Gone, Baby, Gone Page 6

  She shook his hand. “Angie.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Angie. Anyone ever tell you that you have your father’s eyes?”

  Angie placed a hand over her eyebrows, took a step toward Nick Raftopoulos. “You knew my father?”

  Poole held his palms up on his knees. “In passing. In a member-of-opposing-teams capacity. I liked the man, miss. He had genuine class. To tell you the truth, I mourned his…passing, if that’s the word. He was a rarity.”

  Angie gave him a soft smile. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  The bar door opened behind us and I could smell stale whiskey again.

  The younger cop looked up at whoever stood behind us. “Back inside, mutt. I know someone holding paper on your ass.”

  The stale whiskey stench dissipated and the door closed behind us.

  Poole jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That young man there with the sweet disposition is my partner, Detective Remy Broussard.”

  We nodded at Broussard, and he nodded back. At closer glance, he was older than he’d first appeared. I put him at forty-three or forty-four. When I’d first come outside I’d pegged him for my age because of the Tom Sawyer innocence in that grin of his, but the crow’s-feet around his eyes, the lines etched in the hollows of his cheeks, and the deep pewter-gray streaked through his curly dirty-blond hair added a decade upon a second look. He had the build of a man who worked out at least four times a week, a physique of solid bulked-up muscle mass that was softened by the double-breasted olive Italian suit he wore over a loosened blue-and-gold Bill Blass tie and subtly pinstriped shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

  A clotheshorse, I decided, as he brushed some dust from the edge of his left Florsheim, the kind of man who probably never passed a mirror without casting a lingering glance into it. But as he leaned over the open driver’s door and stared at us, I sensed a piercing calculation in him, a prodigious intelligence. He might pause at mirrors, but I doubted he ever missed anything going on behind him when he did.

  “Our dear Lieutenant Jack-the-impassioned Doyle said we should look you up,” Poole said. “So here we are.”

  “Here you are,” I said.

  “We’re driving up the avenue toward your office,” Poole said, “and we see Skinny Ray Likanski come running out of this alley. Ray’s father, you see, a snitch of snitches in the old days, goes way back with me. Detective Broussard wouldn’t know Skinny Ray from Sugar Ray, but I say, ‘Stop the chariot, Remy. That plebeian is none other than Skinny Ray Likanski and he looks a might distressed.’” Poole smiled and drummed his fingers on his kneecaps. “Ray is screaming about someone waving a gun inside this fine establishment.” He cocked his eyebrow at me. “‘A gun?’ I say to Detective Broussard. ‘In a gentleman’s club like the Filmore Tap? Why, I never.’”

  I looked at Broussard. He leaned against the driver’s door, arms folded across his chest. He shrugged as if to say, My partner, what a character.

  Poole did a fast drumbeat on the hood of the Taurus to get my attention. I looked back at him, and he smiled up at me with his weathered elf’s face. He was in his late fifties probably, squat, and the hair cropped tight to his head was the color of cigarette ash. He rubbed the bristles and squinted into the midafternoon sunlight. “Would said alleged gun be that Colt Commander I see by your alleged right hip, Mr. Kenzie?”

  “Allegedly,” I said.

  Poole smiled, looked up at the Filmore Tap. “Our Mr. Big Dave Strand—is he still in one piece in there?”

  “Last I checked,” I said.

  “Should we be arresting you two for assault?” Broussard pulled a stick of gum from a pack of Wrigley’s popped it in his mouth.

  “He’d have to press charges.”

  “And you don’t think he will?” Poole said.

  “We’re pretty sure he won’t.” Angie said.

  Poole looked at us, his eyebrows raised. He turned his head, looked back at his partner. Broussard shrugged and then both of them broke out in wide grins.

  “Well, ain’t that terrific,” Poole said.

  “Big Dave tried his brand of charm on you, I assume?” Broussard asked Angie.

  “‘Tried’ being the operative word,” Angie said.

  Broussard chewed his gum, smiling around it, and then straightened to his full height, his eyes locked on Angie as if reconsidering her.

  “In all seriousness,” Poole said, though his voice was still light, “did either of you discharge your firearms in there?”

