***
Early on the second Bonnie Rennault arrived at work, finding the door locked, the lights out, and the phone ringing. ‘No good omen,’ she told herself as she dug her keys from her purse. As she moved, the beads that completed her shoulder length braids clicked together. The sound it made reminded her of the beat of a song that rattled about inside her head from time to time.
It was still dark, and the street light behind her reflected on the window in the door. She scrutinized it and her reflection, thinking she needed to get someone to wash all the windows. Her long sleek, black lines were clouded by industrial strength salt stains. The front door to Twin Sister’s Coffee House opened six feet from the curb, and with no parking on that side of the street, it caught hell when the City salted the streets during a snow storm.
She tried, but she wasn’t able to open the door before the phone stopped ringing. Once it stopped, the cell phone in her purse rang. “No,” she told her sister, Florence, “I am at work now.”
“I rang at work. No one answered.”
“I just let myself in. See? Hear this?” She opened the door, making the bell at the top tinkle. “See? You heared that?” She shook the door as hard as she could. “I am at work.”
“No Willow then?”
“Hold on.” She took the phone away from her mouth and then drew it in again so that it was only inches from her chin. “Willow!” she called at the top of her lungs. Receiving no answer, she drew the phone away from her again and replaced it to her ear. “See? You heared there is no answer.”
“Heared? I can’t heared. You yell in my ear.” Florence paused. “You not even there yet.”
“I am, too.” She hit the end key. Too bad she couldn’t slam a cell phone down like she could the one inside.
Coffee and cappuccino machines were located behind the counter, which was a long mahogany structure that looked as if it could have served in a tavern during the eighteen hundreds. Behind the counter was a retarder where they stored lettuce, tomatoes and other foods they could use to make their specialty salads. Above the retarder were rows and rows of cups and glasses, and a mirror that took up most of the wall. It reflected back a wealth of antiques. Old tables with unmatched chairs sat in groupings about the floor. The walls were covered with posters and shelves. There was a Marshall Fields hat box on one shelf, an old typewriter on another. They had boots, hats, antique lamps, serving dishes. Some of the tables had chess sets, and some were fairly old looking. The sugar bowls and creamers had old Currier and Ives patterns about them. There was a small stage in one corner where patrons read their poetry on Tuesday nights, and told jokes on Wednesday. Trivia night was Thursday night, and someone stood on the stage and read questions to competitors. Also on the stage was Bonnie’s favorite of all their fixtures, an old player piano. She bought music rolls at an antique store in town, and played them on special occasions.
Overhead was a tin ceiling. When the pair rented the space out, they took their time, removing layers upon layers of paint, attempting to restore it to its original sheen. They settled finally on painting it a dull silver. The lighting fixtures, large white globes, hung from chains. Center most was a ceiling fan with a matching globe.
In the corner behind the stage, a pair of salon doors led into the kitchen. That’s where Willow spent most of her time. The girl was a decent cook.
The next call came from Evelyn Pratt. “No, she is not here,” she told Willow’s mother. “Like I said an hour ago. I heared nothing from her either.”
It promised to be a long morning and a longer day. Immediately Bonnie set to making coffee, setting out canned soup and calling the bakery across the street for bread and muffins. In between she filled coffee cups and rang up the cost as she served her regulars. “No, no rolls yet,” she explained again and again. “I called the bakery. Soon. Real soon.”
Thirty minutes later Bonnie served a regular customer who sat at a table in the front window. They watched as Florence exited the bakery with a large box. Bonnie used the coffee pot to indicate her sister. “Here comes the rolls.”
“Bakery rolls? No home made?”
“You see Willow here? You heared her singing? No Willow. No homemade. Instead you get Florence’s crabby ass.”
Bonnie and Florence were identical twins, with identical small puckered smiles, slightly bucked teeth, large, dark eyes, small breasts and big hips. They went to extremes to differentiate themselves from one another. Bonnie wore her hair in braids, and Florence cut hers short and curled it. Florence wore jeans and sweatshirts most of the time. Bonnie wore African prints. Florence had several tattoos and Bonnie pierced her nose. Bonnie always wore big silver or gold hoops while Florence wore a variety of smaller earrings. As they worked side by side, they smiled at the customers and scowled at each other.
