CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DELIA

It’s five o’clock on Wednesday morning. Hump day, the middle of the week. Get past this hurdle and it’s clear sailing until the weekend. But this particular Wednesday is anything but ordinary. It’s been more than two years since I’ve awakened beside a woman, and that was a one-and-done hookup that I stumbled into. Now, beside me, a sleeping Zoe Parillo breathes softly, her chest barely rising. I touch her gently, so as not to rouse her, and she doesn’t stir. Last night, as we lay beside each other, she more or less admitted that her pragmatic approach to her job was protective. And me, I’m sailing in the same boat, actively cultivating a protective coat of emotional armor. That’s because I spend my days wallowing in a misery I usually manage to worsen.

I slide out of bed. I’m supposed to pick Vern up at six and I’ll have to stop at home for a clean uniform. Now I pull on yesterday’s uniform and head for the bathroom. When I come back out, Zoe’s sitting up in bed. Her expression’s hard to read, a bit on the grave side, but curious and apprehensive as well. Our lovemaking was ardent, to say the least, but still more than simply physical. And now?

“Can you stay for breakfast?” Zoe asks.

“Can’t. I have to meet Vern at six and I’m gonna be late as it is.”

“Emmaline will miss you.”

I’ve got a talent for saying the wrong thing and I prove it. “What now, Zoe, a guilt trip?”

Zoe’s face registers her surprise. I’ve got it all wrong, but getting it wrong in relationships is my specialty.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” I try smiling. “It’s a cop thing. Always suspect the worst.”

“And I need to get used to it?”

The question hangs in the air, the unspoken part louder than the spoken. Zoe wouldn’t have to get used to “it” if last night wasn’t the beginning of something. And I’ll say it again. It wasn’t just about the sex. Last night, while Zoe and I sat on the couch, watching a movie I can barely remember, Emmaline worked on a coloring book. She glanced up at me from time to time, projecting a message I readily understood. I’m being a good girl. Don’t abandon me.

I indulged her, of course, praising her efforts, reminding her to stay between the lines, contributing to her choice of crayons. And thinking of Danny when he was three. At one point, I couldn’t help it, I picked her up and hugged her against my chest. A series of little kisses followed, pecks really, tickle kisses. Emmaline’s delighted laughter was reward enough.

“Yeah, Zoe, you will.”

I have the door open, about to step through, when Zoe finally says what she’s wanted to say all along. “I’m going to foster Emmaline. I don’t think she can deal with moving into a strange environment when she’s still processing this one.” Zoe’s smiling when I turn toward her. “Hey, Delia, I’m a social worker. Giving guilt is what I do.”

That earns her a kiss. Then I’m out the door, my attention already turning to the day ahead.

Sunrise is still an hour off and the streets are predictably quiet, the exception being the site of a long-closed Radisson Hotel, which is being transformed into an upscale Hilton. A pair of eighteen-wheeler flatbeds are parked outside, both loaded with drywall. This is a scene being repeated almost everywhere in Baxter except the Yards, where the building part can’t begin until after the demolition.

I take my time, despite already being late. My thoughts keep running between Danny, Emmaline, and Zoe, with occasional visits from Elizabeth Bradford. I don’t need the distractions, but there’s nothing I can do about them. I’ll have to make it right with Danny if I continue to see Zoe. And if Zoe fosters Emmaline, the girl will remain in my life, along with the attachment. Maybe it’ll be good for Danny. He’s been sticking his nose in at every opportunity, his concern genuine enough, a brother to a sister. Well, commitments require sacrifice—of time, at the least—so let’s see what he does when Emmaline’s demands interfere with his training schedule. When he knows she’s hoping to see him, but his buddies want to go to the movies.

Vern’s waiting outside when I pull up. He begins to speak as he slides into the car. “You heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The kidnapping. Katie Burke led with it on the late news. It’s out in the open now.”

“Who leaked it? No, wait. It could be anyone. The FBI task force, that’s eight people right there, and the Bradford’s private security team, and maybe even one of the Bradfords. Meantime, Katie Burke will never reveal her source.”

“Exactly right, Delia. And it doesn’t change anything. Not for us.”

“Except that it’s sure to make the kidnappers more paranoid. Now the whole city’s involved, looking for any sign of the girl.”

Vern has nothing to add and we drive in silence to a small house in Dunning, the neighborhood closest to the Yards. Word here is that the mostly ramshackle homes are being purchased at rapidly escalating prices. The buyers hope to accumulate blocks of property, tear down the existing homes and erect high-occupancy housing in their place. Baxter has never had much in the way of apartment buildings. That’s about to change. You can walk to work from just about anywhere in Dunning.

I bring my Toyota to the curb in front of a home rented by Cameron Carlyle. The house, though small, is in surprisingly good shape, but then Cameron has a way of landing on his feet. Not today, though.

“Hang on a second,” Vern tells me as I’m about to open the door. “Something else. Lillian’s pregnant.”

“That’s great, I know you’ve been . . .”

“And she wants to adopt Emmaline.”

I try for a poker face, but only burst out laughing. I’m imagining Lillian Taney and Zoe Parillo on a field somewhere, battling for the right to parent the girl. Maybe with broadswords.

