twenty-eight:
wednesday, mid-day

As far as Bloom was concerned, being inside was progress, but not enough. He sat with Trudy at the small dining table. One of two women buzzing around—Bloom wasn’t clear of their relationship with Tomás—had brought him horchata de melon. The tasty drink had a hint of vanilla and lime but it couldn’t counteract the heat of the mobile home.

Tomás played the role of shuttle diplomat, scurrying between the kitchen and the back room. Bloom had yet to see Alfredo, but the scraps of information from Tomás, doled out in bits and pieces, were plenty vivid. Bloom knew he wouldn’t write a word or trust a word until he had seen Alfredo in the flesh.

But he couldn’t wait all day.

Twice he had punched off his cell phone when Coogan had called.

Bloom texted his reply: “Heck of a lead. Will call soon.”

Coogan expected tight communication. Bloom was taking a gamble. If the cops had a breakthrough and were about to announce something, Coogan was screwed. His only other option would be to instantly inject Marjorie Hayes with hard news skills and hard news touch. So, really, there was no other option.

Police bulletin or not, he didn’t want to stop watching Trudy. Her entire essence focused on the health of Alfredo Loya. Bloom knew the phrase “give your undivided attention” from dozens of grade school teachers, but he now knew precisely what that phrase meant. Trudy did one thing at a time. When she spoke, words flowed from a calm center. Her mood owned the room. Alfredo Loya trusted her. Tomás trusted her. Tomás’ girlfriend Candy was the last to fall under her spell.

From what Bloom could gather, Tomás’ girlfriend knew someone who knew someone who knew a doctor who could come to help. Tomás’ girlfriend wasn’t going to settle down until Alfredo was receiving medical care. Still, Trudy kept calm. She was the first visitor escorted back to see Alfredo. Maybe they thought she could sprinkle some magic dust on his wounds.

Bloom waited, wondered if he was making a mistake. Should he call Coogan? Check in? Tell him what he’d come across? He was torn—with the police now working every angle imaginable from every resident in Glenwood Manor, it would be easy to miss a breaking story if he stayed with this odd tangent. But Alfredo had a story. Every instinct told Bloom to stay put.

Surely how he handled this situation today could help him get invited to Trudy’s kitchen again and possibly manage another encounter with the enigmatic Allison. Trudy would be his ticket. Possibly. And if nothing else he would have Trudy’s friendship. He didn’t want to overlook that possibility. But Allison Coil was the one he wanted to unlock.

“It’s not too bad,” said Trudy. Her expression hadn’t changed. She smiled like she was greeting a long lost friend. “Bruises, a sprained ankle, not severe. Exhaustion more than anything.”

Bloom nodded, made sure she was finished. “I need to talk with him directly.”

“I explained,” said Trudy. “With the girlfriend’s help, of course. Right now he’s scared. He feels cornered.”

“I need ten minutes,” said Bloom. “Maybe fifteen. Of course I’d like more, but that would be enough for starters.”

“He won’t be here long,” said Trudy. A moment of genuine concern flashed across her face. “Tomás figures they’ll know to come here, to look for Alfredo.”

“Who?” said Bloom.

“The people who picked him up,” said Trudy. “Alfredo said he was in a jail of some sort with others, too. People were giving orders. It was organized.”

“I need a few minutes,” said Bloom. Already the story was writing itself in his head.

Bloom’s cell phone rang.

“We’re thinking of taking him up to my place,” said Trudy.

And what if Alfredo’ captors were legitimate, some official branch of ICE? Or similar? Then wouldn’t Trudy be aiding and abetting?

“I’ll take my chances,” said Trudy, who must have read Bloom’s mind. “Something isn’t right.”

“I want to talk with him before you move him,” said Bloom, ignoring the phone. “I can’t come to your place. Not today or tonight, anyway.”

“Let me ask him,” said Trudy.

Bloom glanced at his Caller ID. Coogan.

“Yes,” said Bloom, standing and letting himself out of the mobile home. He stepped down three metal steps to the street and the heat. Two boys kicked around a soccer ball, taking aim at imaginary goals on the asphalt.

“Cops are holding a big-deal news conference right now on the steps of City Hall. How far away are you?”

Five minutes, thought Bloom. If he had a bridge or a zip line straight across the river, even less.

“I’ll swing by there as soon as I’m finished,” said Bloom.

“Where are you?” Coogan’s voice snapped with authority, a certain pissed-offness.

“I’m outside the door of a guy who was picked up by ICE or by someone and tossed into a holding cell,” said Bloom. “He’s illegal—undocumented, anyway. And he escaped. He’s going to tell me the whole story here in two minutes.”

“Cops have a person of interest,” said Coogan. “We need all the details on the website eight seconds after the news conference ends.”

Maybe Kerry London would let Bloom view the whole raw footage from whatever the cops had to announce. Maybe DiMarco would tell him if this was a genuine lead or pure smokescreen. Maybe his ass was in a sling or halfway out the door and he didn’t know it.

“I’m on it,” said Bloom.

“The Denver Post has already sent out a news alert and the New York Times has a teaser on their site,” said Coogan. “I will not be the caboose on this fucking train.”

Coogan was ramped up, but he said it with all the matter-of-fact narration of a civil war documentary on public television.

The line went dead.