Jamie Garrett - Riley Reid 03 - Ends and Beginnings (4 page)

I spent the night after having dinner at Richard’s house in mental turmoil. Sam had told me that someone had made calls from the house to Jimmy Alvarez. It brought up some terrible possibilities.

Maybe those calls were made by Pastor Pritchard. He was over at Richard’s house quite a bit. That was what I hoped. After all, he and my adoptive father were close. And he was always coming over. That would make sense, too, if the pastor wanted to cover his tracks.

If anyone pulled the pastor’s phone records, they’d find no connections. But if someone pulled up Richard’s phone records, suspicion would shift to him. It would’ve been a smart move. There was no solid proof that it was the case, though.

There was no sleep that night. I just laid in bed, staring at my ceiling fan. A couple of times, I got up and tried to distract myself, hoping that fatigue would catch up and put me to sleep.

My favorite distraction in the middle of the night could be found on my laptop. On that night, I went on the internet to find more information on the trailer park I was going to travel to when the sun rose.

Trailer parks often had pleasant names that betrayed their true nature. For example, I’d been to a trailer park that was in the middle of the woods and called, “Lakeview”.  My personal favorite was a depressing little park near a garbage dump called, “Paradise Isle.”

The trailer park I was destined to visit was Sunny View. It had decent reviews online. There were no five star reviews, but a lot of solid threes. From pictures I saw, it looked nice enough. It was the kind of place that the old went to retire. If the reviews were to be believed, there was even a little pond, deep enough to swim in.

I also discovered some worrisome things about Sunny View. Crime statistics can be easily found online. Some of them are even presented on maps or in graphs. And around the trailer park, I saw a whole lot of red markers. Three stars or not, it was clearly not a safe place.

As I packed, I made sure to put a box of .38 caliber bullets in my bag. The accompanying revolver went in my purse. If the previous spring and fall had taught me anything, it was that I should always be prepared for the worst. Even if it meant killing again, I would be no victim.

When the sun rose, I found myself nervous. It wasn’t the type of nerves that one might have before giving a big speech or before they play in an important game. No, they were the type of nerves that came hand-in-hand with anticipation, not dread.

I waited ‘til the afternoon to begin my trip. When I tried to call the phone number associated with the address in Sunny view, I got no answer. So to increase my chances that someone would be there, I chose to go a little later in the day.

As I left, I had an uncomfortable feeling. It felt like someone was watching me. I had the same feeling months before when someone tried to run me off the road after leaving my office. Carol’s tip that someone was asking about me didn’t help.

When I looked around, I saw no one. There wasn’t a single person in the Briar Gardens parking lot. It was just me and a handful of empty cars.

Still feeling unsafe, but unable to do anything about it, I got in my car. My engine hiccupped a few times before starting. I turned on my GPS, and then I was off to find my father.

Richmond wasn’t too far. It was in the same state. Getting there was as easy as getting on Interstate 64 and heading northwest. It took about forty-five minutes to an hour to reach the city limits. And it took another ten to fifteen to find Sunny View.

In big, yellow letters against an orange background, I saw the sign for the trailer park. I almost passed it. It didn’t look like any kind of entrance. Instead, it looked more like a long driveway. Only one car would be able to go up or down it at a time. But it was freshly paved and unblemished.

I pulled into the Sunny View driveway. There was an open field that ended with what looked like an administration building and then a row of permanent trailers. They weren’t the variety that was on wheels. Whoever lived in them had put down stakes.

Before I could enter the trailer park proper, I had to pass a security gate. Like Fairfax County Prison, there was a booth with a guard. When I got close to it, the gate opened up. I took a glance inside the tiny structure next to it. Rather than a red-faced, heavily armed redneck, there was a pimple-faced teen on his phone, not paying attention to me.

There were rows and rows of trailer parks. Each had their own numbers. All of them were on little roads with “Lane” incorporated into the names.

I saw a lot of plastic flowers. Nearly every unit had at least a couple. They came in a variety of colors. Some were red, others were blue. All of them were tacky and unsightly.

Cheap lawn ornaments were also very popular in Sunny View. I saw a couple of gnomes. There were some flamingos. A couple of them even had those creepy fake dogs that, at a quick look, appear alive.

On wooden stoops, white plastic chairs and lawn furniture were the residents of Sunny View. People lived in trailer parks for one of a variety of reasons. The most common were those who simply couldn’t afford traditional housing. Another were those who wanted something different out of life, outsiders. Probably the smallest percentage were those who were on the run. Either the law, or worse, were after them.

I knew that the chances were that only a small percentage of people in Sunny View were criminals. That didn’t change the fact that I saw bad intentions in every stare that followed my car. And there were many stares. They saw me as a threat, a stranger, and a foreigner in their little country.

When I found the trailer I was looking for, there was an abandoned car out front. I’m not much of a car person, but it looked like an old Stingray to me. With all the rust and missing parts, it was hard to say for sure. Whoever lived inside the unit next to it must’ve been some kind of old sports car or muscle car fanatic. They must’ve been the type of person who would buy a 1978 Pontiac Trans Am.

As I parked my car across from the trailer, the front screen door creaked open. Out came a short, hairy and overweight Hispanic man. He had a tall can of cheap beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Paying me no mind, the man sat down on his front steps.

“Hello?” I asked as I got out of my car. I walked towards the hairy man on the porch.

“You talking to me?” asked the hairy man.

I looked around. Besides me and the hairy man, there was only one other person and that was a little girl on a pink bicycle.

“My name is Riley Reid,” I said as I got close. I held out my hand for the hairy man to shake. He wiped his appendage off on his stained wife beater, then shook mine.

