Runner, p.20
Runner, page 20
I pulled out the photos from the box. “Explain these to me?”
“That’s the three of them. They would meet, off and on, not for long, but it always looked like they were talking about something serious. I decided I needed proof.”
“This one was taken last summer, July,” I said. “This one, more recently.”
She held the July photo. “That’s at the farm. Miss Poole took us, and we spent the whole day. It was my first time, but Tonya said they went the year before, too.” She pointed to Martini. “That’s the first time I’d seen him.” She stared at the second photo. “This is them again, Mr. Shaw had just come for Tonya like the day before, but he came back with that detective and they started arguing and shouting. Something was definitely wrong. I took that thinking it might be important.”
“Poole told me that photo had to have been taken after you ran. That the date stamp had to be wrong,” I said.
Ramona shook her head. “She’s a liar. I took it after Tonya went. I didn’t get into her office until like the next week.”
“Did Martini, the cop, ever talk to you? Say anything?”
Ramona handed the photos back. “He only talked to Mr. Shaw and Miss Poole.”
“A farm.”
“Not a farm, the farm. That’s what she called it. There were a lot of kids there, and hot dogs, pop, animals to pet and stuff. There were other people there, too.”
“Men?” I braced for her answer.
“And women, too. Like they were married, maybe? It was a party. Everybody just walked around having a good time. They talked to Mr. Shaw and Miss Poole, and sometimes we’d have to talk to them, too. They’d ask questions about school and what we wanted to be when we grew up. Nobody ever said what it was about, but I think they were trying to get us adopted? But it was weird, like not the usual way you get adopted? Some of the people were nice, some were a little creepy.”
I listened, my brain working overtime. The farm. Poole and Shaw and Martini at the farm. Adoption could certainly have been the intent of the outing, I mean that was what Bettle House was about, giving older kids a shot at a real family. A day at a farm felt odd, though, parading kids in front of prospective parents like they were rescue puppies in need of a forever home. And the entire thing didn’t explain Tonya’s disappearance or her fake ID. It didn’t explain Martini in the photos when he shouldn’t have been, and it didn’t explain Shaw dead.
“Where is the farm?”
“I don’t know. We’d take a van. Drive a long way on the expressway.”
“Ramona, how many girls did Shaw pick up from Poole’s?”
“I’ve only been there about a year. Before that I was with the Knowleses. They really were so nice. I liked them a lot, but I only got to stay with them a few months when Mr. Shaw moved me. Someplace better, he said. That turned out to be Miss Poole’s.” Ramona glowered. “It wasn’t better. Tonya was already there. Miss Poole gave me the bed closest to the window. Tonya said a girl named Sarita used to sleep there, until she was moved out.”
“By Shaw?”
Ramona shrugged. “Tonya didn’t say. She never mentioned Sarita again.”
“Do you know Sarita’s last name?”
“No. I don’t think Tonya knew it either. You try not to get too close to people.”
“So it doesn’t hurt so much when you have to leave them?”
Ramona looked back at Scoot and the others. “I guess that’s it.”
I thought for a time. Cycling girls in and out? Shaw. “How’d Poole run after you in her condition?”
Ramona turned to face me. “What do you mean?”
“She told me she had cancer, that it had spread to her bones and that she was very sick. She was on a cane when I spoke to her and had trouble walking.”
Ramona smiled. “Nothing’s wrong with her. She ran after me just fine. She almost caught me, too. You know she used to be on some TV show, right? In the basement, there’s a big trunk with all kinds of costumes, hats, and stuff, even a couple of canes, too. Me and Tonya would mess around down there all the time, dressing up, pretending we were somebody else . . . someplace else.” Ramona shot me a pity grin. “She played you. She plays everybody.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Why do adults do half the stuff they do?”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, dialed Leesa Evans’s number, then handed the phone to Ramona. “Let your mother know you’re okay.”
