Dennis Lehane - Gone, Baby, Gone

While Angie made half a pot of decaf and pulled cream from the fridge and sugar from the cupboard, I went back to that final night in the quarry, when it seemed we’d lost Amanda McCready for good. I knew a lot of the information I was trying to recall and sift through was in my case file, but I didn’t want to rely on those notes just yet. Poring over them would just put me back in the same place I’d been six months ago, while trying to conjure it all back up from this kitchen could bring a fresh perspective.

The kidnapper had demanded four couriers to bring Cheese Olamon’s money in return for Amanda. Why all four of us? Why not just one?

I asked Angie.

She leaned against the oven, crossed her arms, thought about it. “I’ve never even considered that. Christ, could I be that stupid?”

“It’s a judgment call.”

She frowned. “You didn’t question it.”

“I know I’m stupid,” I said. “It’s you we’re trying to decide on.”

“A whole dragnet,” she said, “swept those hills, locked down the roads around it, and they couldn’t find anyone.”

“Maybe the kidnappers had been tipped off to an escape route. Maybe some of the cops had been paid off.”

“Maybe there was no one up there that night besides us.” Her eyes shimmered.

“Holy shit.”

She bit down on her lower lip, raised her eyebrows several times. “You think?”

“Broussard fired those guns from his side.”

“Why not? We couldn’t see anything over there. We saw muzzle flashes. We heard Broussard saying he was under fire. But did we see him at all during that time?”

“Nope.”

“The reason, then, that we were brought up there was to corroborate his story.”

I leaned back in my chair, ran my hands through the hair along my temples. Could it be that simple? Or, maybe, could it be that devious?

“You think Poole was in on it?” Angie turned from the counter as steam rose from the coffeemaker behind her.

“Why do you say that?”

She tapped her coffee mug against her thigh. “He was the one who claimed Ray Likanski was his snitch, not Broussard’s. And, remember, he was Broussard’s partner. You know how that works. I mean, look at Oscar and Devin-they’re closer than husband and wife. A hell of a lot more blindly loyal to each other.”

I considered that. “So how did Poole play into it?”

She poured her coffee from the pot even though the machine was still percolating and coffee dripped through the filter, sizzled off the heating pan. “All these months,” she said as she poured cream into her cup, “you know what’s nagged me?”

“Give it to me.”

“The empty bag. I mean, you’re the kidnappers. You’re pinning a cop down to a cliff top and sneaking in to scoop up the money.”

“Right. So?”

“So you pause to open the bag and pull the money out? Why not just take the bag?”

“I don’t know. Either way, what difference does it make?”

“Not much.” She turned from the counter, faced me. “Unless the bag was empty to begin with.”

“I saw the bag when Doyle handed it to Broussard. It was bulging with money.”

“But what about by the time we reached the quarry?”

“He unloaded it during the walk up the hill? How?”

She pursed her lips, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”

I came out of my chair, got a cup from the cupboard, and it fell from my fingers, glanced the edge of the counter, and fell to the floor. I left it there.

“Poole,” I said. “Son of a bitch. It was Poole. When he had his heart attack or whatever it was, he fell on the bag. When it was time to go, Broussard reached under him and pulled the bag out.”

“Then Poole goes down the side of the quarry,” she said in a rush, “and hands off the bag to some third party.” She paused. “Kills Mullen and Gutierrez?”

“You think they planted a second bag by the tree?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

I didn’t either. I could maybe buy that Poole had siphoned two hundred thousand in ransom money, but executing Mullen and Gutierrez? That was a stretch.

“We agree there had to be a third party involved.”

“Probably. They had to get the money out of there.”

“So who was it?”

She shrugged. “The mystery woman who made the phone call to Lionel?”

“Possibly.” I picked up my coffee cup. It hadn’t broken, and after checking for chips, I filled it with coffee.

“Christ,” Angie said and chuckled. “This is a hell of a reach.”

“What?”

“This whole thing. I mean, have you been listening to us? Broussard and Poole orchestrated this whole thing? To what end?”

“The money.”

“You think two hundred thousand would be enough motive for guys like Poole and Broussard to kill a child?”

“No.”

“So, why?”

I fumbled for an answer, but didn’t come up with one.

“Do you honestly think either of them is capable of killing Amanda McCready?”

“People are capable of anything.”

“Yeah, but certain people are also categorically incapable of certain things. Those two? Killing a child?”

I remembered Broussard’s face and Poole’s voice as Poole had talked about finding a child in watery cement. They could be great actors, but those were De Niro-caliber performances if they really did feel as indifferent to a child’s life as they would to an ant’s.

“Hmm,” I said.

“I know what that means.”

“What?”

“Your ‘hmm.’ It always means you’re completely baffled.”

I nodded. “I’m completely baffled.”

“Welcome to the club.”

I sipped some coffee. If just a tenth of what we were hypothesizing was true, a pretty large crime had been committed right in front of us. Not near us. Not in the same zip code. But as we’d knelt beside the perpetrators. Right under our noses.

Did I mention that we make our livings as detectives?

Bubba came to the apartment shortly after sunrise.

He sat on the living room floor with his legs crossed and signed Angie’s cast with a black marker. In his large fourth-grader’s scrawl, he wrote:

Angie

Brake a leg. Or too. Ha ha.

Ruprecht Rogowski

Angie touched his cheek. “Aww. You signed it ‘Ruprecht.’ How sweet.”

Bubba blushed and swatted her hand, looked up at me. “What?”

“Ruprecht.” I chuckled. “I’d almost forgotten.”

Bubba stood up and his shadow fell across my entire body and most of the wall. He rubbed his chin and smiled tightly. “’Member the first time I ever hit you, Patrick?”

I swallowed. “First grade.”

“’Member why?”

I cleared my throat. “Because I gave you shit about your name.”

Bubba leaned over me. “Care to try again?”

“Ah, no,” I said, and as he turned away I added, “Ruprecht.”

I danced away from his lunge and Angie said, “Boys! Boys!”

Bubba froze and I used that time to put the coffee table between the two of us.

“Could we address the matter at hand?” She opened the notebook on her lap, uncapped a pen with her teeth. “Bubba, you can beat up Patrick anytime.”

Bubba thought about it. “This is true.”

“Okay.” Angie scribbled in her notebook, shot me a look.

“Hey.” Bubba pointed at her cast. “How do you shower in that thing?”

Angie sighed. “What did you find out?”

Bubba sat on the couch and propped his combat boots up on the coffee table, not an act I usually tolerate, but I was already on thin ice with the Ruprecht thing, so I let it slide.

“The word I get from what’s left of Cheese’s crew is that Mullen and Gutierrez didn’t know nothing about a missing kid. As far as anyone knew, they went to Quincy that night to score.”