“Marco, Marco Abreu. What can I help you with, Mrs. Reid?” The way he said “Mrs. Reid” was a little creepy. I think he was trying to see if I was married or available.

“It’s just Riley, and I’m wondering if you can help me out.”

Marco smiled at me. He’s oral hygiene wasn’t great. Neglect and cigarette smoke had stained his teeth yellow. One of his front teeth was missing and replaced by a gold one. Combined with his lumpiness and copious amount of body hair, it wasn’t very attractive.

“That depends on what you need help with.”

“In late July 2001, you bought a car, a Trans Am?”

Marco corrected his posture. “You a cop?”

That was a question I got on a regular basis. If someone comes sniffing around and asks questions, people automatically assume you’re the law. It’s understandable. But I hardly looked like law enforcement.

“No, I’m just looking for someone.” I decided not to tell Marco that I was a private investigator. In my experience, disclosing that fact could and most likely would turn a man like Marco Abreu off of the idea of answering any of my questions.

“What makes you think I can help you?” Marco took a drag of his cigarette with both eyes squinting at me.

I pointed at the rusted out Stingray. “You’re clearly a guy who likes his cars, am I right?”

“Lots of people like cars, Riley.”

“True enough. But not everyone has an appreciation for the classics.”

Marco took a swig of his beer. “You getting to a point? I’ve got shit to do today.”

Mr. Abreu was out in front of his house nursing a beer in the afternoon. He clearly had nothing to do. But from his lie, it was apparent that his patience was wearing thin. And I needed him willing to answer my questions. Both the angry and the annoyed make the most uncooperative subjects.

“You bought a car from the person I’m looking for.”

“Really? You’re going to have to be more specific. I used to buy, refurbish and sell all sorts of cars.”

Refurbishing classic cars must’ve been his former occupation. From the look of Marco and the remains of the vehicle next to his trailer, he must’ve retired.

“A 1978 Pontiac Trans Am. It had a gold firebird on the hood.”

Marco took another drink and another pull. It was as if it helped him think, as if the beer helped him access his vault of memories. Whatever worked for him. To each his own. As long as I got what I was after, I didn’t care.

“I’ve bought a couple of Trans Ams over the years. Only one was a 1978, though. I remember it clearly. Ever since I saw one just like it in ‘Smokey and the Bandit’, I wanted to get my hands on one.”

“And you did?”

“One day, a guy comes in with his wife or girlfriend or something. He looked like shit. When I asked him what he wanted, he told me that he had a car to sell. He’d gotten my name from one of my friends down at the used car dealership in the city.

“Normally in that situation, I’d tell someone to get lost. I’m not in the habit of dealing with complete strangers, unless I am the one who come to them. But this guy … he was desperate. He was so desperate that I almost got the thing for free. I only paid about a quarter of what it was worth.”

“Why? I mean, why was he willing to sell it for so cheap?”

“I think he was running from something.”

That seemed like jumping to quite a conclusion. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling, I guess. Plus he really seemed like he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to get into any small talk or waste any time. Also, it looked like he hadn’t taken a shower for days. He was scruffy and his clothes were dirty.”

So does that mean you’re on the run?
For some reason I found myself getting angry with Marco. There was no way he could’ve known that it was my father he was talking about. Even if he did, I still don’t know why it bothered me. I guess sometimes feelings are unexplainable. That is especially true when it comes to someone’s parents.

“Did he say anything?”

“About?”

“About where he was going? Maybe what he was running from? Were you able to get a name?”

Marco got up from the front steps. He stretched out his back and groaned. When he did, his gut stuck even further out.

“He said something about leaving the state. He said something about going west. I’m not sure if he meant California or just West Virginia. And I didn’t ask. As far as a name goes, I think I have it written down somewhere.” Marco started towards the door to his trailer. “Let me take a look inside.”

Marco opened his screeching screen door and disappeared into his trailer. I stood there in front of it, awkwardly. In order not to feel so silly, I walked up the stairs and stood at the entrance.

“Don’t just stand there, c’mon in,” said Marco as he sifted through a table full of papers. “C’mon, I don’t bite.”

As you might expect, I had major reservations about going into Marco Abreu’s trailer. Put aside the looks he gave me when we were both outside. Getting into a confined space with one entrance and exit, like a trailer, with a stranger was not a good idea. It wasn’t a gender thing. I think any man or woman would be hesitant to do it. And my gun was in my purse in the car. But I have always been more curious than cautious.

Marco was babbling about something. I think it pertained to him knowing that he had the information I was after written down somewhere. It’s hard to remember exactly what he said. I was too distracted by the disaster that he called home.

All trailers are a bit crowded and cramped. I knew that before I opened the screen door and ventured inside. But Marco didn’t seem to notice. There were piles and stacks of everything from old newspapers and mail to DVDs, CDs, books, magazines, clothes and tools. That day, I learned that even people living in trailers could be hoarders.

At least there wasn’t a bunch of unwashed dishes or left over food on the kitchen counters. The trailer was crowded and messy but it didn’t smell. I guess I should have been thankful for that.

“Here we go,” said Marco. He walked over and met me near the entrance of his trailer. In both hands he had some papers. “Barry, his name was Barry Porter. I bought it from him on August 1, 2001.”

Barry was my dad’s middle name. And Porter was my mom’s maiden name. It wasn’t that clever a fake name. Then again, my father was never that clever of a man.

“Then I fixed up and sold the Trans Am to…” Marco went through the papers in his hands. “I sold it to Kevin Reid about a year later, on August 5, 2002.”