No Way Out (2010) Read online

  One door opened as another closed. At first I thought Kate and Joy had done the opening and closing. Then I realized that those doors swung both ways, that the choices had been as much mine as theirs, and that I was where I needed to be, with Joy, whether her time was long or short. Still, I lingered outside Kate’s door for an instant, jiggling the knob, images of her flashing in my mind. It was unlocked, but I didn’t go in.

  Simon was at his desk, which is to say that he was in heaven, three twenty-one-inch monitors arrayed before him, his hands flying across his keyboard, windows flashing on the screens, his head nodding to an internal rhythm. He was a computer genius, catching bad guys in a net of ones and zeros.

  “You’re late,” he said, not breaking eye contact with his screens.

  “I can’t be late. I’m a consultant. We have no hours, and you and I don’t have an appointment.”

  “A consultant is someone who travels, and you don’t travel.”

  “I took the bus. That qualifies. And, I have miles to go before I sleep.”

  “What about promises, Robert Frost?” he asked, spinning around in his chair to face me. “You have any of those to keep? Like the one you made to me that you’d watch Lucy’s back. She told me what happened at LC’s. For Christ’s sake, Jack, how could you have left your gun at home? She could have been killed!”

  “Slow down, Simon. I couldn’t take my gun into the Municipal Farm. I don’t like leaving it in the car, and, besides, LC had a sign on his door that said no guns. That’s the law.”

  “How about today? Are you carrying?”

  I was, my Glock 23 holstered on hip, beneath my jacket. Carrying it was more a way of staying connected to what I used to be than it was a necessity. My work for Simon and Lucy rarely required that I be armed, and, notwithstanding yesterday’s barbeque shoot-out, Kansas City wasn’t a war zone.

  He jumped out of his chair and snatched a page from his printer. “I looked up Missouri’s concealed-carry law, and guess what, it’s not a crime to take a gun into a public place that posts one of those signs as long as it’s not a church or a school. If LC had found out you were carrying, he could have asked you to leave and you could have been fined if you refused, but it wouldn’t have been a crime if you had done your job and protected Lucy.”

  Simon was five-five on a tall day and pudgy enough that he needed more time in the gym and less at his desk. He was bald on top, thin on the sides, with a light complexion that flushed full red whenever he got angry, like now.

  “There was no way to know what was going to happen.”

  He slapped his palms together. “Exactly my point. That’s why you don’t leave your gun at home in your underwear drawer. I’d rather pay your fine than pay for Lucy’s funeral.”

  When I was with the FBI, my friends were the agents I worked with and depended on. The job didn’t leave time for another life. When my movement disorder forced me out of the Bureau, those friendships faded, not because they weren’t real or strong, but because they were born out of shared lives we didn’t share anymore. It didn’t help that some of my brethren believed I should have taken the fall for corruption in the Violent Crimes squad I led. With the exception of one of my agents named Ammara Iverson, there were no mutual promises made in good faith to stay in touch only to be broken without malice. There was only a double yellow line between then and now.

  Not long after I left the Bureau, Simon asked me to help him with a case he believed in but couldn’t prove. He needed someone who knew how to interrogate witnesses and put together a case that depended on the human elements of motive, means, and opportunity that eluded computer analysis. He’d read the newspaper coverage of my last case with the FBI and asked me if the rumors about my involvement in the corruption were true. I told him no, and he didn’t ask again.

  I put the case together for him, and that led to as much work as I could manage and a friendship that grew beyond our work after I introduced him to Lucy. She was my surrogate daughter, which made him my surrogate something or other. Together with Joy, I had more family than I’d had in a long time, and family members are entitled to yell when they are afraid for one another.

  “Okay,” I said, my hands up in surrender. “Next time, I’ll shoot the people who catch us in a cross fire. I’m sure they won’t panic when they see me reach for my gun and shoot me before I can get it out of my holster. And, if they do notice what I’m doing, I’ll just ask them to wait a minute so you won’t get mad at me for not killing them first.”