Three police officers walked in as Florence arranged muffins on a pedestal serving tray. One look at the sisters and the officers left. Not two minutes later another policeman, Kirby was his name, came through the door and stopped at the counter. He drew in several breaths before turning to either of them. “I’ve been told to inform you ladies that if there are any disturbances, the City has authorized us to close you down.”
“There will be no disturbances,” Florence replied, “If she keep her mouth shut.”
‘If she keep her mouth shut.’ Bonnie thought. ‘If Florence could keep her mouth shut.’ She promised herself again that it was going to be a long day. She glanced at the clock wall for the time. Someone had set them all going. “Now why you do that?” she asked her sister.
The clock wall was a joke. When they rented out the space and decorated it fifteen years earlier, they forgot to buy a clock. Bonnie found a nautical style clock/barometer for the wall in an antique shop down the street. Florence found a cuckoo clock at an antique store on the opposite end of town. Of course they couldn’t agree which should go up, so they hung both in an unusual move to settle the matter. That sparked something else. Several customers, noting that both clocks were so dissimilar, found clocks of their own. Before long the entire wall was covered in novelty clocks.
As it turned out, the only clock that kept time well enough to be of any use was an old kitchen clock in the shape of a yellow cat. It’s tail swung back and forth as the inner mechanisms ticked away. Most clocks weren’t wound, nor were batteries or plugs in place most of the time. Once in a while, though, Christmas, birthdays, the Fourth of July, Willow would find enough batteries, wind them up or plug them into a strip of plugs. On the hour, they would bong, ding, chirp, chime, clang or buzz. That only happened once on any given day, because neither sister had the patience to see what their clocks would produce on the half hour.
“Just get them all situated before they go off,” Florence huffed.
“I got soup to make.” Bonnie took off for the kitchen.
“Right,” Florence grumbled. “She go off to open cans and I spend a half hour taking batteries out of clocks.”
***
When mail was distributed, Marie Bankencrest took her letter and shoved it in the pocket of her smock. She wanted to wait until she had some privacy and a few minutes to shed those tears she normally wouldn’t allow herself. It wasn’t until after lunch, though, that she could return to her cell. She crawled up onto her bunk and dug her letter out then. It was written on notebook paper with pencil. ‘Dear Mom,’ it read. ‘How are you? I am fine. I love you. I miss you. I am writing this fast so Grandma doesn’t find out I’m writing again. I just wanted to say happy new year and mary christmas. Tina says hi. So does Cory. They got a lot of nice things for Christmas from Sophie. Cory wanted trucks and Tina wanted a pink jacket. They got it. Sophie got me a book about indians and some clothes. Grandma said I can’t keep them though. So I left the book with Tina. I saw Dad on Christmas eve. He brought me a present, too. It was okay. Grandma told him that I needed a coat. So he bought me one. He was crabby on Christmas eve. His teeth hurt again. Got to go. I hear grandma. I love you. Come home soon. Your son, Mikey.’ Marie refolded the letter and tucked it and the envelope back in the pocket of her smock. She’d read it again before ‘lights out’.
***
Mayor Art Weber dropped in. He huffed and puffed after his upstairs climb. No matter, he smiled at Bill from the doorway, and waved a folder. “You know I haven’t seen that famous Bill Ramos smile in a long time,” Art cracked. “This job getting to you?”
“You want it back?”
“No, thank you.”
Bill couldn’t remember Art smiling much when he held the job. Art was very big and very black. More than that he had put on quite a few pounds since retiring from the Police Department. The man wobbled in and fell into an arm chair. “So, how’s Sophie? How’s the kids?”
“Fine. Fine.” Bill frowned at his pen and pushed back in his seat. “I suppose you heard that Marie Bankencrest is coming up for a parole hearing in February.”
Art shook his head. “I would have laid odds that she would have been locked up for quite a bit longer. Pity.”
“Amen.”
“You tell Sophie yet?”
Bill nodded. “She isn’t the least bit happy.” He picked up his coffee cup. The contents were oily looking and no doubt cold. He replaced it without taking a sip. “So, what can I help you with?”
“Brought you the paperwork on those two new vehicles.”
“New vehicles my ass. I have four with better than one hundred thousand miles on them. When do I get the other two replaced?”
Art chuckled. “Not my problem anymore. Can’t say I’m sorry to dump that in your lap.”
“My biggest problem is your budget director. Does this asshole honestly think I can run a department on a smaller budget than last year?”
“You know, Bill. You really have to learn to take it easy.”
“Hump.”
