Monday, January 6th

Monday,

January 6th

    Jack Morgan had the night off. He should have been happy to have it, stay home, stay warm. He couldn’t. When the guys hauling snow the night before returned from their coffee break, they took joy in belittling him about his deer. “You sure you aren’t sucking in our fumes and hallucinating?”

     Jack decided he’d prove them wrong. He spent the night driving from one end of town to the other, looking for his deer. He drove along the Canal and he pulled up to the entrance to the forest preserve. Snow had closed it in. He was tempted to use the old road behind the cannery, except that hadn’t been plowed either. As surely as he’d pull back there is as surely as he’d get stuck in a snow drift. He pulled up at the side of the road and sat there for a while. He couldn’t stay though. Wahlberg was a two lane highway, and snow piled on either side of the street made it tighter than usual.

***

     Bonnie and Florence showed up Monday morning intending to clean up their mess. The front window was boarded up, and there was glass eve­rywhere. The mirror had shattered into thousands of pieces, and had fallen into clean dishes, into the open retarder where food was stored, and it crunched beneath their feet. The light fixture sat on the floor. The antique globe was shattered and the brass fittings were bent.

     The clock wall was devastated. Bonnie was disappointed. Florence looked to be as well. A lot of very nice people had contributed to it. “I wonder how many we can tape together,” Florence said. It was the first time either of them spoke.

     “A few. There are stores though. Walgreens sells wall clocks. I’m sure....”

Florence nodded, but didn’t respond. She bent to pick up the cat clock. The tail broke off in her hand.

     When the floor was swept clean and the retarder emptied, the pair sat down to their first cup of coffee together in years. “We need help,” Florence commented. “I will kill you if I have to work with you much longer.”

     “Only,” Bonnie commented, “If I don’t kill you first. What if Willow comes back?”

      “Fine. Until then?”

     Bonnie nodded and rested her chin on her upraised arm. “We need help.” Before the day ended, she dug out a help wanted sign. She put it in the window, and did so with a sorry heart. Willow wasn’t easy to work with. She was stubborn, and not very bright. But she was there every day. She could be counted on. And she bright­ened the place up with her songs. Bonnie sincerely hoped Willow would return soon.

***

      Felix Boca came in early on Monday to meet with Tim Ryan. They had a lot to cover. First off, Boca wanted to talk to the owners of the hardware stores in town, or whoever it was who did their ordering. They wanted to talk to this Oscar as soon as they could.

    “He makes it into town twice a week,” Scott Jefferson of Jefferson Hardware said. “Tuesday and Friday. Got his number you want to talk to him.”

    “Thank you. We appreciate it,” Boca said.

   “You know this is a good guy. Real decent type. Doubt very much you’d find he’d do something illegal or inappropriate.”

    “Didn’t say he did.”

    “We’ll keep that in mind,” Ryan, a green eyed, red head said.

    Ryan took the number and the pair retreated to the station just long enough to contact Oscar Flores of P&P Plumbing Supplies. “Is tomorrow early enough?” Flores asked. “I’m planning to be in Portland then.”

     “You did see the plea on the news, right?” Boca asked.

     “No. Got stranded down in Ottawa. Just got back last night.”

    Tomorrow is fine. Can we get you at this number if we need you in between?”

    “Sure. My cell phone.”

    The pair wanted to talk to both Stubs and Borenstein. Short of that, they’d speak with neighbors. Borenstein wasn’t home again. “He took off this morning for Su­san Marie’s,” the same woman said when they knocked on her door.

     “Detroit? Right?” Boca asked again.

    “I guess. He says it’s on the Canadian border. Detroit? That’s where the border is, right?”

    Boca made a note and thanked the woman for her time. When she closed her door, he turned to Ryan. “Small border.”

   Stubs wasn’t home either. “You want him,” one woman said, “You can usually find him working in his garage at night.”

   “With all this snow,” Ryan grunted, “Doubt he’d get back there.”

   “He’d figure out a way. Real piece of work, if you ask me. Like he’s more at home there than he is in the house. Pity about his girlfriend disappearing. She was a nice girl. Never understood what she saw in him.”

   “I’ve known him all his life,” an old man said. “Knew his parents real well. Good people. Hard working people.” The man shook his head. “Pity. He’s an only child and they spoiled the hell out of him. Drunk, obnoxious, embarrassing. They were always rescuing him after he pulled something stupid. Saw that thing on the news. If his girlfriend is missing, I wouldn’t put it past him to be the cause. She was too good for him.”

    “You know what?” Another neighbor strained to be heard over the sound of the trash hauler that just pulled up next door. “I avoid him. If he isn’t drunk, he’s picking fights with her. I hear more yelling and screaming coming out of that house than I do at a wrestling match. Damned loud. Yesterday he went berserk over animals and crap. Just him. He did all the screaming. Then he pitched an aw­ful lot of crap. Check the trash.” The man nodded at the cans on the street. Two garbage men latched onto loaded trash cans and were busy emptying them into the truck. The back came down as they worked, smashing the contents of the can and pulling it forward into the truck.

    One of the men picked up a couple of pinkish looking bags that sat on a snow pile next to the can he had just emptied. Felix reacted quickly. “Hey!” he shouted at the garbage men. “Ho! Hey!” He took off up a shoveled walkway, slipping and sliding, crawling into snow drifts and attempting to walk or run on the top of the drifts. As he waved his arms, his feet sank again, allowing the snow to fill his boots one more time. “Hey, hold up.” The sec­ond man retreated to the curb to replace the can he held. He reached out for one of those bags. The men stopped. “We need those!” The men looked confused. As Boca struggled, he pulled his jacket open, revealing his badge. “We need those bags!” The men set the bags down and backed off.

   Callaghan wasn’t happy when the pair returned to the station carrying garbage bags. “I don’t need that shit all over here. I got my own coffee grounds.”

      “Got it out of Stubs garbage,” Ryan explained.

      “What is it?”

      “Garbage.”

   Callaghan folded his arms over his breast and stared. That had Boca thinking about lemons again. “Hey, Sarg,” he soothed, holding in a chuckle, “No idea what’s in there. You want to take a chance we’re throwing out evidence?”

   “Just clean up your mess,” he growled at Ryan.

  The pair took over a vacant interrogation cell and opened the first bag. They found pillows and tablecloths, dish towels and hot pads, broken ceramics and clothing. Tim matched up three pairs of boots and six pairs of shoes. When the Chief and Callaghan popped in to see their progress, they were sorting through a collection of underwear.

