Cutting Loose, page 11
“Mack, what’s that new guy’s name?”
“Uh―Phil Novak?”
“Right.” Emmett found his number and rang.
“Emmett Capps here.”
“Yes, sir, how can I help?”
“Phil, I’ve got a little job for you. There’s a pusher by the name of Noah Wetherspoon in Nashville. I’d like a rundown on him, all you can find. I’d do it myself but I’m tied up. Could you find a moment?”
“Yes, sir, for sure. I’ll get straight on it.”
“Thanks.”
Emmett had been looking for data on offences comparable to the killing of his Jane Doe, not expecting any results, but as he put the phone down, he heard the newly-installed fax machine chugging in the corner, and took sheets from the tray. Austin HQ had a similar case, a death in California ten years earlier of a prostitute whose body was found in a 55-gallon barrel soldered shut and left in a dry gulch that brambles and weeds had obscured. There, a metal detectorist found it and thought there might be something of interest inside. There was: her name was Lorraine ‘Brandi’ Coleherne and no one had ever reported her missing. It was only in death that she gained any attention, and it had not lasted long; she achieved a paragraph in the San Francisco Chronicle before her case was forgotten. Three years later, a rookie detective, instructed to sift through cold cases that might merit a second look, sent her file upstairs, where a homicide detective read it, then spent a few days following leads. The result was not a great deal: she was born in Palo Alto, 20/3/1947, the only child of an engineer, Patrick Alan Coleherne, and a Belgian mother, Renée Bethune. They were killed in a car wreck when Lorraine was seven, and she was put into a succession of foster homes. Emmett guessed it was a nightmarish change of fortune for a child from a settled, well-to-do background. She ran from every home, and was eventually placed in an institution that had gained a poor reputation. By her early teens she was selling herself on the street as ‘Brandi’ and using marijuana. To Emmett, the story was a familiar tragedy, and one he had learned to protect himself from with a necessary layer of dispassion; the job would be impossible if every human disaster lodged in his heart. A series of arrests and jail terms followed, until she fell off the radar at the age of twenty two. The metal detectorist, who had been looking for Old West artifacts, was interviewed, and was clearly shaken by his discovery, which brought a conclusion to a story that no one had been following.
The detective doing the legwork, a Douglas Belair, had done a workmanlike job, and everything that was findable was found, but there was never a hint of who the perpetrator might have been. Perhaps there was a link to Emmett’s Jane Doe, but nothing jumped off the page at him. He put the file in the murder book with a sigh.
An hour later, the fax chugged again. A result had come in from Reno PD, detailing the case of a former dancer who had become a croupiѐre. She was reported missing four years previously and was discovered by a nature photographer in the desert, bound and taped in a plastic barrel. Her name was Anne Marie Eccleston, known as ‘Charlie,’ aged thirty one when she disappeared; the three images showed a beautiful woman with clear, untroubled eyes. Neither case was usable, though, unless more evidence emerged.
Nashville PD, meanwhile, was tailing Simeon Appelbaum and reported that he made frequent visits to his doctor, Lewis Matcham, and to an oncological clinic near Vanderbilt University. Emmett was not surprised: he had noticed how much thinner Appelbaum was compared to that photograph on the office wall. It was possible he would be dead before they could clear the case. At least, he told himself, Appelbaum was no longer in any condition to commit murder.
“I got a name, sir,” said Touchette.
“Uh huh.”
“The Appelbaum thing.”
“Right.”
“Jimmy Chacon. B and E artiste supremo.”
“Don’t oversell the guy.”
“No, really, he’s good. Got a steady job as cover.”
“Yeah? As what?”
“You’ll like this.”
“Uh huh.”
Touchette waited.
“Jesus, you want me to drag it out of you. Okay, what?”
“Embalmer.”
Wetherspoon chuckled.
“Works at the Cruxley and Stamford Funeral Home. Yeah, really. Embalmer. Man. There’s a job. How they do that? Suck out the innards, pump in formaldehyde or shit like that? Then paint a smile on the face?”
“Money in that line of work. People don’t want to seem like skinflints when gramps checks out.”
“Right. Coffins ’n’ shit set you back a solid paycheck.”
“For sure. So . . .”
“Yeah. No record, Chacon. Clean as a whistle.”
“White?”
“Ish. There’s something in there but, look at the guy, you’d say white.”
“Okay.”
“You wanna meet him?”
Wetherspoon sucked air between his teeth, then said, “Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“If there is even a suggestion the guy is a flake, a pussy . . .”
“Say what? This Chacon need a wheelbarrow to ’commodate his nuts. But, hey, you gonna say it, which way it goes. Like, shoot or scoot. That what the bossman for.”
“Right.”
“’Nother thing.You aks me to follow the guy. Went to a clinic on Broadway and Edgehill, yeah. L. R. Jackson Cancer Center.”
“Shit.”
“Right. Chacon got two jobs, looks like.”
“He dies, no payday.”
“Right, sir.”
“’Less he leads somewhere else.”
“Worth our time and trouble?”
“I got a feeling on this one.”
“Uh huh.”
“Bring me Chacon.”
