What the River Knows (29 page)

“How often do you see your mother, Scott?”

He looked at the doctor and then at the floor. “Not often enough.” When the silence grew, he went on. “She moved in with my brother Dennis in Ohio after she broke a hip a couple years ago.” He looked down at his hands. “Haven’t seen her in nearly a year.”

“Does she know that Rica has left?”

Still staring at his hands, he shook his head. “It’s something I wanted to tell her in person, that I let her, let the family, down. Divorce is not something we do.” He looked up. “I’m planning to go up around Thanksgiving.”

“Do that, Scott.” The look Dr. Warren gave him reminded him somehow of his mother. “I’ll bet your family is more supportive than you expect.”

He sat silent, watching her, his mind far away. He had imagined telling his family of his impending divorce now for weeks. He could hear his brother’s tone, as he affirmed he had always expected it. He could see Alicia’s sympathetic gaze, see Vanessa storm from the room, watch his mother’s lips quiver in disappointment. “I don’t know why they would be. I’ve let them down.”

“Scott.” Dr. Warren stopped and then started again. “Even if a family sides with an in-law in the beginning, 99% of the time, blood turns out to be thicker than water. They almost always come around to agree with their relative.”

Scott stared. “I hope so.”

“Give them a chance, Scott.” She glanced at her watch. “Next Friday, same time?”

He stood. “Works for me.” Relieved, he walked from her office, only to be hit in the face with a blast of cold air and a handful of sleet pellets. The cool front he remembered hearing about on the weather last night had evidently moved in. He shivered, having only tossed on a light jacket. He supposed winter would come early this year. He remembered a Halloween with a foot of snow. And another one when the high was nearly ninety. He hurried to his truck, turned on the heater and defroster, and headed for the station. He paused long enough at the McDonald’s halfway there to pick up two cups of coffee.

He set one cup on Bates’ desk as soon as he made it through the door to their office. Bates looked up. “Thanks, rookie.”

“Don’t mention it.” Scott dropped into his chair and sat holding the cup to warm up his hands before he turned on his computer. “I just get tired of those faces you make when you drink the coffee you brew.”

“Hey, I just don’t like it cold.”

“Two words.” Scott hit the power button on his computer. “Insulated cup.”

“Rookie,” Bates muttered. “How are things going with the shrink?”

“I continue to see her, and she continues to see me.” He punched in his password. “At least by now, I guess we’ve ruled out being figments of each other’s imaginations.”

“We got some hits on Craigslist on items taken from the last farmhouse burglary.”

“That’s good. I just
love
shopping on Craigslist. Can we get warrants to pick anyone up?”

“Nope. But we could get to go undercover to go buy stuff. Though all that’s turned up so far is dishes, so they were going to send Marlene.”

“Dang.” He popped into Facebook, clicked on Rica’s page. “Couldn’t we pose as guys trying to collect dishes to make our wives happy?”

Bates snapped his fingers. “I never thought of that.” He reached for the phone to make his pitch to the chief.

While Bates was busy, Scott scanned Rica’s posts. Good day in surgery. She was happy. Evening at the dinner theatre. Trip to Wichita to the symphony. Stuff he had tried to take her to because he knew she would like it, but she turned him down so they could save money for a house. No mention of with whom she had attended these festivities. He heard Bates hang up the phone. He clicked back to the Facebook page of the girlfriend of the first suspect in custody for the Quick Shop murders.

It appeared the girl was engaged in a running feud with another woman, complete with name calling. Suddenly it jumped out at him. She mentioned having a winning lottery ticket, and plans for how to spend the money (hair extensions, new tattoos), but they had to wait for things to “chill” before they could turn it in. “Hey, Del.”

“No, we don’t get to go buy dishes. At least not this time.”

“Forget that.” He motioned Bates to his screen. “Take a look at this.”

Bates slipped on the trifocals he used for computer work and leaned over Scott’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like our girl has a winning ticket.” He dropped the glasses into his pocket. “Let’s go have a chat with her.”

Chapter 63

“Man, I told you I ain’t got no winnin’ lottery ticket!” Felipa White twisted the ring made from a spoon that encircled her thumb. Each finger wore a ring of some sort. “And if I did have one, you cops’d pro’lly steal it anyhow.”

