I Shall Not Want (37 page)

“You mean, keep ‘em from knocking over convenience stores,” MacAuley said.

“—I’ve decided to use the remaining money to fund some campers at the rec department’s summer camp. I’ve already given the director enrollment info for two kids; if any of you know a family that could benefit from this, have ‘em call Gail Jones at her office at the town hall.” He picked up his folders and his coffee cup and slid off the table. “That’s all, folks.”

Hadley sat, frozen, while chairs scraped and shoes slapped and belts jingled. Something bumped against her, and she looked up to see Eric McCrea. “You feeling okay?” He squinted at her. “You look kind of feverish.”

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean, no.” She stood up, forcing Eric to scramble out of her way. “Excuse me.”

She caught up with the chief right before he entered his office. “Chief,” she said. “About the summer camp thing—”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” He glanced at the clock. “The drop-off is at the middle school. If you hurry, you can get your kids there and be back in about forty-five minutes. You can work through lunch to make it up.”

“Sir.” Her voice sounded strangled. “I can’t accept—”

He looked down at her. “Officer Knox. This department is spending a good chunk of change on your training. I count a few hundred bucks to safeguard that investment as money well spent.”

“I’m handling my home situation fine. I don’t need charity.” Now she sounded like a bitch. It was his fault. She didn’t ask to be put in this situation.

He stepped into his office. Beckoned her in. Nudged the door half shut. He dropped his voice. “Look, Knox—Hadley. When Noble’s mother started to wander away from her house at odd hours, we wired her doors with a security alarm and checked in on her four times a day. When Harlene’s husband, Harold, got sick and had to go down to the Albany medical center twice a week, we drove him. This isn’t an insurance office or a restaurant. We have to trust each other with our lives. And that means we take care of our own.”

There was a knock, and the deputy chief stuck his head in the door. “Hey,” he said. “You got a minute?”

The chief looked at MacAuley a long moment, an expression on his face Hadley couldn’t make out. Then he nodded. “Sure.” He turned back to Hadley. “Go ahead. When you get back, you’ll patrol with me.”

Hell. She’d look like an antisocial loner if she continued to protest. She tried to say thank you, but she couldn’t get the words out. She settled for jerking her head up and down before fleeing the office. Out in the hall, she heard MacAuley ask, “What was that all about?”

“Oh, just touching base,” the chief said. “What was it you wanted?”

She took off before she could start to feel grateful.

Driving back to the station, Russ thought he had never been so busy doing so little in his entire career. He had dropped into enough stores, galleries, roadside stands, and mom-and-pops to write a shoppers’ guidebook. He checked in with anxious proprietors, listened to their worries, and assured them they and their customers would be safe and protected. In between, he and Knox responded to at least a dozen reports of possible intruders and suspicious persons, every one of which was either nonexistent or a befuddled innocent.

The last call of the day—surprise, surprise—was Mrs. Bain. He groaned when Harlene gave him the report. “She says she’s heard thumping and clattering noises out back of her barn, and she says there was a carload of real suspicious-looking Hispanic men driving slowly past her house, checking it out.”

He keyed the mic. “Hispanic men. That’s a new one. What about the prowler?”

“Ayeah, the prowler’s back.”

“Okay, copy the last report, change the date, and add in the Hispanics. Oh, and call one of the Bains and see if someone can come over, will you?”

“You got it. Dispatch out.”

Knox was looking at him with a doubtful expression. “Shirley Bain,” he explained, heeling the car around toward Cossayuharie. “Her only son lives down in Westchester. He likes to forget he grew up with manure on his boots, which I could forgive, except he also forgets to spend any time with his mother. So every three–four months she sees a prowler. We come out, look the place over, and write up a report, which we send to the son. He comes home for a weekend to make her feel safe, and then a few months later we do it all over again.”

Mrs. Bain was sweet and apologetic and even more worried than usual as they walked around the barn, past clumps of day lilies and rhubarb gone to flower. Russ pointed out where some of her wood stack, drying in the late afternoon sun, had fallen.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, Russell. I guess I’m just a silly old woman. But with all these terrible things happening to the Mexicans, I’ve been so frightened. I have half a mind to buy myself a gun.”

