Sinister Heights (15 page)

“I was run off the road. Late-model Dodge Ram pickup, white. One of those cute retro jobs. I had it up to a hundred and twenty, trying to shake him, when I lost it.”

“I don't guess you got the license number.”

“You guess right.”

True so far; I hadn't looked at the plate when I was in Glendowning's garage.

“Get a look at the driver?”

I saw Glendowning's face, but it had been tangled up with others, including a number of mythical beasts and one advertising gimmick. “Too dark.”

“The white pickup squares with the call we got. That's the upside of all these cell phones. Makes up a little for all the soccer moms we mop up with the things stuck in their fists.” He seemed to realize what he was saying. “I'm real sorry about that. I'm spending too much time alone these days, been pulling double shifts ever since my wife died.”

“Sorry.” I didn't give a damn about his wife. I fished the pack out of my shirt pocket. It was full of crushed paper and loose tobacco. I'd been wondering why my chest hurt. I must have hit the steering column at the same time I struck my head.

“That your wife in the front seat?” he asked.

“A friend.”

“Good friend?”

“They're all good when you don't have many.” I rattled the pack between my hands. “You're the second person tonight to ask if we were married.”

“Yeah? Well, race differences don't mean nothing these days. There's some say they do, but I didn't see none of them in the crowd when I heard Dr. King speak in Cobo Hall. It's all in how people look at you.” He inspected his big flashlight, flicked the switch on and off. “You a police officer? I ask on account of the gun.”

I'd forgotten I had it, as uncomfortable a thing as it was to wear. That was a sign I'd been wearing it too often lately. It hadn't meant anything against two tons of Detroit steel. “Private. I've got a carry in my wallet, if you want to look at it.”

“We can do that later. I figured it was something like that. You got too big a plant in that car for a civilian, and if you was a cop, the taxpayers'd be standing the bills. You need body work.”

“You think?”

“That's just sheet-metal damage and glass. Anyway, it's not what I'm talking about. That right front fender's been banged up since Nixon.”

“Private cop doesn't mean I went to private school. I get five hundred a day and bottle deposits. I worked sixty days last year.”

“It ain't the expense. It's some kind of a cover. You look to me like a man that likes an edge.”

“It's gotten me where I am.” It came out nastier than intended; or maybe not so much more.

“You working tonight?”

He wasn't playing with the flashlight now. He wasn't a man to use the same piece of business twice. But he overdid the casual tone.

I read the surgeon general's warning on the pack. Smoking was endangering my fetus. “No. Just giving some friends a ride.”

“Okay.” The light show from the ambulance reflected off the shining black planes of his face. He raised his voice above the siren. “In a couple of minutes it won't be my business. When the first team gets it, they'll be all coffeed up and fresh as milk. You'll need a better story. I hope you ain't forgetting that little boy.”

“A boy's best friend is his father.”

“What?” He leaned in and cupped his ear. He had a hearing problem the way he needed a ladder to change a lightbulb in an eight-foot ceiling.

I shook my head. It hadn't been meant for him to hear.

He strode off to talk to the paramedics, who had parked on the apron and got out to unfold the stretcher from the back. An unmarked Plymouth, white as justice, cut its engine and coasted to a stop behind the big square van. The first team was checking in.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

“How's that? Too tight?”

I waggled my foot around. It was wound with ten yards of athletic tape and didn't waggle much. “A little.”

“Good. You said you wanted to be able to move around; that will keep the circulation going. If you're going to take your weight off it for any length of time, you'll want to remove the tape. Gangrene's not nearly as much fun as it sounds.” The paramedic, a kid with freckles and an impressive red handlebar moustache that made him look like an actor in a school play, returned the roll of tape and stainless steel scissors to his metal case, arranging them just right in their proper niches. He and his partner had strapped Constance Glendowning to a board, placed the board on a stretcher, and slid it into the ambulance. He didn't think she was in any danger, but you never knew with a concussion. I asked him when he thought she'd come around.