   “From what I’ve seen,” Ryan began, “It’s all clean. Freshly folded, just out of the dryer. Now tell me why he’s throwing out his girlfriend’s clothing.” He sniffed. And shrugged. “Smells like dryer sheets.”

   “Now the bastard is sniffing panties,” Callaghan cracked.

   Boca scrunched up one of the plastic bags. “You think we have enough for a warrant?”

   “Doubt it. Still, let me make a couple of phone calls,” Callaghan commented as he rubbed his chin. “Inventory it in and tag it as evidence.”

    Ramos nodded. “That was good thinking.”

***

    “Hi.” Mikey stood in the doorway of Sophie’s classroom. He wore his coat, but dragged his backpack on the floor.

     “Hi,” she responded. “What are you doing here?”

     “Nothing. I was just wondering if I could wait here for a while. Grandma’s still at work and I forgot my keys.”

      “You have homework to do?”

    “Sure,” he said slipping into a desk. “I have math homework. We’re working on fractions. Kind of confusing.”

    “Maybe I can help. Although I will say I’m better with maps and timelines than I am with fractions.” Mikey could keep her company until it was time to pick up his siblings from daycare.

***

     Red returned to his job on Monday morning. Monday evening he stopped at the liquor store and bought a fresh case of beer. It was the first time he had to pay for it in years. He stopped on his way home for a bag of McDonald Hamburgers. He ate his meal with a can of cold beer, and then he shoveled the front walk. When that was done, he had another beer. Then he salted the path he and Milk had cre­ated in the back yard when they cemented the floor. He checked the floor. Another day or two, it would be dry, and he could return everything to the garage. Ha! He had her this time. He took the shovel with him and returned to the house. He’d sleep well tonight.

***

    Jack Morgan arrived on duty expecting the same harassment as the last time he worked. One of the guys did make a crack about a deer and a whole bunch of little deeries asking for him. When he didn’t come, they went home disappointed. “Packed up their hot pink printer paper and just went away.”

    “Bite me, jackass.”

    The man chuckled and placed the same unlit cigar in his mouth that he had been chewing on throughout the entire project.

    An hour later the operation stopped. A scruffy coyote dragged itself down the middle of Miami. It came across the cluster of trucks and backed away. It sat down, its tongue hanging out, and watched the men.

    “I thought they hibernated during winter,” cigar head murmured.

Tuesday,

January 7th

    “I said no more dreams,” Red shouted at her.

     She smiled, and nodded. Then she turned about and limped away. Her animal friends sat in front of him, just watching her leave.

    “You, too. Out!” he ordered.

   The coyote wagged his tail, the others shook theirs outward. Then with heads down and chattering among themselves, they followed Willie. She even opened the outer door for them.

    “About friggin’ time,” Red cracked.

***

    “I called a few people,” Callaghan commented. “There isn’t a judge in Cook County willing to issue a warrant on what we have. She’s missing. That’s it. Nothing pointing to her being anything else. Now if those things you brought in were bloody and we could match her blood type...”

     “So what do we do with her things?” Ryan asked.

   “Gee, Tim. You look good in pink,” Callaghan cracked. “Of course if you don’t want to try anything on, we could leave it in the evidence locker in case something we can use does materialize.”

    Oscar Flores arrived at the Police Station at nine o’clock in the morning. As the description was originally given, Flores stood a good three or four inches short of Ryan. He was in his mid to late thirties, and really undistinguished looking with the exception of what might have been the shadow of teenage acne. His dress, though, was precise. If he wore an overcoat at all, he had left it in his vehicle. His gray slacks were perfectly creased and matched his suit jacket. He wore a silky, peacock blue T-shirt underneath. His black boots showed little salt residue and had been shined until glowing since the last time he wore them. His coif was all the rage and his cologne was strong and sweet. He spoke with a slight accent, which made Tim think that maybe Flores was fluent in Spanish. Although immigration into the area of late was expansive  most of the Hispanics Ryan knew personally, were third or fourth generation, and didn’t speak Spanish at all.

    Ryan took him into Callaghan’s office and closed the door. Flores sat in a chair and Ryan sat at the edge of Callaghan’s desk. Before he did anything, he took a good look at this guy’s tan colored eyes. “You wear colored contacts?” he asked. 

      The guy shrugged. “Sure. Got blue, green, violet even. The ladies like blue.”

“Hump.” Tim took a moment to make a note to himself. “Wear them often?”

“Sure. Like I said. The ladies like the blue.” Flores made his chair squeak when he shifted his weight.

      Next he showed Flores Willow Pratt’s picture. “You know her?”

      “Yeah.” The man’s eyes widened. “Why?”

      “How do you know her?”

      “That coffee shop on Miami. She works there.”

      “I’ve been told that a blue eyed Hispanic has asked her out. Is that you?”

      “Sure. Look at her. She’s cute.”

      “When was the last time you saw her?”

      “Ah, last week sometime. Probably Friday. When I stopped for coffee.”

      “What did you do New Year’s Eve?”

      “Went to a party.”

      “Where?”

      “Waukegan.”

      “You have witnesses that can place you there?”

   “Sure. It was one of those banquet halls that sell tickets for dinner and music. Went with some friends.”

   Ryan handed him a pad and pen. “You mind giving me names? Someone I can call to verify this?”

   “Yeah, I do. Why were you looking for me anyway?”

   “Willow Pratt. Last seen on New Year’s Eve right here in Portland. Someone said they saw you or someone that looks like you with her last.”

   "I was in Waukegan all day. That’s not exactly a run to the corner and back.”

    “No, you’re right. You can substantiate that, we can write you off our list.” Flo­res picked up the pad and pen, and balanced the pad on his knee. When finished writing, he handed Ryan both pen and paper. “So, you ever been in Pinkies’?” Tim asked.

     The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. “What’s Pinkies’?”

   When Felix made it in, Tim showed him his notes. “It checks out,” he explained. “This Flores character was in Waukegan all day.”

      Felix tucked his hand in the waist band of his jeans. “X him off our list.”

“No warrant either.”

     Felix shook his head. “Didn’t expect it. Haven’t got much more to do here until we have a body or something.”

       "You want to give up on Stubs?”

      Boca shook his head at that. “Nope. Him and Borenstein. Talk to both of them.”

Friday,

January 10th

      Karolyn Mathers picked up a copy of the Suburban Daily News when she passed through Worth the day before. The Portland Police Department wanted volunteers to help pass out handbills. Just what she had been waiting for. She made note of the address and set her alarm. At eight thirty the next morning, she took off from her apartment on Chicago’s North Shore, and drove the Dan Ryan onto I-57. She got off at 127th Street, and took that straight west to Miami. She arrived just as others did.