Russ spent the walk back to her house convincing her that would be a bad, bad idea. Mrs. Bain had, as always, baked before they arrived, and in the kitchen she bustled about serving chocolate chip cookies and iced tea. Russ silently drew Knox’s attention to the stack of recent
Post-Star
s in the recycling basket and the pile of true crime books waiting to go back to the library.

When the elderly woman found out Knox had children, she was in ecstasy. She insisted on emptying the owl-in-spectacles cookie jar and giving the entire paper-bagged contents to the junior officer to take home.

Russ was beginning to worry they weren’t going to escape before dinner, but then there was a knock at the door and Geraldine Bain yodeled, “Shirley? Let me in.”

Mrs. Bain unlocked the door for her sister-in-law. At seventy, Geraldine was well past retirement age but kept her position in the Millers Kill Post Office through sheer determination not to miss a word of gossip circulating through the town.

“Hello, Russell,” she said. “And who’s this? Is this Glenn Hadley’s granddaughter I’ve heard so much tell about?” She hugged her sister-in-law while keeping an avid eye on Knox. “Don’t you worry, dear,” she said. “I’ve come to spend the night.” Russ spotted the small suitcase on the doorstep and sprang to pick it up. He toted it to the second-floor bedroom, abandoning Officer Knox to Geraldine’s interrogation.

She had gotten to who-was-Hudson-and-Geneva’s-father-and-why-wasn’t-he-here-with-them by the time Russ got back downstairs. He snagged the bag of cookies from the table and thrust it at the shell-shocked Knox. “Time for us to go, ladies. Mrs. Bain, you call us if anything else makes you nervous, okay?”

“Rushing off to St. Alban’s?” Geraldine gave him a roguish wink. “Word is you’ve got yourself a sweetheart over there.”

“Geraldine,” Mrs. Bain said in a repressive tone.

“What? He can’t wear the willow forever, a good-looking man like that.” Geraldine looked him up and down. “If I weren’t old enough to be your mother, I’d give that Reverend Fergusson a run for her money.”

Beside him, Hadley Knox made a gurgling noise. He leaned in toward the Bain women. “I don’t know as you should let that stop you, Geraldine. You know what they say about older women.” Then he winked. She hooted with laughter.

Mrs. Bain frowned at her sister-in-law. “Oh, you and your foolishness!” She turned and looked up at him. “Russell, you will let Warren know what happened, won’t you? He does worry so about me.”

“Of course.” He opened the door.

“Be good!” Geraldine’s voice trailed after him. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! And if you do, don’t get found out!”

On the ride back down Route 17, Knox peeked at him several times, as if trying to work up the nerve to ask something. He figured it was about him and Clare, so he was surprised when she said, “Don’t you find it kind of frustrating? Spending the whole day holding hands and soothing nerves?” He glanced over at her. “I mean,” she went on, “it’s more like babysitting than police work.”

“Weren’t you the one who said being a cop was like being a mother?”

“Oh, crap.” She covered her face with her hands. “I did, didn’t I? I can’t believe I said that in a job interview.”

“Don’t be. It’s one of the reasons I hired you.” Ahead of them, the light at the intersection turned red. He took his foot off the gas. “Sometimes it gets a little frustrating, yeah. Mostly because I want to see some development on this case, and nothing’s happening. But I try to remember that for most of the folks here, this is police work. Making sure Mom’s not trapped in her house with a broken hip. Stopping cars from speeding around the schools and the park. Asking the neighbors to turn it down so everybody can keep it friendly.”

“Do you ever wish it was more… I don’t know, exciting?”

“I was an MP for over twenty years. Believe me, I saw plenty of exciting. No, I knew what I was getting when I came back to my hometown.” The light turned green again, and he rolled onto Main Street. “Did you?”

She looked startled. Then thoughtful. “I don’t know. I knew what I wanted, though.”

He expected
fresh air
or
a safe place to raise my kids
or
a new start
.

She pursed her lips. “Anonymity.”

“Huh.” He bumped the cruiser over the walk and into the station parking lot. “I suppose, to the rest of the world, Millers Kill is pretty anonymous.” He twisted the key in the ignition and the engine died. “Of course,
within
the town, you can’t ask someone for a dance without everybody weighing in on it.”

