.

  “You are a lucky man,” said Rolando, “to have such a talented lawyer.”

  “And she’s lucky to have such an innocent client,” Ian said.

  Rolando shrugged. “Guilt. Innocence. Neither is as important as the right lawyer.”

  “Comforting.”

  Rolando laughed and offered a wink to Helena. “Don’t worry. You have one of the very best.”

  “At her rates, I hope so.”

  Rolando laughed again, but Helena didn’t share his amusement. She focused her full attention on Ian.

  “We should meet at my office on Monday to begin planning your defense in case this goes to trial.” Pulling out a business card, she scribbled a phone number on its back. “That will get you through to my secretary’s personal cell. Tell her to fit you in.”

  As Ian accepted the card, his fingers wrapped around Helena’s and squeezed. Her flesh was smooth, but cold to the touch. A thousand memories flooded through him of all the times … cold feet needing warmth … cold hands needing … “I do appreciate all you’re doing.”

  Helena’s eyes moistened even as her face stayed in control, barely registering any change of emotion. “I want the truth as much as you do.” She pulled her hand free of Ian’s tender grasp.

  A voice called out. “Ian!”

  Ian turned to see Jersey walking quickly down the hallway toward them.

  “I thought you weren’t talking to me.” Ian’s tone was light but it couldn’t hide the words’ sharp burrs.

  Jersey rolled his shoulders with the ease of someone used to deflection: A drummer dodging beer bottles from rowdy fans, a cop ducking disappointment. “Been busy. You free to take a ride?”

  “Yeah, I posted bail. Why?”

  “We may have found your Super Bee.”

  IF IT was the same Super Bee that Ian suspected had been trailing him since his dead-end visit to the Oregon State Penitentiary, it was no longer in pristine condition. The fire department had left a border of yellow crime scene tape around a large patch of scorched earth behind a derelict warehouse on the east side of the river. Within the blackened scar lay the twisted remains of a two-door Dodge coupe with a barely recognizable bee-shaped grille badge and twin fresh-air induction scoops on the warped and blistered hood. There were no registration plates.

  “What do you think?” Jersey asked.

  “Overkill,” said Ian. “He must have dumped a whole can of gas on the damn thing. Can we get closer?”

  Jersey lifted the fluttering yellow tape to allow Ian to duck under before following. The soggy ground squelched beneath their feet as they walked circles around the wreck, yet the fire hose drowning had done little to quench the acrid stench of gasoline, burnt rubber, melted plastic, and vinyl.

  Ian leaned over the hood, careful not to dirty his borrowed clothes, and peered through the shattered windshield at what was left of the melted dash. “Any chance the VIN number is still in there?”

  “I doubt it. One of the uniforms is a classic car nut and I asked him to drive by and take a look. I was hoping to check the registry and get the owner’s name before collecting you.” Jersey tugged at his ear. “The uniform says it looks like the VIN was pried off the dash before the vehicle was torched.”

  Ian studied the destroyed interior. “How could he tell?”

  Jersey grinned. “I asked the same thing. He said this car also has a fender tag. Metal bolted to metal. Doesn’t melt. He checked and it’s been pried off. If the driver went to the trouble of crawling under the fender, then the dash tag would have been a no-brainer.”

  “Shit! Any other way to trace it?”

  Jersey grinned wider. “Turns out Dodge likes their numbers. The last eight digits of the VIN can also be found on the radiator support, cowl support, and the trunk lip under the rubber. I’ve put in a call to forensics to bring down some of their magic chemicals and get those areas cleaned and photographed. Unless this guy was meticulous, we should have a number by the end of the day.”

  Ian stepped back and studied the car’s profile. A sudden thought. “Can I open one of the doors?”

  “If the heat hasn’t welded it shut.” Jersey handed him a pair of thin latex gloves. “There’s no point dusting it, but you’ve already left enough prints lying around today.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed at the blatant dig. “You checked the knife?”

  Jersey cricked his neck. “I shouldn’t—

  “Come on, Jers. Do you really think I would butcher a guy like that?”

  Jersey glanced left and right to confirm they were completely alone. The reflex was so automatic he probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. “We checked the knife like you said. The handle was smudged, so no prints.”

  Ian sighed. “That doesn’t help me.”

  “No, but we can tell a few things from smudges.”

  “Really?” Ian asked. “Like what?”

  “This is just preliminary. The lab is running more detailed tests.”

  “OK. I won’t hold you to it.”

  “The smudges are consistent with gloves. In this case, leather gloves, possibly brand-new, dyed black.”

  “Jesus. You can tell that from smudges?”

  “The new leather left a subtle grain pattern in the blood along with minute traces of commercial dye, tannins, et cetera.” Jersey winked. “There was a typo in the Bible. It’s the geeks who’ll inherit the Earth.”

  Ian’s face remained somber. “So you believe me? That I didn’t kill him?”

