C Box - Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

“…Let’s just say there was a lot of blood,” Torkleson continued.

“I’m sorry,” Sanders said, “but I can’t get all weepy about hearing that some big boys from Sureños 13 got hit.”

Morales agreed.

“Two of the victims were bystanders, though,” Torkleson said. “The friend of the blonde had a couple of priors, but nothing of note. The bartender was an ex-con and probably a member of Sur-13, but I’m sure he wasn’t a prime target- he was just there.”

“Nobody saw or heard anything?” Cody asked innocently.

Torkleson shook his head. “Nobody but the blond girl so far. You know the neighborhood-it’s deserted at night, and not a lot of cops go by there even though they’re supposed to. And from what I understand, gunshots at night aren’t at all rare in that neighborhood.”

“So who called it in?” Cody asked.

“A citizen,” Torkleson said. “Some guy said he went to the bar for a drink, but the place looked closed, which was unusual. He looked in a window and saw the bodies.”

“Anything else?” Cody bored in. I hoped he wasn’t being too obvious, but I recognized the fact that he was just being Cody the relentless cop.

“One thing, and it’s not much,” Torkleson said. “A ware-house delivery driver called in and said he sometimes uses that street to get to his shop. He said he saw a light-colored Jeep parked in front of the place at about the time we figure it all went down, but that’s all we’ve got.”

“Hey,” Morales said, gesturing toward me with a spoon, “Mr. McGuane here’s got a light-colored Jeep. He was gone last night for a few hours.”

“That’s right,” Sanders said.

I felt my insides clutch up. Melissa was dabbing at some sweet potatoes on Angelina’s face, and I saw her freeze.

Sanders said, “Maybe on the way to the bar, you stopped at the Appaloosa Club and shot four people.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Looks like we’ve solved the case,” Morales said, digging into the mashed potatoes.

Sanders said, “Now we can get a commendation and a raise and be on TV standing next to the mayor. Excuse me, can you pass me the ham?”

I began to breathe again. When I looked over at Cody, he winked at me.

Melissa stood up unsteadily, but I assumed I was the only one who noticed. “Who wants dessert?” she asked. I could tell she wanted to top off her glass again when she went over to the counter.

WE WERE IN THE LIVING ROOM, and it had gotten dark outside. Tiny little hard balls of snow pinpricked the west windows and melted on impact and slimed down the glass, leaving snail tracks. The second Thanksgiving Day game was in the first minutes of the fourth quarter, with Dallas ahead by twenty and John Madden extolling the virtues of Turducken and eight-legged turkeys. I was frankly surprised the deputies and Torkleson had stayed so long. And they seemed in no hurry to leave. There was still plenty of beer, and Cody had cracked open the Jim Beam Black. I wondered if they’d stay until the end of the game or until the alcohol ran out, and I was pretty sure it would be the alcohol. Angelina was charged up by the company although she was starting to get wild since she’d refused to take her nap. Why nap when there were four men doting on her? Melissa was in the kitchen cleaning up and, I assumed, working a little on the bottle of vodka. I couldn’t get the image of her sitting bedside with her glass, watching our daughter and me while we slept, out of my mind.

I loved Melissa, and now I knew the depths of her feelings were unfathomable. When- if -we turned Angelina over, I couldn’t imagine Melissa not melting down, and me with her. She said we were disintegrating, and the loss of our daughter would no doubt push her over the edge. I wasn’t even sure I’d know her anymore, just as I was starting to wonder what would happen to me, what I’d become with the loss. I could think of no scenario that wasn’t terrifying.

I’d read where the loss of a child was the most devastating thing that could possibly happen to parents. I believed that. But presumably the loss in question was due to death or accident. No one had studied what it was like to hand over a child because of a legal anomaly. And to hand the child over to people who might just be monsters.

“THAT English PERVERT,” Torkleson said to Cody and the deputies. “Did you hear the latest about him? ”

Of course that pulled me out of my reverie.

“What was that asshole’s name?” Torkleson asked. “You know, the one who was going to move here? He was on 9 News.”

“Malcolm Harris,” I said.

Torkleson was obviously drunk. His words slurred, and he was talking too loudly. As were Sanders and Morales. They’d been practically shouting at each other for a half hour, telling cop stories, comparing cop notes. Cops, like ranchers and outfitters of my youth, were generally suspicious and taciturn men, except when they were around their own. Then the yapping began, and it was endless. I had only half listened, spending most of my time worrying about my wife and trying to keep Angelina from acting out. I was hoping Melissa would be done soon in the kitchen so she could take our daughter upstairs and calm her down and get her to bed. But when Malcolm Harris’s name came up, I leaned forward in my chair.

“What about him?” Cody asked. Strangely, Cody seemed to be the most sober of them all. I’d noted that although he was drinking, he wasn’t pounding them down like usual- or like the others were. I could only attribute his restraint to the “good days” he’d been having. Cody only drank when he was bored, which was most of the time. When he was wrapped up in a case or a project, he restrained himself.

“Who is he talking about?” Sanders asked Morales.

“That guy,” Morales said. “Don’t you watch the news or read the memos?”

“Fuck no,” Sanders said before noting Angelina in my lap, and saying, “Sorry again.”

I was thankful that at that moment Melissa came into the family room and scooped up Angelina. She said good night to everyone and was lavished with “thank-yous” and overdone praise. Her eyes misted as they thanked her-she cried so easily and quickly now-and she took our daughter to bed. I was grateful she didn’t seem wobbly or lit up, and I made a note to check the level of the vodka bottle behind the micro wave.

“You know that guy,” Morales said. “The English guy. He was on his way here to move his company or something. I got a call to go to the airport just in case he was on the plane. If he landed, we were supposed to arrest him, but they got him before he boarded, I guess. He was some big-time pervert pedophile.”

Sanders shook his head. “I never heard of him.”

“Anyway,” Torkleson said, as tired as I was of the deputy interplay, “it turns out he had a connection to somebody here.”

That got Cody’s attention, and mine.

“Aubrey Coates,” Torkleson said. “Coates’s e-mail address and phone number were all over his records. Scotland Yard thinks our man was part of this pervert’s child porn and trafficking network. Can you believe that?”

“I wish he would have made it here,” Sanders said, “so somebody could shoot the bastard. I hate those scumbags.”

“I woulda shot him,” Morales said, and I believed him.

“Hold it,” I said, my head spinning. “Malcolm Harris had a connection to Aubrey Coates?”

I recalled Harris and the conversation:

My friends in Colorado say that compared to what I’m used to, I’ll be bulletproof! That’s the term they use, bulletproof. I love that.

Really? Who says that? I asked.

Oh no, he said coyly, I won’t reveal my sources.