Travis, coming into Emmett’s office, said, “Orrin in Legal has something. This brick wall we’re hitting nine years back . . . Orrin’s view is, we’re right. Appelbaum’s reinvented himself. And he’s not just guessing. Appelbaum’s first bank account we know of is with Citizens National in Waco.”
Travis handed Emmett a photocopy of a bank statement and pointed at an entry, then settled into a chair.
“Payment there to ACL Holdings. Nine years old. One of the very first statements Orrin could find.”
“Uh huh.”
“He’s spent a few days running this organization down, through a couple of countries and a bunch of other banks. ACL exists to hide the origin of payments that, uh, need hiding. They’re hedged around a dozen different ways. IR couldn’t touch them till recently, hadn’t been able to get any purchase on them. But you remember Francisco Javier Suarez?”
“Rings a bell. He made some kind of deal a few months ago?”
“Right. Treasury and IR turned him. Now, he’s given names and numbers. Long story short, the payment made by Appelbaum was to a company in Belize. That company took a bit of chasing too, but turns out it’s run by a Spanish guy, Mateo Almanzar.”
“Okay.”
“Almanzar is a surgeon.”
“Oh boy.”
“Yeah. He specialized in plastic surgery at Boston Medical, then, after a few years, he went south and opened a practice.”
“Uh huh.”
“Belize―beautiful country but the economy is permanently in the toilet. So it must be worth his while to make the move. He’d learned something―there’s surgeons down there. They offer good prices against the dollar. You fly south, get the work done, recuperate with a cocktail in your hand admiring the sunset, it’s done and dusted. Even with the flight, it’s way cheaper than the US. And, of course, there’s the discretion, the privacy. You don’t have to hide while the scars heal. And if you’ve got new papers, you’re free as a bird. For guys like Almanzar, with the low cost of living, it’s a quick way to serious money.”
“Mack, this is good. We’d have to go down there and talk to this Almanzar. But that presents problems. The brass may say, does the case have enough traction to justify the trip? Budget is tight right now. Girl in a barrel―okay, it’s a bad one but there’s other bad ones, too. And Gil . . . you never know which way he’ll jump.”
“Maybe there’s other people following the same trail, thinking to themselves, Belize? Let’s check it out.”
“Sure. We don’t know if we’re behind on this or ahead. Also, there’s medical confidentiality. Guy like Almanzar, that’s what it’s all about. Privacy. Not a word to anyone. That’s his stock-in-trade. We can’t go in there flashing badges, demanding answers, even if we get diplomatic clearance.”
“So . . . you’re saying . . .”
“Come at it sideways.”
“Mmm.”
“One or two choices, there.”
“Sure. It has to be information we can back up in court. Say how we got it.”
Emmett blew air. “There’s always a way.”
Travis, smiling, said, “Sure.”
Later, while Emmett was eating a sandwich at his desk, the phone rang.
“Capps.”
“Sir, uh, you asked about Noah Wetherspoon.”
“Right . . . Phil.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Emmett.”
“Emmett, I have what info I could find.”
“Okay,” he said, picking up a pen. “Shoot.”
“Noah Eli Wetherspoon, born Llano, Texas, 11/11/38. Parents Henry and Eunice. Attended Llano High, graduated. I talked with the head teacher at the time, in a retirement home now, who said he was a bright kid who never got in trouble. I guess that gene emerged soon after, cos he was arrested age nineteen for stealing a truck. Got probation. Second arrest 1950, burglary. Then things changed. No arrests for nine years. He was working for a guy called Ed Figgis, a conman who took a liking to him and taught him stuff. Mostly how to stay out of jail. Also, how to hang paper. Figgis eventually died, and Wetherspoon found himself in the hot seat a year later for check fraud until he rang Figgis’ former lawyer, who had the charge quashed. Then, like the rest of them, he got into dealing drugs. He had two minor convictions for possession, but not a thing since. No brushes with the law for ten years, though he’s a well-known pusher. Likely he has connections. But another conviction would mean serious time. That’s kind of it. I’ll put the details of offences in internal mail.”
“Okay, Phil, that’s good.”
“Is he in your sights?”
“He’s getting himself in my way, and I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
“Sure.”
That evening he stopped at a florist’s and bought some roses for Bea, his mother’s friend, whose birthday party he had missed because of his workload, then drove east to Elkin, where they lived―a longer journey since his reassignment. He no longer bothered telling his mother to move to a better area; she did everything her own way, and that was that.
“Well, damn. Those for me?” said Lou, opening the door.
“No way, Ma.”
“Hey, Bea,” she said over her shoulder. “Your boyfriend’s here. Guilty conscience, looks like, for missing your birthday.”
“Evening, Ma.”
“I’ll clip the ends, put ‘em in water. Bea, check these out.”
“Oh, so nice,” said Bea, starting to get up. “Thank you, Emmett.”
“My pleasure, Bea. Wish I could have made it.”
“That’s all right.”
“The job . . .”
“Keeping the world safe,” said Lou. “No time to yourself.”
“Glad you can see it, Ma.”
“I’ll fix you something, hon.”
“Easy on the whiskey.”
“Hey, a drink is a drink.”
“Bea, how’s it going?”
