Sweet Dreams, page 18
“You mean your father? I called Judge Zimmer. She wasn’t familiar with the case and wouldn’t help. I’ll try her again in a few days.”
•••
When Kate and Charlie returned to the office, Cornbread, waiting in the bullpen, said, “The little Japanese bank robber wants to talk to you. Evidently remembers something that might help us find the Shooter.”
“I’ll set it up,” Kate said.
“And speaking of the dude, he hit again. But this time it was different. It was a Huntington Bank in Monroe. Check it out.”
Kate watched the robbery on Cornbread’s laptop. Ray Skinner in a dark suit and sunglasses, carrying a briefcase, approached a teller window, aimed a gun, got the money, and walked out of the bank. It all happened in a couple minutes. No histrionics. No showing off.
Charlie said, “Why’d he change his MO?”
“Maybe he’s tired of the old routine,” Buck said. “Wants to mix it up.”
“Wait, there’s more,” Cornbread said.
Ray Skinner walked out of the bank and got in the front passenger seat of a Chevy SUV.
“In the dark suit and shades, he looks like one of the Blues Brothers.” Cornbread grinned. “I kept expecting him to pull out a harmonica, play ‘Soul Man.’”
Kate said, “Did you get any shots of the driver?”
“Couple partials of his face but not enough to ID him,” Buck said.
“How about the plate?” Kate said.
“This’ll surprise you,” Cornbread said. “Car was boosted.”
Kate said, “How about surveillance footage in the bank a day or two before?”
“I’ve got it,” Cornbread said. “Haven’t looked yet. Wanna see it?”
They watched boring time-coded footage for almost an hour, Kate thinking it was a waste of time till she saw a guy in a camo hunting cap standing at the counter in the center of the bank. There was something familiar about him. He appeared to be filling out a yellow deposit slip, but mostly he seemed to be studying the room. He was there for about ten minutes and left without making a transaction. An exterior camera picked him up coming out of the bank.
“Stop it, will you?” Kate said, “Blue work shirt, camo hunting cap. Anyone recognize him?”
Cornbread froze the frame.
“I don’t,” Buck said.
“Yeah, you do,” Charlie said. “That’s Lowell Hodge.”
Cornbread shrugged. “You’re not saying he’s the driver, are you?”
Kate said, “I don’t know, but what’s he doing in a bank in Monroe the day before it was robbed? Lowell Hodge lives thirty miles away. Does that make any sense?”
Cornbread said, “Hodge being in the bank doesn’t prove he was an accessory to armed robbery.”
“I’ve got to check something,” Kate said. “Be right back.”
She sat at her desk, called Hope House, and asked for Father Kelly. “Tell him it’s US Marshal McGraw and it’s urgent.”
“What can I do for you?” the priest said.
“Who was the boy Ray Skinner ran away with?”
“What’s this about?”
“Just tell me his name.”
Father Kelly did.
“How’d he end up with you?”
“I know his parents were killed by a drug dealer, but I don’t remember the circumstances of how he came to us. He and Ray were roommates.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“What happened?” Kate heard him say as she disconnected.
She walked back to Cornbread’s desk. “If you still think Lowell Hodge’s presence in the bank was a coincidence, listen to this.” That got everyone’s attention. “Lowell and Ray were roommates at Hope House. They ran away together.”
Charlie said, “How’d you figure that out?”
“I didn’t. It was something Father Kelly said when I stopped by. He never mentioned Lowell’s name, but seeing him in the bank got me thinking, and Father Kelly just confirmed it.” Kate paused. “How much did they get?”
“Bank says sixteen thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars,” Buck said.
Charlie glanced at Kate. “Got anything else for us?”
“According to his most recent girlfriend, Skinner owns a warehouse in the New Center area off West Grand. He boosts cars and keeps them there or did. Used a different one for each robbery.”
“Got an address?” Cornbread had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
“Ms. Sato said she didn’t know the address but could identify the building. With Steve Gant in the hospital we need a federal judge who will release her into our custody. She can help us and help herself at the same time. I feel sorry for her. She seems naive and innocent.”
“In my experience,” Charlie said, “they can be the most dangerous.”
Thirty-two
Midafternoon, sitting at the bar at Brown’s by himself, Ray watched an open boat with an outboard pull into a slip next to his Garwood. A blonde in shorts and a tank top secured the dock lines, stood looking at his boat for a couple minutes, and moved into the bar. Three guys at a table on the deck eating fish and chips checked her out as she walked by. The girl had a ponytail that hung out from the back of a baseball cap. She sat on the same side of the oval bar as Ray, separated by four empty stools.
They looked at each other a couple times—the only customers at the bar—before she said, “Is that your boat out there, the wooden one?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a beauty. That’s the kind of boat I’d buy if I had the money. What is it?”
“A 1946 Garwood. What’re you drinking?”
“Vodka cranberry.”
The bartender heard her, made the cocktail, brought it over, and set it down in front of her.
“I’m Sharon, by the way,” she said, moving along the bar, offering her small pretty hand that had red painted nails.
“Len.”