*

       A local print shop donated ten thousand white, pink, blue, green and yellow handbills with Willow Pratt’s picture on it. It asked that anyone seeing her to call the Portland Police. About fifty people, mostly housewives, retirees, off duty po­lice and firefighters, met at Twin Sisters for a cup of free coffee and an earful of instructions.

      The day was bright and crisp, and most of these people were bundled up in layers upon layers of clothing. As they waited, they shed the outer layers. The local TV stations sent out reporters with cameras and other equipment. This created a huge traffic jam between tables.

      Pat Callaghan handed one stack of flyers to Ruth Ellen de Boer and one stack to Felix Boca. “Can I trust you two to pass these out without hitting on each other?” The pair turned away from him quickly.

     A reporter pulled Ruth Ellen over and asked her about why she was out there, and what she hoped to do. Felix saw that and rushed over. She tried to push him aside as she spoke. Since her promotion to sergeant, he had been seething and she couldn’t wait to rub it in.

*

     The Channel 7 reporter recognized Karolyn Mathers. “Are you offering your help?” Anna Lisa Heffernan asked.

   Karolyn took a green flyer from the large woman police sergeant, and rubbed it with both hands. She closed her eyes, and dramatically drew in. “I have a feeling,” she said. She opened her eyes. “I just wanted to be sure.”

   “What kind of feeling? Do you think you can find Willow Pratt?”

   One more time, Karolyn closed her eyes and drew in. “Maybe I can.”

*

  The player piano banged out ‘Hearts and Roses,’ over and over, and was really getting on Callaghan’s nerves. “Can one of you ladies turn this off?” he asked the Rennault sisters. The pair looked at each other in surprise, like they hadn’t heard the racket before, and then back at him. One finally did come forward.

   “I didn’t turn that on,” one whispered to the other when she finished up.

   “I neither.”

   “It did not turn itself on.”

   “I never said it did.”

   “That’s what you said about it last night.”

   “You turned it on last night.”

  “Ladies,” Callaghan called from the stage, “We need to get this in gear.” He held up a yellow flyer to the group that had gathered. “Okay, Detective Boca and Sergeant de Boer are passing about flyers. Take a handful. We’ll assign you a lo­cation. Some of you will pass these out to pedestrians. Some of you will tack them up on bulletin boards. I want people in the parking lots tucking these under wind­shield wipers. There’s three Metra stations in town, at least six Metra parking lots. And don’t forget the hospital parking lots and the parking lots behind Miami. I want people walking up Miami and Fort Dearborn Trail tucking these under wind­shield wipers of cars on the street. Any left over, we’ll stand in the middle of in­tersections of 119th, 123rd, 127th, 135th, and so on. If you people can come back tomorrow, please do. We’ll be concentrating on shoppers then, and finishing up what we started today. Okay, the firefighters will give you assignments. Good luck.”

  Callaghan stepped away from the stage. A pair of firefighters had provided cop­ies of maps. He no sooner pulled out a chair at their table than someone turned on the player piano again. It was loud and irritating. When he turned back to the sis­ters behind the counter, he found them arguing again. He shook his head. The re­porter finished the woman she talked to after Boca and Ruth Ellen, and had charged the table where he and the firefighters sat. “Do any of you gentlemen know Willow Pratt?” The reporter asked.

   Callaghan shook his head. The others with him were more willing to impart their experience or even discuss their call to civic action. Over in a corner he located his off duty officers. Volunteers were assaulting them, demanding flyers. Ruth Ellen pointed at Felix, tapping his chest. Felix brushed her finger away. The pair bore in on each other, mouthing and exaggerating their words. Callaghan made himself get up. “Hey, Boca, de Boer, get a room,” he barked, their way. ‘God help this train wreck,’ he thought. If this resulted in someone actually seeing this girl, he’d be surprised.

*

   Someone must have been laughing their asses off thinking of Ruth Ellen and Boca in the same parking lot, passing out flyers. If she went one way with her flyers, he went right behind her, adjusting each she put out, and returning the wiper blade to a better position. It was pure spite. That was it. Just spite. And just for spite, she dropped her flyers. She grabbed a huge handful of snow instead of picking up the flyers, and formed it into a snowball. “Hey, Boca,” she called. “What the hell are you doing?”

   He had one hand on a flyer and another on a wiper blade. When he turned to her, he opened his mouth to retort. She wound up, and let her snowball loose. It hit him point blank in the mouth.

*

   Callaghan crossed Miami in front of Twin Sisters’ on his return journey to the Police Department. He was fairly proud of the work he had just completed. Only when he came upon a mesh trash can in front of the Portland Antique Emporium, he found a huge stack of green flyers in the bottom of the can. That really pissed him off. If that person didn’t want to be bothered, why did he show up? Was someone really that crass? He grabbed the stack from the bottom of the can. He’d save them for the next day.

*

   Bill and Art Weber drove about in Bill’s unmarked squad. Art wanted to see the volunteers in action. On Miami, a woman knocked on their window. Art rolled his down. “Chief,” she said, nodding at Bill. “Mayor Weber.” She passed Art two green flyers, waved and ran off to pass another flyer to the driver behind them. Art nodded appreciably. “Who do you say organized this?” he asked.

    “Callaghan.”

    “And you passed him up for promotion for what reason?”

   Bill grunted and turned onto 135th Street. “The same reason you passed him up for me.”

   “I passed him up because I had you,” Art retorted. “You are a natural. I promoted you because I knew if I left you’d fill my place.”

     “I’m not planning to run for mayor anytime soon.”

     “Tell me you don’t think that Callaghan couldn’t do your job.”

     “Probably better than I can. You put him in the office across from me now, and I promise you I’ll shoot him in the balls before the day is out.”

     Art shrugged and crossed his arms. “All right. I don’t like him any better than you do. Tell me that Unsinger has the leadership ability that Callaghan has.”

      "Bob Unsinger is good as long as someone is there telling him what to do. He doesn’t have Callaghan’s organizational ability.”

       Art nodded at a volunteer and held up his flyer. Bill pulled up a little further, and made a right into the Metra parking lot just east of Klieg Drive. Most of the cars had been tagged with blue flyers. Green flyers littered the ground, and separated in the wind. A snowball caught Bill’s attention when it crossed the hood of his car. Another went splat all over his windshield. Looking about, he found his reason. A blonde behemoth of a woman hid behind a car on the side of the lot that ended where the Fort Dearborn Trail bridge hit the embankment. A tall Hispanic male darted in front of Bill’s squad. He dove past the woman. She jumped out at him and tackled him. As Bill and Art watched, the pair rolled about in the snow, attempting to rub snow in each other’s face. 