  He flipped the paper onto his desk, shaking his head, unable to hide his grin. “Fine, fine, fine. Make fun of me, but remember this. Nebbishes like me don’t get women like Lucy. I mean never. She’s smart. She’s pretty. She’s funny. And she’s got the longest legs I’ve ever seen up close. And, you know what is the most amazing thing of all? She loves me! Me! And I love her. Sometimes I can’t tell whether the gods are smiling on me or laughing because they’re going to pull the rug out from under me.”

  “The gods are smiling, so enjoy what you’ve got and don’t worry so much. Life is too unpredictable. I can’t shoot everybody.”

  “Which makes you a lousy consultant. Lucy says Jimmy Martin stiffed you on the kids.”

  “That he did.”

  “Where’s that leave you?”

  I shrugged. “Same place as the FBI and the cops. No place. Some of the neighbors are sticking up fliers with the kids’ pictures all over Northeast, and they’ve organized search parties.”

  “Where are they looking?”

  “Kessler Park, the bluffs, and the river, anyplace you could bury two little kids without being noticed.”

  “Any chance they aren’t dead?”

  “Not much. There’s been no ransom demand. The FBI has checked out the rest of Jimmy’s family to make certain he didn’t stash the kids with one of them, and they’ve run down his known acquaintances and come up empty. If Evan and Cara are still alive, someone has to be taking care of them, and there aren’t any likely candidates.”

  “What else can you do?”

  I shook my head. “Keep looking, go back to the friends and family, and hope somebody remembers something or lets something slip. It’s not much of a plan, but it is what it is.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “A couple of things. A gun dealer that lived at Lake Perry died on his way home from a gun show in Topeka last month. Hit a deer and had a heart attack. Somebody stole his inventory before his body was found. See what you can dig up on it.”

  “Because someone is going to pay me or because you’re asking me?”

  “Because you’re a humanitarian. And, because one of the stolen handguns was used in the shooting at LC’s.”

  “Lucy told me, the guy who killed his wife. Why do you care?”

  “Roni Chase, the woman who shot him, may be in over her head.”

  “Is she going to pay me?”

  “I was thinking it would work the other way. You pay her.”

  “That would make me a moron, not a humanitarian.”

  “Actually, it would make you her employer. You’ve been looking for someone who can help you analyze financial records. She’s got an accounting degree and runs a bookkeeping company. You remember the Jensen case from last year, the one where the bookkeeper embezzled a couple hundred grand from that construction company?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give me a set of the records, let her take a look at them, see if she can put it together. You already know what’s there. If she can find it, maybe you can use her. Plus, she’s a good shot and takes her gun into restaurants.”

  He shrugged and pursed his lips. “I’ve got a better idea.” He pulled up a file on his middle screen, tapped a few keys, copied it to a CD, and handed it to me. “These are the financials on a new case I’ve got for an electrical supply company. I redacted the company name. Tell her if she finds what I think is buried in those numbers, she can be a consultant making the middle money just like you.�
��

  “What are you looking for?”

  He smiled. “Like I’m going to tell you.”

  “Why not tell me?”

  “Because I know that look on your face. This Roni reminds you of your daughter, Wendy, or someone else who reminds you of Wendy, so if I tell you, you’ll tell her because you think if you save enough stray cats and dogs you’ll pay a debt you don’t owe and couldn’t pay if you did.”

  I slipped the CD into my side jacket pocket, not arguing because he was right.

  “Thanks.”

  “Jack, do both of you a favor and just give her the disc. Let her save herself.”

  Chapter Eight

  I changed buses at the Transit Plaza on Tenth and Main, picking up the Number 24, which runs the full length of Independence Avenue. Two-person bench seats separated by an aisle lined each side of the bus. I slid across a bench, sitting next to the window, watching a wide-hipped Vietnamese woman, stoop-shouldered from carrying stuffed shopping bags and the clutch of two small children, settle onto the bench behind me, gathering her possessions.

