“No crumpled receipt, no uncollected mail, no indent of a scribbled number or address. I did mention I’ve done this before?”
I said nothing.
“The lease was short-term, in the name Janet Kerr. The property manager said Kerr paid cash for six months, was there maybe two.”
“Who owns the place?”
“A holding company. We’re looking into it.”
“Prints?”
“Billions. The old coot wasn’t big on deep cleaning.”
“What about the passports?”
“Both fake. No signature pointing to any known forger. I ran the names Janet and Jasmine Kerr, Jennifer Latourneau, variations on the three. Nothing popped. No one on the block remembers her. One neighbor thought he might have seen a woman coming or going a couple of times. I’m thinking all three names are aliases.”
“The gallery on Clark, the Dancing Dolphin?”
“Dead end. The owner and the clerk said she came in a couple times asking about dolphins, was disappointed they had only one fish painting and that was a trout.”
“Dolphins aren’t fish.”
“You want to hear this?”
I waited.
“Both thought she was weird, neither knew her name. I take it you got nothing more out of her?”
“I will.” Factual.
“She with you voluntarily?”
“Happily.”
“How do you read her?”
“There’s nothing to read. She’s got the IQ of pencil lead and a personality to match.”
“Think she’s part of it?”
“If so, she’s too dumb to know.”
“Why you keeping her with you?”
“Comic relief.”
“Why’s she staying?”
“Astute question, Detective.”
“You following anything else?”
I briefed him as I had Drucker, leaving out Louisville and my suspicions concerning the Derby. Risky, I know. But I was certain Capps would phone the Louisville PD the instant we disconnected. I was also certain that, when he did, I’d be sidelined, the cops would underestimate the threat, and Bronco and his horror show would again slip the net. Maybe kill Stella. I couldn’t take the chance.
“Anyone try to cap you lately?” Capps asked when I’d finished.
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Kick anything loose on the Bright kid?”
“No.”
“What’s your next move?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Uh-huh.” Tone saying he didn’t believe me. “Keep your head up.”
“Aw, see? You really do care.”
Dead air.
I peeked through the door. Sweet was still on his stool. My burger wasn’t yet on the bar.
I phoned Gus to tell him I’d be returning in Drucker’s plane but that I was grounded by weather. He said Louisville was also socked in.
“Flying private. The charm worked.”
“Not exactly. She cut me loose.”
“So you’re calling it?”
“What do you think?”
“Going rogue. I like it.”
“How’s Kerr?”
“Compliant.”
I summarized my conversation with Capps. “Tell her I know about Bronco and Landmine, that life will be very unpleasant if I find out she’s lying. As in using an alias.”
“Will do. Where are you?”
“Poe’s.” A beep indicated an incoming call. “Hold on.”
It was Winton. He’d been asked to inform me that the entire Southeast was affected and that conditions weren’t expected to improve before morning. The plane was grounded until then.
Sonofabitch.
Frustrated, I clicked back and gave Gus the news.
“You gotta do what you gotta do,” he said.
“The Oaks is tomorrow.” Too sharp. “I have to get back to Louisville.”
“Calm down.”
“Jesus, Gus.”
“You going out to Goat?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“What about Bob?”
“Good title for a movie.”
“There’s the old Sunnie wit.”
“Bada-boom.”
“Why didn’t you ask the driver to take you to IOP?”
“Didn’t want him to know where I live.”
“He could have dropped you on Waterway, your usual MO.”
“And risk stirring Beau?”
“He’s going to be pissed that you haven’t called.”
“I’ll call.”
“No you won’t.”
“Will you do it?” I rubbed my neck, trying to work out the tension. “Update him, see if he has pull with Louisville should things go south? See if he can score us tickets for the Derby?”
A voice came through the open door behind me. “Beer’s getting warm.”
I pivoted and gestured Sweet away.
There was meaningful silence hundreds of miles to the northwest. When Gus spoke again his voice was starchy with distaste.