Friday,
January 3rd
By January third, Evelyn thought she’d lose her mind. She called Red Stubs at least three times a day. Bonnie Rennault hadn’t heard from Willow, and neither did Beverly Pinkston at Pinkies’ Tap where Willow worked two evenings a week.
Evelyn’s other daughters hadn’t heard from Willow neither. At least Erica said she hadn’t. Pam’s comment was out and out mean. “I’m suppose to do what now?” the teenager asked. “Worry about her? Chances are something hit her in the head and made her think for a change.” She could have been Willow all over again, except for the scar on Willow’s cheek and the fact that Pam had dark brown hair. Once Pam hit high school, she dyed it black. Where Willow wore as much pink as she could find, Pam wore black with leather and silver studs and anything else that made her look the slightest bit creepy. It was a pity to see such a pretty girl intentionally make herself so ghoulish looking.
“Meaning what?” Evelyn demanded of her youngest.
“Meaning if she took off with some new guy, she’d be better off.” The girl thought about her comment for a moment. “Or not.” She shrugged and wandered away. If Pam had disappeared for three days, Willow wouldn’t miss her either.
“Okay,” Evelyn said to her husband that morning at breakfast. “I talked to Laurie. She hasn’t heard anything either. Both Bonnie and Laurie called Red’s and called around to her other friends. I don’t know what to do outside of going to the police.”
Bald headed Harry pondered over his coffee and his outstretched Trib. He scratched his head and sipped. When he set his mug back on the table, he didn’t look anymore certain than he did before he picked it up. “I don’t know,” he said with a shake of his head. “Just like Red said, she could of took off with this new guy and then just show up sometime tomorrow.”
“Do you think she did?”
“What?”
“Took off with this new guy.” Evelyn rapped the wooden table with her knuckles. “Think about it, Harry. Do you think she took off with some new guy and not let us know something?”
“I think that she would get angry enough to do something like that. I mean how many times have we insisted she not do something, and she just did it? I mean we begged her not to date that idiot, Red. What does she do? Just for spite, she moved in with him. I begged her to buy a new car. That Pontiac. Just for spite, she went out and bought the worst piece of crap she could find.” Harry wiped his hands on a napkin and glanced at the paper Evelyn wasn’t about to let him read. He’d do almost anything to avoid looking her in the eyes when he allowed himself the luxury of letting someone else make the tough calls. “And then she painted it pink.”
“I don’t trust Red.”
“I don’t either.”
“Then let me call the cops.”
“Wait. At least call around once more.”
“Then what?”
“What?”
“Then do we call the police? Or do we sit here and hope she turns up the next day?”
“I’m just saying...”
“Never mind. You’re just saying what you’re always saying. You don’t want to make a decision.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“What if I’m right?”
***
Angela Bankencrest called Milk Borenstein at ten in the morning and left him a message. “I’m on my way to visit Marie. Mikey is with a friend. In case I’m late or I don’t make it home, check on him. Make sure he’s okay. Bye.” It was suppose to snow hard.
Her old Lincoln wasn’t reliable. She’d take a Salvation Army van to the Woman’s Correctional Center at Dwight, and that took everything she had within her. Never in her life had she expected to see one of her relatives, let alone her daughter, locked up in a place like that.
Looking around her, it was evident that she didn’t belong there. She had bleached blonde hair, and even though it came from a bottle, none of the women on this van could dye their hair blonde. Some of the blacks had red hair and most of the Mexicans didn’t bother. These people were grungy looking. There were crying kids and parents that threatened in languages she didn’t understand. Angela set her chin and wrapped her old coat about her.
She tried to maintain her distance. It took an hour and a half to get there, but better than two to get through security. Once in, she had about an hour with her daughter.
Angela and Marie met in a day room, where they were surrounded by guards and other families and inmates. The pair kissed cheeks, but were ordered to back away from each other. That was hard. Angela wanted to wrap her arms around her daughter and hold on.
“How’s the kids?” Marie asked.
“Mikey is fine.”
“Where is he?”
“With Tyler across the street. He’ll be there for a while. If I don’t get back in time, I told Milk to check in on him.”
“Mom.” Marie closed her eyes tiredly. “I’ve told you before. Keep him away from Mikey. Please.”
“That’s insane. Mikey needs a male roll model. What’s wrong with his father providing him with that?”
