Broken Grace (23 page)

Alice poured herself a fresh beer and leaned onto the bar for more. “I feel like I know where this is going,” she said, nodding.

“When the baby was born—best day of my life. We named him Donald after her father and called him Donny.” He pulled out his phone and shared a photo.

“Nice,” Alice said.

“Olivia kept putting off the wedding planning. I mean, after a few months, I thought, what are we waiting for? But I came home early one day and heard her yelling. She was standing in the kitchen, her back to me, banging pots around, and didn’t see me come in. She yelled into the phone, ‘So what am I waiting for?’ I thought maybe she was on the phone with the cable company—they were supposed to come out and maybe they hadn’t shown up. Donny was in his bouncing chair—he was five months old by then, and that kid’s smile when I entered the room was all I needed for a greeting. He was reaching out to me, and I went to pick him up when I heard her say, ‘But he’s your son.’”

Alice shook her head and took a sip.

“Yeah. Somewhere deep inside, I think I knew she’d cheated. There was always a part of her that was a mystery. I’d always thought there were layers to her that might take years to uncover. I kind of liked the idea of growing closer over time. She turned and saw me holding Donny. She dropped the phone, and it was like there was nothing else to say. There was no misunderstanding. Donny wasn’t mine.”

“I’m so sorry, kid. And your brother? I take it he’s involved in this.”

“’Fraid so. Everything exploded pretty quickly after that. She said she knew I would be a good dad, but she was in love with someone else. She was sorry. And my brother, that asshole you met earlier, he tells me to take off, that I’m young and the town’s too small. He said I should get a fresh start. ‘Marriage is a bitch,’ he said. In fact, his wife was leaving him too. Taking the kids. Just across town, but still. ‘Don’t look back,’ he said.”

Alice was shaking her head. She knew exactly where this was going.

“It was all a lie. Donny was his. He just didn’t have the balls to tell me.”

“So now Christmas is coming and you’re supposed to go back and be with them.”

“Yep. My mother calls every Tuesday like clockwork. I mean, after that bomb went off, the family just swept it aside and returned to life as normal. Joe and Olivia moved in together. His ex has even moved in with another guy already. He’s getting divorced and acting like nothing ever happened. It’s the new normal. But Donny was mine. I was at the hospital when he was born. I fed him. I changed his diapers. I held him all those nights. And now I’m supposed to move on.”

Alice put down her drink and moved closer. “Well, I know you seemed a little cagey before when I brought this up, but I did see you flirting with a young girl a few weeks back. Looked to me like you were really hitting it off.”

“Yeah,” he said almost wistfully.

“So, yes, it sucks what happened. But that little boy, at least he’ll always be in your life, right? I mean, he is your nephew. And that girl Olivia wasn’t the one for you. Her heart wasn’t there.”

She was right, of course.

“That could have been a lifetime of misery. It’s never all about the kids. You gotta have something real, something solid with the partner.”

Hackett nodded. “That’s what I liked about that girl you saw me with. She was beautiful, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“She’s the opposite of O. She doesn’t walk into a room like she owns the place. She’s quiet. But I saw her at work dealing with customers. And the way she talks to the kids . . .”

“So why are we drowning sorrows over that Olivia bitch? Let’s focus on this new girl.” She raised her glass then, waiting for Hackett to agree.

Hackett reluctantly lifted his glass and clinked with hers before finishing and wiping his mouth. His thoughts returned to Bishop, to the case. “You’re right.” Bishop would probably focus on Grace even more now, simply to prove a point. He had to do something. He had to find that Tucker guy. But as he stepped off the barstool and stumbled, he knew that he couldn’t do anything tonight. He thanked Alice for the beer and for letting him unload on her. She took his hands in hers. “Anytime, Officer.”

TWENTY-FIVE

H
ACKETT HAD SET THE ALARM BEFORE
passing out. When the annoying beeping began, he ignored the headache that had settled in between his temples for the night, focused on a painfully hot shower, three Advil, and a quick stop for coffee down the street before driving up to Bridgman, determined to make things right.