“You with that asswipe Sweet?”
“I’m not with anybody.”
“I don’t trust the guy, Sunnie.”
“I’ll be fine. I was a cop.”
“Which almost cost you an eye.”
“I can handle myself. I have a gun.”
“No you don’t.”
Gus had a point. I’d left my Glock with him.
“We’ve had this discussion,” I said.
“Why can’t you ever be sane?”
“Meaning what? Screw the church deacon?”
“Pop a pill. Take a bath. Smoke weed when you can’t sleep.”
“Pot is illegal in South Carolina.”
“Fine. But why that creep?”
“He’s zipless.”
“What?”
“No taking, no giving.”
“What the hell does that—”
“See you tomorrow.”
I clicked off and looked around. Saw nothing. Heard only the soft tinkling of a wind chime, the cawing of a stalwart bird.
I ran through options. Louisville was roughly nine hours by car. In this mess the drive would probably be double that. Ridiculously insane idea. No passenger train. There might be a bus. I don’t do buses.
I was trapped. Acknowledgment of the fact goosed my angst even higher.
I returned to the bar. My burger was there. A fresh beer sat where my old one had been, a shot beside it. I raised the little glass. Sweet raised his and tapped my rim. We knocked back the booze. He watched as I downed my burger and draft.
When finished, I shoved my plate aside and put my elbows on the gouged old wood. Worked circles on my temples with my upraised hands.
“I could do that.” Sweet’s breath was boozy and close to my ear.
“You could.” What the hell? I was going nowhere. Going crazy.
I was gathering my purse when Capps phoned again. I considered ignoring him. Didn’t.
“You sitting down?”
“No.”
“John Scranton was just stabbed to death in his mama’s kitchen.”
“What the fuck?” The drinks. The frustration. Not my snappiest.
“Yep.”
“Where?”
“Two to the belly, one to the neck.”
“Where did it happen?”
“Winnetka.”
“Give me a clue.”
“North Shore suburb. Porsches, Presbyterians, perpetual propriety. Neighbor heard shouting, called to complain. By the time the cops landed, Scranton had already bled out.”
“Where was the mother?”
“Nowhere to be found. Guy who called says her Lexus gunned off right after the yelling. Says that isn’t her style. I’ve broadcast a BOLO.” Be on the lookout.
“Did the guy see who was driving?”
“He thought it was a man but couldn’t be sure. Seems his eyesight isn’t great.”
“You t
hinking the perp stabbed John, then abducted the old lady?”
“We’re thinking many things.”
“What’s Mama’s story?”
“Longtime widow, semirecluse. Well-heeled. Neighbor says she kept large sums of money in the house.”
“How’d he know that?”
“His kid cuts her grass, shovels her walks. The old lady pays him from cash she locks in a drawer. Kid told his dad it looked like a pretty big stash.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No.”
“Any suspects?”
“Besides the kid?”
I was poking at that when Sweet ran a callused fingertip down my cheek. I batted his hand and shook my head. He reached out again.
“Knock it off!” I snapped.
“What?” Capps.
“Hold on.” Pressing the phone to my chest, “This is important.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
Sweet drew back, brows raised in amusement. “You change your mind I’m there for your usual fifteen, chickadee.”
“Another time.”
“Maybe not.”
“Screw you.”
“You know where I live.” The khaki shorts and nice ass went swinging toward the door.
“Yo!” Capps’s voice came through the mobile, metallic, impatient.
“I’m here.”
“Winnetka PD’s working the scene. I’m en route now.”
“Scranton’s connected to Bronco and his jerkwad jihadists. I’m sure of it. Find something in that house pointing to their next move.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.” Hitch of breath. “Ran the name Lewinoski.”
“And?”
“It’s not a common one.”
“Try Warsaw.” The adrenaline talking.
“There are a handful in the area. I’m following up. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.”
I came within a skin cell of telling Capps about Louisville. Instead, “Hadn’t thought of that.”
I disconnected.