“Positive male roll model, yeah. There’s nothing positive about Milk Borenstein. He’s an animal. Just keep him away.”
Her beautiful daughter hadn’t had a chance to color her hair in quite a while. The blonde was virtually gone. She had light brown hair and angry green eyes. Once upon a time she had a straight, thin nose and perfect lips. Time dealt harshly with her. Her nose looked as if it had been shattered once or twice, and her lips were forced into a constant pout. When Marie looked at her feet, that anger dissipated into sadness. It would have been nice to turn that sadness into a smile. Marie set her mouth and reclaimed the anger. “What about Tina and Cory? Have you seen them? How are they?”
Angela set her mouth to match her daughter’s. “Who?”
“You know that’s wrong,” Marie hissed. “You know I hate you for it.”
“You have a lot of nerve talking about what’s right or wrong. Should we get into how many men you’ve been with? Or should we talk about why you’re here?”
Marie crumbled. That surprised the hell out of Angela as her daughter should have matched her insult by insult. Marie found the closest seat and sat quickly, resting her chin on her upturned fist. That sadness threatened to melt into tears. Angela glanced about quickly. She had heard things about showing emotions to other inmates, and how it made that person a target. She pushed a thick clump of Marie’s hair from her face.
“Stand back,” a guard ordered her.
Angela dropped the hair quickly. She glanced at the guard as she moved to the seat next to Marie. “Stop,” she ordered as tears fell onto Marie’s cheeks.
“I miss them,” Marie whispered. “All of them.” She wiped one cheek. “Ramos, the little prick, won’t bring Tina and Cory to see me anymore. Mrs. Ramos says it’s too hard. That they act out after seeing me.” She picked a thread off of her orange smock, and picked at it with both hands. “I want to see Mikey so bad. And God help me, but I’ve been praying for Donny. I just wish....”
Angela avoided discussions about Donny at all costs. He died by his own hand after he and his friends fired weapons into a crowd of students and fans at the Theodore Roosevelt High School Homecoming game two years earlier. Marie wound up in jail because her boyfriend at the time had supplied Donny and his friends with the weapons. Manny, her boyfriend, was hiding from the police after a weapons hijacking, and she knowingly took him in. He was serving time at Dixon.
Angela had nothing to offer her. It had been a long time since she thought of the incident or of her eldest grandson. She missed him, too. “Kids don’t belong in this environment,” Angela whispered. “I don’t blame the Ramos’s for that.”
Marie wiped away her tears. “I have a parole hearing next month. It looks pretty good.”
“Good. Good.”
“It’ll be the longest damned month in my life.”
“Mine, too.”
The visit ended too soon. By three Angela was back in the van and on the road home.
***
By three in the afternoon, Evelyn thought that she would crack. Where was Willow? Why hadn’t the girl called? How selfish could she be? If she was out there playing around with someone new, why didn’t she just call?
Evelyn made one more round of calls. She found Red at work. “No, I haven’t seen her,” Red growled over the phone. “Don’t call here anymore. Call me at home. No. Better yet, don’t call me at all.”
Evelyn called her husband at work next. “That’s it. I can’t wait anymore. I’m going to the police.”
He paused and then exhaled. “Wait for me. I’ll come with you.”
***
On the second Milk parked his old, green Nova in the lot behind his work. Then he hitched his cab up to a trailer loaded with hanging meat, and took off for Sault Ste. Marie. It was a fast trip, straight up to the Canadian border, and straight back again. Over night at best.
By three thirty on the third, he pulled into the lot again, this time with a load of new wooden pencils. He dropped his trailer, and immediately gathered up his thermos, mini cooler and overnight bag, and headed back to the parking lot.
His molar on the bottom felt like someone drove a spike right through his jaw. He wanted to get home, and get to the Orajel in his medicine cabinet.
Once out of the lot, he turned onto 123rd and headed back into Portland. In no time he made Pullman Avenue and was back to banging on the dash as the radio switched channels. ‘Shit,’ he thought. Finally it settled on a classical music channel, which settled in his teeth. That damned molar throbbed with every cymbal clash and drum beat. Anything but that. When he tried to change it again, it refused. It wouldn’t shut off either.
He pounded one more time. The overhead light flipped on. He flipped that off. The volume on the radio diminished and he sighed with relief. That was too soon. The headlights flashed. He tugged on the ‘on’ switch. The overhead flipped on and the horn beeped. The overhead flipped off again. The windshield wipers flipped on and solvent squirted the windshield. The horn beeped again, and the headlights flashed. And he seriously wondered if he’d get this piece of shit home.
