Losers, Weepers Page 4

  My mother, who contributed to their ever-needy larder, said Emily was “about what you would expect.” My Aunt Mae said she was “sometimes difficult, but rather sweet, in her way.” Of course, Aunt Mae would have considered Genghis Kahn rather sweet, in his way. I wondered idly if Emily’s sweetness included starving young kidnapped gays into lifelong repentance. And I imagined even a small part of a million dollar ransom would look awfully big to Emily.

  Thoughts of starving reminded me that it was nearly dinnertime, and I had had little breakfast and no lunch. The rain was with us again, and I decided to let the food come to me in my nice dry house. I called the Chinese restaurant and ordered too much of too many things as usual. No harm. There was always tomorrow’s lunch.

  Just as Fargo and I were polishing off an egg roll we didn’t need, and Wells was playing mighty hunter with a shrimp, the phone rang. I said, “Hello,” and a voice, obviously disguised came over the line.

  “Hallo, is thees the Peres House of Ill Ree-pute for bee-oo-tiful womans?”

  “Yes, it is.” I was grinning now. “And I can tell just from your voice that we will hire you in an instant. Can you start work tonight? Of course, you realize that as the owner I have to check you out, as it were.”

  “Ah, no.” I think I had her rattled now. “I cannot start until Tuesday, but, bebe, it vill be worth zee wait!” What the hell kind of accent was this supposed to be?

  “Sorry, honey, if you can’t get here tonight, I’ll just have to hire this other gorgeous girl who’s waiting outside.”

  “Well, if you’ve got the same weather we have, your other girl just drowned.” Now the voice was wonderfully familiar.

  “We do have a downpour working.” I laughed. “But maybe drowning is better than having you stomp her to death with your stiletto heels. Hello, darling. I take it you arrived safely.”

  We settled down and chatted for half an hour, telling each other about our day’s events.

  Mine, I assure you, were more interesting.

  Chapter 5

  Saturdays seem to have a different feel to them, even though I don’t work a standard Monday-to-Friday schedule. Fargo, Wells and I slept late, warm and cozy against the sudden autumn chill. I decided to have coffee before dressing and went for the heavier robe and slippers.

  Fargo had just come in with the weather report: the grass was still wet up to his ankles, but the rain had stopped. I poured my first cup of special Blue Mountain coffee on that good news . . . and the phone rang.

  It was Rob Catlett with photo information. I had to credit him. He got things done promptly. “Anything new going on?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he replied. “No phone calls, and the five of us hung around all evening. It was like we were all watching each other. Nana doesn’t trust Merrilou. Merrilou doesn’t trust her. Dad doesn’t trust me or Marvin. I don’t trust Merrilou or Dad. And Marvin doesn’t trust anybody. Aside from that, we are one close-knit family, warmly united by our troubles.” He laughed, but he didn’t mean it.

  “Why don’t you trust your father?” I sipped the coffee and lit the first of the five allowed cigarettes. Should I exceed that number, and I probably would, the way things are going, I’d give my wrist a good slap.

  “I’m not sure. He seems to be . . . different than he used to be. He was always sort of remote, even before Mom died. But you had the feeling that in there somewhere, he loved you. After he married Merrilou, he still really didn’t change, until this damn kidnap. For example, even before Zoe said she was a lesbian, Merrilou had been talking about this girls’ school somewhere down south, run by the evangelicals. About how they teach premarital chastity, how you should always obey your parents and how later you’re supposed to obey your husband that your parents picked, and have a lot of babies that you nurse. Sounds more like raising a cow than a girl. Anyway, Dad just laughed and said Zoe would have the girls into mutiny and the faculty into cardiac arrest within a week. Hold on a minute.” I heard him say something in a low voice, and then the sound of a door closing.

