A Bullet Apiece Page 11

  “Easy,” I said. I took a slug from my own glass and watched her. Then I righted the other chair and gestured for her to sit down.

  “Now,” I said, “tell me what is going on.”

  By way of reply, she grinned sickly and pulled a folder from off of the desk.

  “Read it,” she muttered. I set my glass down and opened the folder. As I did, she pulled out a cigarette and bit it between her teeth, like she wanted to hear it scream. Her sick grin in the match light transformed into a sadist’s leer.

  Inside the folder were three sheets of paper. I glanced at each one. The first two pages were typewritten. The third was hand written. On all of the pages, there were four columns. In the first column, there was a list of male and female names, all English. In the second column, all in Spanish, full names were listed. From what I could tell, the first names in this column belonged to women.. Next to several of those names were superscript numbers. In the third column, alongside each row of names, dates were entered. In the last column, more dates, between eight and ten months after the dates in column three. Some of the spaces in the last column had N/A scratched in. I looked over each page and then looked at Mrs. Hanady.

  Since she’d sucked the life out of the cigarette, she mashed it out. To my surprise, right on the top of the desk. Then she reached for another. She handed one to me and I took it. She lit mine, and then hers. First time for everything, I guess. For a few minutes, the smoke from our cigarettes congested the air between us. At last I spoke.

  “These look something like birth records.”

  “Oh, really,” she deadpanned. Menace oozed from her.

  “Well, the dates at the end are about nine months after—” Her seering look cut me off.

  “These are Colombian women?” I asked. She nodded. “What’s with the numbers?” The sick grin appeared again. She pointed her cigarette to a slim journal on the edge of the desk. I picked it up and opened it. In the same neat handwriting, columns of numbers were followed by notes. I flipped through the pages. The numbers totalled twenty-seven. I picked one at random: number fourteen. I read:

  This was a sweet one. Tight,Tight,Tight! Tho she didn’t

  make a sound the whole time. I wanted her to call out in

  Spanish, like #11. Now she is worth going back for!

  I skimmed through a couple of others. More of the same. One in particular, though, chilled me.

  Weepy. Weak. Sickly. Might produce a hump-backed calf.

  No good in the States. Not even worth a roll in the hay.

  Off the farm! One for Meeki’s men.

  Throughout, women were rated accordingly. Like a seed catalog of lasciviousness. I closed the cover and held on to the journal. I didn’t want to be here in the first place, and now I felt my skin crawl as though in a preemptive getaway.

  “Mrs. Hanady. I don’t know what to say.”

  She glared at me. In the orange light, her features were sharp, like the blade of a machete. “Girls! Young girls! Innocent. God!” She threw her empty glass across the room. The glass shattered against the wall. Then she stood up and grabbed a handful of papers off the file cabinet and made as if to rip them to shreds. Instead, she threw them at me. “Fucking men!” she screamed. At first I was stunned, but when she reached for the tell-tale folder next, I grabbed her hand and stood up. She slammed her other hand down in a fist on mine, then she clawed at my chest like a drowning cat. I held onto her arm and tried to grab her other flailing arm. She landed a couple of good scratches on my face before I could restrain her.

  “Mrs. Hanady, I don’t like the idea of hitting a woman, but I will.” At this, she slackened, so I let go of her. “We need to take these documents to the police.”

  “And what the hell will they do?”

  “I don’t know that you are aware of this, but they’re working on the murder of a police officer. He was here . . . at your house last night.”

  She stiffened. “What are you talking about? Murdered?”

  “Officer Frederick. He was staking out your house.”

  “I know that. But how? I thought he simply left.”

  “I guess you could say that. He was shot in the head and dumped in the woods.”

  “Oh, God, no.” I grabbed her as she collapsed and set her in the chair. I stood over her, in case she fainted.

  “The police thought I did it. At first, anyway. Some of them still do.”

  She looked up at me in horror. I could see she was struggling with the possibility of being here with me—a possible cop killer.