I sat and listened to the short conversation, Ramona mostly answering in one-word answers, Evans’s voice over the phone loud enough for me to feel her anguish, her relief. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, hoping that moment calmed me down enough to see straight. Poole had played me. I’d been so concerned for Ramona’s safety that I’d taken her act at face value, didn’t question it. I didn’t think the outings were about adoptions. If they were, Tonya Pierce would have had a file at Bettle House, the farm wouldn’t seem so clandestine, and Martini’s presence wouldn’t be so alarming. Trafficking. That’s what I was thinking. Shaw, Poole and Martini were peddling children. It was horrifying just to think about, and if it turned out to be true, God help them.
I had been applying heat to Shaw and to Poole. Is that why Shaw broke? And Poole, cool, playing the worried foster mother, when all the time it’s not Ramona she wants back, but that drive and the book with the numbers in it. There were no words for what I felt for Martini.
“All right,” Ramona said. “I will.” She ended the call and handed the phone back. “She sounds like her old self.”
“She’s trying very hard,” I said.
Ramona was quiet for a moment. “I left the drive in a safe place. The key you found unlocks where it is. If you bring the key to me, you can have everything I took from her. There’s a closed-up dentist’s office north of here a couple of blocks. It’s got smiling teeth on the sign. Meet us there.” She took me in, shook her head. “You look burned out, so maybe get some sleep first. Eleven. Bring lunch?” She got out of the car. I followed her out.
“Wait. Come with me. I’ll find you a place to stay. I’ll take all of you. Hold on.” I reached inside the car to get my phone off the console to search it for Gwen Timmons’s number. She handled emergency placements all the time; she’d know how to help. I punched the number, looked up, and Ramona was already inside the fence and heading off with Scoot and the kids.
I ran to the fence. “Hey! Hold up! Ramona!”
She and the others didn’t bother to turn around, just kept walking away. Even the damned dog ignored me.
I tucked my phone into a pocket, then kicked a mound of snow. “Gaaaaaah!”
Chapter 25
It was late. I should have gone home, but I found myself at almost 3:00 AM in front of Poole’s house. Her lights were off, as I would have expected them to be at that hour, but I came prepared to wake her up, only her car wasn’t in the driveway. I got out and walked up to her door, rang the bell. No, 3:00 AM was not a polite time to visit, but I wasn’t in a polite mood, and we weren’t about to have a polite conversation. Nothing stirred inside, not a single light came on in answer to the bell. Had I spooked her enough for her to pack up and run? Was she inside hiding? I stared up at her darkened windows, no play to make. I’d have to come back for Poole.
Driving home, lost in thought, I was slow to notice the tail. It was the headlights that finally registered. The one on the right blinked like it was going out. Dark car. One male driver, no passengers. The driver stayed a couple car lengths behind me, with one car always in between; hard to do this late at night when traffic was sparse. He slowed when I slowed, sped up when I sped up, turned when I turned. As badly as I wanted to go home and fall into bed, I headed in the opposite direction of my apartment, the mouse leading the cat on a late-night car parade. I looped around side streets without appearing to do so, the car giving me all kinds of slack, but sticking with me, nonetheless.
Making another languid turn, I headed north on State Street, the Dan Ryan on my left, past a fish market and a store selling fresh fruit and vegetables, along with liters of pop, lottery tickets, and pork skins. The tail car well behind me, I stepped on the gas, made a turn, and raced a block up, fishtailing into an alley, driving halfway in and pulling to a stop.
A few seconds later, the tail barreled in after me, pulling to a stop at the mouth of the alley, idling there for a time. My hazard lights were on, my engine off. The alley lights were working, but the light was dull, murky, like it was shining through a cloudy drinking glass. A minute passed, two, five. Finally the driver turned his car off, left his lights on, and walked slowly toward the back of my car. I saw only the outline of the man. Average height. Average build. Dark clothing. Nothing in his hands. The sound of heavy feet on icy, hardpacked snow was the only disturbance to the cold, still night.
He stopped at my back bumper, angled to peer inside the slightly tinted windows. In the half-light, I made out the porkpie hat and stepped out of the shadows, my gun at my side. “Lenny Vine.”
