Satan’s Lambs (11 page)

“No. He met with his informant, but he didn't really register until Valetta had been in for a while. As soon as he remembered he called for backup, but they didn't get there in time. He kept watch on the place, but figures Valetta left from the back.”

“Aw, hell.”

Mendez looked grim. “Can't watch two doors at the same time. Knoxville PD has two detectives on the way right now, to question the doctor and her staff. I'm driving down this morning.”

“I want to go with you.”

Mendez nodded. “Lena, when exactly did Eloise Valetta divorce Archie? She
did
divorce him?”

“Sure she did.” Lena stared at her feet. Surely,
surely
, Eloise had divorced Archie.

“Can you say when?”

“How would I know?”

“Listen. If this can in any way be construed as a custody fight, I'll be pulled off. I told my captain they were positively divorced before the child was even conceived.”

Lena took a breath. “Thank you, Mendez.”

“You need to find out for sure, Lena. Get the details, and make sure the paperwork is in order. If there is any question …”

“She's his
mother
.”

“Eloise will be better off if she has a statement of custody. You know any lawyers?”

“One. But the guy to hit first is Rick.”

“Your ex-husband?” Mendez glanced at his watch. “Better do it.”

Lena picked up the phone. “This early, at least I know he'll be home.”

The phone rang six times before a woman answered. Her voice was low and seductive, though all she said was hello.

“Judith? This is Lena.”

“Lena. How you doing, cupcake?”

“I know I woke you up and I'm sorry, but this is kind of an emergency.”

“You didn't wake me up, I haven't gone to bed. What's wrong? You need Ricky?”

Lena let out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, if you don't mind.”

“It's him that'll mind.”

“Asleep?”

“Ummm. Listen, cupcake, he told me about Jeff. I want you to know, you can come stay with us as long as you want.”

“I always wanted to sleep three in a bed.”

Judith chuckled. “Don't think Ricky wouldn't love it. Hang on while I get him.”

Lena waited. Mendez looked at his watch.

“Lena?” Rick's voice was deeper, thicker than usual.

“What's … is something wrong?”

“Rick, I got trouble and I can't explain. I need a favor.”

“Another one?”

Lena heard Judith fussing at him in the background. “Yeah, another one. I need you to check some courthouse records and the dissolution of a marriage—”

“The courthouse isn't even open yet.”

“I'm on my way out of town. Do it when you can. As
soon
as you can.” Mendez had shrugged into his suit coat. “Look, Rick, I got to go up and put on some clothes. You remember Sergeant Mendez? He'll tell you what we need.”

“Put on some—”

“Here.” Lena handed the phone to Mendez. “He can figure out the dates and stuff. Tell him what we need and I'll be right back.”

Lena ran up the stairs.

She got dressed quickly—black leotard, another pair of clean jeans, a jacket. She did a genuinely fast job on the makeup—mascara, yes; blush, no. She was ready in fifteen minutes, but could not find her watch. Had she taken it off in Kevin's room?

The door was ajar. The curtains were open, for the first time in seven years. Something silver glinted in the middle of the floor. Her watch. She slid it over her wrist.

Something was off, besides the curtains. She glanced around the room, frowning. She slid her jacket over her shoulders, then looked once more in the far left corner.

The mobile was gone—no more red-checked lion, hippo, and giraffe. Mendez had taken it down. She went into the corner and examined the tiny scars on the wall. He'd even taken the hooks out.

Now the room was truly empty.

17

They stopped at a doughnut place for coffee, corn muffins, and raspberry doughnuts. Even with the coffee, Mendez was drooping.

“Pull over,” Lena said. “I can get to Knoxville.”

“You're tired.”

“
I'm
bouncing off the walls. Switch over and let me drive.”

Lena licked sugar off her fingers as Mendez pulled the car to the shoulder of the interstate. A tractor trailer truck went past, making the Mazda quake. They got out of the car and switched sides, both keeping a wary eye on traffic. Mendez was grim and unsmiling.

Men
, Lena thought. Treat them like shit, they get huffy.

