Gone, Baby, Gone (Kenzie & Gennaro 4)

“The fact that she called the mother of a missing child, that wouldn’t intrigue our federal law enforcement brothers?”

“Well, technically,” Broussard said, “she called the brother of the missing child’s mother.”

“And said, ‘Tell your sister,’” Doyle said.

“Yes, true, but still, sir, no hard evidence that we’re talking about a kidnapping. And you know the Feds, they fucked up Ruby Ridge, Waco, cut insane deals with the Boston mob, they—”

Doyle held up a hand. “We’re all aware of recent Bureau transgressions, Detective Broussard.” He looked down at the tape recorder, then at the notes he’d jotted by his elbow. “The Granite Rail Quarry is not our jurisdiction. It’s shared between the State Police and the Quincy P.D. So…” He clapped his hands together. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Broussard said.

“Okay means no explicit mention of the McCready kid means we propose a joint effort with the Staties and the Quincy blues. Leave the Feds at home. The caller said no cops besides you two on the Granite Rail Quarry trail. Fine. But we’re going to lock down those hills, gentlemen. We’re going to tie a rope around the Quincy quarries, and as soon as that kid’s out of harm’s way, we’re going to throw a lead blanket over Mullen, Gutierrez, and whoever else thinks he’s going to have a two-hundred-grand payday.” He slapped his fingers on the desktop again. “Sound good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave them that broad, icy smile of his. “And once that’s done, I’m transferring you humps out of my division and out of my precinct. Anything goes wrong at that quarry tomorrow night? I’m transferring you to the Bomb Squad. You get to mark time till your retirements climbing under cars and hoping they don’t go boom. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir.”

A swivel back our way. “Mr. Kenzie and Miss Gennaro, you are civilians. I don’t like your being in this office, never mind going up that hill tomorrow night, but I don’t have much choice. So here’s the deal: You will not engage the suspects in any exchange of gunfire. You will not speak with the suspects. Should there be a confrontation, you will drop to your knees and cover your heads. When this is over, you will not discuss any aspects of the operation with the press. And you will not write books about the affair. Clear?”

I nodded.

Angie nodded.

“If you fail me on any of these points, I’ll have your licenses and gun permits revoked, and I’ll put the Cold Case squad on the Marion Socia homicide, call my friends in the press, and have them do a retrospective on the strange disappearance of Jack Rouse and Kevin Hurlihy. Understood?”

We nodded.

“Give me a ‘Yes, Lieutenant Doyle.’”

“Yes, Lieutenant Doyle,” Angie murmured.

“Yes, Lieutenant Doyle,” I said.

“Excellent.” Doyle leaned back in his chair and held his arms out wide to the four of us. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

“Swell guy,” Angie said, when we reached the street.

“He’s just an old softie,” Poole said.

“Really?”

Poole looked at me like I was sniffing glue and shook his head very slowly.

“Oh,” I said.

“The money is safe, isn’t it, Mr. Kenzie?”

I nodded. “You want it now?”

Poole and Broussard looked at each other, then shrugged.

“No point,” Broussard said. “There’ll be a war room meeting sometime tomorrow between us and the Staties and the Quincy boys. Bring it then.”

“Who knows?” Poole said. “Maybe, with all the manpower we have staking out Olamon’s people, we’ll catch one of them leaving the house for the quarries tomorrow with the child in tow. We’ll drop ’em then and this whole thing’ll be over.”

“Sure, Poole,” Angie said. “Sure. It’ll be that easy.”

Poole sighed and rocked back on his heels.

“Man,” Broussard said, “I don’t want to work for no Bomb Squad.”

Poole chuckled. “This,” he said, “is the Bomb Squad, boy.”

We sat on the steps of Beatrice and Lionel’s front porch and gave them as much of an update and recent case history as we could, fudging any details that could possibly put them under federal indictment if this blew up in our faces at a later date.

“So,” Beatrice said when we finished, “this all happened because Helene pulled one of her fucked-up schemes and ripped off the wrong guy.”

I nodded.

Lionel picked at a large callus on the side of his thumb, blew air out of his mouth in a steady rush. “She’s my sister,” he said eventually, “but this—this is…”

“Unforgivable,” Beatrice said.

He looked back at her, then turned back to me as if he’d had tonic water splashed in his face. “Yeah. Unforgivable.”

Angie came over to the railing and I stood up, felt her warm hand slide into mine.

“If it’s any consolation,” she said, “I doubt anyone could have seen this coming.”

Beatrice crossed the porch and sat on the steps beside her husband. She took both his large hands in hers and they looked far off down the street for a minute or so, their faces drawn and empty and angry and resigned all at the same time.

“I just don’t understand,” Beatrice said. “I just don’t understand,” she whispered.

“Will they kill her?” Lionel looked over his shoulder at us.

“No,” I said. “There’s no sense in that.”

Angie squeezed my hand to hold me up against the weight of the lie.

Back at the apartment, I took the first shower to wash off four days of sitting in cars and following scumbags around town, and Angie took the second.

When she came out, she stood in the living room doorway, the white towel wrapped tightly around her honey skin, and ran a brush back through her hair, watching me as I sat in the armchair and jotted notes of our meeting with Lieutenant Doyle.

I looked up, met her eyes.

They are amazing eyes, the color of caramel and very large. I sometimes think they could drink me if they wanted to. Which would be fine, believe me. Perfectly fine.

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

“We’ve been locked in a car for three and a half days. What was to miss?”