The house was quiet, and the only lights on were in the living room, at the front of the house. I caught a quick glimpse of a spectacular view through the windows at the rear.
Mr. Bacon said, “Let’s try to keep it down if we can. I’ve got two other kids asleep upstairs, and they have school in the morning.”
I noticed photos on the wall, just as there had been at Tricia Green’s home. The difference was that almost every photo showed Mr. Bacon either holding a rifle and standing over a dead animal or holding up a giant dead fish on the back of a yacht. There was one photo of the whole family, and I saw that his wife was clearly a second wife and not that much older than Tom-Tom. The two younger boys were only three or four years old in the photo.
Now we had to ask some awkward questions about his first wife, including whether his son might want to travel to see her.
I wondered where else a kid like that might go. I forgot how hard a missing-persons case could be.
Chapter 51
The more Tom Bacon spoke, the more I realized he was sort of a dick. He owned a prosperous construction company and lived with his third wife, not his second. He tended to look at me when he spoke, as though Sandy didn’t matter. More than once, I redirected his attention to the real Maine cop in the room.
Bacon said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about Tom-Tom. He’ll show up. He and that skank from the trailer park are just off having a good time. Maybe he even went over to my ex-wife’s house. She doesn’t have the same rules I do.”
Sandy said, “Rules about what?”
“Drugs, for one thing. She lets those kids do anything they want. That’s how my daughter, Tom-Tom’s sister, ended up pregnant when she was only sixteen. Now she and her little brat live with my ex-wife. I never would’ve let that shit happen here.” Then he looked at me. “But you know how judges are during a divorce. The wife always gets everything.”
Sandy said, “Are you saying that Tom-Tom and Tricia use drugs?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Can’t you hear? Like all the kids now, they got interested in crazy shit. In my day, we used to smoke a little pot, but they’re dead set against inhaling any smoke. That doesn’t keep them from trying stronger shit like ecstasy or even heroin. That’s the new rage. They all like the feeling smack gives them.”
Sandy said, “But Tricia and your son were both on the school sports teams. Tricia played lacrosse, and they both ran track. How can you do that if you’re using heroin?”
“They would time it. They don’t use much during the season. But this time of year, no one’s playing any sports. Tom-Tom works for me a couple of days a week, but he can dig ditches with his head clouded. I can’t speak for what happens to that girl. I heard she’s so fast she got a scholarship to some school down south.”
I mumbled, “Auburn.”
Bacon said, “Good. As long as it’s far away from here.”
I thought about everything Mr. Bacon had said. I couldn’t believe they had a real heroin problem in the high school here. All I could think was, Shit: heroin up here in moose country?
Chapter 52
On the ride back to Mildew Manor, Sandy seemed distracted. After a long silence she said, “I guess our little town isn’t as perfect as I wished. That had something to do with my calling you about the rental house.”
I’d suspected as much. “If you have such a drug problem, why didn’t you call in the state police or maybe even the DEA?”
“Because I wanted to have my former partner back me up. Someone I could trust. The house you guys are renting has been abandoned for the last four years. I know the real-estate company that bought it. After they fixed it up around Christmas and rented it for a few weekends, I persuaded them to give you a great rate during the summer. I’m sorry, but this was all orchestrated by me.”
I didn’t like being deceived, but on the other hand, I had to admit that Sandy had been brilliant in orchestrating our vacation. And it wasn’t like the kids weren’t enjoying themselves.
Sandy said, “The locals used to call your place the Ghost House because they would occasionally see lights floating around inside and hear strange noises. I think it’s more likely that some homeless people were in there every once in a while.”
I said, “The Ghost House. I like it. That’s a name that’ll scare the shit out of the kids.”
Sandy laughed when she realized I wasn’t angry about being manipulated. She pulled into the driveway but left the engine running. “The problems started a few years ago. A couple of people moved in from out of state, and all of a sudden we started getting slammed with heroin. What happened to the days of kids smoking a little pot?”
“I have a friend who runs a drug task force in the city. He was telling me that once they started concentrating on getting prescription painkillers off the market, heroin exploded. He says it’s like trying to plug a leak in a dike. There just aren’t enough resources to do everything.”
Sandy let out a laugh and said, “I guess it doesn’t matter how big your city is. Everyone’s got the same problems.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks, Mike. You’re a lifesaver.”
It was my hope that Mary Catherine hadn’t looked out the window and seen that kiss. That little nothing.
Part Three
Chapter 53
I tried not to think of the next day as a workday. I was still on vacation, after all. But that didn’t change the fact that Sandy Coles picked me up in a police car precisely at nine so we could be on our way to interview some kind of local heroin dealer.
The Linewiler police had treated the area where we had found Tricia Green’s shoe like it was a crime scene. But there was no information or leads on the missing kids, and Tom-Tom Bacon’s father was no longer as nonchalant about his son’s disappearance as he had been the previous night. He was yammering about calling a state senator so we could get more help.
That didn’t change Sandy’s attitude about the investigation in any way. She didn’t care if the kids were rich or poor, just that they were in danger. It was sort of her role with the Linewiler Police Department. Mostly detective, partly assistant chief, and always trying to help people. That’s all anyone could ask of a cop.