  Jersey nodded. “Two distinct sets of bloody fingerprints were found on the body and at the scene. One set is smudged; the other set is definitely yours. We matched them to the set you gave us today when you were processed. My witness never saw you with gloves either before or after the killing. If you had gloves, why would you take them off to touch the victim’s face? He also confirmed the scream that drew you upstairs—

  “Reasonable doubt,” said Ian quietly. “You’re talking like a detective. But what about as a friend? What does he think?”

  Jersey held Ian’s stare, unflinching. “Grief changes people, Ian. You’re not the same man you once were. And if you believed Hogg had something to do with covering up the death of your daughter, then yes, I think you could have killed him.” His gaze flickered, softened, and cop intensity was replaced by friendly cheekiness. “I’m glad you didn’t though. Prison is no place for jazz. You’d have to switch to the blues or Johnny Cash rockabilly.”

  This time Ian smirked. He slipped on the latex gloves and tried the car’s door handle. The door protested, but eventually creaked open. The lip along the bottom, protected from the blaze by a tight seal, showed a band of distinctive yellow paint.

  “Same car,” said Ian. “Has to be.”

  He stepped back again and took several photographs of the molten carcass with the camera on his phone. “Let’s hope the patron saint of motorheads takes offense and this murderous prick isn’t as clever as he thinks.”

  21

  Two members of the forensics unit arrived in a leaf-green electric car no larger than a butcher shop chest free
zer. When it came to a silent halt on roller-skate wheels, Ian half expected a handful of red-nosed clowns to pour out with neon ginger and purple afros, elongated floppy shoes, and water-squirting flowers pinned to their wide lapels. Instead, it was a pair of ordinary young men with equally dull haircuts that, with the exception of skin tone, made them look like brothers.

  “These are your geeks?” asked Ian.

  Jersey grinned. “Not much to look at, are they?”

  “You couldn’t get them an adult car? That thing doesn’t exactly instill much faith.”

  “It’s a city initiative. Green energy.”

  “It’s embarrassing,” said Ian. “I want them to drive up in the friggin’ Batmobile. If there were any women around, those two would be too mortified to get out of that silly thing and do their job.”

  “You manage.”

  Ian’s surprised reaction to the easy dis against his own vehicle made Jersey laugh aloud. As the detective walked over to talk to the technicians, Ian’s phone rang. He answered with an exasperated sigh. “Yeah?”

  “You’re more fuckin’ useless than I gave you credit for, and trust me I didn’ give you much.” It was the same threatening male voice as before.

  “Who is this?”

  “See! That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. What the fuck ’ave you been doin? One of your kids goes missin’ and you’re fuckin’ around doin’ jack squat to find her.”

  Molly!

  Ian waved his arm to get Jersey’s attention and pointed at his phone. Jersey quickly pulled his own phone from his pocket.

  “Is this about Molly?” Ian was practically screaming. “Do you have her? Is she safe? Because if you’ve touched her, there isn’t a hole on this earth you can crawl into that I won’t drag you out—

  The caller laughed, its phlegmy tone like worn sandpaper dipped in smoke and rye. “I thought you had balls when you talked back before, but now I see you’re just a scared li’l pussy. And speakin’ of pussy—

  “I’m not scared,” Ian hissed, “but you better fucking be. Touch one—

  More laughter. “Oh, trust me. If I was goin’ to rape anyone—and believe you me, I have—there’s not a damn thin’ you could do to stop it. Hell, you couldn’ even stop a li’l girl from gettin’ into the wrong fuckin’ car.”

  The line went dead.

  IAN’S KNUCKLES turned white and bloodless as he gripped the phone so tight its glass screen threatened to crack and match the mirror of pain on his face. When he turned to Jersey, the questions spilled off a numbed and rabid tongue. “Did you get it? A location? A number? Christ, anything?”

  Jersey held up a hand to indicate he was working on it and turned his back to continue speaking into his phone.

  Ian looked over at the technicians, but they weren’t part of this moment. They had their own task and were busy laying a plastic tarp on the ground and unpacking their chemicals and tools to begin work on the Super Bee’s torched remains.

  Frustrated and feeling useless, Ian dialed Linda’s home number. When the phone was answered, he automatically said, “Is she in?”

  “It’s me,” said Linda.

  Ian stumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time Linda had actually answered her own phone. For such a small thing, it felt oddly as though the world had been bumped off its axis, throwing everything slightly off-balance. All because of …

  “Is Jeannie upset with me?”

  Linda clicked her tongue. “She looks up to you, Ian. You know that. Getting sharp with her is like kicking a puppy for being cute.”

  “Shhhhi … sorry, I—

  “Don’t tell me. Tell her.”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “Good. Now don’t tell me you’re skipping out on bail and I’m getting stuck with losing my deposit.”

  “No. Everything’s cool. Helena’s on the case.”

  “Helena?” An icy chill entered her voice. “Is that wise?”

  “Like I said, everything’s fine.”

  “OK, it’s your neck, but her father wouldn’t mind seeing you spend time behind bars.”

