Copyright 1998 by Will Wyckoff.
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.
The mess wasn’t as bad as it looked. Things had been dumped and strewn, but that’s all. It was mostly a matter of picking up, putting away, straightening, and some cleaning. Not like the aftermath of a heavy-duty party where he carpets had to be vacuumed and the dishes washed and garbage collected. I had everything put away and was getting ready to fix the hole in the garage wall when the claims adjuster came. She looked, measured, took pictures, asked a few questions, said everything should be processed with a day or two, told me to get bids for the repair, and left. I covered the hole with plywood then called the Highway Patrol. The main roads and Intestate were open and traffic was moving normally. The plow had gone out as soon as the snowfall had started last night.
The conversation with my ex son-in-law had unsettled me. Where Ruthie had been stonewall-secretive with us, she-d lied totally to Clark about me. For some reason which I badly wanted to know, she had misrepresented my intentions, my character, and our relationship. Though I’d never known her to lie, I now knew that she did, and regularly. What else was I going to discover about her? It was a dark prospect I mulled over during the two hours it took me to take the Interstate to the rest area.
Seven or eight semis, diesel motors running, were parked in the truck area. Four cars were parked by the toilet. I relieved myself, went behind the building and past the drifted-in picnic tables. The snow wasn’t as deep here as in town, but neither was it cleared away. And once I left the sidewalk, there were no paths. I was breathing hard when I came to the fence. I climbed it and continued away from the rest areas. Weed tips and the upper branches of bushes thrust up from the overlying snow. Panting, II pushed on until I came to the ravine.
The snow disguised the ravine’s depth though the tops of the trees projected ten to twelve feet above the surface. The tops of most were about my height. Even under the snow the ravine’s sides dropped sharply, almost vertically. To the right the ravine disappeared in a distant clump of trees. To the left it made a sharp bend away from the Interstate and went out of sight behind a slope about a quarter-of-a-mile away. The rest area was a good hundred and seventy-five yards behind me. I trudged back toward the car.
At the fence, I turned and reexamined the snow-covered field. Well over a year ago, my daughter had been out there. Or her killers had. Or both.
I let that thought rise and expand. I analyzed it in the gathering dusk. Now I cold see the source of my disquiet, my dissatisfaction. Clark had sensed the same thing. He, more physical, had taken direct physical action. He had come here looking for answers. I, in my own slow way, had brooded on it, suffered with it until Clark [s disclosures impelled me here. And here, the slowly rising bubble of contradictions and doubt finally broke free and burst. What I had been unable to admit, had been unwilling to put into words, until this moment was the word killers.
Gates was in prison. He had confessed. He had been prosecuted. He had been found guilty. He had been sentenced. He had satisfied Cass Howard’s investigation. But he hadn’t satisfied Clark ’s knowledge of Ruthie, nor his questions of the probabilities involved. Nor had Gates satisfied mine.
Now I understood why that hundred-and-ten-mile return trip to bury her body had nagged at me. He hadn’t acted alone. He couldn’t have. The logistics were wrong. The timing was wrong. The idea was wrong. The whole damned set up wrong.
I called Cass Howard as soon as I got home. Huey Black answered. I explained my trip and the lay out.
“We went over that whole area pretty thoroughly, Mr. Blivens.”
“Call me Fred,” I said. “But your men didn’t get to the ravine, did they?”
“What ravine?”
“The one in the field behind the rest area.”
“No, we only checked out the rest area. Gates said she was killed in the truck. We confined our search to the immediate rest area. Why?
I told him how far into the field the ravine was.
He said, “So?”
“My daughter’s purse was found there.”
“Who found it?”
“Clark Roberts. She marred him a couple of years before she was murdered.”
“And why do you think it was out there?”
“Clark told me he found it there.”
“No, I mean, do you have any idea of the reason for it being out there?”
“No, do you?”
“Maybe Gates threw it away out there.”
“Do you really believe that?”
There was long silence. I heard him sigh. “I think I see what you’re getting at.”
“He would have used the garbage cans in the rest area, wouldn’t he? If not here in another somewhere along on his trip. Maybe even a dumpster behind a gas station or a store along his route.”
“And he probably would have got rid of her body somewhere along the road also on his way to Houston
“I agree.”
“But he said he panicked.”
“Did look the type to panic, Huey. Did he look the least bit nervous on the stand?”
Another silence. “I wouldn’t say so.”
“I wouldn’t either. I think he had help. I don’t think he acted alone.”
“What else do you think? I’m listening.”
“Her husband told me Ruthie knew karate. He also told me she could have qualified as a brown belt.”
“So she knew how to take care of herself.”
“There’s more. Do you know what the next degree after first degree is? At least I most styles of karate?”
“Second degree?”
“That’s what most people would guess, but it’s the black belt. Her husband said she knew enough to be a first-degree brown, only one-step down from a black belt. He also said he taught her some pretty dirty mean tricks.”
“He’s in karate too?”
“Said he’s a black belt in an Okinawan style.”
“He didn’t look big enough.”
“He was teaching her though. He said she was very good. Now what do you think?”
“Maybe Gates caught her by surprise.”
“He didn’t say that in the trial.”
“You’re right. He said they struggled and he knocked her out.”
“Then he tied her and choked her to death with the bungee cord because she was going to blackmail him. He said he lost his head and killed her after tying her up.”
“Which doesn’t sound like he could have done alone?”
“Exactly.”
“You said her purse was found in the ravine.”
“Right.”
“And her husband found it?”
“He went out and kept looking because the story didn’t add up for him either.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I do.”
“Why do you think it was in the ravine?”
“He said it was in some brush at the top of the ravine.”
“Any idea how it got there?”
“Maybe she dropped it while she was running away.”
“Why didn’t he or they find it after they caught her?”
“She was running for her life. Maybe she fell into the ravine. The purse either snagged on the bushes when she fell or she dropped it. Maybe she was stunned long enough for them to get close and she started running again. But they caught her. They either overlooked the fact she’d had a purse, or the looked for it and couldn’t find it.”
“You’ve had a busy day, haven’t you?” he said.
“It’s been a little hectic,” I admitted.
“Do you know what you’re doing to me today?”
I thought about the break-in and what we’d been discussing. “I can imagine.”
He sighed. “I wish you could, Fred. I really wish you could.”
With that we hung up.
Did I know what I was doing to him? Hell, did I even know what I was doing to myself?
My stomach was growling so I got some mashed beans from the fridge, along with tortillas and cheese and eggs. I put coffee on, heated the beans and half dozen tortillas, sliced cheese onto the tortillas, and made quesadillos. I fried eggs, loaded my plate, and ate. I drank three cups of coffee. Then I ate a couple pieces of flan and lit my pipe, to relax, and think, and drink another cup of coffee.
Ruthie had begun running away at twelve, but she’d also kept coming back. No amount of cajoling or counseling ever broke through that wall of secrecy she locked herself behind. She’s joined a group calling itself Rainbows. The Rainbows had a mixed reputation, it appeared, at best. Drugs and vagrancy, Cass Howard had said. But what was vagrancy anyway? And didn’t the whole country have problems with drugs? Everywhere you turned you heard about lady snow, the snow lady, lady caine, blow, snort, nose candy, coke, crack, crank, and meth just to name the few I can remember. So who didn’t have troubles with drugs in good old modern America
So, Ruthie was a Rainbow.