  Three Hispanic teenage boys, jeans sagging off their hips, strut-walked down the aisle, the number fourteen, four dots, the letters NF, and a sombrero speared with a machete dripping in blood, inked on their hands and necks, tattoos of the Mexican drug cartel Nuestra Familia. The cartel was affiliated with gangs by the same name that originated in California prisons in the 1960s, spreading through the southwest, eventually making their way to Kansas City, recruiting kids whose idea of the good life was a street corner they could call their own, dealing dope, and standing strong against the cops and the competition.

  The one in the lead, a skinny kid weighed down by gold chains bouncing against his chest, bumped into a slight, older white man wearing a loose-fitting barn jacket, knocking him onto my bench. The kid snickered, his friends joining in the laughter. One of them slapped him on the back, calling out “Yo! Eberto,” as they each claimed a bench. The man righted himself, smoothing his thin gray hair.

  “Time was,” he said, “I would’ve kicked all three of their asses.”

  “Time was, I would have helped you.”

  He chuckled. “Wouldn’t have needed the help.”

  “Wouldn’t have mattered.”

  He looked me up and down. I’m six-foot and more muscle than fat, though the fat is catching up to the muscle. I gave him the hard stare I’d learned to use with the FBI, trying to convince both of us.

  He didn’t blink. He had a smoker’s aged face, his skin yellowed and drawn, cheeks sunken. His dark eyes were deep set and clouded. He let out a long breath and coughed, a wet raspy hack, and grinned.

  “First liar doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

  I grinned back. “Nope.”

  “Punks like that are the same all over. Some turn out okay, others don’t last long enough to find out.”

  We left it at that, both content to watch the streets pass by. There are two cities named Kansas City, one in Missouri and one in Kansas, their borders rubbing along a shared state line, staring at each other across the confluence of two rivers bearing the names of each state. Both grew outward from the rivers, their older cores encircled by ever-expanding rings of new development with predictable patterns marked by the common modifier predominantly—as in Black, Hispanic, or White; rich, middle class, or poor. There are five counties, two in Kansas and three in Missouri, with suburbs and towns that melt and meld into Census Bureau calculations, each carving out an individual identity while still a part of something as ambiguous as Greater Kansas City.

  Though Kansas City is more than the sum of its parts, some of its parts bear little resemblance to one another. Whether by design or happenstance, you can drive from Northeast to the southern limits of the Kansas side suburbs, where new rooftops stretch to the horizon and there is little color in the cul-de-sacs, and conclude that you haven’t just left town, you’ve entered a parallel universe.

  More than a hundred years ago, Northeast KC became the city’s first suburb, led by wealthy lumber-men who built its mansions, followed by Italians, some of whom never left, and Jews who did, moving steadily south and west, and working-class people of all stripes. In recent years, it had become the new home for immigrants and refugees from Somalia, Sudan, Burundi, Mauritania, Ivory Coast, Cuba, Myanmar, and Vietnam.

  Bright lines are hard to come by, but Independence Avenue comes close, defining and dividing the Northeast. Everything is available on the Avenue, from sex to groceries, from salvation to cemetery plots; everything, including Frank Crenshaw’s scrap and Roni Chase’s bookkeeping. It’s where life happens.

  North of Independence Avenue, people fight to put their homes on the national register of historic places, to put their kids through school, and to gain a foothold in a strange new land. South of the Avenue, they fight to survive poverty, gangs, and despair.

  The Vietnamese woman with her two children, the older man, the three teenagers, and I got off at the intersection of Independence Avenue and Brooklyn. It was late morning, the sun was playing tag with the clouds, and a crisp breeze gave the low fifties a chill. The man buttoned his jacket, pulled a watch cap from one pocket, covered his head, and waited for a break in the traffic. He crossed the Avenue, slow, sure steps taking him north on Brooklyn. The woman shepherded her children a block east before turning south onto Park.