       “Now that’s a problem,” Bill cried in disgust. “I can’t put those two on the same detail that I’m not pulling them apart.” Bill moved up as close to the hill as he could, and laid on the horn.

                                          *

      Red stopped at the Twenty Four - Seven out on Wahlberg for cigarettes. As he passed a bulletin board, a woman he didn’t know tacked up a notice on pink paper with Willie’s picture on it. She spun about, obviously proud of herself for doing her civic duty, smiled at him, passed him another notice, and then left. Red glanced at the picture. He watched through the glass doors as the woman jumped in her mini-van and drove off. Then he tore down the first notice and wadded them both up.

*

    Evelyn and Harry Pratt watched the dinner hour news. Anna Lisa whatever the hell her name was, was supposed to be in town, talking to volunteers. She talked to that big police sergeant, and to a firefighter who helped to organize this. She also talked to a woman with bright red highlights over black hair. The woman looked like a prune with red lipstick. “Psychic Karolyn Mathers,” Anna Lisa whatever said. “Are you offering your help?”

    The woman took a green flyer and rubbed it with both hands. She closed her eyes, and dramatically drew in. “I have a feeling,” she said. She opened her eyes. “I just wanted to be sure.”

     “What kind of feeling? Do you think you can find Willow Pratt?”

     She closed her eyes again. “Maybe I can.”

    Evelyn turned to her husband. Could this woman help? She had one hell of a reputation.

     Karolyn Mathers frowned. “I don’t honestly think this girl is with us. I think she’s passed onto the next world.” She glanced about, moving her head and her hands emphatically. “In fact I can feel her in this room. If I’m not mistaken, she’s spent a lot of time right here.”

      “You think?” Evelyn asked in Harry’s direction.

     He shook his head, and again, refused to look at her. “I don’t know. How much do you trust people like her?”

       “It might be worth a shot.”

Harry looked past her towards the TV set. “We’ll see.” That was hopeful. His eyes took on a hazy reflection. Like he was looking at the TV, but he certainly wasn’t seeing it. He must have been thinking.

Saturday,

January 11th

     A flurry left a dusting of fresh snow. Nothing more. The weight of what was on the ground, pushed down on itself, compacting it, transforming snow into ice crystals. A crust formed over the top and when broken, razor sharp edges scraped bare skin and tore at clothing. Red picked his belongings out of the snow and re­turned them to their place in the garage. He blew on his hands to warm them, rubbed them together and shoved them in his pockets as he returned for more.

    During his tantrums he had pitched tools, spare parts, paint and garbage without regard to where they landed. He spilled oil and transmission fluid, and he cursed himself because it was something he could use rather than her pink paint. He’d find a place for everything inside, except for the pink paint. That he pitched in the garbage.

    The floor turned out reasonably well considering how quickly they did it. It seemed fairly even, and had few swirl spots where Milk scraped his trowel against it. Red was satisfied though. So much so, he decided exactly where he wanted to park his ‘baby’, and exactly how ‘she’d’ look once he had parked her there.

    He considered leaving ‘her’ on the street at least one more day. The City snow plows made a trip through the alley, but the drivers weren’t very careful about where they pushed the snow. God only knows, if these guys showed a little more initiative, they wouldn’t have to block anyone in by pushing their snow against cars or garage doors. If nothing else, the City could provide some of those losers with shovels. For God’s sake they dug out Uptown. They could do the same for him. He paid enough taxes.

     As he sorted it all out in his head, he took to the street. Milk parked ‘her’ on Si­mon Street just around the corner from the alley. He said he did anyway.

Only Red couldn’t find her. He walked uphill, down the center of the street, checking both sides. He saw a black Olds and a gray Ford, but he didn’t see his black Corvette. On Fort Dearborn, he saw his neighbor’s blue Pontiac, and his old blue F-150 pick-up, but not his Corvette. A half block down, he decided to turn back and look again. He had to bypass it somehow. Only it wasn’t on his block. And it wasn’t on the next. It wasn’t on the Simon Street on either side of the intersection.

    'Crap,’ he thought. Some bastard ripped him off good. He hurried back to the house to call 911.

    “I found it,” the 911 operator told him. “It was towed.”

    “What?”

   “It was parked in a ‘two inch’ zone. It’s at the impound lot. A hundred and fifty for the tow, plus the price of the parking ticket.”

    “What parking ticket?”

    “You parked it in a ‘two inch’ zone during the snow storm. It’s a fifty dollar violation.”

    Red pulled the phone from his ear and examined it for a long moment. He drew in and replaced it. “What the fuck is a ‘two inch’ zone?”

   “It’s a fifty dollar violation. You want your car, you bring me fifty, and bring a hundred and fifty to the impound lot. They open first thing Monday morning.”

***

   “You know,” Pat Callaghan said when he answered the phone for the hun­dredth time that day, “I haven’t talked to this woman. I have no idea who she is or what she saw. She didn’t talk to me about Willow Pratt or anything else.”

    “Do you think she can help?”

    “I have no idea.”

    “You think you should call her maybe?”

    “If the Pratt family wants this woman, fine. The Portland P.D. is not in the habit of hiring psychics.”

***

    He glanced out the back window and there she was again. Sitting on the picnic table with her back to him, looking down at the garage. She held something in her hands that looked like the wadded up notice he tossed in the garbage at the Twenty Four - Seven. Why wouldn’t she just go away? Take all those miserable little critters with her, too. He shut the curtain and went back to bed.

    When he woke up, he went back to the same window. The curtains were gone. He had pitched them with his only decent blanket. The picnic table was still buried beneath a ton of snow, and most of those animals should have been hibernating. 

Link to January 12th

Sunday, January 12th

Sunday,

January 12th

    Red wanted to show Milk the floor. He said it turned out well. Oh, and bring some beer. Angela called. She was on her way out and needed someone to watch the kid. Milk picked up Mikey and a case of beer, and headed to Red’s.    He stopped at the light at 127th, and someone knocked on his window. When he rolled it down, a man handed him a bulletin on yellow paper. He glanced at it and tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat.

    "What was that?” Mikey asked.

    “An advertisement.”