She’d also been married and kept it secret from Anita and me. She’d also lied to her husband about me. And it appeared she’d left him to come to stay with us, and then somehow gotten herself into trouble that had led to her death as a result. Correction: her murder. As a result.
The night of the murder another Rainbow member, Hank Kaska, had seen her at her confessed the home of her confessed murderer’s employer. Also, that same night, she’d somehow gone or been transported a hundred and ten miles to an Interstate rest area. There, for some reason, her bag was found in a place where no one should have found it if Gates’ account was at all true. However, Gates probably had not told the whole truth, if he’d told the truth at all.
So what was the truth?
As I saw it, he had at least taken a hand in my daughter’s murder. Other hands were involved too, but whose and how many were still a mystery. Somehow, though, Max Stanton was probably linked. Could Gates be taking the fall for Stanton
Money, maybe. But it had taken an awful lot. A damned awful lot for a man to cop to murder one and twenty-to-life. Blackmail? Maybe. But it too would have to be something. Really something.
The state’s penalty for first-degree murder is twenty years to life. Gates, because of a clean record, got the minimum twenty. With good behavior he could be out in eleven.
Justice?
He’d be incarcerated only a little more than half the years of the life he’d confessed to taking.
Justice?
Still eleven years are a long time. Gates would at least be in his forties when he got out. Could money buy and eleven-year slice of his life? How much money would it take? And would just money have bought him? It sure as hell wouldn’t have bought me.
So, blackmail then. Much more probable, much more powerful a tool.
Blackmail so strong that Gates couldn’t back out. Couldn’t let out a hint. Not even a peep. Blackmail so incriminating he’d be afraid to even look cross eyed at the wrong time.
So now, somebody with reason to blackmail Gates, as well as somebody with a big enough lever.
What kind of lever? Who? How could I find out? Where should I begin?
I decided I needed a drink. I went down to the rec room to mix it. The table with the pieced-together letters on it was still up. I took the letters to the bar, mixed a stiff, icy scotch and soda, perused the letters again, and mixed another drink. I went to the wall phone. The operator gave the area code for Eugene , Washington
“Who did you say you are?”
“Fred Blivens, ma’am. I need to get hold of Hank. Would you know his LA phone number or address?”
“Well, yes, but--”
“I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me have them. It’s real urgent.”
“It always is.” She sounded chagrinned. “Just a minute, please.” She was away long enough for me to mix another scotch and soda. “I’ll give it to you if you want,” she said, “but he won’t be in Los Angeles
“Would you know where he is now?”
“Certainly. He called just this morning. He’s in a little town in the Midwest . I have the phone number, but not the address.”
“That’s fine. Can you give it to me?”
She did. My neck and back began to tingle when I heard it and then saw it materialize under my pen point. I must have remained silent too long.
She said, “Are you still there? Hello. Hello?”
I said, “Oh, yeah, pardon me, Mrs. Kaska. I’m still here. I was just thinking something. You wouldn’t know the town he’s in, would you?” I had to hear it. I had to be sure.
“Why certainly,” she said. “It’s a little place called Greenwood
I hung up. I dialed the number she’d given me. A woman answered.
“Jill?” I said.
“Hi, Fred,” she said. “Where have you been? Dick’s been trying to reach you all day. Are you home now?”
“Home. Is Dick there?”
“No, he’s been coming and going all day. But every time he gets back, he calls you.”
“Do you know what he wants?”
“This morning he wanted us all to go to breakfast. The rest of the times he said you weren’t home or you weren’t at the store, and Anita wasn’t home either. He saw a big hole in your garage. He said it looked patched up. He was wondering what happened. What on Earth did happen, Fred?”
“We were broken into.”
“Oh my God." Did they take anything?”
“I don’t know yet,” I lied. “I’m still taking inventory.”
“When did it happen?”
“While I was at the store this morning.”
“Dick said you didn’t work today.”
“I had to check on a few things. When I got home the house was broken into.”
“Did they get your guns?”
“No, they’re still here.”
“I know how proud you are of them. I’m glad you didn’t lose any. How is Anita?”
“She went to Mexico
“Without telling us?”
“Her father’s ill. It was the only flight we could get on short notice.”
“But neither of you said a word.”
“I’m sorry, Jill. I was busy with some problems and Anita had to pack and shop for presents for the whole family down there. When will Dick be home?” I liked Jill but her mind and conversation always seemed to get sidetracked.
“I don’t know for sure. He left right after supper. That was about five. About three hours ago. I suppose anytime now. I can have him call you as soon as he gets home.”
“Fine. Look, is there any possibility you or dick might know a fellow named Hank Kaska?”
“Sure. He’s staying with us right now. Why?”
“I just wondered. That’s all. How long has he been there, visiting you?”
“About a week. Maybe ten days. Why? Is anything wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re sure? You sound funny.”
“No, I’m sure. How long have you guys known him?” I was struggling to keep my voice normal.
“He came around a couple of times last year. I never saw him before then. Why?”
“What about between then and now?”
“Do you mean has he been around? Have I seen him? No, but he’s been in town a number of times. Dick goes out with him whenever he’s around. Why? What are all these questions about, Fred? What’s wrong?”
“I’m just curious.”
“You certainly are.” She chuckled to show she’d made a joke. I chuckled with her.
“Is Hank there now, with you?”
“No, Dick’s out with him. Do you want to talk with him too when they get here?”
“No, just do me a favor, okay?”
“Sure, what?”
“Keep this between just you and me. Just the two of us, okay?”
“Well, sure, if you say so. But why all the mystery?”
“I’m working up a little surprise. So this is between just the two us. Right?”
“It must be some surprise.”
“It is. I promise.”
“I guess so then. Sure, why not. Dick loves a good surprise.”
“Good, he won’t be disappointed. Have him call me.”
I sat at the bar and re-examined Kaska’s letters, doing what I should have done the night before. I put them in order by dates. The first two were written in the first week of August the year before. The next were from the following four-week period. Ruthie was murdered at the end of the third week of September, two weeks after Kaska’s letter.
Hank Kaska had been in Greenwood Stanton Stanton Stanton Greenwood instead of going to LA or San Francisco
So many whys.
Like the Orientals watching my home. Why?
Why the break-in? Was it connected to Ruthie? What had they wanted from my house? Nothing valuable. Nothing appeared to have been taken.
Sol what had been the purpose?
Something incrimination?
That fit with valuables not having been stolen. That seemed sensible. But then, is a break-in ever sensible?
I went back over everything I’d learned in the past fifty-odd hours. Some of the threads connected to Stanton Clark and the Rainbows. Some ended here in my home. And my home had been broken into.
I decided on another search.
I had been in Ruthie’s room only once during the whole period from her murder until last night. Whether Anita had been in it or not, I couldn’t say. For all of that time though, the door had remained closed and nothing had been disturbed or straightened, and Anita and I never talked about it. With Ruthie’s death we’d just more or less let her room die too. We’d closed its door and shoved it into the twilight zone of unresolved grief. Ruthie no longer existed so her room no longer existed either. Much like a firewalker shuts out pain, we had shut her room and its contents out of our lives. Now, for the third time in only two days, I was forced to let into my life again.
Ruthie had never been a girl. Not in the ordinary sense. No frills, no ribbons, no lace, very little perfume, few cosmetics, no dresses, no high heels. Until that time at ten when she began building her secrecy barrier, she’d seemed a little girl. She’d had a bike, played soccer, studied sax, started cooking, hiked, swum, learned to beat me at pool, earned A’s and B’s, seldom missed school, teased everybody silly, and played outlandish tricks.