And it didn’t take much for me to agree to go with her. At least I felt like I might help out if things didn’t go as planned with the dealer. There was no such thing as a rational and reasonable drug dealer if his back was against the wall. And they always believed their backs were against the wall.
The dealer’s house was on a winding unpaved road in the foothills about five miles from town. For more than a quarter mile, I noticed abandoned cars and old appliances stacked up in some semblance of order. It looked like the place was a junkyard. Except there were woods all around it and no signs. From a police perspective it would be a nightmare to search.
Sandy caught me up on the dealer, Dell Streeter, as we approached the house.
“He moved into this place around four years ago. He came from somewhere along the border in Texas. He did seven years in a Texas state prison for manslaughter. That’s why I needed you to come along.”
I said, “What’s he been like since he lived here?”
“He got in one fight in town. He punched a guy in a sports bar. Even though the guy had a shattered nose and a bunch of missing teeth, something scared him bad enough to prevent him from pressing charges. No matter how hard I pushed.”
“This guy sounds like a sweetheart. And I love what he’s done with the property.”
Sandy pulled up to the gate closest to his driveway. I noticed there were two goons sitting on the porch. I guess they were protecting the rusting washer and dryer that stood to one side of the driveway. Or maybe they were worried someone would try to steal the gas stove that rotted right in the center of the front yard.
One of the goons, a muscle-bound redneck with tattoos running up his left arm, stepped inside the house. A moment later, a tall, lean man with a weather-beaten face
came onto the porch. He had thinning blond hair and was around forty-five years old. He squinted at the car, then motioned for one of his men to open the gate.
He looked like a cowboy from a 1970s western. Not as dashing as the old-time cowboys, because he had a definite edge to him.
I took an instant dislike to him when we got out of the car and he said, “Howdy. You have ten seconds to state your business here.”
I had to ask, “What happens after ten seconds?”
“Then somebody’s ass is gonna get kicked.”
I said, “If that’s the way you want it. But I’m on the tired side, so if you want your ass kicked, you’re going to have to come down to me.”
It was gratifying to hear my partner laugh at one of my cracks.
I was glad I’d come along.
Chapter 54
Sandy defused the situation quickly. She held up her badge and said, “Mr. Streeter, I’m Sandy Coles with the Linewiler Police Department. You remember me, don’t you?”
He walked along the porch toward us, the hard heels of his cowboy boots making a loud knock against the wooden planks every time he took a step. “You’re the one who tried to convince people I sucker punched that dude in the sports bar.”
“I never said you sucker punched him. You hit him from behind without provocation.”
“I had plenty of provocation. He said the Cowboys were the worst team in the NFC.”
I noticed him look over his shoulder at his smirking goons. I guess I wasn’t the only one who liked people to appreciate his jokes.
Sandy said, “I’m not looking to cause you any problems. We’re just trying to find a couple of missing teenagers. Tom-Tom Bacon and Tricia Green. Someone said they might’ve stopped by here.”
“You mean the kid with the Challenger?”
“That’s right.”
“Never seen him before.” That made his goons laugh out loud.
Now I stepped closer to the porch. I’d had enough of this shit kicker’s attitude. “Why don’t you save the Clint Eastwood bullshit for someone who cares? We’re just here looking for the kids.”
Streeter said, “Just who in the hell are you?”
“Michael Bennett, NYPD.”
“Would you looky here? We got us a real big-city cop. Well, Mr. NYPD, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not in the city anymore. And if you don’t watch your manners, you can earn yourself an ass kicking. And we’ll be happy to step down there to deliver it.”
Streeter took a step and dropped two feet down off the porch to the ground. Both his men took the stairs by the front door and backed him up. He looked over at Sandy and said, “That goes for you, too, Detective Coles. Last I checked, this house wasn’t in your jurisdiction. You got no warrant. And you’re on my property.”
That’s when I punched him in the face.
Chapter 55
I’ll give Dell Streeter credit. He took a good shot in the face and stayed on his feet. At least for a second. Then he dropped down to sit hard on the ground. Neither of the men behind him knew what to do. They started to help him up, but he shoved them away.
Once he was on his feet again, he looked at me and said, “I’ll give you that one. I didn’t expect it, and you’ve got a pretty good punch. But I’ve got a good memory, and you’re not someone I’m gonna forget.”
Sandy urged me back in the car, no matter how badly I wanted to smack this guy again. Once we were through the gate and back on the long, curving road, she said, “I don’t see how that was helpful, Mike. We could use his help, not his anger.”
“Sandy, you know as well as I do that guys like that are never going to help the cops. They only understand one thing. At least the next time he might show us a little more respect. Besides, I don’t think I can get fired from this job.”
“I’m just so frustrated. That asshole knows something. We’re going to have to talk to him again soon.” Just as we rounded a wide curve around a massive mound of granite, Sandy had to slam on the brakes to avoid two pickups pulled across the road.
Sandy calmly looked straight ahead and mumbled, “This can’t be good.”
