Blue Heaven (18 page)

“Our last timeline entry was 08:10 this morning,” Singer said, looking pained. “We’ve got nothing since then.” He pointed at a figure he had written and underlined: “These kids have been missing for twenty-seven hours.”

His words seemed to hit Carey like individual slaps.

“Our experience,” Singer said, nodding toward the other ex–LAPD officers in the room, “is that once we pass twenty-four, we’ve got a problem.”

“I
know
we’ve got a problem,” Carey said.

“Word is out,” Singer said. “Everybody knows we’ve got missing kids. Everyone’s looking for them. But there have been no solid leads or sightings since we found that shoe and the fishing rod.”

Carey swallowed.

“We’ve got people volunteering to join search teams up the wazoo,” Singer said, gesturing toward Gonzalez. “Gonzo’s been keeping a list of names, addresses, telephone numbers. There are three teams of ten out there now, combing through the woods on a grid from where that shoe was found. It’s slow but thorough. So far, we’ve got nothing.”

“I know.”

“Sheriff, in your experience, how long would it take for a body to surface on Sand Creek? Assuming the person drowned?”

The sheriff shook his head. “It’s not very deep, but it’s fast with
runoff. The creek completely shallows out before it empties into the lake, so there’s no chance any bodies floated all that way. It’s only eighteen inches deep at the mouth. So all we’re talking about is four miles of creek before it empties into the lake.”

Singer looked concerned. “Is it possible the bodies got caught under debris? Or got sucked into, I don’t know, some kind of deep pool?”

“It’s possible but unlikely,” Carey said sadly. “It just isn’t that deep anywhere.”

Singer looked thoughtful. He rubbed his chin with his hand. Then: “Let’s continue.”

Singer had written SUSPECTS in red, and ASSIGNMENTS in black.

Under suspects were Tom Boyd, Monica Taylor, Fiona Pritzle, transient unknown, and “area pedophile.”

“Can you think of any others?” Singer asked.

“I’d scratch the mother and the mail lady off the list,” Carey said. “The mother’s just too upset. And that mail lady was the one who called us. If she had something to do with it, she could have just kept her mouth shut and nobody would even know those kids went up Sand Creek in the first place.”

Singer gestured to Gonzalez. “Gonzo?”

Gonzalez cleared his throat. “I had a guy once who came into the station and said he’d seen a man lure a kid, a young white male, into his car in East L.A. Later, a call came in reporting a missing kid that matched the description. We turned that city upside down looking for the vehicle the witness described. He even had a partial plate number. But we never found it. Two years later, a naked kid escaped from a house and ran down the street screaming that some guy was raping and torturing him. Turns out the perp was the guy who had been the witness on the other case, and that he had tortured and killed a half dozen boys. He had reported the first one just for the thrill of it, to see how we worked.”

Carey visibly shivered. Newkirk could almost read his mind, like he was saying to himself,
So this is what the big leagues are like.
“Still, I can’t imagine Fiona Pritzle …”

“Let’s not scratch her off just yet,” Singer said. He pointed to TRANSIENT UNKNOWN. “This is the hardest one. It could be a guy who is passing through, or maybe on a sales route. Who knows? I’d
have your guys start interviewing citizens at motels and boardinghouses, B&Bs, asking owners if they’ve got—or had—anybody suspicious staying with them. We should assume they checked out today, probably first thing this morning, so I’d get a list on that. I can’t imagine the guy hanging around.”

Carey pulled his notebook from his pocket, and wrote that down. Newkirk noticed that the sheriff tried to stop his hand from trembling, but his writing was wavery. When he was through, he put his hands in his pockets to hide them.

“Area pedophile,” Singer said. “A little easier. I’m sure you’ve got a list of registrations, right?”

Carey nodded. Newkirk remembered that one of the platforms Carey had run on was aggressively keeping up the known pedophile list.

“There are a couple of names on it, last time I looked,” he said. “I think one of them might have moved away, though. We notified all of his neighbors, which really pissed him off.”

“Then I’d key on the other name,” Singer said casually. Carey made a note.