Then Chilpancingo and she was constantly running away and coming back. Her room was always there for her, but it remained spare and basically uninhabited. Not even a poster on the walls.
One thing she had done though was to write. When se was eight she wrote a story about an alligator that lived in the bathtub. Implausibly it got it’s tail stuck in the drain and the family went through tremendous shenanigans to save the trapped appendage. It was a surprisingly good story for an eight-year-old. She’d written regularly after that, even when she was home from running away. She’d write for hours. Correcting, polishing, rewriting, throwing unwanted sheets in the basket beside her desk.
I stopped. The basket wasn’t beside the desk. It wasn’t there last night either. It was in the corner the full length of the wall from her desk.
My imagination? Had the desk been moved? After all, I’d seldom come in here. It wasn’t my domain. It was hers, the domain of a teenage female. I visualized the room as I remembered her keeping it. No, the desk hadn’t been moved.
I went to the wastebasket. I saw nothing unusual anywhere around it. I picked it up. From the matted ring in the carpet the basket had been there for some time. The carpet was still hooked down tightly to the carpet strip. I put the basket down.
I was sure this was no coincidence. No was I imagining something unwarranted. Ruthie was, had been, a very orderly though secretive person. She’d left those letter scraps there to be found. She’d also left them where they should have been obvious. She just hadn’t counted on my slow wittedness evidently nor our grief.
I cast about the room again. Nothing else was out of the ordinary. At least I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I turned my attention back to the basket. I thought about the letters, discarded their information. Ruthie had been trying to get our attention with the basket and the letters. What then had she wasted us to notice?
I moved the basket aside and got down on hands and knees to examine the carpet minutely. It was intact and undisturbed. I examined the walls and ceiling. Nothing. I lay on my stomach and looked under the furniture. Nothing. I examined the baseboard, window frames, and doorframe. Still nothing.
Maybe whatever she’d tried to draw our attention to was gone now. Maybe whoever broke in this morning found it.
But what had they been looking for then? How could they have found it when I couldn’t?
Simple. They knew what they were looking for while I hadn’t ever recognized what I was looking at. Like this stupid wastebasket thing.
I was brought up short again. I had to close my eyes to visualize it this time. When I opened them I still wasn’t sure. I considered it for some moments, then saw the way to prove or disprove my doubts. I checked the impression in the carpet by the desk, then the one in the corner. The impression in the corner was square, yet oval by the desk. Also, the corner basket was green. Memory though told me Ruthie’s was blue. Where was the blue one? The oval one?
I searched the house. It wasn’t anywhere. I made a drink and mulled over the great wastebasket switch. I returned to Ruthie’s room, grabbed the wastebasket to re-examine it but dropped the damned thing. It fell on its side. Bending to pick it up I sloshed my drink on myself. I realized the scotch was having its effect. I reached for the basket again.
A four-inch-by-four-inch square of white was taped to the bottom. I pulled it off. Another smaller white square fell on the carpet. I picked it up, studied them both. The first was a Polaroid picture. The second was a note in Spanish, done in tiny printing:
Queridos papa y mamá, it started, my dear Dad and Mom. Continuing in Spanish it said, Things would be so different if we could talk, especially about my grandfather and my uncle. I love you both and I know you love me. I just wish you understood me. I wish you would try harder, too. And I wish you would listen. Really listen and understand. You think I am so pure, but it is only because you want to see me that way. You still see me as your little girl. You pure clean little girl, but I am not. I am not little anymore. Nor am I anything else you think I may be. I only wish you could have tried harder to understand me. I am going somewhere with a friend. Put the pieces together and you’ll know who. If anything happens to me, talk to Barbaracita. I love you both. I wish things could be different.
Love, Ruthie.
P.S. Mamá, yo no estaba mintiendo en cuanto a lo de mi tío y mi abuelo. Mom, I wasn’t lying about the business with my uncle and grandfather.
I hadn’t wept when we were told about Ruthie´s murder. Actually we weren’t told. First, we heard on the news that September evening that the body of a young woman or girl had been found in a shallow grave in a state park north of Greenwood
¨Her friends have been calling all week, Fredi,” Anita said her face and voice tight with fear.
¨But, she’s done this how many times before?” I tried to disguise my growing uneasiness.
“She has always left a note,” Anita continued in Spanish.
I nodded. She was right. Ruthie always left a note though she may not, hardly ever in fact, have told us where she was disappearing to or when to expect her to return.
“I think you should call the sheriff, Fredi.” Her voice was firm, though still fearful.
“Let’s wait,” I suggested.
“For what?”
“To see if she calls. To see if her friends get word of some kind.”
Anita went into the bedroom and closed the door, which was strange because it was suppertime. She returned in about fifteen minutes. She was wringing her hands.
“Fredi, the sheriff thinks we should go to his office as soon as possible.”
“You called the sheriff?”
“Yes, I told him about the rose and he thinks we should go to his office.”
Ruthie had gone to a carnival the summer she turned twelve, the summer she became a different person. A few weeks after the carnival we went on a family picnic at the nearby gravel quarries. There was lots of sand and deep cold water for swimming and fishing. While I fished, Dick, Ruthie, and their mother swam and sunbathed. I didn’t see the rose until I joined them late in the afternoon.
Ruthie was wearing her bikini. The rose was tattooed on her chest just above her halter on the right side. She’d gotten it done at a tattoo parlor at the carnival.
We went to meet with Cass Howard and detective Jake Johnson. They asked us for pictures which didn’t really help because the body they had was pretty badly decomposed. Also, the girl had been strangled. Strangulation swells the face to balloon proportions, distorting the features beyond recognition generally. The face turns dark blue, the tongue projects, and the eyes bulge. It isn’t at all pretty. Nothing like on TV. Cass asked us how long our daughter had been missing.
“A little more than a week,” Anita said.
“But she’s done it before,” I said.
“Your wife said Ruthie has a tattoo,” the Johnson said.
I nodded. “A rose. Right here just above the halter line.” I pointed to the area on my chest.
The sheriff handed Johnson a picture and Johnson showed it to me. It showed a dark reddish-brown skin under the tattoo, a shoulder, a breast, and a part of the rib cage. I couldn’t speak. I could only stare.
Jake gently took the picture from my fingers. Just as gently, he said, “Is it Ruthie?”
I nodded. Anita gasped. I put my arms around her. She put a handkerchief to her eyes her streaming tears. I hugged her a long time until her sobbing diminished to crying.
During the questions that followed I had to wipe my eyes and blow my nose a few times. But I never cried, never really mourned. Not even at the funeral service, nor during the yearlong investigation, nor during the trial.
Now, though, looking at the note the tears began to come, began to stream. The sobbing came too and I buried my face in my arms and wept. The pain came out in moans and gulps and cries and groans; sounds I never thought I could make.
My daughter had loved us. She wanted us to understand her, to try harder to understand her. As if we hadn’t tried.
Youth. B=Stupid blind youth.
I wept and wept and wept. Until the tears weren’t there to weep. Until my face bloated. Until my stomach and ribs hurt. Until my handkerchief was soaked. Until the sobs were gone. Until I was weak and tired and sick and my eyes were sand dry and raw. Until dried up and aching I went into the kitchen to make coffee.
The year Ruthie was five, we gave her a Ken and Barbie doll set for Christmas, and los abuelos in Chilpancingo gave her a set of hand-tailored clothes for them. The dolls immediately became her favorite toys. Unlike Dick, Ruthie seldom broke or lost her toys. Ken and Barbie were kept in almost perfect condition.