It was still early enough that traffic was thin for such a well-traveled section of road. Lena merged the car into the flow with no trouble. Mendez adjusted his seat to tilt backward. The engine vibrated gently.

“Nice car,” Lena said flatly. “It always just start right up when you put the key in? Don't have to crank it?”

Mendez opened one eye, then closed it.

“Mendez.
Joel
. We need to talk.”

“The whole idea was for you to drive, and me to sleep.”

“I know, but I want to apologize about this morning.”

“No need. I understand.”

“I don't see how
you
understand, when I'm not even sure I do. I just—”

“Lena, it was a big mistake for both of us. Knowing how you feel about things, I … It was unprofessional of me.”

“Unprofessional?” Lena raised one eyebrow. “Good
point
, Mendez. You should only make love to strangers you meet in bars.”

He reached into the caddy behind the gear shift, selected a tape, and slipped it into the cassette player. Tchaikovsky's
1812 Overture
. Lena kept her eyes on the road.

Lena did not like the doctor, and not just because the woman was thinner than she was. Dr. Whitter had hard edges—too much eyebrow pencil, an overabundance of fragrance.
Aliage
, of all things. Lena curled her lip.

“I talked to cops this morning already.” Whitter had the kind of deep Tennessee accent that would sound uneducated no matter how much schooling backed it up. There was lipstick smudged on her front tooth.

Brash Pink, Lena decided. Maybelline.

The doctor had received them, after a long wait, in a cramped office that smelled like mildew and gym socks. Lena's chair was hard orange plastic. Mendez's was aqua. Dr. Whitter sat in a padded leather chair behind an immense chipped wooden desk that was covered with a glass top. Dust was thick on the few clear places that were not cluttered with stacks of files, papers, and magazines.

Black wrought-iron shelves overflowed with books on women's health, abortion, tubal ligation, and triage, trauma, and bullet wounds.

“If I did have a patient like you say come in here, and he had an injury such as a badly torn meniscus, and a severely bruised kneecap …”

Lena smiled.

“… it would not, to my knowledge, be a matter for the cops. And I do respect patient confidentiality. You talking bullet wounds, stab wounds—I report downtown. According to standard procedure.”

Mendez looked at her steadily. “Let's cut the crap, okay?”

The doctor glared at him. She leaned back in her chair and it creaked as she swiveled from side to side.

“I've seen the report that was taken this morning,” Mendez said. “You treated Valetta, and he had a child with him.”

“Yeah, so? He had a little 'un along.” The doctor's voice was flat. “People bring kids in here all the time.”

“What condition was he in?”

“Knee was badly swollen and locked—”

“The
child
.”

She shrugged. “Charlene says she gave him a sucker and he ate it up so fast she gave him a whole handful. Most kids, you know, suck on it awhile. But she thought he was hungry, so she filled his pockets with 'em. Charlene's a softie.” Whitter shrugged. “She be the one you want to talk to. I didn't see much of him.

“Now, if you don't mind, I got six abortions to do before—”

“How come you don't get picketed, like everybody else?” Lena asked.

“'Cause I pay 'em off, that's why. They like to close down the places on the nicer side of town. Their big ole cars tend to suffer 'round my neighborhood.” She winked. “I see lots of their girls in my office, though. Happens all the time.”

Maybe, Lena thought, with the lipstick off her tooth, she might not be all bad. Lena glanced at the worn tile, caked with weeks of dirt, and wondered how she'd feel, coming in here. Probably prefer the places across town.

“Did Valetta say anything, give you any idea where he might be headed?”

“Nope. Paid in cash, and left out the back.”

“You understand,” Mendez said. “I'm not local. I won't be back to harass you, nobody will know you heard it from me. The child you saw has been kidnapped. Valetta has a bad reputation.”

Whitter frowned. “I got nothing to say to you, Sergeant, and you got no jurisdiction here. One thing I
know's
the law. You want to talk at Charlene, you go on ahead. But she don't know nothing either, and she's tender of heart, so keep the scare stories down to a minimum. She's got work to do too, so be quick.”

“If I find out you knew something, I'll see you get picked up as an accessory.”

