Beneath the Cracks (17 page)

"Fine," I muttered, "but I've got to get
inside eventually."

"But not today," Briscoe said.  "Now
get your ass headed in the opposite direction, preferably to the
shelter like we planned all along."

I had other ideas, but Briscoe was
right.  The men at Uncle Nooky's bar needed a jolt of reality,
not the hag limping up and down the street looking for her
brother.  I started plotting when and how I would return on my
way to the shelter.

Chapter 14

After what felt like an unending succession
of neighborhood regulars who recognized Preacher with only two
reactions, I realized it was time to move on.  The consensus
was split.  Preacher was a harmless lunatic religious nut, or
he was a harmless lunatic in general.  Both groups felt little
tolerance behind their need to actively avoid him.  If the
shelter yielded no better results, we'd be back to square
one.  Either Jake Cox was the worst undercover ever, or we
were seriously looking in the wrong places for his rapidly cooling
trail.  The notion of Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill as the more
likely link to Detective Cox's forced methamphetamine overdose made
more sense to me than anything else.  But the idea that the
literal cause of death of our homeless victims could've been caused
by some sort of farm implement wouldn't rule out this shelter
either, not if Cox's reports of recruitment to Dupree Farm were
accurate.

The biting wind made me eager to reach the
shelter.  On the corner of Northeastern and Sixth, its
building was a rundown hotel, decades past the glory years, but
with a glimmer of the once stately edifice remaining.  Paint
peeled off the Greek columns supporting the overhanging
balcony.  The marble stairs were cracked and chipped. 
Mortar eroded between the red bricks of the hotel's exterior.

"Georgian style, all the way out to the
Pacific," I murmured.

At the top of the four story building, the
old hotel marquee was still visible, though someone had painted
over what once read
The Hotel Northeastern
with
Sixth
Avenue Men's Shelter
.  The garish green paint stood out
like the orange graffiti in the alley where Detective Cox had been
found in the dumpster.

I wrapped the thin flannel around me a
little more snugly and hurried up the walk to the shelter. 
Hopefully, it was warmer inside than it was outside.

The former lobby of the hotel probably
hadn't looked much different than it did in the shelter. 
Except it had to be cleaner when it was the jewel of
Northeastern.  I imagined the marble floor polished to a high
shine, the brass and cut crystal chandelier gleaming prisms of
light into the airy space.  The hotel had two wings, each
stretching half the block of the intersecting streets of
Northeastern and Sixth.  Through the dingy, grime coated glass
panels of rear windows that ran the length of the once stately
lobby I caught a glimpse of an overgrown courtyard littered with
the detritus of decades of neglect.

The current incarnation was filthy. 
What wasn't coated under layers of oily dirt, was scuffed,
tarnished and covered in a fine layer of cobwebs.  The
chandelier barely gave off enough light to reach the far corners of
the massive bell shaped lobby.  The furniture was gone,
probably cannibalized at some distant auction when the hotel
business folded under economic pressure.  The only other
fixture in the room that hadn't been lost to time and neglect was
the ornately carved mahogany front desk.  It curved diagonally
along one corner of the airy room. 

Someone had added his own tribute to the
master carpenter's efforts.  Profanity had been scratched into
the surface of the wood in ugly gashes that looked like scars on an
aging body.  A young man, the only clean fixture in the room,
looked up at me.

"Sorry ma’am.  If you're looking for a
room, this shelter is strictly for men, but the kitchen is open to
all.  We serve meals at seven, twelve and six.  Feel free
to come back then."

"You don't understand," I limped across the
floor.  "I'm not here for a place to stay or a hot meal."

His eyes appraised my appearance, judging
that perhaps I could use a bath and a hot meal or ten. 
"Uh…all right.  How can I help you?"

I pulled the photograph out of my
pocket.  "I'm looking for my brother.  Some people call
him Preacher, others Jesus-man, or J-man.  Can you tell me if
he's been staying here?"

Recognition flickered in the man's
eyes.  He pushed the photo through the grime on the
desk.  "Sorry.  I've never seen him before in my
life."