“Then we’ve got Tom Boyd,” Singer said, drawing a star by the name. “He’s got priors. He’s probably on steroids. He had a fight with the kids’ mother, and he was mad at the kids. He never turned in his truck last night, and now he’s missing. When he left the Taylor house, he likely had an idea where two kids might go fishing. M, M, and O.”

Carey looked up. Newkirk could tell he was trying not to reveal that he didn’t know what the acronym meant.

“Motive, method, and opportunity.”

Carey nodded, visibly grateful that Singer had let him off the hook so easily.

Next to the list of suspects were ASSIGNMENTS.

MONICA TAYLOR—Swann

COMMAND—Singer, Newkirk

GROUND SEARCH—Department

TRANSIENT UNKNOWN—Department

AREA PEDOPHILE—Department

TOM BOYD—Gonzalez

FIONA PRITZLE—Newkirk

LIAISON WITH STATE, FEDS—Sheriff, Singer

“This is only a recommendation,” Singer said softly, “based on a cumulative seventy-six years of experience in this room. But you’re the sheriff, and we’re just volunteers trying to help out. You need to make the call.”

Carey didn’t hesitate. “Looks good to me.”

Singer didn’t smile, didn’t pat the sheriff on the back.

“Then we should go to work,” Singer said.

AFTER THE SHERIFF left the room, Singer looked to Gonzalez.

“Hook, line, sinker,” Gonzalez said. “He reminds me that democracy works, though. A county full of idiots elects an idiot to be their chief law enforcement officer. Fuckin’ rube.”

Newkirk saw smile lines form at the edges of Singer’s blue eyes, even though the ex-lieutenant didn’t grin. There was no need for him, or anyone, to say more at the moment. Newkirk turned away, studied the city council chambers some more, thinking:
I’m going to throw up.

Singer said, “Take it easy on the sheriff. He’s perfect. He’s our media strategy. Just look at him—he comes across great on camera. Sincerity just drips off him. Doesn’t he look like he might burst into tears any second? They love that, it’s good television. I mean, if it comes to that. Right now, we want to wrap things up quick so we don’t have to worry about it.”

“Thinking ahead,” Gonzalez said to Newkirk, nodding at Singer. “That’s what he does, think ahead.”

Singer flipped open a cell phone and punched a number on speed dial.

“Swannee? Has there been any contact from the kids yet?”

A beat of silence as Singer listened. Then: “Shit. I’m losing patience. At least things are going well on this end. The sheriff signed off on our action plan.”

Newkirk thought, if a third party heard this phone conversation, they would be none the wiser. Singer and Swann were careful. They’d had years to practice saying things that got their message across but could not be considered incriminating. It sounded like Singer was concerned for the welfare of the Taylor children, and was angry there had been no progress on their disappearance, which is exactly what Singer, and the other ex-officers, were supposedly there for.

“Yes,” Singer said. “Gonzo’s heading up the investigation into Tom Boyd. Just like we talked about. Newkirk?”

Newkirk looked up to see Singer staring at him. “Newkirk is assisting me at command central. He’s also assigned to follow up on that Fiona Pritzle woman.”

Singer listened for a moment, moving his eyes off Newkirk. Newkirk wondered what Swann was saying.

“No, he’s okay,” Singer said in a low voice.

No, I’m not
, Newkirk thought.

“You don’t look so good, Officer Newkirk.”

“I’m fine,” Newkirk lied, and thought: This is the nightmare, all right. The one where something happens that could threaten them, reveal them, and lead to something else, something worse, another crime. Even Singer, the master at controlling these kinds of things, may get swamped by the sheer magnitude of it. And the only way to keep ahead of the situation, to circumvent discovery and revelation, was to think and become truly evil, to become the antithesis of everything he believed in, everything he reached back for to justify his actions, all of the reasons he had become a cop in the first place. A cop: one of the good guys, a valuable part of a thin blue line that kept the scumbags at bay.

“The fuck is the matter with you, Newkirk?” Gonzalez said. “In for a penny, in for a pound. That was the deal.”