“Five minutes or five days. The human brain's got more heart than the heart; it knows when its owner's in for a world of pain, and shuts down until the timing's better. I understand her boy's missing. That's a biggie.”

“I hope to get him back before she wakes up.” I lowered my foot to the ground and tested it, supporting most of my weight with my hand on the door of the cruiser. The pain was there but muffled, like a toothache under a wad of cotton. It was just a sprain after all. I'd been afraid the foot was hanging by a thread. I pulled my sock on over it and stuck my shoe in a slash pocket of the Windbreaker. I knew without trying it wouldn't go on over an ankle the size of a bucket.

“I wouldn't worry too much about it. There's a little white pill that'll make her think he's in Mother Goose's daycare. It's no bigger than a Tic Tac. Street price of a bottle of sixty would put you in retirement. If you didn't mind spending it in Cell Block A,” he added, when he realized the two plainclothes cops were approaching.

“What about—the other woman?” I asked. It was time to stop thinking of her as Iris.

He shook his head. “Nothing we could do. I'm sorry. If it helps—”

“She didn't feel a thing. I know. I was talking about the remains.”

“Wayne County Morgue, until someone claims her. You next of kin?”

It was my turn to shake my head. I was getting tired of the question. “Both her parents are dead, and she was divorced. I never heard her mention any brothers or sisters. There's a woman in Monroe, but she was just an employee.”

“Well, I hope she had a friend close enough to go to her funeral. Otherwise she might wind up on a dissecting table.”

“Somehow I don't think she'd care.”

The look I got surprised me. I hadn't thought it was possible to shock someone who paid his rent scooping up human entrails. “I can see you're not the friend I was referring to,” he said.

I looked at the boy's face behind the man's moustache. I'd grown one once to look older, but that was someone else, like the woman in the car. I was too tired to deal with any of them. “Thanks for the bandage. It's the best job I've seen, and I've seen more than my share, most of them on me. You know your work. What kind of friend I am to the lady without a head is something you don't know a goddamn thing about.”

He looked down and got busy latching shut his case. His face went as red as his handlebars.

“Hello, Eddie. Through with this boy?”

“All yours, Sergeant.” He stood, opened his mouth, then used it to tell me I ought to get a brace for my neck. “I don't think there are any fractures, but a whiplash injury can take months to heal without support.” He nodded at the other plainclothes detective and carried his case up the slope.

“I heard some of what you said. I think you hurt Eddie's feelings.” The detective with the words was a woman about fifty, and fifty pounds overweight. She wore a dark gray jacket with bolero lapels buttoned too tight over a light gray skirt. The arrangement pyramided her figure unflatteringly. Her hair was dyed beige and bobbed just above her big shoulders. Her lipstick was too red, but it matched the satchel she had slung over one shoulder and her shoes, low-heeled pumps size 10EEEEE. Her companion was male and younger, possibly as young as Eddie; the prematurely bald head added ten years. He had on a black three-button sharkskin and a necktie he'd found floating in a bowl of soup.

“To hell with Eddie and his feelings,” I said. “He's still got a head under his hat.”

“We want to talk about that, also about a boy you say is missing.” She fished a leather folder out of the satchel and showed me a badge plated in enamel and gold. “I'm Sergeant Loggins. This is Officer Wilding. We're with the state police, Juvenile Division. How's the ankle?”

“Hurts like hell. So does my neck and chest and everything else except the little finger of my left hand, and I'm getting a hangnail. All of which makes me the winner here, if you use the bell curve. And how are you?”

“Not feeling sorry for myself. How's that for starters?” Her red lips were pressed together in a smile like a cut throat. “Tell us about the little boy.”

I caught a ride home in the white Plymouth. Wilding drove, without having said a word since we'd met. In the driveway, Loggins hung an elbow over the back of her seat and smiled at me. “We'll be back to plug the holes in your story, after we head out to the wine country to pick up the corks. Don't plan any big trips.”