He pulled up to the auto body shop and found legs and a torso popping out from under a car. “Excuse me?” he said.

The mechanic rolled out from beneath the car, his hands completely covered in grease. It was the owner, Tom, who rolled his eyes at the sight of him.

“I’ve got a few more questions,” Hackett said.

“Look, I told you about the ring. I got nothing more to share. I got a business to run here.” He rolled back under the car. “I gotta finish this one before nine.”

Without Bishop by his side, he was getting a whole lot less respect and attention. “Hey, we can do this here or at the station, but I need to speak to you.”

Tom rolled back out and slowly got up from his knees to an upright position. Couldn’t be an easy job for a man that age, with that much belly. “What is it this time?”

“I need to see one of your employees—Tucker—but I also wanted to ask you some questions about him.”

Tom wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his belt. “Well, I can’t help you there. Don’t work here anymore. Who said he did, anyway?”

“Dave Jacks. He said Tucker was here at that card game, Tuesday, December third.”

“I’d take whatever Jacks said with a grain of salt. That fucker’s not welcome here anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have only two requirements of players—come with enough money to play, and don’t be a compulsive liar. I don’t need the hassle.”

“And Dave Jacks is a compulsive liar?”

“Well, you tell me,” Tom said with a smile. “We’re all playing cards that night and Cahill starts ribbing Dave. Someone said something about him being the manager of Brewster’s down in New Buffalo, and Cahill said something like, ‘Oh, I heard all about you.’ Dave looked uncomfortable and Cahill seemed to enjoy it. Told us all about Grace and a few other girls going into Dave’s office at work one day, finding his computer on, his profile from this dating site up on the screen. Guess the whole thing was a bunch of lies. Called himself a widower; an entrepreneur; used a different name; said he loved kids, travel, boating.” Tom laughed. “I mean, what a piece of work.”

“And how did Dave Jacks react to Cahill saying all this?”

“He said it was bullshit. He tried to get the conversation back to the cards, but the guys had a bit of a field day with it. Pretty funny night, actually, until Cahill freaked out over losing the ring.”

“Okay, so Tucker. He was here that night as well?”

“Yeah. But he hasn’t shown up for work in more than a week, so I’d say his employment here is over.”

“So you didn’t fire him and he didn’t quit; he simply stopped coming?”

“That’s right.”

“And when was the last time you saw him?”

“He was here the rest of that week. He worked that Friday. But that was it.”

Hackett’s pulse picked up. “And when was he supposed to work next?”

“The next day. He didn’t show.”

The day Michael Cahill was killed. “What can you tell me about Tucker?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Well, Tucker’s a bit of an odd guy, but he’s a genius under the hood, so I put up with him.”

“What do you mean ‘odd’?”

“Listen, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. That kid’s seen enough trouble, I’m guessing.”

“Meaning what?”

“He was a loner, a foster kid at one point, he’d said. I think he got messed with pretty badly; that’s what my other guys said, anyway.”

“Your other guys—other employees?”

“Right. I mean, I wasn’t surprised. He was kind of an angry kid when he first got here. Threw tools a lot when he was frustrated, but he’d mellowed out in the last year. Anyway, he had dozens of tattoos on his arms and even his neck. Some of the images were kinda violent, but he was always coming in, sharing his latest marking, excited about it. Seemed like he was a little addicted, frankly. I mean, I heard of getting a tattoo here or there, but he was kinda covered. Then again, it did make people think he was sorta crazy, and that helped me keep people in line at card games.”

Hackett nodded, adding up the details in his mind. “And I heard that he wanted to play in the games, but you never let him?”

Tom nodded. “He couldn’t afford it. I knew that. He was always desperate for cash, asking for advances on his paycheck, but it’s not like anyone’s going to fix his money problems at a card table. I’m not a total asshole.”

“How long did he work here?”

“About two years.”

“Two years and he suddenly stops showing. Did you get concerned? Did you call anyone?”

“Yeah, I called someone. I called his house and heard he’d left town. That was that.”

“Do you have any pictures of Tucker around here?”