She stared at him for a couple of beats and went back to her stool. After that she seemed nervous, didn’t say much, sipped her vodka drink and stared out at the channel. He’d seen her before. She lived in a small cottage across the channel a couple hundred yards south of him on Dickinson Island. She was nice-looking—in a hard, blue-collar way—and looked about forty from what he could tell. She finished the drink, thanked him, and went out to her boat.
•••
That evening Ray poured bourbon over ice, took his drink out to the deck, and sat looking at the sun sinking into the phragmites across the channel. He took out his phone, punched in a number, and listened to it ring several times before a gravelly voice said, “I seen the write-ups about you in the paper. Can’t get enough of yourself, can you? What else is new?”
Ray let it go.
“The hell do you want?”
“The services of a wild-man redneck. Know anyone fits that description?”
“I don’t know anyone that doesn’t. What do you got in mind?”
“I’m lookin’ for a driver.”
“What’s it pay?”
“Thirty percent of the take.”
“Last time it was forty.”
“That was last time,” Ray said. “This is this time.”
“We get caught, I’m gonna get the same thing you are. I want half.”
“For picking me up?”
“For makin’ sure you get away,” Lowell said. “I hear they’re offering a reward. Maybe I should turn you in and get it all.”
“First I’m gonna need you to do a little legwork for me,” Ray said.
“What kind of legwork?”
“We can get into the details later. This sound like something you might be interested in?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Don’t think too long.”
Ray disconnected, picturing the day he met Lowell at Hope House. Father Kelly had handed him off to a counselor, a former nun named Shirley McAllister. “Bobby, we’re all so sorry for your loss.” She squinted and locked her eyes on him. “But you’re going to be okay. That I promise you. It’s just going to take time and faith in the Lord.”
“I’m fine,” he said, and meant it. In his mind, he had already changed his identity. And now thought of himself as Ray Skinner, his father’s name.
“You’re a tough young man, I can see that, but if you ever want to talk about what you are feeling, don’t hesitate to contact me. I’m available for you, as is Father Kelly and the other counselors. If you’re feeling alone, you can also talk to God. He will listen to you. He will help you get through this difficult time.”
Ray didn’t feel lonely; he felt relieved, until this motormouth ex-nun started talking and didn’t stop.
“Hope House has a dormitory that sleeps seventy-two children from ages eight to eighteen. We have classrooms, a cafeteria, laundry, gym, athletic field, and even a theater where the children put on plays and concerts.” The ex-nun gave him a big smile. “Father Kelly’s mantra is ‘Hope House is full of hope.’ We will help you become the person you want to be.”
Ray was thinking about armed robbery as a career even that far back.
After the tour, Counselor Shirley took him to the office to get his suitcase and belongings and then to the dorm where he met his roommate. “Lowell, this is Bobby Seavy, the new boy I was telling you about. Bobby, this is Lowell Hodge.”
Lowell, sitting on the side of the bed, glanced at the counselor but didn’t say anything.
“I want you boys to shake hands like gentlemen. Go on.”
Lowell shrugged and stood. Ray stepped toward him, offering his hand, clamping down on Lowell’s mitt like a vise. They locked eyes on each other, both boys squeezing, giving it everything they had.
“That’s enough,” Counselor Shirley said.
Ray let go and stepped back. Lowell returned to the bed, a hard look on his face.
“You boys will be spending a lot of time together, so try to get along. Be courteous and respect each other’s space and boundaries. When you have disagreements, share your feelings and talk things out. And remember to clean up after yourselves. Bobby, that’s your dresser.” She pointed. “And, of course, you share the closet.” She smiled now. “All right, boys, get acquainted. And, Bobby, if you have any questions, you know where to find me.”
When the door closed, Lowell stood, pointed at him, and said, “You ever pull that shit again, I’ll kick your ass.”
Ray stared at him without expression. “We’ll see.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll find out,” Ray said.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Well, I’m sixteen, so you better watch it.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Lowell was bigger and looked stronger, but Ray didn’t care. “You think I’m worried about you? Just stay on your side of the room. Stay out of my way and you’ll be fine.”
“What if I don’t?”
Ray grinned and shook his head. This guy was looking for trouble and he was going to get it.
They stayed out of each other’s way for a couple days till Ray noticed his money was gone. $1,500. His life savings. He searched the room, paying particular attention to Lowell’s side, without finding anything.
It was 3:07 a.m. when Ray duct-taped Lowell’s ankles and wrists together with the roll he’d brought from home, fit a piece over his mouth, and aimed the gooseneck reading light in Lowell’s face. His eyes blinked and squinted, and his body rocked back and forth. Ray had already opened the pocketknife and now held the blade to Lowell’s ear, slicing deep enough to draw blood that dripped down his lobe onto the pillowcase.
Lowell jerked his body and used his arms trying to pull the tape apart. “I’m only going to ask you once. Where’s my money?”
Lowell mumbled trying to speak. Ray peeled up a jagged corner of tape and ripped it off his mouth. “Under the dresser.” Lowell pointed with his bound hands. Ray retrieved the cash and cut Lowell loose.