  “No,” I said.

  Poole held out his hand and snapped his fingers.

  I removed my gun from my waistband and handed it to him.

  He dropped the clip from the gun butt into his hand. He racked the slide, then peered into the chamber to make sure it was clear before he sniffed the barrel. He nodded to himself. He passed the clip to my left hand, placed the gun in my right.

  I placed the gun back in the holster at the small of my back, slid the clip into the pocket of my jacket.

  “And your permits?” Broussard said.

  “Up-to-date and in our wallets,” Angie said.

  Poole and Broussard grinned at each other again. Then they stared at us until we figured out what they were waiting for.

  We each produced our permits and handed them over the car hood to Poole. Poole gave them a cursory glance and handed them back.

  “Should we interview the patrons, Poole?”

  Poole looked back at Broussard. “I’m hungry.”

  “I could eat, too,” Broussard said.

  Poole raised his eyebrows at us again. “How about you two? You hungry?”

  “Not particularly,” I said.

  “That’s okay. The place I’m thinking of,” Poole said, and placed his hand gently under my elbow, “the food’s awful anyway. But they got water you wouldn’t believe. Best around. Straight out of the tap.”

  The Victoria Diner was in Roxbury, just over the dividing line from my neighborhood, and actually served great food. Nick Raftopoulos had pork chops. Remy Broussard had a turkey club.

  Angie and I drank coffee. “So you’re getting nowhere,” Angie said.

  Poole dipped a chunk of pork in applesauce. “In truth, no.”

  Broussard wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Neither of us has ever worked a case with this much publicity that went on for so long and didn’t turn out bad.”

  “You don’t think Helene’s involved?” I said.

  “We did at first,” Poole said. “My operating theory was that she sold the kid or else some dealer she owed kidnapped the little girl.”

  “What changed your mind?” Angie said.

  Poole chewed some food, nudged Broussard to answer.

  “Polygraph. She passed with flying colors. Also, this guy wolfing pork chops and me? It’s pretty hard to lie to us when we’re working on you together. Helene lies, don’t get me wrong, but not about her daughter’s disappearance. She honestly doesn’t know what happened to her.”

  “What about Helene’s whereabouts the night Amanda disappeared?”

  Broussard’s sandwich stalled halfway to his mouth. “What about them?”

  “You believe the story she told the press?” Angie said.

  “Is there a reason we shouldn’t?” Poole dipped his fork in the applesauce.

  “Big Dave told us a different story.”

  Poole leaned back in his chair, slapped the crumbs from his hands. “And what was that?”

  “Did you or did you not believe Helene’s story?” Angie asked.

  “Not entirely,” Broussard said. “According to the polygraph, she was with Dottie, but maybe not in Dottie’s apartment. She’s sticking to the lie, though.”

  “Where was she?” Poole said.

  “According to Big Dave, she was in the Filmore.”

  Poole and Broussard looked at each other, then back at us.

  “So,” Broussard said slowly, “she did bullshit us.”

  “Didn’t want to spoil her fift
een seconds,” Poole said.

  “Her fifteen seconds?” I asked.

  “In the spotlight,” Poole said. “Used to be minutes; these days it’s seconds.” He sighed. “On the TV, playing her role as the grieving mother in the pretty blue dress. You remember that Brazilian woman in Allston, her little boy went missing about eight months back?”

  “And was never found.” Angie nodded.

  “Right. The point is, though, that mother—she was dark-skinned, she didn’t dress well, she always looked sorta stoned on camera? After a while, the general public really didn’t give a shit about her missing boy because they disliked the mother so much.”

  “But Helene McCready,” Broussard said, “she’s white. And she fixes herself up, she looks good on camera. Maybe she doesn’t come across as the brightest bulb in the box, but she’s likable.”

  “No, she’s not,” Angie said.

  “Oh, in person?” Broussard shook his head. “In person, she’s about as likable as a case of crabs. But on camera? When she’s speaking for all of fifteen seconds? The lens loves her, the public loves her. She leaves her kid alone for almost four hours, there’s some outrage, but mostly people are saying, ‘Cut her some slack. We all make mistakes.’”