Tom chuckled. “This ain’t no modeling agency.”

“Can you describe him—his age, height, hair color, weight, eyes?”

“He’s about twenty-six, I’m thinking. Not too tall or big; kinda scrawny, actually. Maybe five nine, one sixty.”

“And his hair?”

“White blond. Though that was a dye job for sure. His roots are pretty dark. He wears it all spiked.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really. Not like I looked into his eyes enough to tell you their color. But like I said, lots of tats, some earrings. That’s about it.”

“And do you know if he did drugs?”

“Certainly possible. Look around this place. It’s not IBM. I’m not drug testing. These guys come to work, do the job, and punch out. Don’t need no education or references. They show me what they can do and do it. He did the job. He was great with cars.”

“He have a locker here or anything? Someplace where he might have kept his things?”

“Sure, everyone’s got a locker in the break room.” Grudgingly, the owner took him into the cramped space at the back of the building. Fast-food wrappers sat crumpled on the table. “Animals,” Tom grunted as he threw the trash into the nearby bin. He pointed out the locker. “This one was his.” The lock was still on it.

“Well, he’s not working here anymore, right? Let’s open it up.”

“Sure.” Tom walked out and returned with a bolt cutter.

They opened it. An old sweatshirt, a baseball cap, and some loose change and receipts were piled on the bottom shelf, like a junk drawer. Hackett carefully reviewed the contents. “I’d like to take this. Okay with you?”

“What do I care?”

Hackett went out to his car to get some latex gloves and bags. He didn’t know where any of this would go, but maybe fingerprints on the papers, maybe DNA, maybe they’d find a connection. “You said he was last here on Friday, the sixth, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What time did he come in?”

“Oh, like, one o’clock. I think he was on till eight.”

Hackett read one of the receipts. A parking stub from Four Winds Casino. Clocked at noon, Friday, the sixth.

“Is that it? I gotta get back to work,” Tom said.

“Sure. Just a couple more things. I need to know what kind of car he drives and his home address, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No car, drives a motorcycle. Honda. Follow me to my office and I’ll get you the address.”

When Hackett pulled up to Tucker’s house, he looked to his GPS for confirmation that he was at the right place. He’d driven down a narrow gravel road, the width of a driveway, several miles from the center of Buchanan. The nearest neighbor was at least a quarter mile away. The house, set fifty feet back from the road, was a simple farmhouse, worn down by decades of neglect and harsh Michigan winters. There was an old station wagon in the driveway, no motorcycle. A huge barn, twice the size of the house, sat back even farther, off to the right. A little one-sided shack sat perched near the road, and remnants of old farm equipment, a giant metal wheel, some tires, and a few plastic crates were piled up along the fence.

Hackett knew that this was stupid. He wasn’t on the case; he was probably suspended and maybe even fired. But he had nothing to lose. He got out of the car and zipped up his jacket. The temperature had dropped again and was now about twenty degrees. He felt his waistband for his gun. Luckily, Bishop had been so incensed, he hadn’t thought enough to even ask for his gun or drag him in to see the chief.

He walked the well-worn path to the house and rang the bell. No one came. He rang it again and pulled back the old aluminum storm door, but its springs were broken and a gust of wind pulled it from his grasp, pounding it against the house.

He walked around the perimeter. Sheets hung over several of the windows, but as he reached the side of the house, one window was bare. Cupping his hands and pressing his face up against the glass, he could see the living room, complete with a large flat-screen television and thrift-store furniture. On the coffee table, a plastic bag of capsules. Just beyond that room, the kitchen, a metal press of some kind on the table.

He walked around the rest of the house, but the shades were pulled. Tracks extended from the back door to the barn doors off to the right. Light from inside poured out of the cracks between the doors and the frame.

The massive barn door creaked when he pushed it open. A blast of warm air hit him, thanks to a series of heaters buzzing from the rafters. In front of him was a massive grow operation. At least ten long tables covered with plants, lights hanging above them. He reached for his gun. If this were a drug operation, he knew to expect weapons. But the place wasn’t even locked. He stepped closer to the tables, each labeled with different names, each one ending in the name Datura. Not pot, but whatever they were was unfamiliar to him.