  “I can tell you I didn’t kill him. I was here.” I bounced my finger up and down. “Right here. In this room. With your husband and Meeki.” At the name, she snorted. “Meeki hammered the back of my head, and then your husband punched me out. I woke up in the gravel next to the road below.” Her expression didn’t change. “Mrs. Hanady—”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “All right. Jerri. We need to go to the police. You’re in enough trouble for outrunning that copper back there.”

  “I want you to go find him.”

  “Who?” I said stupidly.

  “Tom. I want you to find him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I can’t leave the state, much less the country.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll pay you anything to do it. I’ll give you anything to do it.” She reached desperately up to her breasts. I felt like I was going to vomit.

  “Mrs.—Jerri—I’m still a suspect in Officer Frederick’s murder. I have strict orders to stay put, and that’s what I’m going to do until I can clear my name. Then…” I trailed off.

  She looked up at me expectantly. “Then you’ll get him?”

  “I’ll do whatever I can within reason to bring him in. And, most importantly, bring your daughter back safely.”

  “Yes. My daughter.” She hung her head and whimpered, then just as quickly sat up and steeled herself. She looked straight up at me, her eyes again hard and cold as granite. “I want you to kill him.”

  Chapter 12

  Transcontinental Showdown

  I’ve never added killing as one of my qualifications on my resume. I wasn’t prepared to do that now. I persuaded Mrs. Hanady to go with me into the main house. The cook embraced her and began fussing over her. I took advantage of this mothering to get to a phone in the den. Turns out the phone wasn’t necessary. There was a banging on the front door followed by “Police! Open up!” It sounded like Officer Hamilton. I got up to answer the door, but the cook beat me to it. She looked accusingly at me before opening the door. I stood a few steps behind her. At that moment, I couldn’t see Mrs. Hanady.

  Hamilton lurched in, bristling for action, gun drawn. Behind him, I saw another cruiser come ripping up the driveway and plunge to a stop next to Hamilton’s car. Officer Enshaw jumped from his vehicle and headed toward the door, while Hamilton, ignoring the cook, trained his gun on me and snarled, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Let’s say I was abducted,” I said.

  “Put your hands up.”

  I still held the folder and the journal in my right hand.

  “Put your hands up.”

  “Officer Hamilton, you’re gonna want to look at this.” Still, I held one hand up, but raised my other hand holding the papers as an offering. About this time Enshaw came in. The cook looked disapprovingly at all of us, then returned to the kitchen.

  “Ma’am, come back here,” Hamilton ordered.

  The woman didn’t stop. “I got a stew on that I gotta stir,” she called back.

  Enshaw looked questioningly at Hamilton, who shook his head. “Cover him,” Hamilton barked. Enshaw eagerly complied. Hamilton jerked the folder from me and went to sit on a divan. He flipped through the loose pages. His expression betrayed neither understanding nor confusion. Next, he opened the journal. His face reddened as if he’d been caught red-handed reading porn.

  “What is this?” Hamilton asked.

  “Tho
se dates on the pages.” I pointed to them. “They mean anything to you?”

  Hamilton looked back down at the paper. The returning redness revealed they did not. He looked back up at me.

  I put my hands down. “The first column contains only first names. Notice they’re American. Those are the children. The second column contains Spanish names only. Those are the mothers. The third column indicates the dates Tom Hanady slept with the women. And the fourth….”

  “Birth dates,” he said dully.

  “On the money. I think Tom Hanady's cashing in on their adoptions. His daughter Rachel is proof the process works. And … is appealing to men with certain tastes, and who don’t want the law worrying after them.”

  “Jesus.”

  I noticed an absence. “Where’s Mrs. Hanady?”

  His slack jaw closed on the words. “She’s here?”

  “Yes. I’m assuming it was you in hot pursuit of the Caddy? She‘s the one turned Highway 40 into the Autobahn. Her car is parked on the other side of the property. She was just in the kitchen.”