   “Hey, Mikey,” Red called when the pair arrived. He held his hand up for the kid to slap, and then vir­tually ignored the kid. The bastard was upset. “They towed my car. Man, I told you not to put ‘her’ on the street. I told you just to leave ‘her’ where ‘she’ was.”

    “I had no choice.”

    “Sure you did. You could have left ‘her’ here.”

   “And that other problem,” Milk growled, glancing at his kid, “Needed to be taken care of.”

    “What other problem?” Milk thought he’d explode when Red turned away.
    “A hundred and fifty fucking bucks to get it out of impound, and another fifty for a ticket. What the hell is a ‘two inch’ zone?”

    “Huh?” Milk drew back. “’Two inch’ zone. Like in Chicago. When it snows two or more inches, you can’t park where it’s marked.”

     “Yeah, well, you owe me two hundred.”

     “For what?”

     “You parked it out there.”

     “I didn’t know it was going to snow that much. And I didn’t tell you to leave it there, you dumb ass. And if you don’t mind, watch your language in front of the kid. He don’t need to hear you ‘f-this and ‘f-that.”

      Red opened up his first beer, and passed one Milk’s way. He pulled a couple of lawn chairs down off the hook on the wall. With the new floor and the space heater going, it was as comfortable out there as it was in the house.

    The first few beers went down real easy, and Milk began to relax some. Mikey picked a couple of Match Box cars out of his pocket and revved them up on the floor. “Hey, Mikey, what you got there?” Red asked.

The boy held up his cars. “A ‘65 Mustang, and a ‘57 Caddy.”

“Let me see those,” Milk said. Mikey walked on his knees to Milk’s side and handed them up. Milk looked at both, but spent more time with the Cadilac. His brother, Lyle, wrecked his Mom’s Caddy. It wasn’t as old as the one Mikey played with, but it was baby blue, just like the toy he held. “I ever tell you about your Uncle Lyle?” he asked.

    “Yeah, you did.”

   “He was driving a Caddy when he died.” He studied his son over the top of the toy. “You look something like Lyle.”

   “I do?”

    “Yeah, you do.” He returned the cars and turned to his buddy. “I ever tell you about Lyle?” He asked Red.

    “Yeah. Every other time you get fucked up.”

    “What did I tell you about swearing like that?” Milk charged. Mikey took his cars and moved further down the floor from the pair. “He doesn’t need to hear that. Christ, Marie’s old lady will be having fits if he uses it on her.”

    “He’s not that stupid. Are ya, Mikey?”

  "No.” The kid drove his cars towards the overhead door. Milk watched him, appreciating him maybe for the first time in a long time. Mikey was a nice kid. He was smart and polite, too. Angela said his teacher commented how his grades were coming up.

   He was lost in thought, when someone knocked on the door leading to the yard. He and Red shared a surprised look. “Yeah,” Red called. “Who is it?”

   The door opened and a tall, skinny beaner stepped in. “I hope you don’t mind,” the man said. “I rang your bell. One of your neighbors said you’d be down here. You’re a hard man to track down.”

    “So? And who are you?”

   The man pulled his jacket aside, showing off a silver badge that he had clipped to his belt. “The name is Detective Felix Boca. I wanted to talk to you about Willow Pratt. You got a few minutes?”

   Red screwed up his expression and lifted his foot. He pounded the cement like a horse doing a counting trick. “That bitch is gone,” he cried. “Gone. Where?” He pounded the floor with his foot again. “No F-ing,” he turned to Milk, “You got that? I said F-ing.” He turned back to the cop. The cop’s eyes traveled the entire garage area, settling on Mikey. “No F-ing idea. Don’t want to know either. I’m glad to be rid of her.” Again, he pounded the cement with his foot. “That bitch was nuts. She says she’s running off with some beaner. That’s it. Last time I saw her. She said she was leaving.”

      “Did you meet the guy?”

      “Sure. I met him.”

      “You get a name?”

      Red turned drunkenly in Milk’s direction. “What she say his name was?”

    Milk shook his head. “Didn’t say anything to me.” He wasn’t the liar Red was, but with Red in the lead, he could hold his own.

    Red shrugged as he turned back to the cop. “Can’t say I remember off hand.”

    “What did he look like? Any distinguishing marks?”

   "Nope.” He shook his head. “He was a beaner. Tall, like you. Black hair, and ugly as sin.”

    The man drew a notebook from his breast pocket, and made a few notes in it. “Okay,” he said, making a face that looked like he just ate a pickle. “Hispanic male. Tall and ugly. No outstanding features.”

   “Yeah.” Red leaned forward. Milk knew he’d put his foot in it if he didn’t shut­tup soon. “Got pimples. A lot of pimples.” The cop wiped the scarring on his chin as Red talked. And Red noticed, too, taking a lot of pleasure in making this beaner uncomfortable. “You know what I mean? Like when he was a teenager. Bad complexion. Cut on his chin, too. And he smelled,” Red took a huge sniff, “Like cheap cologne.” The beaner recomposed himself. “Just the type she likes. You find him and you’ll find her. And when you do, you tell her don’t ever come this way again, because I don’t need a tramp like her f-ing up the rest of my life.”

    “How old would you say?”

    Red turned towards Milk, scrunching up his eyes. “Oh, twenty eight, thirty. Maybe a little older than she is.”

   The cop nodded. He asked a few more questions and made a few more notes. Then he put his notebook away and backed out of the door.

   Milk glanced at his son. Mikey was watching it all, but keeping his distance. Would Mikey talk about any of this? Not if the kid knew what was good for him. When he caught Milk’s gaze, he turned back to his cars.

   A long moment passed with Red watching the door. He wouldn’t hold it in for long. He suddenly roared with laughter. “Son-of-a-bitch, I’m good.” He drew a cigarette and a lighter from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit up. He drew in great puffs and released them into a blue fog. Again, he stamped on the floor. “I never have to worry about that, now do I? Cause she ain’t coming back, are you, Wil­lie?” He laughed at the floor.

    “Hey, hey, easy,” Milk warned, as he watched his son. “Careful.”

    “Careful, my ass.” Red turned in Milk’s direction. “That bitch sits out there on the picnic table every night. Let her. She ain’t coming inside anymore and that’s fine with me.”

*

    Dad drove Mikey to Grandma’s house. He wasn’t coming in for sure. Once Grandma found out that Mikey hadn’t eaten, she’d be mad. Dad had too many drinks and shouldn’t have been driving at all. Mikey wanted to make an excuse and go. “Hey, what’s the hurry?” Dad asked. He ruffed up Mikey’s hair. “You should have a hat on. It’s cold out here.”