  “Just Marvin,” Rob explained. “Anyway, Merrilou started in on this school again last night, and Dad said he’d think about it, maybe they’d go down and take a look at it. Nana said it would be a big mistake for Zoe. Dad snapped that it was his decision, and his alone. He never snaps at Nana. Marvin slammed out of the room—yelling shit! I was glaring at Dad, and Merrilou was licking cream off her whiskers. It’s turning into the weekend from hell around here.”

  Suddenly he sounded very young. I tried to sound reassuring. “Rob, you have to remember, everybody is scared, and nobody has any control—or even real understanding—over what’s happening. That never brings out the best in anyone. Try to stay cool and keep your brother cool, and look after your grandmother. She’s a threat to Merrilou, and Merrilou knows it. The kidnappers aren’t supposed to call again until Monday anyway, so at least we have today and Sunday. Now, the pictures you said you located, can you e-mail them to me?”

  “Yes, there’s a scanner in the library. Dad’s at his office so I can use the scanner and get them to you right away. And thanks, I feel a little saner. You mean I don’t have to strangle Merrilou and shoot Dad until Monday?” His laugh was shaky, but I figured it was a little more genuine.

  “At the earliest.” I smiled, as if he could see it, and said good-bye.

  I took a drag on my cigarette and sent up a short puff of thanks that my name was not Catlett. The kitchen got suddenly brighter as the sun broke through outside. Maybe we’d have a nice warm day after all. I’d try Mickey’s for lunch, and on the way I’d stop in the bank, which would be open till noon. With any luck, Choate Ellis, their high honcho, would be there, and I could talk to him about ransoms.

  I exited the shower to hear the little bell that tinged when I had e-mail on the computer in my so-called office.

  A few minutes later, I was gazing at two photos, somewhat blurry, but definitely clear enough to use for ID purposes.

  One was of a grinning teenage girl with short, dark wavy hair, and a devil-may-care flash to her brown eyes—Zoe without a doubt. The boy with her in the picture was barely taller than she was, maybe five-nine, blond short hair and a nose that had been broken. He had a sweet smile as he looked down at a puppy he held. The other picture was more formally posed, a pretty young woman with reddish brown hair, carefully ragged in its cut, and warm, light hazel eyes. She wore a simple dress and leaned invitingly against a garden gate. In a few years, she would be beautiful. At thirty-five, she would be stunning. At seventy, she would not have faded. No wonder Zoe was in love with Dana.

  These kids were going to need more help than I could provide. They might have tried to pull an imprudent—and impudent—stunt and they might need to pay for it in some way, but they were by no means professional criminals. Certainly, they should not be placed in danger or serious discomfort. Nor should they serve as the means for Merrilou or anyone else to wreck a family—or families—just to ensure someone’s financial future.

  At some point very soon, I’d have to catch up with Sonny. Maybe some of the Catletts didn’t want police help, but I did. And I didn’t want to find myself guilty of not reporting a crime I was aware of. After the phone call I had heard, I could hardly claim to assume she was “voluntarily missing.” Maybe her family—or some of it—could tell themselves it was a prank, but unless I wanted to lose my license, I had better be on the side of the angels.

  And once in a great while, cops could be angels. Maybe it was easier in a small town, where things were a little more informal. I recalled a few years back when they handled a rather complex “kidnapping.” A drunk and abusive husband beat up and threatened to kill his wife and baby, because, sick of his abuse and frightened for her child, she had sued for divorce. One night while he was passed out, she worked up her courage, took the kid and ran for her life. She made the mistake of calling her sister in Indiana to say she was coming to her, and let the conversation record on the answering mach
ine. She took her own car, but stole some Michigan plates off a red Ford downtown as a clumsy attempt at disguise. Then she headed for Gary, Indiana, in her dark blue Honda.

  Later, the husband woke up and wanted action before he left for Indiana to bring his son home “one way or another.” He took the tape to headquarters just as an irate tourist from Michigan was there, complaining the license plates from his car had been hooked. It should have been cut and dried. Both husband and wife were suing for custody of the child, and neither should have taken him out of state. She should have been easily picked up and returned to Ptown with the child . . . if her husband didn’t find and kill her first.