That was the deal. But …

“What are the odds on a couple of kids being there?” Newkirk asked. “Right there, where they could see everything? Ten minutes either way, or a mile down the road, and we wouldn’t be here now.” If his own kids were missing …he couldn’t even imagine how he’d feel.

Singer shrugged. “We can’t change the situation now. We can only deal with what we’ve got. Forget that odds business, Officer. It’s like trying to figure out why anything happens. You can’t do that. If the ass-hole on that street corner hadn’t had a video camera with him, nobody would have ever heard of Rodney King and there wouldn’t have been riots, murders, and beatings. We can’t play that game.”

“Fucking game,” Gonzalez said.

“I just wish it wasn’t kids,” Newkirk said.

“Oh, Jesus.” Gonzalez rolled his eyes.

“We all wish that,” Singer said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Nobody likes it. None of us.”

You saw her face, Newkirk wanted to say. She had a beautiful, wide-open face. And her eyes, big as they were, got even wider as she looked at them and seconds lapsed. She had seen something no child, no little girl, should ever have to see. She would be forever tainted. They had poisoned her, and the little boy. Ruined them.

“How many kids did you save?” Singer asked suddenly.

“What?”

“As a cop. Working the streets. All those domestic violence calls. You worked hundreds of them. You ever tally the kids you saved when you busted some scumbag father or live-in? Or took some crackhead whore in so her kids could be taken in by social services? How many, you think?”

Newkirk paused, thinking back, couldn’t even count them. “Hundreds,” he said.

“Hundreds,” Singer repeated solemnly. Then he cocked his head to the side, his eyes fixed on Newkirk. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to even suggest that because you saved so many kids these two don’t mean anything. But if they surface, and they talk, we go down. Simple as that. Between you, me, Gonzo, and Swann, we’ve saved and protected thousands of citizens. The same people who spit on us and riot like animals with half an excuse. We were the only adults in the room. The politicians and the media pandered to those animals, gave them what they wanted, cooed over their problems. Only us—the police—could keep the lid bolted down. We did
good
, Newkirk. We waded into the shit swamp and saved people’s lives so they could later bash in a truck driver’s
head with a cinder block in the middle of the afternoon, on the street, and slap high fives about it. And so the media could say the riots were caused not by rioters, but because of the situation we created. Like those people had no choice but to act like animals. Like they had no responsibility for their own actions. That was our thanks, my friend.
We
were the ones being portrayed as the criminals.”

Newkirk said nothing.

“What was our reward?” Singer continued. “The Feds came in to oversee our department like
we
were the problem. No, we earned what we’ve got now,” Singer said, his voice a whisper. “We can’t let anyone, even kids, take that away from us.”

“That was the deal,” Gonzalez said.

Newkirk nodded weakly.

Gonzalez suddenly leaned forward and placed a huge hand on Newkirk’s knee and squeezed with surprising force. His black eyes burned. “Don’t fuck this up for me,” he said softly but with absolute menace. “Let me tell you what this is all about. My grandfather crossed the border into Texas every day of his adult life to pick beans. He never spoke English and couldn’t read Spanish. All he knew was to work hard and keep his mouth shut so what he did would benefit his kids and grandkids. Every day, when he came to work over the checkpoint, they made him strip naked so they could spray him down with pure DDT so he wouldn’t bring his filthy Mexican lice into their pure white country. He brought my dad with him a couple of times to see what he did to support his family, but my dad saw only the humiliation of a good man. It burned in my dad, and when he told me how they treated my grand-dad, he cried. My old man and my mom worked the fields of the San Joaquin Valley and supported me so I could go to the academy. They never spoke English either, but they made sure I did. Look at me now, Newkirk.
Look at me.
”

Newkirk didn’t dare look away, didn’t dare blink.

“Look where I live, what I’ve fucking got. I own more than the entire village my grandfather came from combined. I can take care of the people who took care of me. It’s the goddamned American dream, and you’re not going to fuck it up for me, understand? I ain’t going backwards now that I’m here. Do you understand?”