  “She’s not her father.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes!” Ian rubbed a knot between his eyes to focus his thoughts. “Listen. I need to ask you about Molly. Did any demands or angry letters come in to the office about her case?”

  “No. I would remember. The only inquiry we received was her mother asking to start up visitation again.”

  “Anybody oppose the request?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.”

  “What were you hoping for?”

  “Anything …” Ian’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “… anything that made this less personal.” His voice cracked and bled as he forced out his confession. “I’m afraid, Linda.”

  “Of what?”

  “That he’s going to hurt Molly to punish me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Punish you for what then?”

  Ian found he could hardly breathe. “Maybe for the same thing that Emily was killed over.”

  “But you don’t know—

  “No,” Ian interrupted, using anger to cap the well of fear. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  Jersey snapped his phone shut and walked over.

  “I have to go.” Ian hung up and looked at his friend expectantly. “Anything?”

  Jersey rolled his shoulders against the tension building in his muscles. “We managed to get the call narrowed to an eight-block radius. But unless he calls again, that’s the best we can do.”

  “Eight blocks?” Ian started walking toward Jersey’s unmarked car. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  “Eight square blocks,” said Jersey as he caught up. “That’s four or five hundred homes. More if there are apartment buildings, condos, suites. We can’t go door-to-door.”

  Ian scowled. “If this fucker took Molly to get at me, then he must want me to find him. Let’s follow the bread crumbs we have.”

  “Even if that’s straight into the witch’s oven?” asked Jersey.

  Ian didn’t blink. “This is a scared eleven-year-old girl we’re talking about. I’ll follow the trail straight to hell if I have to.”

  22

  Jersey cruised the residential streets at a low speed while Ian studied the homes, looking for something, anything, that stood out. The trouble was, in this neighborhood, it all did.

  “Crack den.” Jersey pointed to a dilapidated bungalow sitting center mass in a weed-infested lawn, its windows dark despite a lack of curtains or blinds, its door painted an unlikely mustard yellow. “The windows are boarded up from the inside, the door is metal with extra deadbolts and custom-fit with a letterbox—like a mailman is going to deliver in this hood—and if you look close, you’ll notice the lawn twinkles in the right light.”

  “Twinkles?” asked Ian.

  “Glass and plastic shards. Damn junkies can’t wait to get high. They’ll drop a rock into their pipes right on the front lawn and toss the empty vials before the den’s bouncer comes out to kick their ass.” Jersey grinned. “The trouble with living in a fort is that it’s just as difficult to get out of quickly as it is to break in. By the time the bouncer gets outside, the junkies are gone. And since he’s not some ‘house nigga trash collector,’ he stomps the vials and kicks the shards onto the lawn. Predictable as rain.”

  He pointed to another house. This one made the crack den look good. “Marijuana grow op. Check the roof and upstairs windows. That ain’t moss growing up there, it’s mold. We kick in that door and we’re liable to find there’s no floor or inner walls. The growers gut the place, fill the basement with plants and lights and try to vent the moisture as best they can.”

  “You going to call it in?” Ian asked.

  “Too late. When the roof is that bad, they’ve already moved on and stuck some absentee landlord with a bill he can’t afford to pay. But I’ve made note of the den. Smoking crack is l
ike putting a gun to your head and playing Russian roulette. Every drop of the hammer does its damage to your psyche, and the big one, the final one, could be anywhere. First squeeze, second, hell, one hundred and second, but it’s there—always. The only thing stupider is crystal meth. May as well smoke fucking Drano.”

  They drove past a house with six Harley Davidson choppers parked on a dead front lawn. Leather and chrome, each bike was customized with subtle touches that reflected its owner’s personal taste. The one that stood out had a partial human skull with elongated vampire teeth crowning its headlight.

  “Book club,” said Jersey with a straight face. “I would stop, but I hear they only read Jane Austen.”

  Ian didn’t smile. His mind reeling, he turned around in his seat and stared back at the bikes. Something about them …

  “Go back!”

  Jersey glanced over in confusion. “The bikes?”

  “Each one had a small flag on the back.”

  “Yeah. Gang colors. They’re part of the Eastside—

  “Wreckers,” finished Ian.

  Jersey pulled the car over to the curb and stopped. “You know them?”

  “Just one. Molly’s father ran with the Wreckers before he was gunned down.”

  “Why would his old gang want to snatch Molly?”

  Ian opened his door. “Let’s ask.”

  “HOLD ON.” Jersey grabbed Ian’s arm. “There’s at least six of them in there, and I don’t have a warrant to go busting in. I need something more than—

  “I don’t need a warrant,” said Ian. “I’m not a cop.”

  “True enough, but—

  “No buts.” Ian pulled his arm free from Jersey’s grasp. “You think I’m going to sit here while a child is in danger? He practically threatened to rape her. She’s eleven fucking years old.”

  “OK, OK.” Jersey held up his hands. “Let’s just be smart about this.”

  “How?” Ian’s face was flushed and if his stare came into contact with paper it would likely ignite.