*
Sergeant Ruth Ellen de Boer’s squad waited between the tracks and the fence that separated Renfro’s golf course from Portland’s. She spotted that car weaving across the two lane street and back again. It flew over the tracks, its wheels leaving the ground for a fraction of a second, and it bounced. The interior light came on. She saw one man, but wondered if someone’s head wasn’t in his lap as he swerved from one lane to the next. He sure moved about a lot inside his vehicle.
She flipped on her lights, and made the turn on to 123rd Street with one hand on the wheel and one hand reaching for the mic. “This is car fifteen. I’m east bound on 123rd, just leaving the Grand Trunk tracks. In pursuit of a 1980 something green Chevy Nova, license number 800 0462. Possible DUI.” She returned the radio to it’s cradle and waited for the inevitable check for outstanding warrants.
The Nova pulled over as soon as the driver saw her. He jumped from his vehicle and slammed the door with all his might. Then he kicked it. She recognized the pony tail and the sloppy beard, though his name escaped her.
Ruth Ellen unsnapped her holster cover. Her computer screen flashed the owner’s name, Michael Borenstein. He had no outstanding warrants in Illinois, but did have a long conviction history, including DUI, misdemeanor drug violations, dealing, breaking and entering. “Why am I not surprised?” she asked herself as she studied the list. She swiped at the back of her neck as a chill brought the hair follicles on her back to attention. Damned it felt as if someone were staring at her from the backseat.
Cautiously, with her hand in easy reach of her weapon, she opened her door. She stood, using her car door to shield her, her knees bent, ready to dive for cover. “Mr. Borenstein, if you don’t mind. Step away from the vehicle.”
She cast a big shadow in the setting sun, but then she was a big woman, standing nearly six feet tall. She had strength and she had speed, and she knew she could out match almost anyone she came up against in the line of duty. Borenstein was bigger than she was. If the size of his gut was any indication to his speed, he sure as hell wasn’t quick enough to spook her.
And God help the bastard that cracked a dumb blonde joke in her direction. She was blonde, and brawny, but she wasn’t dumb.
Borenstein twisted about quickly, his features alternating from red to blue as her lights soaked the surroundings. “Ah,” he growled.
“As I said, Mr. Borenstein, step away from the vehicle.”
“Away?” Borenstein growled again and jumped away. He kicked at the ground. “Why? You want this piece of shit? Huh? You want this piece of crap? Take it! Confiscate it! Sell it to the closest junkyard. F-ing piece of shit!” The car seemed to hear his insult. The horn blared. Borenstein picked up a rock and hurled it. It bounced off a dented door panel. The horn continued.
“Mr. Borenstein, you will either calm down, or I will call for back up.”
Tiredly, he raised his hands and backed away. “Fine. I’m fine.”
“Then you won’t mind if I search your vehicle,” she called over blare of the horn.
“Fine. Search it. Keys are in the ignition.
Hand still ready to reach for her weapon, she stepped around her car door. Gingerly, trying to watch him, and the traffic, she made her way to his driver’s side. An SUV was headed towards them from the opposite direction. He stepped off the road and it hid him momentarily. She wasn’t taking any chances. She drew, and had her weapon pointed right at him when the SUV passed. He raised his hands higher over his shoulders. Rather than putting her weapon away, she kept it trained on him as she reached for his keys.
“Car 15, what have you got?” a dispatcher called over the radio clipped to her shoulder.
“I told you. Michael Borenstein. Speeding and driving erratically. Possible DUI.”
“Either it is or it isn’t,” a male voice broke in. “Make a decision.”
“Let me search his car. He’s driving like he has a few other things in his system besides booze.”
“What the hell is that noise? Ruth Ellen? I can hardly hear you.”
“That’s Borenstein’s vehicle. The horn is busted.” She caught a flash from the side of her eye. The interior lights and headlights on the Nova flickered on and off in unison. The horn quieted for a moment, but then started to beep with the beat of the lights. The volume on the radio shot up and the channel changed. ESPN was broadcasting a basketball game.
“Ruth Ellen!” the voice from the radio crackled. “Make up your mind. I need you now. Disturbance at Twin Sisters’ Coffee Shop.”