Lenny spun around, his eyes wide. He had likely expected to find me inside the car, not out of it, but tried playing it off with a cheerful smile. “Raines.”
I checked him out, keeping my distance. “Get away from my car.”
His flinty, calculating eyes swept down to the gun in my hand and his went up in mock surrender as he gingerly stepped back and away. “Whoa. Heard you loud and clear. Getting away.”
Vine was a PI, sort of, but he did the profession no favors. He was a gap-toothed, feral-eyed, double-dealing scumbag who would sell his own mother for a nickel, a hooker, and a shot of cheap booze. Yet, he always approached me like we were pals; we were not pals. I wouldn’t voluntarily come within two feet of Lenny Vine, even if my life depended on it. I didn’t work for just anyone; Lenny Vine would work for the devil himself if the money was right. There were other differences, fundamental ones, but none of that mattered right at this moment. What was important now was that someone hired Lenny Vine to follow me. Who?
He feigned surprise, pointed at the car. “This is you? I didn’t know. I was passing and saw the blinkers on. I’m thinking somebody’s out here in some distress, you know? Middle of the night, like it is, and it’s you? Huh. Small world.” He started to put his arms down. I flicked the gun upward, he raised them back up. He kept the smile going, but his eyes hadn’t signed on to the fake. I knew Lenny Vine didn’t like me any more than I liked him. “What are you doing out so late, Raines? Didn’t know you were the midnight-creeper type.”
I stepped back, glanced down the alley at his car. The right headlight blinked, like it was about to go out. I turned back to Lenny. It was too late for razzle-dazzle. I was tired, I’d lost contact with my client’s kid, and I was sick to my stomach about Poole and Martini. Restraint was a good thing to have. I was glad I had it now.
“Why are you following me? More important, who’s paying you?”
“Following you?” He chuckled, slowly raised his hands to adjust that stupid porkpie. It was ten degrees out here. I doubted Lenny Vine had sense enough to come in out of the rain.
I waved him away from my car. “It’s the headlight, Lenny. See it?” He glanced down the alley. “See how it blinks like that? Distinctive. Easy to pick up in the middle of the night. You’ve been on me for blocks. Who hired you?” He tried looking offended, like I didn’t know he was scum. “I know for a fact you don’t put on your shoes for free.”
Lenny shrugged, seemingly amused at being caught out. “You know I can’t tell you that.” He began to back up, his hands still up. “But you win this one.” He pedaled back until he was well away; then he stopped. “See you around, Raines.” He turned and walked back to his car. He drove off, the way he’d come, peeling his bald tires away on black ice. I slipped my gun into my jacket pocket and jumped back in my car, headed in the opposite direction, keeping my eye on the rearview for a blinking headlight.
Lenny Vine was a problem. Had he been on me when I met Ramona at Cholly’s? Had I led him right to her? It had to be this case he was interested in, I wasn’t working any others, which meant he was likely working for either Martini or Poole or both. That meant I was getting close to something neither of them wanted me getting close to. But Vine was a worry. The man had no scruples. He’d go as low as he needed to, and wouldn’t lose a single night’s sleep over it.
I pulled into a well-lit gas station about a mile north of the alley and got out of the car to walk around it. Lenny Vine was a terrible investigator; he’d need a cheat. Everything looked okay, but I knew it couldn’t be. I got down on my hands and knees in the slush and ran my hands along the bottom of the car, front to back, right side first, finding nothing. I repeated the search on the left side, again finding nothing. After checking under the back bumper and finding nothing, I did the same in front and found a tiny tracker underneath, on the driver’s side. Lenny’s cheat. I held the small black box in my hand. It weighed hardly anything, but it apparently worked just fine for Lenny, the small flashing green light told me that. “I hate you, Lenny Vine.”
I stood up, the knees of my jeans soaked through. There was no one else in the station, just the lone cashier inside watching a small TV, his back to the pumps, safe behind bulletproof glass. I looked around for Vine, but didn’t see his blinky light anywhere. I dropped the tracker to the ground and smashed it with the heel of my boot. The green light went out and stayed out. “Follow that, you porkpie jackass.”