Getting out of the car, the heat that had been soft and drowsy in Mrs. Bain’s grassy yard pressed down on them like a tar-smeared steamroller. All he wanted to do was check in, sign out, and get to his mother’s house, where he could strip down to his shorts and try to catch a breeze in the backyard.

Clare’s house would be cool. She believed air-conditioning was a constitutional right. He had helped her install a window unit last summer. She would have iced tea—sweet, like they made it down south—and cold beer. A glass for him and a bottle for her. He could stretch out in one of her oversized chairs and they could talk.

Yeah. Talk.

He knew, as soon as he stepped onto the marble floor of the entryway, that something had happened. He could hear the churn of conversation all the way down the hall. Eric emerged from the squad room, grinning. He sketched them a jaunty wave. “I’m outta here. My son’s got a game.”

“What’s up?” Russ asked.

Eric’s grin widened. “Go take a look.”

Russ strode in, Knox on his heels. Lyle and Kevin were bent over a desk, heads bumping together, examining what looked like circ sheets. “What’s up?” Russ asked.

Lyle looked up, grinning. “We’ve ID’d John Doe one. He’s Rosario de las Cruces, late of Prendiepe, Mexico. The Agencia Federal de Investigación faxed a whole buttload of stuff on him.” He waved Kevin back and handed the papers to Russ. “He’s associated with the Punta Diablos gang, which has members on both sides of the border: pot coming north and guns going south. He spent a nickel in prison,
Federales de
somethin‘-or-other; you can read it for yourself”—he jammed a finger at the appropriate spot—“but he’s got no record of ever being in this country, which is why his prints didn’t turn up with our usual search.” He grabbed the papers back out of Russ’s hands and yanked one sheet to the top. “Here’s the Anti-Gang Task Force report on the Punta Diablos; they think de las Cruces was fairly high-level management but not at the top. Didn’t get near the product—he was put away for unlicensed possession of a gun, criminal threatening, and currency violations.”

“Currency violations?”

“Money laundering.”

Russ felt a flare of excitement as the facts finally began to line up. “Our mid-level manager?”

“Could be. Although, seeing as he’s dead, he’s not telling anybody the names and addresses of his distributors.”

“Unless he recorded the info somewhere.” He and Lyle smiled at each other in wolflike satisfaction. “CD?” he asked. “Or one of those little whatchamacallits that you stick in the side of a computer?”

“Flash drive,” Kevin Flynn said.

“Thank you, Kevin.”

Lyle shook his head. “Too easy to duplicate. Plus, it’s hard to really erase one of those things. They’d want something they could destroy completely if the Feds came knocking.”

“Good old paper and pen?”

“A notebook,” Lyle said. “Or a diary, or a journal.”

“When they tossed Clare’s place”—some of the good feeling fizzled away—“that’s what they were looking for. Whoever ‘they’ are.”

Lyle rocked back on his heels and rubbed two fingers over his lips. “They didn’t find it that night. And it wasn’t bagged with the money and the .357 Taurus. So either Esfuentes never had it, or he kept it someplace else entirely.”

“Or it’s still hidden at the church,” Knox said.

They both turned to face her. She shifted from foot to foot, looking like she wished she hadn’t spoken up. “There are books and notebooks all over the place. In the main office. In Reverend Clare’s office. Hell, in the Sunday School room. Amado went everywhere, cleaning. He could have slipped it between a couple of other items and no one would have noticed.”

Lyle was nodding. “Makes sense.” He looked at Russ. “You said he led a pretty prescribed life, right? The Catholic church in Lake George, visits to the house out at your sister’s farm, and St. Alban’s.”

“Right.”

“He’s not gonna leave it at the Catholic church. What if he can’t get back? Same deal for stashing it in one of the volunteers’ cars.”

“It’s possible he left it at the migrants’ bunkhouse.” Which meant the same crew who tossed Clare’s house might be coming over to the McGeochs. He’d have to warn Janet not to let the girls anywhere near the new farm.

“Possible,” Lyle said. “But he didn’t leave the gun and the money there. The place has been on the patrol list ever since we twigged to the Hispanic connection, and so far it’s been quieter’n a—well, quieter than the church, that’s for sure.”

Russ glanced toward Knox, the only other one of them to speak Spanish. “It’s not urgent, then. Knox, you and Kevin can head over there tomorrow to do a search. I’ll call ahead and let my sister and her husband know.”