Bates leaned back in his chair. “Then why were you bragging about it to Tina?”

“Oh, that.” She played with an earring. “I just get tired of her braggin’ all the time about the stuff her man gets her. Wanted to let her know my guy gets me stuff, too.”

“Like he brings you a whole roll of lottery scratch-off tickets?”

Her eyelids flickered. “Naw, he just brings me a few when he gets a little cash.” She took a deep breath. “We can’t afford to go to them fancy new casinos, but for five bucks we can pretend we gonna win for a little while.” She paused to study a chip in her acrylic nails. “And this one time, one time we got a $100 ticket.” She closed her eyes and savored the memory. “We lived it up on that one.” She opened her eyes and faced them again. “Never have won that big again.”

“Oh, but it’s worth trying, isn’t it?” Scott drummed his fingers on the table. “Just think about the odds. The more tickets you have, the more chances one of them would be a winner.” He looked at Bates. “What would you say the odds would be, Del, if you had a hundred tickets at the same time, that one of them would be a big one?”

Bates shrugged. “I’ll bet it would be at least twenty to one. Maybe better odds. Or maybe you’d get ten twenty-dollar winners. Or twenty ten-dollar ones. It would sure boost the odds.”

Scott could see the woman working numbers in her head. Even if they couldn’t get a search warrant for the woman’s apartment on evidence as flimsy as her Facebook post, maybe greed would drive her to risk redeeming one. “You been to visit Tommie lately?”

She looked at Scott, then down at her hands. “Well, ya know, he ain’t bringin’ in no rent money settin’ in jail.”

Scott nodded. “So you’ve been working extra shifts to cover your bills?”

She rolled her eyes until she noticed him watching. “Somethin’ like that.”

Bates raised his eyebrows. “Got a new sugar daddy?” He shook his head. “Tommie’s not gonna like that.”

“Hey, girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, ya know?”

“Oh, we understand, we do.” Scott shook his head. “But we’re not the ones who would be pissed off and looking to get even if we got out. It’s Tommie.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. “And if he did what we charged him with, well, I’d say he has one nasty temper.”

Felipa’s eyes widened.

Bates nodded. “And if we can’t find more evidence soon, he’ll be out sooner or later.” He doodled in his notebook. “He doesn’t seem like the forgiving type to me.”

Scott spoke louder. “But now if someone were to give us some evidence that could convict him of the shootings, he’d never see the light of day again and couldn’t hurt you.”

Scott noticed that her hands trembled a bit as she continued to play with her rings. “What kinda evidence would it take?”

Scott shrugged. “Breaking his alibi that he was with his friends. Knowing where some of the things missing from the Quick Shop are.”

“What kinda things?”

“Lottery tickets.” He watched as her face changed expression as she mulled possibilities in her mind. “But now, if someone were to cash in one of those lottery tickets, that would make that person an accessory to murder. That person could get the death penalty same as the trigger man. On the other hand, I think there’s a reward out for information, isn’t there, Del?”

“Yeah, I think Quick Shop put it up. Ten grand for information leading to conviction.” He paused. “That’s sure a lot more than a scratch off ticket could get you.”

“And the person that turned in the information wouldn’t go to jail?” Her hands trembled openly now.

“No guarantees, but the DA wants to make this case airtight, so I suspect there would be no jail time.” Bates sat back in silence, and Scott did the same.

Perspiration beaded Felipa’s forehead, and she licked her lips and twirled her rings. “Aw’ight, it’s like this, ya see.” She leaned forward. “Tommie didn’t say how he got ’em, but he told me that he got a bunch of lottery tickets, but we couldn’t scratch ’em or turn ’em in just yet.” She looked down at her hands. “I didn’t know he had anything to do with the murders.”

“Did he tell you where they are?” Scott glanced at Bates.

“Him and a buddy share a locker sometimes at the gym. Said he put ’em in the bag with his boxin’ gloves.”

“Which gym?” Scott heard excitement in the higher pitch of Bates’ voice.

“Gold Ring. Caters to boxers and fighters.”

“Buddy have a name?”

“All’s I know is ’fonse.”

Bates stood up. “Thank you, Felipa, you’ve been most helpful.”

She focused on him. “What about my reward?”