“Yeah, you cops scare hell out of me.”

Charlene turned out to be a heavy smoker—bleached blond hair, tired blue eyes, an intriguing sweetness in her hesitant smile.

“She say it's okay for me to talk to you?”

Mendez nodded. “Let's go across the street. I'll buy you lunch.”

Her eyes lit up, then dulled. “Oh, I can't.”

“Charlene.” He leaned close and spoke gently. “Did you talk much to the boy?”

She shook her head. “He wouldn't say nothin'. Just stuck a finger in his mouth and stared at me. Poor little baby. Had these big dark circles under his eyes.”

Lena winced.

“Looked like he'd been crying. Or maybe had a cold.” Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks, streaking her makeup. “I knew something was wrong there, I just knew that man didn't feel right. Didn't feel like a
parent
.” She shook her head. “I got to tell you, too, I don't think he'd been feeding the little boy.”

She told them about the suckers.

“Did you overhear Valetta say anything at all about where he might be headed?”

“Nooo.” She wrapped a strand of hair around her finger. “The phone was ringing like crazy, and I was tending to that. I did hear him yell once or twice. Whitter was ahurting him.”

“You understand the boy's been kidnapped?”

“Oh, yes sir.” Her eyes were bright.

“There's nothing else you can tell us?”

She bit down on her knuckles and shook her head.

Mendez handed her a card. “Call this number if you remember anything, or
think
of anything, that might help us out.”

She took the card and studied it. “Yes sir.”

18

They sat in the nonsmoking section of a Cracker Barrel restaurant. A huge stone fireplace separated the kitchen from the dining room. An old-fashioned enamel coffeepot sat on the mantel, next to a Coca-Cola sign and a poster advertising Dr. Wollum's Elixir. A waitress in blue jeans and a checked shirt offered Lena coffee. Mendez sliced a biscuit in half and took a bite.

“Eat something,” he said.

Lena rattled her bag of pretzels. “I am eating something.”

“Why don't you order the chicken and dumplings?”

“What are you, the nutrition police? I don't want to eat, I want to crunch.”

“You missed lunch, didn't get much breakfast—”

“Did Charlie miss lunch? Did Charlie get breakfast?”

Mendez positioned his knife on the edge of his plate. “You never know who to be mad at, do you, Lena? Me. Eloise. Whitney.” He leaned close. “All this time, I thought it was me. Because I'm a cop, and my hands are tied, and no matter what I do, men kill their wives and their girlfriends. And Lena, if I put every man or woman in jail who threatened to kill their husband or wife, the streets would be empty.”

“Mendez—”

“But now I'm not sure. I know you hold me responsible—or you used to. And I think you're angry with your sister.”

“I don't blame victims, Mendez.”

“Yes, you do. But mainly you blame yourself.”

“Crap, Mendez.”

“Crap, Lena. You need to put the blame where it belongs.”

“And where is that?”

“On Hayes.”

Lena wadded the pack of pretzels and jammed them into her purse. “I'm not riding home with you, Joel.”

A beeper went off. The woman at the next table reached into her jacket pocket. She frowned, shrugged, and looked at the man sitting across from her.

Mendez wiped his mouth with a white paper napkin. “Are you going to walk? Sixty-seven miles?”

“Sixty-
seven
miles, Mendez? Are you sure it's not sixty-seven and four tenths? Is that to my house or yours? Where are you going?”

“My beeper went off. I have to call the office.”

The pay phone was just outside the bathrooms. Mendez rummaged in his pocket for a quarter, and dropped it in the slot. Lena wondered if he always had a quarter when he needed one, because she never did. One way to look at it was that Mendez had all her quarters.

She leaned against the wooden doorjamb and touched the gingham skirt of a cornhusk doll that hung on the wall. Mendez talked very little and listened a lot. She couldn't tell much from his face. She wondered if he had a facial-expression disability.

He hung the phone up and stared at a point on the wall over her right shoulder.

“Mendez? What is it?”

His eyes came back into focus. “Knoxville PD called my office. Archie Valetta's been hit.”