    “Yeah. In my backpack.”

    “Doesn’t do much good there.” Mikey looked at his feet. “Does it?”

    “No, sir.”

    Dad chuckled. “So,” he said after a minute or so, “Let me see those cars of yours.”

   Mikey reached into his pocket and produced his prizes. Dad flipped on the inside light. He took them from Mikey and examined them real close. The light flickered. Dad grunted and pounded on the roof. It turned on and stayed on. When the radio changed channels, Dad pounded on the dashboard. He growled at the steering wheel. “F-ing short,” he grunted. He turned his attention back to the cars. “So, where’d you get these?”

    “Donny gave them to me. Right before... you know.”

    Dad nodded. “Makes sense. I see you with them a lot. You miss Donny?”

    “Yeah, I do.”

    Dad nodded again. “These cars? They remind you of him?”

    “Yeah. He gave them to me.”

    Dad looked at the cars again, and then unzipped his jacket. He stuck them in the pocket of his flannel shirt.

    “Dad?” Mikey’s heart sank to his gut and he knew he was going to get sick.

    “Tell you what,” Dad said. “You can have these back. Not today, but soon. You got to promise me something though.”

      “What’s that?”

     “You hear some things your Uncle Red said. Some things that didn’t sound right. I want you to forget about them.”

      Mikey nodded as his stomach began a slow throb. “Okay.”

      “You promise?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Or else.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Tell me. Say you promise.”

      “I promise.”

     Dad laughed and ruffed up his hair again. He actually pulled Mikey over towards him and kissed him loudly on the head. Mikey said goodnight and crawled out of the car. The old man slobbered on him, and when the wind hit it, Mikey’s scalp froze.

***

    Jack Morgan began his rounds in the early evening. He drove up Miami, down Fort Dearborn Trail, and over 135th Street. “Disturbance behind Robbinson Memo­rial,” a radio operator warned. “You have that, car one two one?”

      “Got it,” he replied. “What am I looking for?”

    "The caller says she hears a lot of animal like sounds from the southeast corner of the building.”

    He turned left off of 135th and up Klieg Road. It was straight uphill from there. Once he bypassed a warehouse, he came upon the backside of the hospital’s prop­erty. An old house in great need of repairs sat on one side of the street. A fenced in area where the hospital’s dumpsters were located sat on the opposite side.

    Jack could hear the commotion outside even though his windows were closed. He opened one, and was surprised by the intensity. He used the spot light on the driver’s side of his car, as well as his flashlight. He found the gates open and one big, green dumpster overturned. Two skinny coyotes latched onto an overstuffed plastic garbage bag. They growled and shook, and the bag exploded, showering the enclosed yard with trash. They moved in, sniffed, and growled at each other.

   Jack scanned the immediate area with his light. It was reflected back at him by two big eyes of another coyote. There were others and they were closing in on the mess.

   Jack picked up his radio again. “Ah, dispatch, this is car one two one. I need Cook County Animal Control out here....”

***

    Mikey’s stomach really hurt now, and he figured it’d get worse if he had to listen to Grandma tell him how good it was to be with his father. The truth was, he didn’t like his father. He didn’t like the drinking, he didn’t like Red, and he didn’t trust either one.

    He could barely remember way back when his parents actually lived together. Dad would get drunk and he and Mom would fight about Red. Then Dad would hit Mom. When Mom finally left, it was because she had got mixed up with this other guy. He was black and Mom got pregnant right away. She said she was afraid of what Dad would do. Mikey wasn’t disappointed Dad was out of the picture, and he wasn’t disappointed when Mom’s boyfriend took off before Tina was born.

    It was only after Mom went to jail that Dad came back. That was Grandma’s idea. She said that Mikey needed his father to show him the difference between right and wrong, because, “God only knows, his mother didn’t know what that was.” That had Mikey wondering if Grandma knew the difference.

    Mikey showered and changed, and crawled in bed, hiding way beneath the cov­ers. Dad said that he should forget about what he heard. Okay, but something hap­pened to Willie. He liked Willie. She was nice to him, she sang for him, and she made him food when Dad and Red were drinking. As the dark closed in on him he wondered if what happened to her would happen to him. 

Monday,

January 13th

     “You know,” Harry said, as he folded the paper in front of him, “I’ve been think­ing.”

    Evelyn stopped cold, and set her coffee mug back on the table. “About what?”

     “That woman. What was her name?”

     “What woman?”

     “That psychic.”

     “Karolyn, Karen, Carol. Something. Last name started with an ‘m’.”

     “Right.” Harry picked up his mug and gulped heavily. He still wasn’t about to look her in the eye. “I’m thinking that maybe we should talk to her. Maybe she would know something.”

      “Maybe.”

      “Couldn’t hurt anyway.”

     “I’ll see what I can find out.” Evelyn nodded, encouraged at least, by the idea of taking some kind of action.

***

   “Yep, real interesting,” Felix commented. “Sounded very pat. Like he memorized his lines. What do you say we get Borenstein by himself?”

       Tim Ryan nodded and scratched his neck. “Hey, sounds reasonable to me.”

***

    Evelyn’s call went straight to voice mail. “This is Karolyn Mathers. If you could leave a detailed message, name, phone number and the time of your call, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

    Evelyn paused to clear her throat. “My name is Evelyn Pratt. My daughter, Willow, is missing. You were here over the weekend, helping to pass out flyers on her behalf.” She cleared her throat again. “If you could get back to us. My husband and I would like to talk to you. Thank you.”

***

    Red took off an hour early, ran to the police station, and then on to the impound lot. Two hundred in one lump sum, or in bits and pieces, was hard to say goodbye to. He growled as he signed a receipt. When he took control of his vehicle, he went straight home, leaving his F-150 parked on the street outside the lot. Milk could bring him back later. It was the least the bastard could do after costing Red so much money.

     He had shoveled enough room about his garage to allow him to pull his ‘baby’ in. He had just the spot selected for ‘her.’ But when he opened the door, and flipped on the lights, he almost lost his lunch. In the middle of his brand spanking new floor, a paint can rolled to a stop dead center. Then the cap came off and pink paint washed in waves across the floor.

***

    Karolyn Mathers answered the call almost immediately, and rushed to be with the Pratt family. She sat in the front room, demurely tucked her full length black skirt about her, and folded her hands on her lap. It was impressive in an eerie way, Evelyn thought. The woman’s hair was red and black and spiky, and her clothing was solid black. With bright red lip stick, her skin looked lily white. Then Evelyn had a horrendous thought. Pam, with her black lipstick, black hair, and dark, creepy clothing, would look like this woman in forty years. Evelyn shook that off.