To his great surprise they became friends, brought together by their general dislike of people, their resistance to authority and rules, and their propensity to disrupt things for their own amusement and pleasure. Ray had never really had a friend, so this was a new experience.
Lowell, he learned, was an only child whose white supremacist parents were killed by a drug addict that broke into their house. Lowell didn’t seem sad or upset that his parents were gone, just as Ray wasn’t.
Living at Hope House was no picnic, but it beat the hell out of living with Carol and Jerry in Anchor Bay.
In the evening Lowell would sit at his desk and draw Nazi symbols: swastikas, skulls and cross bones, eagles, and German flags. “The red,” he’d say, “represents the social idea of the Nazi movement. The white disk represents the national idea. And the black swastika represents the mission of the struggle for the victory of the Aryan man.”
“You don’t believe all that crap, do you?”
“Not really, but my parents sure did. I just like some of the designs. I think they’re tits.”
Thirty-three
Two years later, Hope House felt like a prison. You had to sign out when you left, say where you were going, and sign in when you got back. There wasn’t much free time and too many rules. Counselor Shirley told Ray the goal was to be taken in and adopted by a loving family. He’d spent a week or two with three different couples and their children, feeling uncomfortable in the company of these strangers, everyone putting on an act. Ray didn’t want any part of it. He’d say something rude or do something inappropriate and they would call Father Kelly, tell the priest to come and get him. It wasn’t working and wasn’t gonna.
Ray’s goal was to be free, to take off and start his new life. He mentioned what he was thinking to Lowell, and Lowell said, “I’ve got a cousin in Florida who’ll set us up.”
“You’ve got a cousin in Florida. What’re you doing here?”
“I didn’t think I could leave.”
“Sure you can,” Ray said. “You’re about to start your new life. You’re about to make your run.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re getting the hell out of here and going for it.”
They snuck out before sunup two days later. Stuffed their things in backpacks, walked to the Greyhound station, and took a bus to Fort Lauderdale. Ray was sixteen and Lowell was almost eighteen.
The bus stopped every once in a while so people could stretch their legs and get something to eat. And it was interesting to see the scenery change, going through mountains and then seeing the ocean and palm trees.
Lowell’s cousin, a tall skinny hippie with pork chop sideburns and a goatee, named Trip, picked them up at the bus station. He lived with Maddy in a motor court efficiency five miles from the ocean. She was a sexy girl with long blonde hair parted down the middle, skinny arms, and breasts that wobbled under her tie-dye T-shirt. Trip said their living arrangement was temporary till a couple things fell into place, which to Ray sounded like bullshit.
“This here’s Bobby Seavy, my roommate at the house, and I’m Lowell,” he said to Maddy when they walked in the motel.
“Actually, my name is Ray.”
Lowell gave him a puzzled look. “The hell you talking about?”
“That’s my real name, my father’s name: Ray Skinner.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I was waiting for the right time, and this is it.”
Trip moved past them and sat at the kitchen table, rolling a joint that he licked and sealed, examined and lit, taking a big hit he kept trying to suck deeper into his lungs, holding it in till he was about to burst and then releasing an immense cloud of gray smoke. Trip held up the joint now. “Anybody want to get high?” He took another hit, got up, and handed it to Maddy. Lowell took a hit, coughed, and handed it to Ray, and five minutes later they were all buzzed and laughing.
As it turned out, Trip and Maddy didn’t just smoke weed; they sold it to tourists in the bars and beaches along Fort Lauderdale’s main drag. And they did more than that, as Ray would come to learn.
Ray and Lowell slept on air mattresses on the living room floor. During the day they walked the beach, selling lids of Mexican weed for thirty-five bucks. “Tell your customers it’s Acapulco Gold,” Trip said. “Tell ’em it’ll send ’em to a galaxy far, far away.” His eyes held on Lowell and then Ray. “I’ll pay you five dollars a bag.”
Things were going good. Ray made $100 his first week on the job. Easy money.
He kept at it for almost two years till Trip and Maddy were arrested and Ray didn’t know what to do. He searched the rooms at the motel, looking for more weed and found money, a couple thousand, and something better: a gun.
Ray was nineteen when he told Lowell there was a faster, easier way to make money than selling weed on the beach. Lowell looked at him like he’d lost it and said, “Yeah, what’s that?”
“Armed robbery. We walk into a drug store, or a 7-Eleven with this.” Ray held up the gun from behind his back. “The cashier cleans out the register and hands us the money. We make thousands for a few minutes work, and we won’t have to worry about getting sunburned.” Ray slid the pistol in his waistband. “One of us goes in first, checks the place out. If it’s crowded or we see something that doesn’t look right, we abort the mission and go back another time.”
“What about the shotgun the guy’s probably got behind the counter?”
“That’s the first thing we do: disarm the man by creating a diversion.”
“What the hell’s that mean?”
“Do something to distract the guy, create a problem.” Ray could see that Lowell didn’t understand what he was saying.
“What if there’s someone in the back watching us on the cameras?”