  The cops got busy in a hurry and were unbelievably efficient. To satisfy the irate husband, Nacho got hold of the Michigan State Patrol and reported the missing plates . . . for a cream Dodge, with two wrong digits. Mitch tracked down the sister and told her to head off the mother and child to some different spot, preferably one the husband didn’t know about, until things cooled down. Sonny interviewed the husband and was so snotty, the still half-loaded man finally took a punch at him, allowing Sonny to arrest him for assaulting an officer and putting him in a cell for two days until he could come up with the bail money. And the wife conveniently disappeared.

  A few months later, the husband robbed a convenience store and pistol-whipped the clerk, thereby earning himself a twenty-five year prison term. Shortly after that, Nacho handled the sale of the trailer and household goods for the runaway mom and shipped her the money from the trailer plus a few small items she wanted, to an address in Marietta, Ohio. No one ever knew how Nacho had the information, or who actually signed the husband’s name to the trailer’s bill of sale. But then, nobody was around to complain, either.

  I had a feeling that kind of expertise might well be needed in the Catlett caper.

  Luck was with me. Choate Ellis was in his office and able to see me at Fishermen’s Bank. I felt free to talk with him about the situation. I’d known him all my life. He was a good friend of my Aunt Mae and my mother. He’d like to have been more than a friend to my mother, I thought, but his rather prissy ways and short, pudgy height were against him. Anyway, Mom had managed to get herself romantically entangled with one of the actors who had been here last summer. She was currently in New York “visiting” him as the cast rehearsed the Broadway opening of the modernized, musical version of Hamlet that had resulted in two murders and a literal stampede in its single performance at our amphitheater over Labor Day. I really don’t want to get into details. It’s too bizarre.

  “Hello, Choate. Thanks for fitting me into your schedule.”

  “A pleasure, my dear, always a pleasure. Sit down, sit down. May I offer you coffee?”

  “Thank you, no. I don’t want to take up your time, but as you may know, I’m working on Zoe Catlett’s kidnapping. I just wanted to fill in a few blanks, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Kidnapping. Has that actually been established? We’ve been pulling a few things together, but I had the idea it was some sort of convoluted teenage scheme to hit Reed up for some money.”

  “I am not sure if it started that way. It’s possible. But I don’t think it’s a joke, however poorly planned, at this point. I happened to be in their home when the kidnapper made his second call. Reed spoke briefly to Zoe, and there was no doubt in my mind she was scared to death and wanting her father to come and get her. I hope the parents have called the police by now. This stalling is getting dangerous. The kidnappers are asking for a million by Monday and getting a little nasty about it. Is that possible for you to achieve?”

  “It would have been a lot easier if I’d known we really needed it,” he said sourly. “I was laboring under the idea that we might—might—need one to two hundred thousand, which is no big problem. A million will have me scrambling to liquidate some of Reed’s assets and get extra cash in here. No, Monday is a no. Tuesday soonest, and that’s with luck. What the hell is Reed doing trying to handle this himself? Does he think he can bargain them down to a dollar ninety-eight?”

  “I know I have no authority to say this, Choate, but my thought is you would do well to start scrambling, even though it’s a weekend. And even though you may not need quite all of it.”

  He looked at me keenly. “You think it is real, that Zoe is in danger? That lovely young girl.”

  “Yes, I do. Enough that I plan to go against family wishes and report it to the police myself later today . . . if they haven’t.”

  “Is it legal for you to do that? You can trump the family’s wishes? I’m glad to hear it. Frankly, I’d feel better about it if the police were involved. A million is a lot of cash for me to get in here. And I’ve requested available marked bills from a small cache the . . . a certain agency keeps on hand. It won’t be much, but it might help.” He looked uneasy.

  “I know marked bills are virtually impossible for most of us to spot. Would the kidnappers know how to do it?”

  “Probably not. We’ve come a long way from putting an ink dot somewhere on the bill, you know. It takes special equipment to spot the mark. They might or might not have access to it or even know what it is. I wouldn’t worry about that, especially if they’re amateurs.”