The picture from the bottom of the wastebasket was taken by her uncle Hector that Christmas. In it Ruthie was standing by the tree in the house of los abuelos. She was holding Ken and Barbie. She was still in her pajamas, curled into an overstuffed chair, asleep. Barbie was dressed in a Mexican bridal gown, Ken in a Mexican tuxedo compete with the cumber bun and a white-on-white shirt with frilled cuffs and collar and lace down each side of buttons on the front.
I reread the note. My eyes jerked back over the last three lines: I am going somewhere with a friend. Put the pieces together and you’ll know who. If anything happens to me, talk to Barbaracita.”
I held my newly rising sobs under control, forced them back down. Ruthie had known she was in danger. She’d left this behind as proof. She’d even told us so in a very clever manner: put the pieces together.
I’d already done that. I’d spent most of the night doing just that. I’d come up with seven letters and a name—Hank Kaska. She’d left this house to go somewhere with Kaska whose mother in Eugene , Oregon , said he was in Greenwood
If anything happens to me, ask Barbaracita, Ruthie had written. Not ask Hank. As Barbaracita.
She’d gone out with Hank. Hank had seen her at Max Stanton’s. I knew no Barbara that Ruthie knew except for the one in this picture.
I studied it. I saw the dress and shoes. I turned the fire off under the coffeepot, returned to Ruthie’s room. Ken was on the chest of drawers. He was wearing his Mexican tuxedo. Barbie was nowhere to be seen.
Ask Barbaracita, my clever daughter had written. I remembered the content of the drawers and the closet. I reconstructed putting away everything this morning. Mentally, I walked myself back through the entire cleanup. The doll hadn’t been there.
So. Consider it highly probable that they got what they were looking for. But also consider it possible that your very clever and lying daughter his Barbaracita somewhere. Yes, consider that.
I didn’t need to consider for very long. I went to my bedroom and removed some of the clothes from the master closet. I put a chair inside and stood on it. I removed the ceiling panel and pulled myself into the attic.
This had become one of Ruthie’s favorite places to hide and play when she was eight or so. She saw the panel when I painted the closet one weekend and she’d just had to climb into the attic to look around. After that she regularly climbed the stepladder and played up there in “her house.” Frequently her house became her castle and she went through a period of costuming herself in all types of clothes. It was also her favorite place to play dolls.
I pulled the chain and the light came on above the entrance hole. Boxes were stacked on both sides of the attic. It was chilly up there despite the warmth in the house from the furnace. Stooping, I followed the boards lain across the joists down to the area above the garage. There I found the dollhouse I’d given her for her tenth Christmas. Barbie was stuck down behind it. Her Mexican wedding dress was dust smudged. Feeling like a voyeur I removed the dress and slip. Nothing. I pulled of the right shoe. Nothing. I pulled off the left shoe. A tiny square of paper fell into the insulation between the joists. I retrieved it, opened it. Two printed words were inside. Key drawer.
I got down my hands and knees and peeked into the dollhouse. It was filled with miniature furniture, accurately detailed and pretty much scaled to the size of the dollhouse. I couldn’t see very well so I hauled it into the lighted area under the single bare bulb and peeked again.
After Ruthie got Ken and Barbie we started finding and giving her furniture for her doll family. By the time we found someone to build the dollhouse she had almost enough furniture to fill all the rooms. One of the first pieces we gave her was a vanity with an actual sliding center drawer.
Anita discovered the vanity at a March flea market and bought it because of the sliding drawer. Since Easter was three of four weeks later, I played a small trick on the kids. We didn’t put out Easter baskets. We simply put the ribbon-wrapped vanity on the kitchen table with an attached note that said the key is in the drawer. Of course they figured it out immediately and came across my second note giving more clues to the locations of more clues that finally led them to their baskets. Thereafter though, Ruthie said the vanity’s drawer was filled with magic keys, hence the name, key drawer.
The vanity was in one of the dollhouse’s upstairs bedrooms. I removed the breakaway siding and extracted the vanity. Another tiny note was in the center drawer. It said, in its minute print:
Mom and Daddy,
My bag is under the boards. The fact that you’re reading this means that something has happened to me. If you have proof that I’m still okay, give the bag to whoever asks for it, but only after I’m back safe and sound. The bag is locked. Please don’t open it. Please! I’m sorry to involve you. Forgive me. If anything happens to me, give the bag to the police.
Ruthie
It took time to find, but the bag was under the boards under the dollhouse. I toted it downstairs, closed the attic opening, put the clothing back, and returned the ladder to the garage.
I used my bolt cutters on the lock. Inside were eight sugar-white bundles sealed in heat shrink plastic. My hands shook as I recounted them. My breath shortened as I mentally totaled what I thought they might be worth. They looked uncut to my untrained eye and I’d heard that pure was running twenty-five to thirty thousand a kilo. I’d also heard that, by the time it reached the user, this stuff was one-tenth pure at best. The possible street value made me dizzy. Two to two-and-a-half million. My guts quivered at I realized the danger this stuff presented me and the family. My blood rushed as I repacked the bag.
Shaking, I closed the bag, leaving one package out. I didn’t want this stuff in the house. It was what the break-in was about. It was why Ruthie was murdered. They had been looking for these eight kilos of cocaine.
Ruthie was beckoning to me. Her eyes and face pleaded fearfully. Anita and Dick were on either side of me. Anita’s arms were outstretched in an entreaty to our daughter. Dick watched us all with a sly silent smile. Behind Grandpa Jim, my father, and Uncle Hector waited like referees I the murky edges. Around and behind us all, still deeper in the fog, were other nameless undefined faces that constantly shifted positions and murmured among themselves.
Ruthie was on a gallows. Her hands were tied behind her. Her feet were bound at the ankles. Her eyes rolled wide as a huge black shadow descended to her side to pull down a black cord. She opened her mouth to scream. The platform’s door opened and she plummeted through. She bounced like a ball at the end of a bungee cord. Her eyes bulged. Her face darkened. Her tongue swelled outward. Her legs jerked and jerked. The black cord thrummed and hummed. The black shadow laughed and waved it monstrous arms. It lifted into the air and flew at me, buzzing. Black venom dripped from its wingtips.
I reached for Ruthie. The buzzing got louder. I lunged. The buzzing vibrated through my head. I lunged again. Everything faded except the intensifying buzzing.
It was five-thirty a.m. The bedside alarm was telling me to get up. I palmed the snooze bar and lay considering the dream, then the day ahead.
Monday: the day after I’d discovered Ruthie was big time into cocaine.
Monday: My morning for opening the store. An hour-and-a-half to shower, breakfast, and get there.
Monday: roughly thirty hours alone in my home and I’d learned more about my daughter than I even cared to consider.
Monday: Ah, yes. Monday.
I rose.
I decided while showering. I called George when I was toweled dry and dressed. His wife answered. It took him a couple of minutes to get to the phone.
“I’m not going to be in the store for a few days,” I said. “I want you and Paula to handle it while I’m gone. Can you do that?”
“You just robbed me of my day off.”
“I’ll make it up.”
“Hell, Fred, I know that. We all know it. Oh . . . , listen, there’s something a little strange. I want to talk to you yesterday when you picked up the deposit, but I got tied up.”
“I know how it goes. What’s bothering you?”
“Well, yesterday morning the office didn’t look right, if you know what I mean. It didn’t look normal.”
“How so?