“Ah, Christ.” Ruth Ellen replaced her gun. “Come here,” she ordered Borenstein. He recrossed the street. “Breath on me,” she ordered. The smell of onions and garlic and bad teeth made her gag. She handed him his keys. “Get this piece of crap out of here. And don’t take it out again until you have it under control!” She ran off, jumped into her squad and took off with lights flashing and siren wailing.
*
Milk reclaimed his car. As quickly as it all began, it ended. He rubbed his jaw and crawled in. The first thing he noticed was the one black leather driving glove that Willie had given Red for Christmas. It was caught up with bits and pieces of burrs. ‘Willie,’ he thought, as a jab of pain shot through his lower jaw. “Damn!”
***
Ruth Ellen pulled up in front of Twin Sisters’, parking on an angle next to another squad, and blocking one lane of traffic. It was Jim Kirby with lights spinning and siren wailing. When he saw her, he jumped from his vehicle. “I knew it,” he called as he hopped in her’s. “Those two are insane. I told them, too. We’d shut them down if they started something.”
“Now, did you?” Ruth Ellen asked in a patronizing tone. ‘Bravado,’ she told herself. ‘Bravado.’
“You don’t remember last time, do you, Sarg?”
“Nope.” She sure did remember. These two were as crazy as Kirby said they were. Ruth Ellen, though, needed to slow the beat of her racing heart. That last situation had her freaked. She unbuckled her holster again, and made a show of checking on her clip. She needed a moment to assure herself she could face this situation. Finally, she sighed and replaced her weapon.
The front window shattered. A pedestrian jumped away from flying glass as a stool bounced off Kirby’s hood. People began to gather just to either side of the windows, attempting to peek in while staying out of the line of fire. A coffee pot crashed off the clock wall. Several clocks fell.
“Now,” Ruth Ellen ordered. The pair hurried from her squad, ducking to avoid anything else that might come their way.
Once inside the coffee shop, Ruth Ellen became a target. “Arrest her!” one sister yelled over the bing, bang and buzz of countless clocks. “She assault me! She evil, evil, woman.”
“Assault! Me?” the other cried. From behind the counter, that sister pointed, reaching out with the other hand for a weapon or a missile to throw. “It’s her. And her damned clocks! Turn them off! Turn them off!” The woman picked up an aluminum pedestal serving tray. Muffins flew off as she pitched it with all her might against the wall where the clocks continued to chime.
The other sister ducked behind a podium that stood on a small stage just to the left of the clock wall. She grabbed a sugar bowl, spreading sugar, from the nearest table. She stood and hurled that. Ruth Ellen dove out of its way. Kirby wasn’t so lucky. He took the bowl in the right temple. It cracked, covering him in sugar. One leg gave away and he tumbled over.
Ruth Ellen grabbed the radio clipped to her shoulder. “Officer injured,” she cried. “I repeat, officer injured.”
“He was shot?” someone asked.
“No, he was hit in the head with a friggin’ sugar bowl.” She rose up, taking her baton from her side. “Lady, you put that down now. Don’t you dare throw it.” Too late. The carcass of a broken clock went crashing into a mirror behind the counter. It shattered, knocking glasses from racks and mugs from the counter. Ruth Ellen picked Kirby of the floor, and dove for cover between the counter and the outer door. “I need an ambulance and I need back up,” Ruth Ellen called into the radio again as the argument continued.
“No, I’m fine,” Kirby said. He tried to pull himself up onto his knees. As he rose from there, placing all his weight on one foot, he staggered.
“Sit down, Kirby. That’s an order.”
“No problem, Sarg,” He whispered as a ceiling light crashed to the ground.
***
The van from Dwight Women’s Correctional Facility stalled just west of Joliet. The driver used his cell phone to call a tow truck, but that wasn’t expected for a while. Angela pulled her coat closer about her, and tried to separate herself from the other passengers. The others began to chat amongst themselves. She spoke neither Spanish nor ebonics. Being the only white woman there, she was sure her fellow passengers were more interested in what they could steal from her than anything she had to say.
***
Portland’s Municipal Complex was an odd assortment of buildings that took up one block and wrapped about a second. Beginning on 135th Street was the old City Garage, the 911 Center and Fire Station 1. The oldest building in the complex was the City Hall, and it sat on the corner. It was an old red, two story, brick building, and had been built soon after the great Portland fire of 1894. Around the corner, on Maple, was the Police Station. In stark contrast to age of the red building, this had been building in the 1970’s from variegated gold face bricks. It also rose two stories, but was quite a bit shy of the height of the other. This building had one window on the ground floor, and that lead to the front desk.