  Hamilton turned to Enshaw. “Get her in here.” Enshaw strode toward the kitchen, his gun still in his hand. I heard him exchange words with the cook. In a moment he was back.

  “She’s gone.”

  “What the hell?” said Hamilton.

  I looked at Hamilton. “I know where she went. If you’ll follow me, I can show you. We might be able to catch her.” He stood up reluctantly. I led the way and Hamilton and Enshaw followed me. I didn’t know if their guns were still at ready, and I didn’t care. I figured they were curious enough not to shoot me in the back. Outside, both officers snapped on their flashlights. I led them behind the garage and down to the footpath that ended at the shack. Before we could walk ten paces, the familiar roar of Mrs. Hanady’s sports car engine rolled up the hillside.

  “We’re too late,” I exclaimed. “C’mon. She’ll have a head start.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Enshaw.

  I thought a second. “The airport. I’ve got a bad feeling I know what she wants to do.”

  The officers exchanged quick glances, then Hamilton said, “Let’s go.” We ran back toward the house, around to the front. Enshaw jumped in his cruiser and tore out before Hamilton and I reached his car. I opened the passenger door and got in. Hamilton said nothing to this but flipped on his siren and took off after Enshaw.

  As we reached the outer road, Hamilton picked up his radio and communicated with the police dispatch that we were in hot pursuit. “Adam-Eight, Adam-Eight, code 10-50. Repeat, code 10-50.” He gave the make, model, and color of Mrs. Hanady’s car, and a physical description of her as well. I stared at the lit blacktop road ahead of us and said nothing. We reached Route 40 and punched it going east. At Lindbergh Boulevard, Hamilton careened around the clover-leaf exit and floored the car northward toward the airport. There was little traffic. Despite the high speed, Hamilton drove smoothly. Good thing, too. My gut still wasn’t in the best shape. He blew through every red light, and accelerated through every green one.

  We reached the outer road along the airport and continued speeding toward the terminal. A mix of prop drone and jet roar washed over the car. Ahead, we could see Enshaw burst from his car and run up to a man dressed in coat and tie: Detective Marconi. They conferred as they watched Hamilton’s cruiser bump the curb and come to a stop. Hamilton was out of the car before I could open my door.

  Marconi turned to Hamilton and me. “Go to the Trans World desk. Enshaw and I will cover the other airlines.”

  “You got any more backup?” I asked. We needed more than four men to search the terminal.

  “Coming,” said Marconi. “We're dealing with the Sixth. Let’s move it.”

  We badged our way through the lines. No one scrutinized them. We gave each agent a description of Jerri Hanady. None had seen her. Several minutes passed with more of the same. We walked out into a waiting area. Enshaw joined us.

  “No luck?” he asked.

  “No,” Hamilton said flatly.

  “Let’s find Marconi,” I said. They followed me, seeming to accept some authority I normally didn’t own with cops.

  He was ahead, at the counter of some puddle-jumping outfit. When he saw us, he gestured for us to hurry it up. Just as we approached him, we heard the agent say, “Yes, sir. I told you already. I’m positive it was her.”

  “Has that plane taken off yet?” Marconi asked.

  “Not yet, sir. But it’s due to taxi any minute.”

  “Which gate?”

  “C-18. Just down this concourse.”

  Marconi started running and we followed. For a guy about my age, he was swift. We reached C-18 just as an agent was closing a door to the outside. Out the large window we could see a two-engine prop plane. One of the tarmac guys was rolling the staircase away from it. Marconi flashed his badge, saying there was a wanted woman on the plane. The agent moved aside and we ran through the door onto the tarmac. Marconi kept his badge out and hustled toward the men rolling away the staircase. “Police!” he shouted. “We need to get on that plane!” The workers seemed to get him over the engine noise. As they rolled the staircase back in place, Hamilton and Enshaw waved their hands in the air up at the pilot to cut the engine.