A pair of plastic lounge chairs sat at the far end of the barn, a little crate between them. He stepped closer. Someone was there, lying on one of the chairs, his arms behind his head, earplugs in his ears. Hackett stepped closer, gun drawn.

“Police,” he said.

The man didn’t move.

Hackett stepped closer and nudged the man’s arm with the tip of his weapon.

The man slowly turned and opened his eyes.

Hackett took a couple of steps back. “Police. Hands up where I can see them.”

“Whoa, dude. Calm down,” the guy said, his arms lazily extending halfway into the air. He smiled. “Dude, this is private property.”

“Yes, and this,” Hackett said, waving his gun toward the plants, “is probable cause.”

The man sat up straighter and removed his earplugs. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’ve found, but nothing in here is illegal. Certainly no marijuana, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” He stood then. “How can I help you, Officer?”

“What is this?” Hackett said, waving around the room.

“These are my plants, man. What can I say, I love horticulture.”

“Are you Tucker?”

“No, man. Tucker don’t live here anymore.”

Hackett looked around, not sure what his next move should be.

The man sat back down and patted the lounger next to him. “Come on, dude. Take a seat. Tell me what you need.”

Hackett stepped closer and relaxed his weapon. “I need to find Tucker. How about you tell me when you last saw him. I assume you live here too?”

“That’s right. But Tucker was always in and out. It’s been a while,” he said as he lay back and put his hands behind his head. “He really only used the place for mail and growin’.”

“And when’s the last time you heard from him?”

“Oh, couple weeks, I guess,” the guy said before yawning and closing his eyes.

Hackett shoved his arm. “Wake up. Come on. I need specifics. When exactly?”

The guy opened his eyes and looked up at the rafters. “It musta been Friday.” He pulled his cell out then and punched some buttons. “Yeah, here we go. He texted me. Friday, December sixth, two o’clock.” He showed the screen to Hackett. “Said he’d hit the mother lode. We were gonna meet up on Saturday.”

“But you didn’t meet?”

“Nah. Bastard never showed.”

“And what do you think he meant by ‘hit the mother lode’?”

“Cash, I guess. We’re not exactly good savers,” he said sheepishly. “You seen that house? Kinda shitty, right? And we needed cash for our business.”

“What kind of business?”

The guy sat up then, excited by the chance to share. Suddenly, he was full of energy. “Well, you know the marijuana biz is coming to Michigan. Legal. Medical, whatever. We’re kind of entrepreneurs.”

“I can tell. So you thought you’d get into medical marijuana? But this isn’t marijuana.”

He smiled. “Got that right. No, man. We’re into something way better. And legal. Mind-altering legal, man. This is the future.”

“Lemme guess, you’re one of those psychonauts.”

His chest came out, proud. “Hell yeah, man. Why limit your experiences to walking this earth, man, when you can literally take a walk through your mind.”

“Sure.”

“Telling you, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

He needed this guy to focus. “Do you know Michael Cahill?”

“Who?”

“Did you sell drugs to Michael Cahill?”

“I don’t sell drugs, man.”

“Really—what do you do?”

“I’m like a scientist, dude.”

“Sure—and how do you make money?”

“In the summer, I do some farming. Sell some fruits and veggies, you know, whatever it takes. Sometimes I get lucky at the casino.”

“So what happened Saturday? Tucker didn’t show. Did you call him?”

“Yeah, but then I heard he left town. Fucker. Probably thought twice about sharing anything with me.” He lay back down as if that was all there was to it.

“Who told you he left town?”

“His old lady.”

Hackett pulled out his notepad. “What’s your name?”

“Henry.”

“Henry what?”

“Henry David.”

“Your last name is David?”

The guy smiled. “No, man.”

“What’s your full name, including last?”

“Henry David Thoreau.” He nodded repeatedly, grinning. “That’s right.”

Hackett rolled his eyes. “Your legal name is Henry David Thoreau?”