  “And she’s probably never been loved in her life like that,” Poole said. “And as soon as Amanda is found, or let’s say something happens to knock the case off the front page—and that something always happens—then Helene goes back to being who she was. But for now, what I’m saying, she’s grabbing her fifteen seconds.”

  “And that’s all you think her lying about her whereabouts amounts to?” I said.

  “Probably,” Broussard said. He wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin, pushed his plate away. “Don’t get us wrong. We’re going over to her brother’s place in a few minutes, and we’re going to tear her a new asshole for lying to us. And if there is more to it, we’ll find out.” He tipped his hand toward us. “Thanks to you two.”

  “How long have you been on this case?” Poole asked.

  Angie looked at her watch. “Since late last night.”

  “And you already uncovered something we missed?” Poole chuckled. “You two might be as capable as we’ve heard.”

  Angie batted her eyelashes. “Gee, gosh.”

  Broussard smiled. “I hang out with Oscar Lee sometimes. We both came up through the Housing Police about a million years ago. After Gerry Glynn got put down in that playground a couple years back, I asked Oscar about you two. Want to know what he said?”

  I shrugged. “Knowing Oscar, it was probably profane.”

  Broussard nodded. “He said you two were major fuckups in most aspects of your lives.”

  “Sounds like Oscar,” Angie said.

  “But he also said once you both got it into your heads that you were going to close a case, not even God himself could call you off.”

  “That Oscar,” I said, “he’s a peach.”

  “So now you’re on the same case we are.” Poole folded his napkin delicately and placed it on top of his plate.

  “That bother you?” Angie said.

  Poole looked at Broussard. Broussard shrugged.

  “It doesn’t bother us in principle,” Poole said.

  “But,” Broussard said, “there should be some ground rules.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as…” Poole removed a pack of cigarettes. He pulled off the cellophane slowly, then removed the tinfoil and pulled out an unfiltered Camel. He sniffed it, inhaling the tobacco scent deep into his nostrils as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and ground the unlit cigarette into the ashtray until it snapped in half. He placed the pack back in his pocket.

  Broussard smiled at us, his left eyebrow cocked.

  Poole noticed us staring at him. “I beg your pardon. I quit.”

  “When?” Angie said.

  “Two years ago. But I still need the rituals.” He smiled. “Rituals are important.”

  Angie reached into her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Oh, God, would you?” Poole said.

  He watched Angie light her cigarette; then his head shifted slightly and his eyes cleared and found mine, seemed capable of gaining entrance to the core of my brain or my soul with a blink.

  “Ground rules,” he said. “We can’t have any press leaks. You’re friends with Richie Colgan of the Trib.”

  I nodded.

  “Colgan’s no friend of the police,” Broussard said.

  Angie said, “It’s not his job to be a friend. It’s his job to be a reporter.”

  “And I have no argument with that,” Poole said. “But I can’t have anyone in the press knowing anything we don’t want him to regarding this investigation. Agreed?”

  I looked at Angie. She studied Poole through her cigarette smoke. Eventually, she nodded. I said, “Agreed.”

  “Magic!” Poole said with a Scottish accent.

  “Where did you get this guy?” Angie asked Broussard.

  “They pay me an extra hundred a week to work with him. Hazardous duty pay.”

  Poole leaned into the current of Angie’s cigarette smoke, sniffed it. “Second,” he said. “You two are unorthodox. That’s fine. But we can’t have you associated with this case and find out you’re exposing firearms and threatening information out of people, à la Mr. Big Dave Strand.”

  Angie said, “Big Dave Strand was about to rape me, Sergeant Raftopoulos.”

  “I understand,” Poole said.

  “No, you don’t,” Angie said. “You have no idea.”

  Poole nodded. “I apologize. However, you assure us that what happened to Big Dave this afternoon was an aberration? One that won’t be repeated?”

  “We do,” Angie said.

  “Well, I’ll take you at your word. How do you feel about our terms so far?”

  “If we’re going to agree not to leak to the press, which, believe me, will strain our relationship with Richie Colgan, then you have to keep us in the loop. If we think you’re treating us like you treat the press, Colgan gets a phone call.”