Evelyn Pratt found the interior of the Police Station disturbing. Just inside, a clerk sat behind bullet proof glass. Harry stepped aside and allowed Evelyn to explain why they had come. They were then instructed to sit.
Sergeant Pat Callaghan came for the couple after few minutes, and led them to a small office. The lack of windows inside the station was disheartening. The acoustical nightmare that followed was more so. The floor was hard, like the tile had been laid over cement, and the outer walls were decorative brick. Every sound was intensified because of lack of cloth or softness. Every call and every voice was much louder than it needed to be.
Sergeant Callaghan was a tall man in his mid to late fifties, who looked to be skating out his last years before retirement. He had one acid eye and didn’t smile much. He sat on one side of a small desk, peering at the pictures they gave him, and they sat opposite. The office wasn’t much to look at. It had paneling on three walls, and bricks on the fourth and a name plate on the desk. Callaghan did little else to personalize it. “So when was the last time you saw her?” Sergeant Callaghan asked.
“New Year’s Eve,” Evelyn explained. “I stopped to see her at work. See if she and Red would come for dinner on New Year’s Day.” Something banged in another part of the building. Evelyn and Harry startled, and turned to look towards the office door. Callaghan ignored it.
“And?” Callaghan asked.
“They were suppose to,” Evelyn said, returning her attention to the sergeant. She cleared her throat and toned down her words. Too loud, much too loud. “She said they would. She said that she even asked Red what he thought. I mean I’ve invited them over before and she’s accepted, but then he backs out at the last minute. She always calls me though.”
“Red? You got another name?”
“Robert,” Harry broke in, a little too loudly. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Robert Stubs. She’s been seeing him for quite a while.”
Callaghan snorted. “Oh.”
“You don’t think?” Evelyn asked, her stomach all a flutter. “I mean he’s an alcoholic. I mean we know that. But you don’t think he’s capable of...? Of..?”
“I hope not.” Callaghan snorted again. He opened his desk drawer, searched for something, but then returned to the form on top of his desk. “You got an address on Stubs?”
“Here.” She took her personal phone book from her purse and opened it to the proper page. “Milk Borenstein, too. That’s his best friend.” She struggled to pay attention. The loud bangs, bings, scuffs, and the occasional voices coming from the outer office were distracting.
“Huh. Does Willow have any other friends we can talk to?”
“Laurie Peltz. Her number is here, too. She can tell you who else might have heard from Willow. Bonnie and Florence Rennault.”
Harry leaned in, although he refused to look Callaghan in the eye. “You know we aren’t sure about any of this,” he whispered. “Do we really need to upset all of these people? I mean she just might come home tomorrow.”
“She might.” Callaghan paused to study Harry. “Then again she might not. She’s how old?”
“Twenty five.”
“Has she been known to take off when she’s angry? Disappear and not tell you where she is? Do you argue often? Did you argue right before she disappeared?”
“Well?” Evelyn fingered her coat. “She’s never disappeared and not told us. I mean not even for a day. We do argue though. A lot since she’s been seeing Red. I’ll tell you what though. She’d do just what he said. Give him an ultimatum. Either marry her or she’ll take off with someone else. It’s just that if she did. She’d call me. Let me know. Not let me worry like this.” She thought a moment. “She’d call Red, too. Rub his nose in it.”
“Any scars? Tattoos? Birthmarks?”
Evelyn tapped her cheek. “Big scar right here. Right cheek. Kind of looks like a check mark. She wears her hair on that side to cover it. She said she fell and hit a piece of furniture. I always wondered about that.”
“Anything else?”
Evelyn turned slightly towards her husband. “Yes,” she said slowly, “Tattoos.” She waited for Harry’s reaction. He simply rolled his eyes. “On her lower back, right about her waist are pink roses. And across her back, between her shoulder blades. Same thing. Pink roses. She had this thing about the color pink.”
“Siblings?” Callaghan asked.
“Three,” Harry continued as Evelyn wiped tears off her cheeks. “Three girls. Erica, our oldest. She said that she hadn’t seen Willow. Pam, neither. She our youngest. Shawna, she’s right between Willow and Pam, and she’s stationed in Afghanistan. I doubt she’d hear anything either. Too far away.”