“Oh, like the small-change drawer wasn’t quite closed. Paperwork on the desk was messy or crooked. Not quite right. Some of the record boxed seemed to be moved. If I didn’t know better, I’d sear the place was searched.”
“Anything else?”
“There was this guy. An Oriental. Maybe Thai, maybe Vietnamese. He was asking about you and Anita.”
My grip tightened on the receiver. “What kind of things did he ask?”
“Things like if Anita was enjoying herself in Mexico
“Who did he talk to?”
“Three or four of the kids. I don’t think anyone would have caught on if one of them hadn’t mentioned during a coffee break. Later too, Kathy, that new cashier Paula hired, asked who the Oriental guy back by the time clock was. She said he was studying the worksheet. When he saw Kathy though, he went back out on the floor.”
The time clock was in the back room by the produce section near the toilets and water cooer. “Maybe he just got himself a drink.”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t convinced.
“What does he look like?”
“He’s dressed pretty mod. He was wearing those silvery sunglasses. I think he’s new to the area. He’s only been coming in for the last moth or so. You weren’t in the store last night by any chance?”
“No, why?”
“The security patrol found the meat-department door open. They called me about two a.m. They said you didn’t answer your phone.”
“I’ve had a hard weekend. Was everything okay?”
“It seemed to be except for what I told you.”
“That’s the lock that’s been sticking, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have the locksmith check it.”
“Anything else?”
“Any idea how long you’ll be off?”
“A few days at least. If I have and problems, I’ll let you know. I’ve got some pressing business to take care of. I can’t handle it and the store at the same time.”
“I understand. Paula and I’ll work it out. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks, George.” I hung up.
We’d had some trouble with one of the back door locks, but not the one found open last night. Putting that together with the events of the last two days, I came up with a picture less than soothing. Especially after finding Ruthie’s little bag of tricks.
The cocaine was the main link I’d been missing in this whole mess. Maybe I still didn’t have it all figured out, but I knew enough now that I was a lot more confident about what I was going to do.
I scrambled eggs, fried bacon, and made coffee and toast. I ate while the coffee finished perking then put away two cups so fast my tongue screamed from the scalding. I poured a third cup and mulled over what the day was going to bring. The third cup drunk, I went to the gun safe.
What Huey Black hadn’t seen while admiring the rifle and shotgun collection were the five locked pistol cases in the drawers. The drawers had all had different keys than the main door. Each pistol case also had its own key. So it took three keys and a lot of patience to get any of the pistols. I got out the nine millimeter Ruger, relocked everything, and went to the garage ammo box where I loaded a clip, stuck it in the gun, and jacked a round into the chamber. Then I took out the clip, added another round, and shoved the clip back into the pistol. Putting two more loaded clips into my pockets, I relocked the ammo box and put the gun in my belt at the small of my back. Feeling a little ridiculous with the gun in my belt, I went through the house and collected Ruthie’s letters, her notes, Barbie and the picture, and put them all in a plastic bag which I put in Ruthie’s gym bag.
Next, I took one of the two bags I’d kept out and divided its contents into four smaller plastic bags. I resealed each of those into separate larger bags which I taped shut. I washed the counter and sink and the equipment I used for the work. I threw the original wrappings in the garbage, scrubbed my hands thoroughly, and burned the garbage in the backyard barrel, finishing up around eight. I got into an insulated jump suit and thermal boots, grabbed my hat, gloves and packages, and drove to downtown.
The Sheriff’s Department is the south wing of the County Courthouse
I bypassed the desk with the deputy struggling over paperwork and went through the door on the right where the sheriff’s receptionist stopped me. She remembered from the Ruthie’s murder investigation.
“Mr. Blivens?” she said. I nodded. “You’re probably looking for Sheriff Howard?”
“I also want to talk to Huey Black or Jake Thompson.”
She considered. “Detective Black’s in his office. You know where that is?”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
He was cocked back in his chair--his feet up on another chair--studying the contents of a file folder perched precariously on his belt buckle.
“Have a seat,” he said. I took the remaining chair. I loosened my jump suit. “Here to look at the reports?”
“Of the break in? Partly. I’ll do that first if you want.”
He thrust them sideways toward me. “I’m up to my ears in something else here. I’d just like you to verify if that’s the basic info and that it’s accurate.”
I read the reports. Despite the stilted language, they covered the situation. I put them on the corner of the desk. “Do you need initials or anything?”
He closed his folder, put his fee down, and turned to lean his arms on the desk. “No, I just wanted to be sure of the facts. Like Joe Friday. Just the facts.”
I had to smile.
He said, “So what can I do for you, Fred?”
I laid the still intact second bag of cocaine on his desk. “You can tell me what think this is.”
He didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Where’d you get it?”
“In my attic. I was going through boxes looking for my daughter’s Barbie doll when I found it.”
“You have an attic?”
“The entry is through a closet. Do you think this could be what they were looking for yesterday?”
He hadn’t touched the bag yet. “Could be, if it’s what we both think it is.”
“Can you tell if it is?”
Sure.” He cut through the shrink-wrap, handled only the sealing edge of the bag inside. He sniffed the contents carefully, and then tasted a tiny amount from his index finger. “Jesus.”
“It sounds like it is then.”
“Purer than anything I’ve come across. How’d it get into your attic?”
“I think Ruthie put it there. She left a note that only I or her mother could understand. I didn’t find it until last night. The note got me to looking for the Barbie doll and I came across this.”
“Why would you need to look for a doll?”
“It was something special to her. She used it as a kind of code. I found doll on top of that.”
“Do you know what you’re doing to me, Fred?” His elbows were on the desk, his fingers laced together, and his mouth resting against his fingers.
“You asked me the same question last night.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? So Ruthie knew this stuff was in your attic.”
“I think she did. I don’t see any other way it might have gotten there.”
“You son or your wife?”
“Dick never had any interest in the attic and Anita never went into it. She’d have had to climb a ladder, but she’s afraid of them. She wouldn’t have gone up there, not ever. That leaves Ruthie.”
“And you brought it to us for what reason?”
“Maybe it’s why we’re being watched. Maybe they’re who broke in. They want that.” I nodded to the bag.
Leaning back, he lit a cigarette, looked long and hard at me, and blew out the smoke. “I’m going to tell you something that was never said in your hearing. Understand?”
“Sure. Top secret. I don’t have a problem with that.”
He glanced at the cocaine. “This stuff’s been coming into Greenwood County
“Why do say dangerously?”
“It’s the stuff they cut it with. They use stuff that kills people or fries their brains. This stuff here is the first sign of quantity or quality. Putting this together with what you told Cass, it could be Ruthie was working for the main distributor. Maybe she was a mule. We won’t know for a long time if we ever do. But this is a good break for us.”
“I’m beginning to think she was killed for this.”
“Or because of it.”
“How’s that.”
“She might have tried ripping her employer off. You said she left a note.”
“I found it just last night.”
“It took you a whole year?”
“Huey, look, she was clever as hell about hiding it because she wanted only her mother or me to find it. I new almost immediately where to look when I read it. And that’s when I found this stuff.”
“Where was the note?”
“Taped to the bottom of a wastebasket. In her room.”
He went to a file cabinet, dug around, came back, and handed me a picture of her room the way it was yesterday after the break in. “This the one?”
“That’s it.”
“And it took you a year to find it?”
“Look. It hurt to go into that room. Both my wife and me. We haven’t been in there this whole year except that night we checked her clothes for your investigation.”