  Broussard nodded. “I don’t see a problem with that. Poole?”

  Poole shrugged, his eyes on me.

  Angie said, “I find it hard to believe a four-year-old could vanish so completely on a warm night without anyone seeing her.”

  Broussard turned his wedding ring in half revolutions around his finger. “So do I.”

  “So what have you got?” Angie said. “Three days, you must have something we didn’t read about in the papers.”

  “We have twelve confessions,” Broussard said, “ranging from ‘I took the girl and ate her’ to ‘I took the girl and sold her to the Moonies,’ who apparently pay top dollar.” He gave us a rueful smile. “None of the twelve confessions check out. We got psychics who say she’s in Connecticut; she’s in California; no, she’s still in the state but in a wooded region. We’ve interrogated Lionel and Beatrice McCready, and their alibis are airtight. We’ve checked the sewers. We’ve interviewed every neighbor on that street inside their houses, not just to see what they might have heard or saw that night but to check their homes casually for any evidence of the girl. We now know which neighbor does coke, which has a drinking problem, which beats his wife, and which beats her husband, but we haven’t found anything to tie any of them to Amanda McCready’s disappearance.”

  “Zero,” I said. “You really have nothing.”

  Broussard turned his head slowly, looked at Poole.

  After about a minute of staring across the table at us, his tongue rolling around and pushing against his lower lip, Poole reached into the battered attaché case on the seat beside him and removed a few glossy photographs. He handed the first one across the table to us.

  It was a black-and-white close-up of a man in his late fifties with a face that looked as if the skin had been pulled back hard against the bone, bunched up, and clipped by a metal clamp at the back of his skul
l. His pale eyes bulged from their sockets, and his tiny mouth all but disappeared under the shadow of his curved talon of a nose. His sunken cheeks were so puckered, he could have been sucking on a lemon. Ten or twelve strands of silver hair were finger-combed across the exposed flesh at the top of his pointy head.

  “Ever seen him?” Broussard asked.

  We shook our heads.

  “Name’s Leon Trett. Convicted child molester. He’s taken three falls. The first got him sentenced to a psych ward, the last two to the pen. He finished his last bit about two and a half years ago, walked out of Bridgewater, and disappeared.”

  Poole handed us a second photo, this one a full-length color shot of a gigantic woman with the shoulders of a bank vault and the wide girth and shaggy brown mane of a Saint Bernard standing upright.

  “Good God,” Angie said.

  “Roberta Trett,” Poole said. “The lovely missus of the aforementioned Leon. That picture was taken ten years ago, so she could have changed some, but I doubt she’s shrunk. Roberta has a renowned green thumb. She usually supports herself and her dear heart, Leon, as a florist. Two and a half years ago, she quit her job and moved out of her apartment in Roslindale, and no one has seen either of them since.”

  “But…” Angie said.

  Poole handed the third and final photograph across the table. It was a mug shot of a small toffee-skinned man with a lazy right eye and scrunched, confused features. He peered into the lens as if he were looking for it in a dark room, his face a knot of helpless anger and agitated bewilderment.

  “Corwin Earle,” Poole said. “Also a convicted pedophile. Released one week ago from Bridgewater. Whereabouts unknown.”

  “But he’s connected to the Tretts,” I said.

  Broussard nodded. “Bunked with Leon in Bridgewater. After Leon rotated back to the world, Corwin Earle’s roommate was a Dorchester mugger named Bobby Minton, who in between stomping the shit out of Corwin for being a baby-raper was privy to the retard’s musings. Corwin, according to Bobby Minton, had a favorite fantasy: When he was released from prison, he was going to look up his old bunkmate Leon and his wonderful wife, Roberta, and they were going to live together as one big happy family. But Corwin wasn’t going to show up on the door without a gift. Bad form, I guess. And, according to Bobby Minton, the gift wasn’t going to be a bottle of Cutty for Leon and a dozen roses for Roberta. It was going to be a kid. Young, Bobby told us. Corwin and Leon like ’em young. No older than nine.”