“We’ll see about that when we find those tickets.” Scott stood up. “You wait here till we get back.”

Chapter 64

In the two hours it took to get the warrant and head for the gym, the sleet had piled up into drifts. They drove south from the LEC into a manufacturing district that had thrived during the years after World War II. Sometime between Korea and Iraq, manufacturing began the migration overseas. The Crown Vic bumped over several tracks of railroad sidings that once brought raw materials in and manufactured goods out of the buildings that dominated the area.

“Inspiring place,” Bates remarked as he parked close to the door of a former machine shop. A vinyl banner, with a graphic of an ornate championship-style ring in bright yellow, laced tight above the battered entry door, proclaimed the place to be the “Gold Ring.” High in the walls of the building, multi-paned windows allowed natural sunlight into the building. Two overhead doors tall enough to accommodate semi-trucks flanked the entryway. Stained cardboard substituted for several missing windowpanes.

“I dunno.” Scott scanned the half-dozen cars parked close to the building. Two fancy, low-rider pickups, a sports car, a minivan, and a couple of beaters. “Kinda makes me feel like beating on someone.”

Shaking his head, Bates opened the door, looking relaxed, but in reality as on edge as Scott. “PD,” he announced. “Who’s in charge here?”

“That would be me.” A muscular Hispanic man, maybe in his twenties, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, stepped away from the punching bag he was bracing for a fighter. The two men sparring in the ring dropped their hands and turned to face them, and their trainers stepped out from behind the ring. The young woman working on a speed bag stopped her workout. “What can I do for you fine officers today?” He walked toward them without swagger, but with confidence in the walk.

“We have a warrant to search the gym locker of Tommie James and Alfonse Ribiero.”

With an appraising glance at Scott, the young man stopped in front of Bates. “Can I see the warrant, please?”

Bates handed it over. Scott noted that the others in the gym remained silently watchful, bordering on hostile.

The young man handed the warrant back to Bates. “I can show you which locker is the one they use, but I don’t have a key to their lock.”

Scott spun for the door. “I’ll go get the bolt-cutters out of the car.” He hustled to get the tool from the trunk of the Vic, concerned about leaving Bates alone in the building with a half-dozen toughs. Even the girl looked like she could take either him or Bates down without trouble. In a minute, he returned.

The trainers had begun rubbing the shoulders of their fighters, but all kept a close eye on him and Bates. Scott suspected that only the influence of the manager kept them from turning antagonistic.

The manager turned and led the way to a row of ancient Army surplus lockers against the wall of what was probably once the plant offices. He walked about a third of the way down the row and stopped. “This one is theirs, number 33.” A bicycle padlock secured the latch. Only three other lockers sported locks. “Most folks don’t leave their stuff here,” the manager explained. “Rough part of town.”

Scott handed the cutters to Bates. It took a couple of tries, but finally the cutters severed the lock. When the door opened, they waited a minute for the smell of stale sweat to vacate the locker. Evidently, Alfonse had not opened the locker since Tommie had been in custody. Slipping on a pair of rubber gloves, the kind that were supposed to protect against needle pricks, Bates reached in and pulled out a faded red Nike duffel bag. He used his pen to move items around inside the duffel. Scott glimpsed athletic tape, sweatbands, and what looked like tank tops before Bates pulled out a scuffed pair of boxing gloves. One hung limp, as if it had fought its last fight, but the other stretched out like the fingers inside wore splints. The glint in Bates’s eye as he glanced at Scott said, “Aha!”

Bates turned the cuff of the stiff glove toward him. “Well, well, what have we here?” Scott could see a huge stack of lottery scratch-off tickets stuffed into the glove until it would hold no more. Bates removed the stack of tickets. Scott unfolded the list that contained the bar code numbers of the stolen tickets.

“Read me the first number,” he said.

Bates had to turn the tickets toward a window and squint to see the numbers. “Four five seven three three seven six eight.”

“Bingo!” Scott felt the excitement rise. “That number is on the list.”

“We got him.” Bates placed the glove back in the Nike bag. “Thank you very much, Mr.—”

“Rodriguez,” the gym manager supplied. “I always want to cooperate with the police, officer.” He glanced at Scott. “You wanna work out sometime, you come on down. We give discounts for city employees.”