He smoked and studied me. I could see his mind working the idea over. I didn’t offer any help. Just like love, you can’t explain grief.
If the break in was because of the coke,” he said, “why did they wait so damn long to come looking for it?”
Again, I have to point out that I’m not that quick sometimes. The direction of this question completely eluded me. I said, “Huey, you’re the detective. Me? I’m the grocer. Maybe their patience ran out. Maybe they were trying to get stuff back without being obvious. Maybe . . . , probably, they didn’t know where to look.”
“What about another possibility, Fred? What about if there’s nowhere else for them to look?” His black eyes bored into me like twin bullets.
“There is now. They can look here.” I rose, went to the door.
He said, “Thanks, Fred. If I ever want to start a way….”
“I’ve got what you need.” He grinned back at me. I said, “You really think that stuff’s pure?”
He nodded. “I’m sure but we’ll have it tested to be positive.”
“Off hand, what do think it’s worth?”
“Street value?” He considered. He hefted the bag. “Probably a kilo. For this area, maybe a hundred thou.”
“What about someplace else? The East Coast maybe?”
A couple of times that.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “That’s why so many bodies turn up in the Everglades .”
“Well--” I raised my hand.
“Keep in touch.”
He was already rewrapping the package when I closed the door. I drove to the bank where I locked the contents of the blue gym bag in a safe deposit. It took twenty-minutes to get from the bank to the industrial park on Greenwoods east side. Quality Express was in a small prefab office building plunked at the edge of one of the hindmost streets. Ten or twelve semi trailers ere parked on the snowplowed lot. The lot was large enough for a sixty-mile-an-hour u-turn. A blue-jeaned fellow in his late twenties glanced up from the computer in front of him when I entered.
“What’re you selling?” he demanded.
“Dressed like this?”
He shrugged. “You never can tell. So what can I do for you?” He didn’t sound interested in doing much.
“I came to see Mr. Stanton.”
“Lotsa luck, pal.” His grin wasn’t full of mirth.
“If he’s busy, I can wait.”
“You’ll have to wait a hell of a long time then. He’s not here. He never is. It’s just me and the bookkeeper.” He jerked his chin toward the door on his left.
“How can I get in touch with him?”
“The phone maybe? I’m sure he’s got one in that mansion of his.”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know what I did wrong. Should I go out and come back in. Kind of start over?”
He scooted his chair back and sighed. “I’m sorry, buddy. No offense meant.”
“None taken.”
“It’s just that you get used to the crap there truckers dish out. Then you got these damned salesmen. And you’re only getting paid for one job when you’re really doing four or five.” He shrugged, spread his hands palms up. “See what I mean?”
“I see. It must be a rotten job.”
“It is now. Ever since that idiot gates killed that girl, Stanton
“I asked how to get hold of Mr. Stanton.”
“Try his home. His number’s listed.”
“You wouldn’t mind telling me a few things about him possibly?”
“You a cop?”
“No, this is a private investigation. It might involve Stanton
“I see. Private, huh. I’ll have to think about that. It may not be much but it’s the only job I’ve got.”
“Everything is strictly confidential.”
“Did you mention your name?”
“You got a license?”
“I don’t carry it with me. I’m a general investigator. Freelance. Making a few extra bucks. You know. Nothing glorified. I’ve got a driver’s license,” I said helpfully.
“I see.”
“Can you help me?”
“What do you want to know?”
“You said he’s been here even less since a girl was killed.”
“Right. One of truckers strangled this broad with a bungee. All the truckers use ‘em for hold doors open and tying down tarps and bundles, whatever. The last couple of months before Gates killed this broad, Stanton Stanton
“What are doing now that you didn’t before?”
“Trucker scheduling. Routing. Loads. Maintenance and repairs. Hiring and firing. Everything almost except for the finances. Kathy handles the books and the billing, so I don’t have to mess with that, thank God. I wouldn’t be able to anyway even if I knew how. There’s too damn much else to do.”
“Does Mr. Stanton appear worried about anything?”
“How would I know? He’s never here long enough to find out anything like that.”
“Does he seem pressed for time when he is here?”
“Not really. If you’re trying to get his attitude, I don’t think he gives a big capital f about this place.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need to.”
“Yeah? Why so?”
“Maybe you’re doing all the work for him.”
He ran his hand over his hair and sighed. “Believe me, buddy, it’s not anything I haven’t thought about.”
“Could you tell me how many trucks Quality Express has?”
“Eight that we own.”
“That’s all?”
“I said, ‘That we own.’ But they’re only a tiny bit of the business.”
“What’s the rest?”
“We contract loads to and from all points in the country. Most of the loads go on leased trailers or owner-operator rigs.”
“How do you contract the loads?”
He point to the phone and the computer. “Right there. Computer link and an eight hundred number. Usually, this time of day, I wouldn’t have time for you. With the snow all over from the Rockies to the East Coast things have slowed down. I’ll probably be humping hot and heavy in another hour or so though.” He popped a lifesaver into his mouth.
“You said you haul loads everywhere in the country?”
“That’s right.”
“Arizona California
“Coast to coast, border to border. All forty-eight contiguous states.”
“No ships yet?”
He laughed. “Nope, we don’t take in Alaska or Hawaii
“How many loads do you think the company moves a week?”
“Hundreds. We’re always looking for the next driver to call or come in.” ON cue the phone rang. “Well, back to work.”
He waved to me as he spoke into the phone. I raised my hand to him and closed the door between us. A semi pulled into the lot as I drove out. The guy had been right. It looked like he was going to hump it for a while.
Dick and Jill live in a ten-year-old split-level in an addition fifteen minutes from us. Jill was working at a print shop to help make their mortgage payments. She had ink on her apron and a wisp of pure blonde hair had escaper her ponytail. Seeing me come through the back door she waved and shut her machine off. She hugged me, then went ahead of me into the coffee room. “What’s the honor, Fred?” she said.
She poured two coffees, plunked sugar in both, handed one to me.
“I want to talk about Hank Kaska.”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Pretty much what I told you last night. Dick’s known him for a while though.”
“How did they meet?”
“Through Ruthie, I think. They were part of something called the Rainbows. I think Hank still is. Why?”
“I’m not sure. Even if I were, I don’t think I could say much. Have you noticed anything strange or questionable about Kaska?”
“Like what?”
“Habits, attitudes, clothes—anything at all.”
“Well, he’s hippie, if that means anything.”
“So, what’s a hippie these days?”
“You know how hippies dress. He wars all those weird clothes. All that tie-dyed and army-surplus stuff, and Indian clothes and perfume. He also wears an anklet with bells and he has a crystal erring in his ear. And he uses incense. Go, how he uses incense.”
“Anything else?”
We’d sat at a table. She leaned on her arms, gazed at her coffee, chewed her lip. I don’t want you to make more out of this than it probably is, but….” She glanced up, then back to her coffee. Her fingers were fiddling with her coffee cup.
I prodded, “But what?”
She cocked her head as though listening to some distant advisor. “I think he’s on dope.”
I waited. She went on, “No, I’m certain he’s on dope.”
“What kind?”
“Marijuana at least. Maybe other things. I can’t be sure.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Well, I’m sure of the marijuana. I’ve seen it and smelled it. His room reeks of it.”
“And the other?”
“I guess it’s mostly that he’s so strange, weird really. He’s either real up or real down. Kind of a.c. d.c. And about ever ten to twenty minutes he’s in the john or his room. It’s only for a few minutes each time, but he does it all day long. From when he gets up until he goes to bed. He’s got to be popping pills or something. It’s jut not normal.”