“Okay, okay.” Callaghan nodded. “You say she works two jobs. Six days a week at Twin Sisters’ and two nights a week at Pinky’s.”
“I talked to Bonnie Rennault and to Beverly Pinkston. Neither one has heard from her.”
“What is she? A waitress? Bar maid?”
“Cook.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll talk to them again. Some of their customers, too.” Callaghan made a note on the form he was filling out. “Vehicle?”
“1989 Toyota Corola,” Harry sighed. “I haven’t seen it either.”
“You wouldn’t know it’s license plate number? Any telltale marks?”
“No,” Harry continued. “Although she did paint it pink. I mean it’s a deep red underneath the paint. And she just paints it pink. Used latex paint.”
"She used house paint on her car?” Callaghan raised his brows, looking as if he had finally heard it all now.
“It peels all the time,” Harry continued. “And she repaints it when it does.”
Callaghan shook it off. He took a moment to recompose himself, then he stood. “We’ll keep in touch with you. If she does come home, though, you call us immediately.” He escorted the couple to his office door. When he opened it, loud voices penetrated the outer office.
“I will not shuttup,” a woman with a heavy accent screamed. “She. It is she. She is a bitch. You got that, Florence? A bitch!”
“And I told you to take the batteries out. But no, you cannot do that, you bitch! Two days it’s been. Two days of bing, bang, boom. And she could not take the batteries out!”
“Did it bother you?”
“You know it bother me.”
“Good!”
“Good? You bitch!”
Cops ran from all corners into the back of the station, their shoes rasping off the tile as they went. Evelyn glanced at Harry, but then hurried to the exit. Damned if she wanted to admit she recognized those voices.
***
Milk stopped at home for his Orajel, gave himself a good squirt, and then drove to Red’s house. He parked outside and waited until Red pulled in from work. Then they moved the Nova into the garage. As Red popped the hood, Milk examined the floor and the boards that covered the dirt.
Red glanced about, tapping carburetor, the radiator and other parts. He tugged on wires, and reattached one. “Get under the dash in a few minutes. See what I can do here first,” he commented.
With his toe of his boot, Milk pushed aside one of the boards. It was muddy. “So how come this dirt isn’t frozen?”
“Keep the space heater on in here twenty four seven.”
“Why?”
“Just do. Easier to be out here if I don’t have to keep waiting until it’s warm enough to work.”
“Oh.” Milk crouched down and pushed at a cracked board. He poked the mud beneath.
“What the hell are you doing?” Red demanded as dug in his upright tool chest.
“You think you can park that bucket out on the street?” He nodded at an old black Corvette.
“My baby?”
"You get it going or not?”
“Yeah. Needs work yet. But it runs.” Red glanced at a wrench, dropped that back into the drawer and came up with another.
“Then move it out onto the street.”
“Hell, no.”
Milk turned slowly on Red. “Then I suggested we empty my trunk and move my car onto the street.”
“Why? What’s in your trunk?”
“Think about it, dumb ass.”
Red cringed. He looked weak in the knees. He got his strength back quickly though. With fire in his eyes, he pointed at Milk. “No. Bullshit! I don’t need that here. You take it. Get it out of here.”
“Where should I take her, dumb ass? Police station? Dump her right on the parkway. When they ask I’ll tell them you did it with your very own little nine millimeter. Keep it in your night stand when you’re not shooting it off out in the Forest Preserves.”
“You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“I’m not the one that shot her, dumb ass.” His voice rose and Red shushed him. “I want her out of my trunk. Tonight. We bury her here, unless you got another idea.”
Red scratched his head. “Going to have to do more than that. Come spring the snow melts and washes down hill. I’ve been flooded out down here before.”
“Okay, so come up with another idea.” Milk raised his brows and waited.
“I always wanted a cement floor.” Red shrugged. “Even bought the cement last year. Never got around to it.”
Milk nodded. “Okay, first things first. Get her out of the trunk. Get these cars out of here. We bury her and then we figure out how to dry this floor long enough to cement it.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Red whined, dropping another wrench back into the drawer. “Should of known she’d be back to haunt me. Just do me a favor and don’t paint the floor pink.”
Milk drew up in pain. “What?”
“The whole fucking house is pink from top to bottom. If she was still here, she’d being trying to paint the damned floor pink, too, once it was done. God, I hate pink.”
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