Counting out bills, I ran options in my head. I was doing a lot of that lately.
I tried calling a taxi. Got busy signals with three different companies. Stuck and discouraged, I was banging along like a moth in a jar. Imagining Stella inching through her last hours on earth. I needed to move.
I left the bar and started walking. Pushing hard. Taking long strides. Middle Street to Jasper. Over the Breach Inlet Bridge to Isle of Palms. Palm Boulevard north, past the connector. Through pockets lit by the eerie glow of streetlamps. Elsewhere, murky darkness.
The muffled silence was strange, an auditory black hole created by the dense fog. Now and then a car crept by. Far off, the ocean droned its steady advance and retreat. Close by, my heart thudded my ribs.
I was fifteen the first time I saw the Atlantic. I’d lived within miles my whole childhood, never walked a seawall or set foot on a beach. I was so different back then. So vulnerable. So naïve. Only Gus had kept me alive. Or had I saved him? Hadn’t I forced him to accept that the others were lost? Hadn’t the plan been mine? Hadn’t its failure put their deaths square on me?
A humming rose from some dark corner of my skull.
Don’t go there.
I walked even faster, eyes pointlessly probing, mind pointedly fixed on nothing.
In ninety minutes I was at the little house with the tilted mailbox and weathered gray siding. Every window was dark. The glowing digits on my watch said 9:47. Not unreasonable for Beau to be down for the night.
Relieved, I scurried to the dock, untied the boat, and pushed off. Once safely in the waterway, I cranked the engine.
While tying up on Goat Island, I glanced back across the water. No lights. No Sherman. I’d pay a price, but not tonight.
I let myself in, disarmed then rearmed all security devices, cracked the kitchen window. Bob didn’t appear. No biggie. Extreme weather upsets his psyche. But not his appetite. I filled his bin, then went to the gun safe for a .357 SIG I keep for emergencies.
I’d barely lit the bedroom lamp when a small body shaped up at the window. I opened it. Bob scampered onto the dresser and regarded me with reproachful eyes. Or so I read them. I supplemented my apology with a stale macaroon. The squirrel seemed good with the offering.
Vowing to purchase a new burner in the morning, I phoned Winton, asking for an update. He said the forecast looked good, that the plane would be ready at a private facility behind the main airport at 6:30 A.M. Offered to pick me up. I asked him to meet me at the Harris Teeter by the IOP Connector at 5:45.
Next, Capps. He told me to fuck off. Hot damn.
My mind was running at warp speed. A cold shower didn’t help. No way I’d sleep. I needed to do something.
I now had names. Jasmine Kerr, the round-shouldered woman in the White Sox cap. John Scranton, the gunman with the tonsure and scaly pink skin. Kenneth “Bronco” Dickey, the boy-faced zealot in the steel-toed boots. Landon “Landmine” Crozier, the Beretta-packing ape in the luau shirt. Tibby Icard, the woman in pink with her brains on a wall.
I also had a few locations. Argyle Street in Chicago. Twentieth Street and Mount Pleasant Street in D.C. Rose Avenue in Venice. Shit. I hadn’t asked Capps for Scranton’s address in Winnetka. Phone him back? Not a chance.
I got online and began digging. First, I used a telephone database, www.masterfiles.com. My info was crap, just names and apartment complexes, so the results were crap. No surprise. Using the same site, I did reverse searches to see if any of my addresses had phones listed. I found several, probably tenants of other units, none in the names Kerr or Latourneau, Crozier or Cozen, Dickey.
Next I shot the names through the three big credit bureaus: TransUnion, Equifax, and Experian. Of course it was legal. I was thinking of hiring these fine citizens to my employ. Didn’t matter, I got nothing. I had no Social Security numbers so couldn’t run traces that way.