She smiled and touched his arm. “Fine, Emmett.”
“That, what, Thorazine?” said Lou. “It helps, no argument.”
“Oh sure,” Bea said. “Lou gets it for me.”
“And sometimes that’s not easy.”
“I’ll say it again,” said Emmett. “You need a hand financially . . .”
“I won’t say never, hon, but right now we’re okay. Bea is doing good. Try this,” she said and handed him a glass.
He sipped and said, “That’ll do it.”
“You bet. So. How’s your down-time, hon?”
“Great.”
“Uh huh.”
“Sure.”
“Like what?”
“I get out with a rod, time to time.”
“Fishing. With the pole and the bait.”
“That’s the way it’s done.”
“And it’s healthy, relaxing in the great outdoors.”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm. Seeing anyone?”
“Ma.”
“What?”
“Don’t start.”
“Start? You’re jumpy as a flea, hon. I’m just saying―”
“Right.”
“Just saying, when you hang up your gunbelt, there’s got to be something else.”
“Here we go.”
“Kicking forty and no one in your bed?”
“Says who?”
“Oh, pardon me, there’s a string of girls lining up.”
“That’s right. Beating on the door.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Lou,” said Bea. “Emmett is all grown up.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s my point. He needs some regular attention.”
“Oh, Jesus,” said Emmett. “Bea, Ma’s been like this since forever. Organizing me.”
“Someone’s got to, hon,” said Lou.
“Enough.”
“Lenny was around yesterday.”
“Now Lenny. Great.”
“Doing real well. Thinking of running for office locally.”
“You are totally shitting me. Uh―sorry, Bea.”
“That’s okay, Emmett.”
“Running for office? Like, yesterday he was facing a murder charge?”
“News to me.”
“Oh, please.”
“Your own flesh and blood? Give him a break.”
His low-life brother, who had emerged from the Capps matrix fully formed, was out of his life and would stay there.
“If he’s good to you, Ma, does right by you, I’m happy.”
“He does right by me. Helps out.”
“That’s great. By the way, you solved your cockroach problem?”
She smiled. “Yeah, hon. Roach Motel. They check in but they don’t check out.”
“It should be so easy.”
“Always the cynic.”
“So what‘s on TV?”
“The Dukes of Hazzard” said Bea.
“Turn the sucker on,” said Emmett. “I’m in need of relaxation.”
“Bea likes that show. My view, it’s the blond guy with the tight jeans.”
The three of them sat there in easy chairs with their drinks as the theme music began.
The boy was sitting on the rusty railroad tracks west of the mine, killing time, when he saw the girl. She was about eight and had dark hair and her eyes were canted at a slight angle. He guessed by her tattered clothes that she was from the shacks further down.
She came toward him and said, “What’s your name?”
“Max.”
“I’m Rita.”
“Hi.”
“Where are you from?”
“Nowhere.”
“Everyone’s from somewhere.”
“My ma’s dead and my pa told me to beat it.”
“So you’re in, like, a place for kids?”
“I was. Bellevue. You heard of it?”
“Yes.”
“A real hole. Guys working there were creeps.”
“What did they do?”
“Ain’t saying.”
“So you left?”
“Yeah.”
He stood and said, “Can we walk some?”
“Sure.”
They went along the tracks toward an old windlass.
“You live along a there?”
“Yes.”
“Got brothers, sisters?”
“Sure do. Three of ’m.”
“What does your pa do?”
“Works at a tire factory. My mom takes in sewing.”
“Uh huh. What’s down there?”
“Bunch of railroad ties.”
They went down a slope into the weeds. She smelled of the sun and a tang of sweat. She turned to look at him, and he kissed her. She put an arm around his neck and pressed her mouth against his. A sweet sensation filled him.
She pulled away, her lips slightly apart, and he said, “You got a boyfriend?”
“No.”
She brushed an ant off her legs, then they sat with their backs against the railroad ties.
“So where do you live? Like, in barns or like that?”
“I find places. Empty house, maybe, get in through a window. Stay a day or two. When it rains and it’s cold, you need to be inside. I take food from behind cafes and suchlike. Bins.”
“How long have you lived that way?”
“Eighteen months, I guess.”
They kissed again, lying next to each other among the weeds, and he touched her arms, her chest, and her hair. When he stroked her throat, he began to press, and felt the pulse of a vein; he pressed harder; she struggled, and he stopped.
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hurt you none.”
“Jesus. Don’t do that.”
“Okay.”
“You gotta be nice.”
“Sure. Okay.”
She rubbed her throat, then stood, brushing her dress clean.
“I gotta go, Max.”
“Can I walk along a ways more?”
“Okay, I guess.”
Down the tracks, she turned and said, “You can see me again, Max, but you don’t gotta do like you did.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Sure.”
She ran quickly down the slope toward the shacks.
He spent the night in a shed, and was nearly asleep when he heard footsteps approaching; he went to the door to stop the person from entering. He knew who it would be―a hobo who used to stare at him with a look he recognized. He knew he could not keep the guy out so he grabbed a piece of timber and wedged it under a cross-bar. There was pounding on the door for a while, then silence returned.
