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