  He cleared his throat and pulled out a slim cigar and an ashtray from his desk drawer. “I’ll tell you frankly, Alex, I worry more that this is some sort of trick to pull off a bank robbery while I’ve got an extra million in tens and twenties sitting here, on a busy weekday with a dozen hostages lined up at the tellers’ windows.” He blew out a cloud of expensive, aromatic smoke.

  I figured that was my passport to cigarette number—good grief—was it four already? “Frankly, I never thought of a bank robbery. It’s hard to believe, Choate, that a fairly naïve young girl like Zoe and a couple of school pals would be involved with something like that. I can’t imagine they would have even the vaguest idea of how to pull it off.”

  “I doubt that they would. There would have to be adults, probably even professionals involved. Zoe would be unwitting or unwilling bait. That’s why I’m glad you’re going to Sonny. No offense, my dear, but I think we need more than a charming young lady and an aging, worried banker to handle this.”

  One part of me wanted to pour his coffee over his head, but part of me knew he could be right. “Make me a bargain, Choate. I’ll forgive you the sexist remark if you’ll promise to get extra security and stay well into the background yourself. Don’t get hurt in this, Choate. We need you around here.”

  He laughed and stood, extending his hand. “Very well, I will. And like it or not, you’re a dear sweet girl.”

  I shook my head, patted his hand and gave him a dirty look.

  Chapter 6

  My mind was churning as I walked to the car. Opening the door, I tousled Fargo’s head. “The plot thickens, Dr. Watson. How would you feel about pizza for lunch?” The increased tempo of his tail wag gave me my answer. I decided to leave the car in the bank lot, figuring Saturday was slow and no one would mind. I put Fargo on the lead and we walked the couple of blocks to Mickey’s Pizza.

  You could hear it and smell it before you saw it. Conversations were carried on at a mild shout to compete successfully with numerous iPods and cell phones ringing with tidbits of songs the owners thought reflected their personalities or looks in some way. Horns blew to summon friends out to the curb or to urge another car to move on. But the aroma—ah, now that made up for any minor faults I may have been finding with the ambiance.

  The menu was beautifully simple on its blackboard behind the counter. Pizza by the pie or the slice, calzone, meatball or sausage grinder, small or large salad. Dessert was Italian ice or cannoli.

  When my turn came at the counter, I ordered half a small pie with sausage and mushrooms, small salad and—remembering they sold no alcoholic drinks—a Diet Coke for me plus a cup of water for my friend tied to a table outside. Getting a firm grip on my tray of goodies, I eased my way through the crowd to the table Fargo had re
served for us and sat down beside him. I broke him off a crust of pizza—leaving a piece of sausage and picking off the mushrooms—and opened my Diet Coke for a sip.

  I looked around, hoping to spot one or more of the kids. I really didn’t expect to see Zoe, but who knew? I gazed until the scene began to blur and then stopped looking for a few minutes while I enjoyed some pizza and salad.

  And then I saw him.

  Harry was walking down the edge of the sidewalk, turning his head back and forth to check both cars and pedestrians. He, too, was looking for someone. When he reached my table, I called his name softly.

  “Harry? Harry Maddock?”

  He looked at me, his face a question mark.

  “Yes. I’m Harry Maddock. Do I know you?” He was obviously on guard and untrusting of anyone who looked old enough to vote. Along with jeans and T-shirt, Harry also wore an unmistakable air of guilt.

  “My name is Alex Peres. I’m a friend of Rob Catlett and also of Mrs. Marie Catlett. I’m a private investigator, and I am very quietly looking for Zoe. Marie and Rob fear she might be in some danger, and I’d like to be able to reassure them. Would you sit down and talk to me for a minute or two?”

  He more or less collapsed into a chair, as if he had removed a suit of armor that was all that had held him erect. “Thank God somebody’s doing something. I think I’m going nuts.”