“I don't have wheels.” I put my good foot out onto the pavement. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Thank Wilding. He talked me out of dropping you off at the corner and letting you hobble the rest of the way.”

“What'd he use, smoke signals?”

“We've outlasted all our marriages; we communicate. He wants to jail you as a material witness to a possible child abduction, but you'd just occupy yourself worrying about getting out. I want you to spend the time thinking about all the things that can happen to a three-year-old kid in this world. If you're uninformed I'll send pamphlets.”

“I was just helping out some friends.”

“I heard it. I wrote it all down so I can read it back to you when it counts. Walker!”

I had shut the door and started across the grass, favoring my unsprained ankle. The little lightning bolts shot out of my neck when I looked back.

“Nothing. I just wanted to make you turn your head.” She laughed, a short harsh bark, and ran up her window.

In the kitchen I wanted a drink, but couldn't reach the bottle in the cupboard standing on one foot. I filled a glass from the tap instead, drank it down, filled it again, and drank half of that. I took the rest with me into the living room, sat down in the armchair, and rested my foot on the ottoman while I dialed Connor Thorpe's number at the old Stutch plant. He spent most of his evenings at the office. Home was just a place to sleep and change horses. He never slept.

The line was busy. I drank off what was in the glass and called Carla Witowski. She made a few noises while I was talking, but didn't ask any questions until I was finished. I told her Constance was in Henry Ford Hospital. I said I'd call as soon as I knew anything about Matthew. I didn't tell her she knew more than I'd told the cops at this point, but she didn't ask about the cops, so she might have guessed.

She lowered her voice, as if to avoid being overheard. More likely she didn't want to wake the dog. “You won't do anything to David until you know Matthew is safe?”

“I'll do just enough.”

The pause on her end was brief. “I suppose the police will want to talk to me. What should I tell them?”

“The truth. They'll work it out themselves anyway, and I've had more experience in their doghouse. I'm just buying a few hours. I want to talk to Glendowning before they do.”

“If I'm not here, have me paged at the hospital.” She hung up. Tough teacher.

Thorpe's line was still in use. I called Rayellen Stutch and spoke to Mrs. Campbell. The lady of the house was still out raising funds. I just said there was a glitch and lunch would have to be postponed. Mrs. Campbell didn't press me for details. She wasn't the kind who got burned twice.

“Thorpe.” He sounded as if he were talking through a rubber hose. The telephone lines at the plant hadn't been replaced since Ma Bell came out.

“Walker. I need a car.”

“You should've hung on to the Viper.”

I told him what had happened. I might have been reading an obituary off the AP wire.

“What do the cops know?” he asked.

“I was taking a friend and her son to see her mother. Iris was along for the ride.”

“You're lucky they didn't run you in on general principles.”

“Yeah, I'm a regular rabbit's foot. The boy's not in danger if he's with his father—I've got past procedure in favor of that, cops don't treat parental abductions the way they do straight kidnapping—and if he isn't, if he really wandered off or someone else has him, they couldn't do any more than what they're doing: getting the word out to all the posts and precincts and TV stations and digging up a picture to stick on milk cartons. That gives me a head start. When I brace Glendowning I don't want bars separating us.”

Air stirred around his basement office, like someone blowing gently into a clay jug. “It's not my place to tell you how to run your business. When I have a security breach I plug it. It isn't a vendetta.”

“You're right. It's not your place.” I twisted the telephone cord around my right hand, tight enough to shut off circulation. “What about those wheels?”

“I can't get you anything tonight. All the lots are locked up.”

“Kick somebody out of bed. The cops will be at Glendowning's house in the morning. The rental places are closed and I don't plan to waste what I've got for Glendowning on some hack driver giving me grief about driving all the way to Toledo. It doesn't have to be a Cadillac,” I added. “A Yugo with its gas tank wired on is fine as long as it runs.”

“I'll see what I can do.”