“Could it be marijuana?”
“Not a chance. I’ve smoked pot. It doesn’t do that to you. Marijuana calms you down, relaxes you. He’s never relaxed. He’s always wound so tight he’s ready to snap.”
“Did you tell Dick to call me last night?”
“They didn’t get home till after midnight. What kind of surprise…. No, you’re not setting up a surprise. You’re trying to find out about Hank. What’s going on?”
“Ask me no questions?”
“Just see if I buy you another cup of coffee.”
“Just see if I take you away from that drudge shop again.”
Laughing, she went back to work and I went to her house. They’d got it from a mortgage company for about thirty percent of market value. Dick had taken one of those creative real-estate seminars, then had gone looking. Two months later he’d sewed the deal up. I thought he was nuts when he took the seminar. But the, I’m a grocer.
Nobody answered the doorbell, so I returned to the car and considered what to do next. I was turning the key in the switch when a curtain in an upstairs window moved. I glimpse a pasty white face before the curtain fell back into place. I rang the bell again.
I didn’t stop.
For six minutes I alternately leaned on the bell and pounded on the door. I was near to breaking it in when it opened. I recognized him immediately, just as he’d recognized me. I’d first seen him with a gun in his hand when Clark Roberts and I haggled over Ruthie’s handbag. He didn’t have the gun in hand now.
I said, “Excuse me. I was looking for Dick.” I turned as if to leave, at the same time pulling off my right glove and shoving it into my pocket.
He said, “No problem, man.”
I said, “Wrong.”
He said, “Huh?”
There are ways to slug and there are way to punch. I did neither. I hit him.
The blow landed solidly and squarely on his forehead directly between his eyes. It was a sucker punch. It landed with a wonderful satisfying smack. And with all of my frustration behind it.
His eyes glazed and he stumbled backward to fall over a coffee table. I shut the door and kicked him in the liver. He screamed and doubled up. I kicked him again in the small of the back. He screamed again and jerked his upper body off the floor. I said, “There is a problem, man. You’re the problem. And we’re going to straighten some things out here and now or I’ll go on with the kick and punch routine we do. Understand, man?” I shook a fistful of hair.
He gasped, reached for my wrists.
I shook the hair again. “Ah ah. No hands.”
He dropped them.
I said, “You understand?”
He gasped, “I understand.”
I released his hair and wiped the grease of them on my insulated suit. He inched backward to lean against the couch, clamped his elbow and left hand over his liver. I was surprised I hadn’t knocked him out. I squatted in front of him and jabbed his solar plexus. His eyes bugged out. His face turned red. His mouth made croaking sounds.
I said, “Now here’s the way it is. I’ve got a year’s worth of shit all bottled up and trying to explode. You seem to be the logical place to let it blow. As a matter fact, I can’t think of a better place.”
He gasped out, “Why, man? What’ve I done to you?”
“I think you killed my daughter for starters.”
He shook his head, tried to back into the couch.
I said, “So now you’re going to tell me everything you know or suspect about Max Stanton peddling drugs.”
Having stopped gasping, he was panting. I waited a few seconds, then tapped him on the windpipe. He cawed and hacked and held his throat with both hands and I jabbed a nerve in his shoulder. He screamed, twisting away. I stuck a finger into the side of his neck. She screamed and arched.
I said, “Hank, I can keep this up all day. There are a couple of hundred more places on your body every bit as painful. I guarantee I’ll go through each and every one of until you open that rotten mouth of yours.” I poked a spot below his right arm.
He gritted his teeth. I waited.
He said, “Stanton
“Very good. Don’t stop now.”
“What do you want?”
“Where’s it coming from?”
“Everywhere. His trucks pick it up all over the country and deliver it somewhere else.”
“Who’s supplying it.”
“I don’t know any names.”
I backhanded him with a balled fist. His nose crunched and blood sprayed. He screamed again. I said, “Names.”
“García,” he blubbered through his hands and the blood.
“Where?”
“Mexico Acapulco
“How do you know about it?”
“I made the run with Ruthie a couple of times.”
“What town. What’s the name?”
“Chilpancingo.”
“Describe him.”
“A fat slob. Dresses like a million buck. Gold rings. Diamonds. Glasses like coke-bottle bottoms.”
“What’s his first name?”
“I don’t know. He’s just Señor García. He doesn’t even speak English. At least he didn’t around me. Can I have a rag or something?” Blood dripped all over his tee shirt.
“Where’d you meet him?”
“In Chilpancingo, man. With Ruthie.”
“When you picked up the coke, where did you meet?”
“In parking lots.”
I prodded another nerve. He groaned. I said, “Try again.”
“In a car repair shop.”
“Where?”
“Cinco de mayo street.”
“That’s where they put the stuff in the car.”
“Go on, explain.”
“Some dude in LA welded compartments into the car. The stuff was put in while we went for a walk.”
“In LA?”
“No, that’s where the compartments were made. The stuff was loaded in Mexico
“How’d you get it across the border?”
“Easy. We just drove across.”
“What about the dogs?”
“They never smelled it. The guy in LA guaranteed the compartments. Said they were dog proof. They were too.”
“Who is this guy.”
“Ruthie knew him. I didn’t.”
I jammed a finger into his windpipe. When he stopped gagging, he gasped, “No more, man! Please, no more! I’m telling it straight. Jesus Christ, man! I don’t know who he is. Please, no more.”
I settled back.
“Okay, who killed Ruthie?”
“I don’t know. If it’s not Gates, then I don’t have any idea.”
I considered him for a minute. He was panting and sweating. Blood smeared his face, his shirt, and his hands. His eyes rolled wildly each time I moved.
“Did you kill her?”
“Me? God no, man! I loved her.”
“Why do you think she was killed?”
He struggled with that one. I let him. As my patience was about gone, he said, “Maybe she kept some of the stuff she was supposed to deliver.”
“What makes you think she might have?”
“Stanton
“You took the car?”
“She left the keys in it.”
“Why would she keep some of the stuff back?”
“I don’t know, man. She was always doing crazy stuff.”
For example.”
“Like marrying Beaver Man.”
“Beaver Man?”
“Clark .”
“How was that crazy?”
“She didn’t love him. Everybody knew it. She wouldn’t even sleep with him. She told me that herself.”
“Then why did she marry him?”
“To take care of her kid, man. What else? That’s the only reason. She even laughed about it when he wasn’t around.”
“She had a baby?”
“You didn’t know? How about that? She didn’t even tell you. See what I mean about her doing crazy things?”
Yes, I was beginning to see. I said, “You told me you don’t have any idea who killed her.”
He nodded.
“Do you think she was alive when they carried her out of Stanton
He leaned back. His hand was down from his face. His nose was swelling. “I tired not to think about it.”
I snatched a finger, bent it backward. He yelled; I bent it farther. “Look, Kaska, you should know by now I’m serious. No tell me the truth about Stanton
I bent the finger still farther. He cried out, fell on his face, arm bent behind him with me applying more and more pressure.
“It wasn’t that way!” he groaned. The finger snapped. He yelled, moaned for a while. When he stopped and was simply whimpering, I said, “Nine left. What way was it?”
He writhed. I had hold of another finger.
“She came out alone, man! She came out and took me home! I didn’t see her after that!” I bent the second finger. “It’s the truth! I swear it, I swear it!”
I eased off. “Where were you living then?”
“With the family.”