"Would it be all right if I ask some of the
others here if they've seen him?  I talked to some people over
on Third who were sure that Preacher was staying here.  It's
important that I find him, sir.  He's not…not well, and I'm
afraid he's stopped taking his medication again."

"Medication, huh?"

I nodded.  A sense of unease grew,
realizing that the man was lying about recognizing Cox.  Why
would he do that?  Unless he knew that Cox wasn't really a
preacher, and certainly wasn't homeless.

I took a risk.  "Sometimes, the voices
tell him to preach the gospel.  Other times, they convince him
that he's…well…"

"What?"  His eyes widened and he leaned
forward.

"A few years ago, Josh was arrested in
Montgomery for…for impersonating a police officer.  That was
when we first realized there was a problem.  Mister, my
brother is schizophrenic, and if he stops taking his medication and
the voices come back –"

"Is he dangerous?"

"He's never hurt anyone, not anybody but
himself that is.  There are some rough people in some of these
neighborhoods around here.  If he's just preaching, that's one
thing, but if he started drinking again and stopped taking his
Haldol –"

"That's a pretty heavy duty drug," the man
frowned.  "Has he been on it for a long time?"

"Almost ten years.  When he stopped
calling me a couple of weeks ago, I got scared.  I've been
practically living on the streets myself trying to find him and get
him back home to Montgomery where his doctor can help him
again.  All I'm asking is to talk to the other men, see if
anybody has seen him or talked to him, or maybe knows what kind of
voices he was hearing this time."

Eyes darted around the lobby, paying closer
attention to the shadow shrouded corners than anywhere else. 
He crooked one finger at me and leaned close.  "He hasn't been
here for at least two weeks.  Last I saw him, he was preaching
down by Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill.  I can promise you, he's
not taking any medicine.  A van comes down from Metro State
once a month.  Preacher never saw the doctors."

"And you haven't seen him in two weeks?"

"I…I'd be in a lot of trouble if anybody
found out I told you this, but I heard somethin' last week. 
Some of the guys got back from working at the farm –"

"Wait, what farm?"

"Dupree Farm.  They got this guy who
comes around every so often and hires guys to come work out at the
farm.  I think his name is Denton, Tom Denton.  Anyway,
some of 'em was talking about the guys at Nooky's givin' Preacher a
hard time because he was a cop."

"How would they know that if they were
working at a farm?"

The man shrugged.  "I figured maybe
Preacher had gone with 'em for one of the weekend jobs.  Like
I said, he hasn't been around here for a couple of weeks.  But
you better be careful, miss.  If the guys down at Nooky's got
it in for your brother, there's no telling what they did to
him."

"Is it possible that he's still working at
this farm?"

"Dupree's place?" he shrugged.  "Who
knows?  You'd have to ask that Denton guy.  Like I said,
he's the one that does all the recruiting.  He posted a notice
that he'll be back here on Friday night if any of the guys wanna
make a few bucks."

"Thank you so much for your help, Mr.…"

His mouth set in a grim line.  "I don't
see how that matters.  It's not like you told me your
name."

"Nancy," I said.  "Nancy Maxwell."

"I'm Jason Blake."

By the time I made my way down the block,
around the corner and to the van, I felt like shards of ice were
pumping through my veins.  Briscoe slid open the door and
hauled me inside.  He thrust a Styrofoam cup of steaming
coffee into my hand and patted my shoulder.

"Great job, Eriksson.  Puppy's checkin'
out this Jason Blake character to see if he's got any kind of
criminal record."

"It was probably an alias," I sipped the
scalding liquid and burned my tongue.  It actually felt good,
considering the bone deep chills wracking my body.  "I'd
suggest looking through the records with photographs.  I can
identify him, and I definitely got the impression that he was
lying.  At least at first."

"Yeah, hadn't seen Cox my ass.  That
was some pretty quick thinkin', Helen, makin' out like Cox was
schizophrenic with delusions about bein' a cop."

