David Putnam: The Replacements

The hotel insisted that the television suspended from the ceiling remain on. When I turned to take some glasses out of the warm soapy water, Barbara Wicks, in a Montclair Police Department blue uniform, appeared on a CNN news item. For a long moment I stood there stunned, watching, unable to move.

Her husband had been the one who’d shot me the first time three years ago, and again nine months ago. But that was a long, sad story, one I was trying hard to forget.

The four gold stars on her collars indicating chief status caught my eye. Nine months ago when I had left, Barbara had been a lieutenant. Good for her. She had worked hard, first as a patrol officer, then as the department’s first female homicide detective. She had excelled as an investigator and quickly moved up to watch commander. And now chief.

Way back, Barbara and Robby had been good friends of mine. I missed them both. The camera came in tight on her face. I stared at the screen. “At seven thirty yesterday morning, eight-year-old Sandy Williams was taken from her home on Buena Vista Street in the City of Montclair. The suspect jimmied the back door to get in, as the parents were home preparing to go to work. Montclair Police Department is working every possible lead, and we are using every available resource. This is a crime of unimaginable horror, not only for the Williamses, but for any family with children. The citizens in our city have to be able to feel safe in their own homes.”

“Hey, Bobby J,” Ansel said, “turn that crap off. We don’t want to hear it. It’ll ruin our buzz.”

I kept my eyes on the screen, eager to hear the rest, and I tried to keep the anger out of my tone, “Ruin your buzz? How do you think that child, Sandy Williams, is feeling right now?”

I’d taken-rescued, really, eight children-though some might describe the rescuing as kidnapping-and brought them to Costa Rica. Had this suspect taken Sandy Williams like I had taken my children? Taken her from an abusive home, where she’d been doomed to a life of pain and agony? Taken her with no other intent than to trundle her down to Costa Rica, where it would be safe for one and all? No chance, there were no statistics for what I’d done with my kids. No one had ever rescued children like I had done. Mine had been a one-time shot.

This kidnapping was the worst kind, the suspect’s motivation too difficult to ponder. I knew the odds were not in Sandy’s favor. This kidnapping, like most others, was not going to end well.

My attention returned to Barbara Wicks on the screen. “We now have compelling evidence that the East LA kidnapping of Elena Cortez two weeks ago is related. We have put together a joint task force with Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and with the FBI as advisors. If anyone has any information about either of these children, please contact us at the number listed on your screen.” She looked into the camera. I couldn’t help thinking she was looking right at me, right through me. She paused, then: “Now I’ll take questions.”

So this was a serial kidnapping. Some animal was on the loose. My first instinct was to return to the States and manhunt him. Of course, I had to resist. I wanted to listen to the rest of the broadcast, but couldn’t. The thought of what those kids were going through cut too deep. I lowered the volume with the automatic control and tried to distract myself by washing the rest of the glasses and filling drink orders for Becca, the server working the pool area. Lots of tropical drinks with little umbrellas and ice-cold Mexican beers.

Images of the children continued to pop up unbidden. I needed a stronger distraction. What I really needed was to go for a long run. That would clear my head, straighten things out. But I couldn’t leave the bar. All I had left was to talk to the regulars. A mild distraction was better than nothing.

Ansel, if that was his real name, held up his empty highball. “Hey, Bobby J, how about doin’ this again?” I filled his glass with Jack and Coke and made the seventh tick on the paper I used to keep track of ‘who’ drank ‘what’ and ‘how many.’ I set down the drink in front of him. He took the glass and leaned over the bar for a private word, his breath sweet with whiskey and mulled cherries. The other guys were talking amongst themselves and weren’t paying attention to us. “Hey, Bob,” Ansel half-whispered, “you been working ol’ Jake? You get a story outta him yet?”

I shook my head, “No luck.”

“Man, that’s driving me nuts not knowin’. You know what I’m sayin’? I’m thinking real estate fraud. He skedaddled with all the proceeds from some big land grab. He looks like some crotchety old realtor, don’t he? Whatta ya think?”

Ansel didn’t have a lot of imagination. I’d fed the guys the story that I had fled the States on the heels of a major real estate fraud. I said, “Let me try something else.”

Three of my customers at the cabana bar-Ansel Tomkins, Mike Olivares, and John Booth-had had an overwhelming desire to tell their stories. Their consciences demanded it. With the help of Jack Daniel’s and the need to wallow in self-pity, they’d all opened up.

All except Jake Donaldson.

Jake’s insistence to hold on to his dirty little secret had always piqued my curiosity. I decided to take a different tack with Jake today. This time I’d conduct my interrogation with his drinking pals sitting right next to him. I’d try for a little peer pressure.

Jake was older than all of us. His head balding with wispy white hair, his skin tanned nut brown from the intense sun. He possessed that old man kind of strength with little body fat to hide the sinew and muscle that rippled when he moved. He’d been hiding out down here the longest.

I stepped over from Ansel, the Jack bottle in hand, and refilled Jake’s glass, intent on further softening him up before getting started with the softball questions. He’d been hitting the Jack harder than normal. After each glass I poured him, he’d slump a little lower over the bar. I’d ask him where he grew up, how many sisters and brothers did he have-that kind of thing-that, if answered, revealed little by little a history of the man. I stood there not marking down the ticks for each drink, trying not to be too obvious. The other three pretended not to be watching or listening, and whispered to each other as Jake’s inebriation continued in earnest. Finally, I said, “Jake, old buddy, what’d you do in the States before you came down here? What were you into, huh, buddy?” He didn’t answer right away. His cheek touched the smooth bamboo bar as he began to speak, his words aimed down the length of the bar, not directed at anyone in particular, jumbled and incoherent.

I said, “Jake, old buddy, sit up, look at me. Come on, man, sit up. What did you just say?” I thought he’d said I was his best friend.

Jake’s head rose and swayed as if too heavy to hold, his eyes bleary, unfocused. I repeated the question, “What’d you just say?”

His jerky head turned, looked down the bar at his three fellow compatriots all intent to know his secret. Jake, his voice a low croak, said, “He was my best friend.”

“Who’s that, Jake,” I asked. “Who was your best friend?” The four of us held our breaths waiting, watching his eyes. With a “best friend” used in the past tense, maybe I didn’t want to know this.

He raised his head, face flushed red. Tears brimmed and rolled down, leaving glistening trails.

This was bad, too much emotion. Now I didn’t want to hear this man’s tortured secret. I’d been toying with these men for my own security and some entertainment, but this one wasn’t going to have a happy ending.

“Jake, wait, don’t.”