   “I’ve seen her,” the woman explained, turning to take in Evelyn, Harry and Pam individually. “When I first heard of her disappearance, it was because she came to me, asking me for help. I mean it’s something that happens a lot.”

    “Well, what is it you need us to do?” Harry asked.

    “If I take this on, my retainer is a thousand dollars. I will find her for you. I al­ways do. My credentials are absolutely golden. I’ve worked with the police de­partment right here in Portland. I also worked with Water’s Edge Police Depart­ment, with the Chicago Police Department many times, and with Pipe of Peace. If you remember when the teenager from Hinsdale disappeared last winter, I helped to find her.” She lifted her hands delicately and spread the fingers on one hand. With the other, she counted each off. “I will need a picture, of course. And some­thing that’s dear to her. A ring maybe. A necklace. Something worthwhile. Some­thing that she cared a lot for.”

     “A thousand dollars,” Evelyn murmured. Her eyes toured the modest room with its old furniture, and she wondered with the evidence about her, where this woman thought a thousand dollars would come from. She shook her head. “I don’t know that we have that kind of money.”

      “How much is it worth to you to bring Willow back? To find her?”

      “Is she alive? Is she dead?” Pam broke in. “What?”

      “Oh, no. She’s left this world.”

      “Then what’s the point?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “What’s the point?” Pam demanded. “If she’s dead, she’s not coming back any­way. What’s the point of paying you a thousand dollars?”

     “Pamela!” Evelyn caught her breath. Pam and Willow never could see eye to eye. But that Pam could be so cold? Could this be her daughter?

      “Mom, think about this!” Pam cried.

      “No,” Harry broke in. “It’s time for you to leave the room.”

      She stood, turning about. “Dad? Don’t do this.”

     This Karolyn woman smiled at Pam, and she smiled at Evelyn. “I understand the young lady. This is a stressful time. Hard to understand why God would let this happen to you, or to Willow. Willie, her friends call her.” The woman lifted her hand to her nose and closed her eyes. “I can hear her singing. She has a beautiful voice. Very pretty. She has problems sometimes though, remembering the words to her songs. And sometimes, she’ll make up new words. I understand that she likes to cook as well. That she makes particularly good soup...”

***

     Jack Morgan asked for a new assignment and got it. He was to patrol 145th Street, from Miami to Wahlberg, and back into the forest preserves. He heard a lot of tales from others about long lonely hours, weird lights and other sites, and a few nasty accidents besides. The first hour and a half were incredibly long and boring. Maybe, he saw five or six vehicles on that route, and maybe a few deer and coy­ote. He thought he’d break into tears with the lack of activity. Next time, he decided, he needed a new assignment; he’d keep his mouth shut.

     He went from desperately lonely to lonelier yet. It was a cold night and as the night continued, fewer people took that route. There were no street lights, and few reflectors. He watched as a big buck slipped out of the Forest Preserve, and into the street. He pulled over.

     He flipped on his spot light, shining it on the buck, and it paused to examine the light. Jack lit his flashlight and stepped out into the street. “Shoo,” he called, waving his arms about. The animal turned to look at him. Headlights coming from the east appeared. Jack waved again. “Shoo!” The buck eased over to the side of the road, seemingly to study something else. Ever careful, Jack waved his flashlight at the oncoming vehicle. The driver slowed, and allowed him to direct the driver about the buck. Once the vehicle was out of the way, Jack tried again. He rushed towards the animal, although not coming any closer than he had to. With flashlight in hand, waving his arms, he yelled. “Ho! How! Move it!” The deer moved off to­wards a low snow bank.

    Jack followed on foot, making sure it continued to move away from the street. He trained his flashlight on its tail. Once past the first snow bank, it hopped over an­other. It passed a third. Something flashed in its wake. Jack moved his light back to where he saw that flash. Again, something flashed at him. That something was low in the snow and wide. Jack climbed into the pristine snow, over the first bank and past the next. Good God, it was cold. His feet sunk a good foot and a half, and snow fell into the tops of his boots. He continued to push forward, straining with the snow and focusing on what he truly hoped was illegal dumping or an abandoned vehicle. He huffed and puffed and grabbed at low hanging tree limbs with gloved hands to help him along. As deep as the snow was, particularly after plowing, he found walking in it was more like hand to hand to foot combat.

    At last he came upon it. Chrome reflected his light back at him. When he brushed aside snow, he found a bumper. When he brushed aside more, he found a trunk. He moved to the license plate holder and found a yellow temporary plate. He made his way about the car, and brushed away ice crystals from the windows. Near the front of the vehicle, he shined his light inside. A man appeared to be asleep behind the wheel.

     Jack turned away, cursing himself for finding something he didn’t want to see. He plucked the radio from his shoulder. “This is car one two one,” he called over the instrument. “I need help out here. I have an accident off of 145th, just east of Wahlberg. I’m in the Forest Preserve, just off the road on the north side of the street. My squad is parked on the south shoulder.”

       “You need an ambulance?” Dispatch asked.

       “No,” he replied. “I need a tow truck and the coroner’s wagon.”

      Jack returned to his squad and turned up the heat. A good twenty minutes passed before a tow truck arrived. Reluctantly, he crawled out of his squad and into the passenger seat of the truck. He directed the driver backwards into the woods and over to where he found the vehicle. He helped the man to hook up the tow cables and to winch up the tail end of the car. The driver returned to the truck and threw the truck into gear. The trapped car lurched backwards. Snow flew up, falling from the closest trees, and shaking off the trunk, hood and roof.     Something big rolled forward and fell in the snow just in front of the trapped car. Jack made his way about the car for a good look. He shined his flashlight on the carcass of another deer. He turned back to look at the car. The windshield had caved in. Moving his light back and forth across the front of the vehicle, he caught a glimpse of some­thing else. It hit him then. He didn’t have one body on his hands. He had two.

 * * *

    Sophie had papers to correct. So after dinner and a shower, Bill promised the kids that he’d read to them. Tina even picked out a book. He planted himself on the corner of the sofa, and prepared for both of them to cuddle up next to him. In­stead Sophie handed him the phone. “Ramos,” he responded into the receiver.

    “Chief, we need you,” Lieutenant Bob Unsinger informed him.

    “What is it?”

   “Morgan found a vehicle buried in a snow drift in the Forest Preserve. We have two bodies and stolen temporary plates. Looks like we found Willow Pratt and her boyfriend.”