"It only worked because whoever Mr. Blake
is, he wasn't aware that Jake really was an undercover cop. 
I'm pretty sure he knows that Preacher is dead though.  He
warned me to stay away from Uncle Nooky's patrons."

"So did we.  Nice to know a complete
stranger who started out lyin' to you carries more weight than your
friends."

I grinned at Briscoe.  "My friends seem
to operate under the faulty assumption that I need to be protected
from the big bad men of the world."

Crevan turned away from the console of dated
electronic equipment.  "Your friends also remember that Jerry
Lowe drugged you and could've taken your head for his impressive
trophy collection four months ago too, Helen.  Let's not gloss
over why we worry about you running off and doing things without
proper backup."

"Yeah, whatever," my speech slipped into the
brogue that only comes from the greater New York City area. 
"In any case, I think we've exhausted what
Nancy
is gonna
learn from the locals.  Can we head back to the office so I
can change into something warmer?  I'd like to head out to
Dupree Farm and see if we can find this Tom Denton.  I don't
plan on waving Jacob Cox's photo around out there, but I'd love it
if we could finally get a lead on the identities of our John Doe
victims."

"That's seventy-five miles one way,
Helen.  Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to get a fresh start
in the morning?"

"Why?  What time is it anyway?"

"Between the time you spent yukkin' it up
with the old timers between Third and the shelter, to the
titillating chat with the Fat Man and your interview with shelter
boy, it's almost three, Helen.  By the time we'd get out to
Dupree's place, it'll be five or later, and I can't imagine his
employees live at the place."

"I was out there for almost five
hours?"  No wonder I was so cold.

"Time flies when you're havin' fun, I
reckon," Briscoe chuckled.  "Damn me, but if you ain't got a
knack for suckin' information out of unwilling witnesses, I don't
know who does."

"Basic psychology," I mumbled from behind
the coffee cup.

"And that's somethin' beyond our
skills?"  He stroked his goatee thoughtfully.

I swallowed two more gulps of brew. 
"Not at all.  I'm not a cop.  These people have an innate
sense for law enforcement officers sniffing around.  When
someone shows up who convincingly looks like one of them, the guard
isn't thrown up automatically.  Plus I'm a woman, and we're
not perceived as a threat like men in suits with badges."

"Yeah, but you
are
a cop, lest you've
forgotten," he said.  "With the stench of a fed hangin' on no
less."

Chapter 15

I scrubbed the gray stage paint out of my
hair in the shower in the women's locker room at Downey
Division.  Despite the fact that Briscoe kept the temperature
in the van hot enough to make beads of sweat burst onto his
forehead, I was still freezing.  Hot water pelted my flesh in
the shower until I was Maine-lobster-red. 

I patted my skin dry, quickly donned the
cashmere turtleneck and my warmest wool suit and made my way back
to the squad room with damp hair pulled into a tight bun at the
nape of my neck. 

"You're a regular whatchacallem,
Eriksson."

"Chameleon," Crevan supplied the verbiage
and another cup of coffee.

"Thanks.  Any luck finding a record on
Mr. Blake?"

"If his name is Jason Blake, his record is
nonexistent," Crevan said.  "But we decided to take the
digging in a different direction.  When Belle and I were still
married, she gave me access to her ID and password to login to the
Sentinel's database.  I figured if we can't find Blake our
way, maybe he'll turn up in something the Sentinel has on file
about the shelter."

My eyes widened.  "Good call,
Crevan.  I'd advise you never disclose that she let you access
the Sentinel's files."

"Ah, hell, Puppy's not findin' anything we
wouldn't get through a trip to the local library branch,
Helen.  He's just savin' a little time."

"Hmm.  I'm not sure the press would
feel that way about law enforcement gaining unauthorized access to
anything they could claim as work product.  But we won't
quibble the fine points right now.  If it comes down to
evidence, we'll have to make that trip to the library later."

"They beat it into your heads at Quantico,
don't they?" Briscoe jabbed my ribs with a gentle elbow.  "All
that pristine evidence collection and whatnot."