“On the bright side, we’re going to get to talk to Streeter sooner than you thought.”
Just then, a Dodge Charger pulled up behind us. Streeter and his two henchmen climbed out of the car. If you counted the two men in the pickup trucks, the odds were not in our favor. I reached toward my pistol.
Sandy turned to me and said, “Keep your cool. Let’s try not to pull our guns unless we have to. Remember, we’re looking for missing teenagers. We won’t help them by being on suspension for a shooting. It won’t help them if the media is focused on us instead of them.”
I climbed out of the car with Sandy, and we immediately faced Dell Streeter. I tensed and left my hand resting on my hip. I hoped there was no way this crazy Texan wanted to get into a gunfight with the cops.
Streeter smiled and said, “Told you I don’t forget easy. Especially when it’s only been a couple of minutes. Now it’s time for a little payback.” He held up his hands, and so did the two men who were with him. “Just a good old-fashioned fistfight, if you’re up for it.”
He stepped closer, but before I could make a move, Sandy swung her left foot up quickly and caught the man at Streeter’s side in the groin. Then she turned quickly and threw a hard roundhouse punch at Streeter’s head. He ducked and kicked Sandy off her feet. She went down hard. She rolled to avoid Streeter’s boot in her ribs.
I moved fast and charged Streeter, but his other goon tackled me from my blind side. It felt like a bus hit me as I went down on the nasty road, too. The solid man with strong legs knocked the wind out of me. The way he stood over me made me think he had played some football in Texas.
I started to rise to my knees, but the man kicked me across the side of my head and knocked me back on the ground. I slid down the loose gravel of the unpaved road a few more feet. Blood started to leak from my nose, and my right hand bled from road rash.
Then Streeter kicked Sandy. No cop wants to see his partner kicked. I sprang up, focused on Streeter again. I barreled toward him. But before I could deliver a blow, the musclebound goon threw a punch and caught me squarely in the head. I tumbled back onto the ground. This time I was dazed when I went down. It’s a terrifying feeling when you know your gun could be exposed if you’re unconscious. Training and habit taught me to reach down and hold my gun in its holster.
Then I heard Streeter call off one of his men as he stepped forward to kick Sandy again. It was the guy who had been on the ground holding his balls. Obviously he wanted some revenge. He looked annoyed at his employer as he stepped away.
Streeter said, “I just gave you a little dose of Texas justice. Next time you come to my house you show a little more respect.”
I struggled to get to my knees. The pebbles under my kneecaps sent new tendrils of pain through my body. I couldn’t even feel my nose, and my left eye was swelling up.
Sandy made it to her feet and squared off against Streeter again.
The Texan chuckled and said, “I like that fighting spirit. You do your department proud. But don’t be stupid, Detective. I run this county now. The sooner you figure that out, the better off we’ll all be.”
Chapter 56
It was more embarrassing than painful to sit in the upstairs bathroom of the Ghost House while Mary Catherine tended to my wounds. In terms of police work, they weren’t particularly serious. A split lip, some sore ribs, a couple of gashes near my right eyebrow. Nothing that needed stitches.
Sandy sat across from me, having already been inspected by Mary Catherine. Maybe this jerk-off dealer had some respect for a local cop and didn’t throw any real punches or kicks to her face. But she probably had a cracked rib. Sandy wouldn’t admit to anyone that her ribs bothered her. Most cops knew there was not much you could do for a cracked rib. It hurt to breathe. It hurt your pride. And in the end, you had to just suck it up.
Mary Cathe
rine and Sandy started to chat like I wasn’t even in the room. Always a good feeling when two women talk about you as if you didn’t exist.
Sandy said, “One time we were called to a domestic in the South Bronx. Mr. Manners over here starts talking to the wife, who had stabbed her husband with a fork in the shoulder. I was talking to him while the fork was still sticking straight up in his flesh. I hear Mike saying, ‘Ma’am, you need to calm down. Why did you stab your husband with a fork?’”
I stayed silent because I’d heard the story a thousand times.
Sandy could hardly contain her smile. “The woman says to Mike, ‘I didn’t stab my husband with a fork. I stabbed him with a goddamn butcher knife.’
“Mike looked over at me and the man, then said, ‘I can see a fork sticking out of his shoulder.’ The woman says, ‘That ain’t my husband. That’s my boyfriend.’ Then Mike asks, ‘Then where is your husband?’
“The woman looks right at Mike and says, ‘I already told you. I stabbed him with a butcher knife. He’s in the bedroom on the floor.’”
Mary Catherine was mesmerized and ceased putting the necessary Band-Aids on my face. “What happened next?”
Sandy laughed as she said, “Mike stepped into the bedroom, and sure enough, that was the start of his homicide career. We almost left the apartment with the woman’s dead husband lying on the floor. There was still a butcher knife stuck right in his throat. Mike turned white as a ghost. It was hysterical.”
It’s funny, but I don’t remember it being quite so amusing at the time. Not only had I almost overlooked a homicide, it was also the most blood I had seen up to that point in my life. But the story made Mary Catherine laugh, and her laugh always made me smile.