    “I’m on my way,” he said with a sigh. He turned the phone off and handed it back to his wife. As he pulled out of the sofa, Tina and Cory paused to watch him. “Give me a kiss goodnight,” he ordered. “And behave for Sophie. I’ll have to read to you tomorrow night.”

     Tina frowned. “Is that work?”

     “Yep.”

     “Is it dangerous?”

    “No. Where’s my kiss?” He crouched down so that the pair could hug him and kiss him.

     “Bill?” Tina said as she wrapped her arms about him. “Would you get mad if I said I love you?”

    He pulled back. “Would you get mad if I said I love you, too?” He smiled and she laughed. “What about you, Cory? You get mad if I said I love you?” The boy responded with a smile and a hug. He just wasn’t much for words.

   Unsinger placed two photos taken with a cell phone on the desk. A dark haired male and a blonde woman were bleached out under the flash. Each showed specks of glass in the creases of their features, and stains of what Bill assumed to be blood. “Considering how cold it is,” Unsinger commented, “They’re pretty well preserved.”

     “ID?” Bill asked.

     “Nope. The plates were reported stolen right after Christmas. From Cairo.”

    “Cairo?” Bill asked in surprise, referring to the town at the very southern tip of the State. Although spelled like the city in Egypt, Downstaters pronounced it like a brand of corn syrup. “Cairo?”

    "Surprised the hell out of me, too. Felix and Tim are on their way to the Pratt’s house right now.”

*

    Evelyn was already in bed when the door bell rang. At that hour she was torn between ignoring it, or tearing the person’s head off for their ill manners. On the other hand it might be Willow. When she answered, two tall men, a His­panic and a redhead, pushed their way in. “Harry,” she called, once she viewed their badges, “The police are here.”

   She wanted to cry for fear of what they had to say. She also wanted to push them out the door and tell them that her daughter was fine, that they had made a mistake reporting her missing. When Harry finally arrived, she wasn’t sure she could speak without being overwhelmed with emotion.

   “Mr. and Mrs. Pratt,” the Hispanic said, “If you’d sit down, please, we have some photos to show you.” Evelyn fought off the urge to sit on the floor. She looked around for something familiar. Almost every stick of furniture in the room looked foreign. She recognized the sofa though. She purchased it in 1993 from John M. Smith. It was mint green, and had curved wood across the back and up the legs. Pam threw up on it when she was eight, and Willow bled on it after losing a tooth during a high school brawl. There were still stains left marking both instances. She moved in that direction, picking out a spot between both stains. Harry sat next to her. 

   The redhead took an envelope from the inside pocket of his winter coat, and re­moved two sheets of photo paper. He spread them out between his fingers and took a good look himself. Then he passed them on to Harry.

   Harry took them and held them in front of him for a very long time. He looked confused. She wanted to scream at him. Why would he pick this moment to be­come indecisive? “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Maybe.”

  Evelyn took them away. She looked at one of a dark, heavy set man, and passed that back to the redhead. “I don’t know him.”

   “What about the woman?”

  She looked at that. The lighting was bad. The woman’s skin tones were light and waxy, and her complexion was too smooth to be right. Her clothing was so washed out it was hard to determine what she wore. Evelyn looked at it though, examining every detail she could make out. “No,” she said, passing it back. “That’s not Wil­low.”

    “Are you sure?”

    “What color was her coat?”

    “Brown.”

    “No. It isn’t Willow.”

    “You’re sure?” The Hispanic asked again.

    “I’m positive.”

   "Okay. Thank you for your time. And I’m sorry about the hour.” The Hispanic said. The pair and turned towards the door.

*

    “Chief,” Unsinger called into Bill’s office, “Ryan just reported in. It’s not Wil­low Pratt.”

     Bill nodded and picked up his coat. “Tell them to meet me at Pinkies’. Let’s see if that witness can ID this guy.”

      Beverly Pinkston met Bill at the bar. “I haven’t seen you in here in a long time,” she commented. “Can I get you a beer?”

        “No, thanks” he replied, “I’m working.”

        “Hump.” She pulled a beer from the refrigerator, uncapped it and passed it on to someone else. “I heard a rumor that you guys found a car out in the Forest Pre­serves.” Bill knew damned well she had a police scanner hooked up in the kitchen. “Just tell me it isn’t Willie.”

       “Doesn’t look like it,” he replied.

     A door sensor buzzed when the outside door opened. A woman’s squeak called attention to someone. Bill turned to see what it was about. Boca and Ryan stood just inside. A woman stood with them. She pointed in Bill’s direction. He couldn’t hear her words above the usual bar noises, just a squeak or two. She  seemed agitated. Boca listened, nodded and then laughed.

    The pair turned away from the woman and made their way to Bill’s side. “That was our witness.” Felix laughed again. “And apparently you’re the person we’ve been looking for for so long. So, Chief, where’d you hide her?”

      “What?” Bill leaned forward.

      “Chief,” Ryan said, “You’re our blue eyed beaner.”

      Bill started to anger.

     “You can’t seriously tell me you listened to anything she had to say,” Beverly Pinkston broke in.

      “Listened to everyone,” Felix answered.

  "Uh huh.” Beverly rolled her eyes. “Rita is an airhead with an over active imagination  And Red Stubs is a pathological liar. And I haven’t seen him here since New Year’s Eve. You got pictures, I’d like to see them.” Tim obliged, pulling an envelope from his pocket, and passing them her way. She took them to a light behind the bar, glanced quickly and returned to where they waited. She tossed the envelope and the photos on the bar. “Close,” she said. “But no. I’ve never seen either one of them.”

*

     Evelyn focused on the ceiling. After the start they had, it was very hard to let her mind relax. Harry wasn’t giving in either. They laid side by side. Neither had any­thing to say.

*

    “Okay,” Bill said later when they returned to the station, “Tell me you got any hunches.” Ryan and Boca looked at each other kind of sheepishly. “Felix? Tell me you have a hunch.”

    He nodded. “Borenstein. Yesterday Stubs did all the talking. He was wrecked, too. And there was a kid there.”

    “Whose kid?”

    He shook his head. “Don’t know. Tell you what though. It wasn’t some neigh­bor’s kid. From what they told me, Stubs is the neighborhood pariah.”

    “So what are you saying? You want to talk to the kid?”

    Felix shrugged.

    Bill thought about it. “I have a good idea who the kid is. I talk to him. In the meantime, either one of you clowns happen to see either one of them on the road, get behind them and stay there. Find an excuse.”

Link to January 14th