“The house on Franklin
He nodded into the carpet.
“When did you see her again?”
“That was it. That was the last time.”
I released his hand. He rolled onto his back and sat up after a few seconds.
“Okay,” I said, “the coke. Where did you deliver it too?”
“Once to a trucking company in LA and the second time here.”
“Where here?”
“The maintenance garage Stanton
“Where’s that?”
“Out in the industrial park. S&S repair.”
“What happened when you got there?’
“We left her car and drove around in another one they gave her for a couple of hours. Then she went back and picked up her car.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
“Not even in LA, man. She made e wait somewhere else. She said it was in case anything went wrong. In case she was hurt or something.”
“What were you supposed to do if something did go wrong?”
He looked surprised. “She never said.”
“One more time. Why do you think she kept some stuff back?”
He was holding his broken finger. Blood still dripped from his chin onto his shirt. “You’d kill me, wouldn’t you?”
“Gladly.”
He grimaced. “You’re not at all like she said you were.”
“Oh?”
“She said you’d believe anything. That you were one of the biggest fools she knew.”
Waiting until I had control, I said, “Now answer the question.”
“About her keeping stuff back?”
“I’m getting impatient.”
“Hey, man, okay!” He thrust up his good hand to stop me. “She let it drop on both trips. She said she was making money on both ends.”
“That’s all she said?”
“It’s enough. It sounded like she was being paid to run the stuff, then somehow she ripped off some for herself.”
“Why do you think Stanton
“I don’t know anything for sure. He might be selling it too. But she thought he was too smart to peddle it.”
“Why?”
“If it was ever found in his warehouse, it would already be packed for shipping. He’d be in the clear. Like sending it through the mail, man.” He laughed at what he thought was a cute joke. But he didn’t laugh long. He hurt too much.
“About this García in Chilpancingo. You never heard another name, first or last?”
He shook his head.
“Where’s her baby?”
“She’s not a baby anymore. She’s four or five years old.”
“Where is she?”
“Ask Beaver Man. He knows.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the baby’s name?”
“Meadow.”
“Where was Meadow while Ruthie stayed at home last year?”
“Shit, she wasn’t at home. Oh, you mean your place. Hey, man, look, I’m hurtin’ bad.”
“You can hurt worse.”
He swallowed.
“Where did she leave Meadow?”
“With the family. With Beaver Man.
“Where?”
“Him and Meadow went to Arkansas
“Who did he leave her with?”
“Buzz and Monica.”
“Last names?”
“I don’t know. All I ever heard them called is Buzz and Monica.”
“Where do they live?”
“Some little town not far from Hot Springs
“Any idea where?”
“From Hot Springs
I nodded.
He shrugged, winced. “I think she said it’s on Route 7 twenty or so miles north of town. She went there kind of often to get crystals and stuff from the rock shops. Her and Beaver Man make. . . made jewelry and sold it to them. Just ask around. She said everybody there knows everybody else. She laughed about. But she really liked the place.”
“I’ve read some of your letters, Hank,” I said.
“So what?”
“One of them mentioned money, some kind of angle with me.”
“Oh, yeah. That.”
“Tell me about it.”
“A bunch of us in Phoenix
“What kind of shop were you going to set up?”
“Shop?” He puzzled over it.
“You said it in your letters. Among other things.”
“Oh. Okay. A jewelry shop. I make jewelry too.”
“Who threatened you last year?”
“I don’t know anything about any threats.”
I took out the Ruger. “Hank, I’m tired of this shit. Almost as much as I’m tired of you and you lies. The next one is going to cost you a knee. Then the other. Then a shoulder. Now do you want to tell me about the threats?”
His eyes riveted on the gun barrel. “Honest to Jesus, I don’t know anything about any threats.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. Tears squeezed out from under the lids. He was shaking.
I’d been studying him carefully. His arms were clear. I could make him take his pants off and examine his legs and scrotum, but that wasn’t why I was here. I said, “Okay, I believe you. What brought you back here from Phoenix
“When?”
“Last year. When she was murdered.”
“I missed her, man. I needed her. I loved her.”
“She was married.”
“But she was my woman.”
I sighed. The anger was draining away and in its stead a feeling of foulness and filth was growing.
“One last question. Whose car did she use on the runs?”
“Her own.”
“The Honda wagon?”
He snorted, grimaced, coughed. “Honda, crap! She hated those things. It was a Dodge, man. Looks and sounds like a bomb, but it runs real good….”
He’d realized too late to take it back. I put the gun away. I’d felt foolish with it anyway. I hadn’t needed it on him. I’d taken it our mostly to satisfy my own need.
I said, “Why’s it still pared at the house?”
“She locked it up. Nobody knows where the keys are, so we just let it sit.”
“Okay,” I said, “you’d better hope I don’t have to come back.”
I went out. As the door closed I heard him begin to swear. Sick as he’d made me, I felt sorry for him. Broken nose, broken finger, broken spirit, he had to live with the fact the fact that he was tough only in his own mind.
Somewhere on the way to S&S Repair the little white car found me. It hung back always three or four cars away. It was about two blocks back when I parked the Rabbit next tot the repair shop. I went into the lighted cubicle on the left and a sandy-haired man in his late thirties looked up and said, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure who to talk with. I heard you work on cars here now and then.”
His blunt calloused fingers were imbedded with little lines of grease. He said, laying pen down, “This is a truck repair shop. Sorry.”
“Last year a girl I know said your shop does special body work on cars. She had a white Dodge she brought here. She said she got a good deal with you folks.”
He contemplated me for several seconds. He chewed his cheek and squinted. “I don’t think you’ve got the right place. We don’t work on cars.”
“Her name is Ruthie.”
“Yeah, well, the next time you see her you better ask her for the right place.”
“No dice, huh?”
“We don’t work on cars.”
“Would Mr. Stanton say that same thing?”
I could see the slow burn rising. He held it in check really well, but some of it got out in his voice. “Look, fellow, I think you’d better leave.”
I walked over and sat on a chair by his desk. “Listen, I’ve got a car with some special compartments in it. They’re dog proof. I can take a trip across the border and come back any time as long as the money’s right. Okay? I need money pretty bad. I could make a round trip in ten or eleven days with no sweat. And I speak Spanish. Come on, give me a break. Okay?” I was beginning to surprise myself. Maybe I should have gone into acting.
“You sound like a charity case.”
“Do I look like a charity case? Come on, I’m just in a little bit of a jam. I need some fast cash. Ruthie said you pay pretty good. How about it?”
Taking his pen, he wrote on a pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to me.
“Call that number. Tell them Jack gave it too you.”
“Thanks.” I rose to leave. “Thanks a lot.” I tried to look humble and grateful.
“One more thing.”
I stopped in the doorway.
“Don’t come back here unless somebody sends you or you’re driving a rig.”
The Reo was on the floor and the mechanic was working under the hood when I went out through the garage. I didn’t see the little white car when I drove away in the Rabbit.
I’d learned a lot that morning. Maybe more than I’d really wanted to know. But with just a little poking and prodding, hah hah, I’d dug out more information than Huey Black, or Cass Howard, or Jake Thompson in their two years of drug investigation. And I’d begun to get some kind of focus on the real Ruthie behind that stonewall. I wasn’t sure I lied what I saw, but the picture was fast filling in. All in all I was pleased, though.
* * *
Copyright 1998 by Will Wyckoff.
All rights reserved.
Copyright 1998 by Will Wyckoff.
All rights reserved.
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