“You good with that?”

“Yeah, sure, we’ve been wanting more kids for a long time. I’m just afraid that Emmaline has family somewhere and they’re gonna show up and claim her. I don’t want Lillian to be disappointed. She’s pretty much fallen in love with the girl. Mike too.”

Vern and I pound on the door and announce ourselves. A voice from inside, a man’s voice, shouts, “Don’t break it down. I’m coming.”

Cameron Carlyle opens the door a moment later and Vern pushes past him. Rumor has it that Cameron’s involved with underage girls. He’s handsome enough, smooth as well, and his soft brown eyes look into yours as though you were the last human on the planet. Meanwhile, he has the conscience of an amoeba.

Vern comes out a moment later. “He’s alone.”

“So, what’s with the bad attitude?” Cameron asks. “I thought we were friends.”

Cops don’t like snitches any better than the mutts they rat on. Snitches are necessary, of course. Indispensable, actually. Which means you have to put up with them and the deals they cut. Until the day they lie to you.

The search warrant we obtained before yesterday’s raid was based on an affidavit from Cameron Carlyle. He swore that he’d done business with Joanna Young within the last week. Only problem is that Joanna Young and her companion had been dead for at least two weeks by then. Most likely, Cameron was about to pull off some deal and needed us out of the way.

“How long have you known me, Cameron?” Vern asks.

“Long time, detective. In fact, pretty much my whole life.”

“Then you also know that if you don’t stop fucking with me, we’re gonna make a stop on the way to the station. Like in a quiet cornfield where I can beat the crap out of you without anyone seeing.”

Cameron looks at me, but I’m keeping my expression neutral. We don’t ordinarily abuse the men and women we arrest, but snitches are different. At some point, most will try to play you. This is a test you cannot fail.

“C’mon, guys . . .”

“Guys?” It’s my turn to play the bad cop. “Is that some sort of homophobic comment?”

“What? Hey, no.” Cameron’s brown eyes turn inward for a moment as he collects himself. “Please, can we start over? I’m saying please. What have I done?”

Vern shakes his head. “I told you right out of the gate. You fuck with us, we’re gonna charge you with selling heroin to an undercover cop. Did you think we were bluffing? Hope not, because you’re under arrest. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Cameron finally gets it. He crossed a line by pointing us to Joanna Young, a line he probably didn’t know existed when he perjured himself. Tough shit. I watch him turn around.

“You’re pissed about Joanna,” he finally says.

“We used your info to get a warrant for Joanna’s house.” I take my time cuffing him. “You claimed that you purchased heroin from Joanna less than ten days ago. By that time, she’d been dead for at least two weeks.”

Cameron flashes a radiant smile. “Okay, so I fibbed about the deal. But Joanna’s a straight-up dope dealer. . . .”

“Was a dealer, Cameron. She’s dead, remember?”

“But I didn’t know that.”

Vern steps up as I close the cuffs around Cameron’s wrists. Vern’s a very large man, much larger than Cameron, and I detect fear in Cameron’s eyes for the first time.

“Two overdoses, plus a third party ransacks the house, and you didn’t know? When are you gonna stop lying, Cameron?” Vern doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes Cameron’s arm and says, “Alright, let’s go.”

“Wait, wait. Gimme a chance.” That smile again, so confident, so assured. In his own eyes, he can do no wrong.

“Make it quick.”

“Okay, you know the kidnapping thing? Been all over the news?”

“You’re gonna claim you know where the victim is?”

“No, but listen to this story and tell me if you think it’s important.” He doesn’t wait for the go ahead. “Maybe three weeks ago, I’m in a club, Palacio. I’m standing at the bar, waiting for somebody, and there’s this couple next to me. The guy’s twenty-five at the most, but the broad? She’s gotta be like fifty and she’s got a mass of neon-yellow hair piled on top of her head, Dolly Parton style. Meantime, he’s comin’ on like she’s Megan Fox, tellin’ her that he’s in on the biggest deal ever seen in Baxter. It’s gonna be the news story of the year. Only he can’t talk about it because it’s not exactly on the up-and-up. But when it happens, it’ll blow the lid off.”

I stop him right there. “Was the word kidnapping used? Even once? And you lie to me again . . .”

“I’m not lyin’. He never said kidnapping. But what else could he be talkin’ about? Believe me, there’s nothin’ big happening in town. Nothin’ illegal. If there was, I’d know. And by the way, the woman called him Quentin.”

“Quentin what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re tellin’ me that you weren’t part of the conversation. You just happened to overhear what this guy said.”

“I’m always listening, Captain. Always.”

This I can believe. Cameron’s brain works like a CIA computer, storing irrelevant information just in case. But what does it mean? A guy bullshitting a woman in a bar isn’t exactly news. And the conversation took place three weeks ago.

“Not good enough, Cameron. You have anything else to trade?”

He runs off a series of names, but most of them are already on my to-raid list. The rest are too small to bother with at this stage of my crusade.

I guide Cameron to my car and into the back seat. He slides inside willingly, but flinches when Vern slides in beside him.

“Listen,” he tells us, “I still think the story’s good. But if it can’t get me off the hook altogether, can you at least ask for a low bail?”