Chapter 26
I felt my pocket for the key as I ducked into the abandoned dentist office at eleven Friday morning with a bag of McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches, paper cups, and a gallon of orange juice. But before stopping, I had looped the block a few times, making sure Vine or anyone else wasn’t around watching. The tracker was gone, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t have picked up some low-tech attention. Thankfully, I saw no one.
It was a little warmer today, sunny, low twenties, and it wasn’t snowing, which was a plus. I slid into the storefront through the open back door, picking my way through, broken glass crunching under my feet, light fixtures and wires dangling from the wrecked drop ceiling. There wasn’t much left of the place. Like Sunshine, everything of any value had been stripped, stolen, or trashed outright, leaving only empty space, a shell, that had been boarded up haphazardly and left to waste away.
I turned at the sound of footsteps behind me. Ramona and Scoot stood there, the others behind them, even the dog showed up.
“On time,” Scoot said.
“Can’t we ever meet somewhere nice?” I asked.
Ramona stepped forward, took the food and juice. “Thanks.” She handed it off to the kids, who crowded around the bag like ants around a picnic basket, then turned back to me. “Did you bring it?”
I drew the key out of my pocket, tossed it to her. “What’s it fit?”
She clutched the key in her hand, smiled. “Follow me.”
The group stayed put, enjoying breakfast, while Ramona led Scoot and me into a back exam room, the dental chair long ago removed, the room’s cabinets left behind, forgotten posters, tattered and hanging from graffiti-marred walls, encouraging frequent flossing and warning against the scourge of gingivitis. The cabinets looked sturdy, despite the destruction of the place. They were where the dentist kept his medications, instruments and such. The small locks on the doors looked just the right size for the key I’d just handed over.
Ramona squatted down, poked the key in the lock, slid the door back, and drew out a small ledger, with a green rubber band around it. She tossed the book to me.
I looked past her. The cabinet was empty. “What about the drive?”
Ramona stood, exchanged a look with Scoot, who stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. “You remember what I said about spreading it around?”
Scoot whistled for the dog. “King. Come.”
The dog trotted over, happy as a lark, like a puppy ready to play. Apparently, he held no grudges about our earlier encounter in the junkyard. I could not say the same. I stepped back, giving him all kinds of room. Scoot rubbed the dog’s head and neck affectionately and kissed him on the top of the head. “Good boy, King, good boy.”
Ramona bent down, kissed the dog on the snout, and then reached into the pouch around its neck, drawing out a thumb drive, which she tossed to me.
“Smart, huh? The pouch was Scoot’s idea. No way anyone was going to get it there.”
I gripped the drive in my hand, the ledger too. I turned to Scoot. We shared a knowing look. “You could have gotten big money for these, enough to pick up and go anywhere and live a real life.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What are you talking about,” Ramona said, “he wouldn’t have taken them.”
He would have, he could have at any point, and Ramona would never have found him anywhere in these streets.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked him, curious.
He glanced over at Ramona, then back at me. “That whole thing she said? About the woman and the house and the farm? I know what that sounds like, so do you. I don’t help pushers or pimps. I got standards.”
Ramona’s eyes widened, the truth slowly dawning. It looked like she had not even considered that Scoot would have double-crossed her. She was smart—up to a point, yes—but also naïve, far too trusting, not at all accustomed to mean streets or those fighting to survive them.
Ramona faced Scoot, looking at him now in a new light, not as her savior, but as a stranger. She said nothing. What was there to say? It was what it was. She walked past me. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Ramona, wait,” I said.
I hated to admit it, I hated even to think it, but she was probably safer with Scoot, moving from place to place under the radar, off the grid. If she went with me, where would I take her that she’d be safe? Her mother lived in a halfway house, teetering on the edge of sobriety. Did I turn her in to Hogan and Spinelli? What if Martini had friends at the district? What if one of them was Hogan? I certainly couldn’t take her back to Poole’s.