  I bounded up the stairs behind Marconi. Hamilton and Enshaw were hot on my heels. At the top they both clamored for me to get out of their way and let them on first. We stepped onto the plane past a cute, and surprised, stewardess. The plane was small, but full. Hamilton and Enshaw pushed past me. As I passed one businessman, he snarled,“What’s going on here?” Another up ahead complained, “I’ve got an impor-

  tant—” Hamilton told him to can it. A couple of children were giving their mother a squirrelly time of it. We scanned every passenger as we all four walked down the aisle. By the time we got to the back of the plane it was clear: no Jerri Hanady. The plane was smaller inside than it looked from the outside. And all faces were turned on us, some, now more amused at our haplessness, than annoyed. I’d have suggested we give “Sweet Adelide” the barbershop treatment if I thought the cops could hold a tune.

  I turned and headed toward the cockpit. The annoyed passengers were still muttering. One business type already a few cups in, called out, “Let’s get this goddamn bird off the ground!” The stewardess up front was smiling at them sweetly, but concern showed in her eyes. I asked her if she had seen a woman that fit Jerri Hanady’s description.

  She furrowed her brow slightly and then the smile returned. “No, I’m afraid not, sir!”

  Ah, if only I had the leisure to take a seat right here and let this beauty wait on me all across the continent. Instead, I tried the captain next. He was standing at the front of the plane, his blue cap centered squarely atop a sculpted mask of blue-eyed, glinting American muscle and bone. On one crisp collar, the golden pilot’s wings strained to escape their pinning. On the other, some type of combat ribbon rested with valiant restraint. His authoritarian manner reminded me of Broad Jimmy.

  “There’s no one of that description,” he said preemptively. “Now, I need you gentlemen to exit the plane. We are behind schedule as it is, and we’re flying against the wind.”

  Can’t argue against grim determination spiffed up with epaulets. I stood at attention, gave him a stiff salute, and exclaimed, “Safe to fly sir.” His eyes narrowed at me but he said nothing.

  Marconi, after pushing past Hamilton and Enshaw, joined me up front, grim-faced. He gestured to the door, and we all exited the plane.

  Back inside the terminal we found two other officers and Bertie Albanese. As Detective Marconi filled Bertie in on Jerri Hanady’s disappearance, I studied Bertie's face. He had dark circles under his eyes, probably just like mine, but he looked alert. I added the sordid details of Tom Hanady’s business life.

  “Shit. Think Mrs. Hanady’s on another plane?” he asked.

  “Fifty-fifty,” I replied. “If so, that was pretty damn smooth.”

&nb
sp; “All right. Let’s find out if other flights connect to Colombia. Also, I need men to get a hold of the women in Hanady’s charity. See if they’ve spoken to her, seen her, anything. Also, I want a stakeout at the Hanady home. And maybe not in plain view this time? I need someone at Limited Imports, too. What am I missing?”

  No one said anything.

  Bertie grunted. Marconi sent Enshaw and Hamilton back to the Hanady estate. The other two officers who had come with Bertie would head out to Limited Imports, after checking on other flights that might connect to Colombia. Marconi would start the rounds of the charity women. As we went outside the terminal, I asked Bertie if I could hook another ride with him back to the office.

  “Let’s not make this a habit. I’ll start charging you for gas.”

  “Deal.”

  Bertie started the car and we headed back south along Lindbergh. The next three minutes of silence felt like half-an-hour.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I don’t think Jerri Hanady got on a plane.”

  “Okay,” I said, “Why not?”

  “Think about it. She’s upset. Murderous, even. She finds out what her husband’s into, and it destroys her. She cries awhile. Then her emotions rocket to revenge, and she makes up her mind to find you. She’s driving blind. Figuratively, of course. She gave the other coppers a helluva chase. She takes you out to her place in a fury. She has to know at some point the police are going to show up. When they do, she ducks out her back door and makes for the airport.”