Disheartened, though not surprised, I turned to other databases, each drawing from a different mix of intel: telephone directories, magazine subscriptions, driver’s licenses, vehicle and boat registrations, cellphones, book club lists, Internet search engine results, traffic accidents, criminal charges, social media pages, public notices of bankruptcy, foreclosure, nonpayment of taxes, fast-food delivery names, addresses, and phone numbers. The list is endless. And frightening.
Four hours and beaucoup bucks later, I’d learned nothing about Kerr, Latourneau, or Icard, certainly all aliases. I’d found zip on Kenneth Dickey or Landon Crozier dating to the past five years.
I did confirm that Bronco was employed by his father’s tool company prior to slipping under the radar. And I learned that, after leaving the military, Landmine worked for a feed supply outfit in Indiana. I unearthed not a single hint that either of these men was moving toward terrorism.
Finally, I read everything I could ferret out about Churchill Downs, the Oaks, and the Derby. I checked Google Earth, studied photos and diagrams. Did a lot of printing.
At three I called it quits. My higher centers did not. I lay in bed wondering how, in the age of ISIS and iPhones, anyone could drop so completely off the grid. How, in the age of CSI and DNA, the dead could remain nameless for so long. Mustachioed “Lewinoski” in the Chicago morgue. Bulldog “Jano” on Venice Beach.
At four I got up and padded out onto the deck. Above me, palmetto palms swayed tall and shaggy-topped in the fog. No moon. I like having a moon overhead.
When sleep finally came, I dreamed of a copper-haired girl with a beach at her back. Of painted boulders and twisted bike racks. Of severed limbs and torn flesh and blood-spattered concrete.
Of dangling petunias and window-glass eyes.
—
Yet another day. I was up before dawn. Bob was gone. So was the fog. I stuffed the SIG and a few other items into a backpack, locked up, and crossed the waterway to IOP. Moving as quietly as possible, I docked and set out for the strip mall beside the connector. r />
The airfield was off South Aviation Avenue in North Charleston, set behind an acre of grass and a barrier of scraggly crepe myrtles doing their best. The terminal looked like a concrete bunker with a large glass bay wrapping one corner. Nice flags.
Winton escorted me inside. The lobby was done in the style of a concierge medical practice—cushy leather chairs, gleaming wooden tables, lots of hushed privacy. No robes, but tasteful and discreet.
Winton led me to a couch and asked if I wanted coffee. I did. He brought it in a nice china cup. Wordlessly, he crossed to a counter and spoke to a woman behind a sliding glass panel. She wore small oval glasses and John Hardy silver on her neck and left wrist. The check-in process took roughly five seconds.
Winton returned and whispered that the plane was ready. Of course it was. He led me out a side door, across a tarmac no different from any tarmac in the world, to a plane that looked big enough to transport a marching band.
The pilot and co-pilot were in the cockpit, checking flight plans, or fuel gauges, or take-out options in Louisville. The nine seats in back were empty. I took one on the right and buckled up. A magazine on the small table by my knee said I was flying in a Cessna Citation Excel.
Beside the magazine was a lidded silver dish. In a recess beside the dish was a matching carafe. Beside the carafe, a creamer. Beside the creamer, tiny bowls of sugar, both brown and white.
The Citation entered the runway and accelerated after a ten-second pause, quickly, confidently, fully aware of its privileged place in the universe. Feeling the movement, I pictured the takeoff in my mind, the plane rising then banking, wings elegantly glinting in the first light of day.
When the plane leveled, course set to the northwest, I helped myself to coffee. Then I lowered my seatback and closed my eyes. Opened them at wheels-down.
A Winton equivalent greeted me planeside, welcomed me to Louisville, and led me to a black town car waiting with the engine running. No security. No fight for overhead space. No wait at baggage claim. In life, many things are flawed. Flying private is not among them.
The driver’s name was Leach. The guy in back was Nolan Schrader.
“Welcome to Louisville.” Schrader resembled Peter Crage—trim, tanned, designer-gray hair. His attire did not. I attributed the blue and white seersucker suit, lavender shirt, and teal tie to Derby tradition.
“Thank you,” I said.