  I watched the gangbangers study the man and the woman; their eyes narrowed to predatory slits, whispers and looks passing between them, casting their votes with shrugs and tilted heads. When they took a step toward the curb, aiming toward the old man, I let them see the gun on my hip, closing the distance between us.

  Eberto caught my advance, stopped, and stared, his eyes shifting from my face to my gun and back again. He was wearing a ball cap turned backward, both hands in the pockets of his zippered sweatshirt. He ran his tongue across his lips, took off his cap, and swept his hand across his buzzed scalp. He shifted his weight from right to left, his eyes flickering. His boys were behind him. They were young and thought themselves tough, outmatching a middle-aged man, yet they saw something more than my gun that made them hesitate. They saw that I was willing.

  I took another step toward them, Eberto backing up, one foot slipping off the curb. The woman was gone, the man nearly out of sight.

  “Don’t need this shit today,” he said.

  He turned and shuffled west toward Woodland, the other two trailing him, reclaiming respect with a slow retreat. I waited until they disappeared before collapsing on the metal bench at the bus stop.

  Looking up, I saw a flier with Evan and Cara Martin’s pictures on it taped to a light pole. The photographs, headshots, had been taken at their elementary school, Evan’s cowlick standing at attention, Cara’s grin gap-toothed; both smiles were full-faced and easy, their place on the light pole unimagined and unimaginable. Beneath it was another flier with a picture of another child, Timmy Montgomery, his image faded from too many months on the pole, the flier listing the date he was last seen as two years ago. I took a deep breath, hugged myself, and shook so hard the bench rattled against the bolts locking it to the concrete.

  Chapter Nine

  I was in Simon’s office the first time Peggy Martin called. Lucy answered, warm but professional, listening, her jaw easing open, her eyes widening.

  “Hang on. I’m going to put you on speaker. I want my partners to hear this,” Lucy said, punching a button on the phone, shifting from professional to soothing. “Start over, Mrs. Martin.”

  “He took my kids,” she said, her voice cracking. “You’ve got to find them.”

  Lucy grabbed a notepad and pen as Simon and I pulled our chairs closer to the phone.

  “Start from the beginning, Mrs. Martin. Take your time.”

  Her voice caught as she fought back tears. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the police say they’re doing all they can, but my kids have been gone for two weeks. Why would he do a thing like that? What kind of man kidna
ps his own kids, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Martin. Where are you?”

  “Home. I’m at home. I’m afraid to leave in case the police call. Please, you’ve got to help me.”

  “It would be better if we talked in person. Give me your address.” Lucy wrote it down and glanced at her watch. “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.” She ended the call and looked at me. “You in?”

  She knew without asking. It was the hardest kind of case, but neither of us could say no. Kids disappear for all kinds of reasons, none of them good. Parents wake up and die each day they’re gone, the uncertainty of what may have happened and the unspeakable fear of what did happen a daily acid bath. And no matter how it ends, it never ends. I was living proof that survivors don’t heal and ghosts don’t rest.

  “I’m all in.”

  Peggy Martin lived in a small house on Wabash between Third and Fourth Streets, a few blocks north and east of my bus stop bench. Her house sat above a two-car garage, wooden steps leading up a flight from the driveway to the front door, white paint cracked and flaking off the wooden siding.

  Lucy and I sat at her kitchen table, looking at pictures of Evan and Cara, both fair-skinned with blue eyes and light brown hair, like their mother, listening as she talked about them. Cara was all bones and crooked teeth, a gawky girl who danced, played basketball, loved to draw, and cried herself to sleep when her parents fought.

  Evan was her devil child, a spark plug full of mischief and laughter, throwing himself around his mother like a shield when things got hot between his parents. He was the first son in four generations not named Jimmy. Her husband was Jimmy Martin, III, his father was Jimmy Martin, Jr., and the old man who had started it all and dropped dead of a heart attack three years ago while chewing out a cashier he claimed had shortchanged him was Jimmy, Sr. Her husband had wanted Evan to be Jimmy the Fourth, but she’d refused.