Let It Burn (29 page)

That usually gets people interested, at least, but this guy put it into a higher gear and practically jumped into his car. He sped off without so much as another glance in my direction.

“Now that,” I said to myself, “is a man who’s expecting to be served with a summons any day now. Either that, or I’m a lot scarier than I think.”

I got back in my truck and sat there for another hour. I had the windows rolled down and there was a nice breeze, but it was still my own version of hell, just sitting there and not accomplishing anything. Finally, I saw a car pull into the lot. A man got out. He didn’t look particularly unfriendly. As he was about to walk across the street, I got out to intercept him.

“Hey there,” I said. “Sorry to bother you. Can I ask you something?”

“I’m in a hurry here.”

“Just one quick question?”

“Sorry, pal.”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said, deciding it was time to pull out all the stops if I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day sitting here. “And I’ve got fifty bucks right here if you’ll answer one question.”

That stopped him dead. He turned around.

“What’s this about, pal?”

I stepped closer to him. I opened my wallet and took out a fresh fifty-dollar bill.

“One question,” I said, “and then I’ll let you go.”

He looked at the fifty. I could tell he didn’t mind the sight of it.

“I’m told that certain people hitch a ride on freight trains here,” I said. “I think they call it ‘catching out,’ right?”

“That’s right.”

A good sign, that he recognized the term.

“Any chance you know where I could find these people?”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Well, I’m looking for one person, but I’d settle for anybody who could tell me if a message got sent down the line recently.”

He nodded his head, then sneaked a look at the front entrance to the yard.

“You know, catching a ride is trespassing,” he said, “and helping anyone catch a ride is grounds for getting your ass fired.”

“Sounds like that’s none of my business,” I said. “None of Mr. Grant’s business, either.”

He looked a little confused about that one, until he looked at the face on the bill.

“Well, I may be able to put you in contact with someone,” he said. “If you give me a little while.”

“How long’s a little while?”

“There’s a train going out at nine thirty tonight. I’m guessing you might be able to talk to a couple of guys who just might be hitching a ride.”

“That’s a long time to wait.”

“That’s their train,” he said. “This isn’t Amtrak, in case you didn’t notice.”

“I appreciate the help,” I said, giving him the bill. “Where do I meet these guys?”

“Be back here in the lot at nine. I’ll set it up.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Oh,” he said, “and you might want to bring some more of those fifties.”

*   *   *

I grabbed something to eat. I sat in my truck and read the paper. I found a bar and watched the first two innings of the Tigers game. When I looked at my watch for the five hundredth time, I figured it was finally time to head back to the rail yard.

The sun was down. It was a cool night, almost cold. I knew it was probably below freezing up in Paradise. A good night to be sitting by the fireplace at the Glasgow. So of course here I was, waiting to meet a couple of vagrants in River Rouge.

I pulled into the lot. I sat there and waited for a while. The lights were on in the yard, and I could see a long train coming through. It didn’t stop. Not the train these guys were waiting for, I thought. It was only eight thirty.

At eight forty-five, I saw my new friend walking across the street to the lot. He looked both ways on the street and then came over to my truck. I rolled down my window.

“Evening, pal,” he said. “You got another fifty for me?”

“I thought I already paid you.”

“You paid me for the front end of the deal. I made the contact and arranged the meet. Now I need the back end.”

“That doesn’t sound like two ends of anything,” I said, but I was already pulling out my wallet. I wasn’t about to see the whole day go down the drain over another fifty bucks.

“You go down this street,” he said as he pocketed the bill. “Toward the southern end of the yard. There’s a street there called Emiline. On your right, you’ll see a boarded-up house. The guys hang out there until it’s time to jump the fence and get on board.”

“How do I know you’re not just sending me down a dead end and pocketing a hundred dollars?”

“You don’t,” he said. “Have a good night.”

He left me and walked back across the road. I shook my head and started up the truck. When I pulled out and hit my lights, he gave me a little wave over his shoulder.

I drove down the street, parallel to the fence line. I found Emiline Street about a quarter mile down. There was a boarded-up house on the corner, just as advertised. I pulled up in front and turned off the truck. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do next. Eventually, I got out and wandered around to the backyard of the house. I knew I was just over the Detroit line, but here was yet another house that had once held a family, with kids playing in the yard and a dad going off to work every day. The job disappeared and then so did the family. They couldn’t sell this house, because it’s one of a million other houses for sale. So now it’s just a boarded-up wreck.

I heard a scraping noise. Then I realized one of the boards was moving. Two men emerged from the house and came toward me. As they got closer I could smell cigarettes and cheap liquor, sweat, and maybe a few other things that they probably wouldn’t be bottling as perfume anytime soon. They were both wearing dark clothing, the better to blend into the darkness, I’m sure. One had his hair tied in a ponytail. The other’s was wrapped up in a bandanna.

“You the guy with the fifties?” one of them said.

“Apparently I am.”

“Let’s see ’em.”

I let out a long breath as I took out my poor wallet again. I didn’t even bother asking if they’d be willing to split one bill.

“I’ve got a hundred right here,” I said, “but first tell me what you know.”

“Guy said you’re looking for a message that got sent down the line. Maybe we heard something.”

“When did you hear it?”

“Two nights ago.”

I worked that out in my mind. Two nights ago was the night Darryl King took his aunt’s car and disappeared. So far, it was checking out.

“What was the message?” I said.

The two of them looked at each other. “It’s gonna sound a little fuzzy,” the one said. Apparently he’d been elected to do all of the talking.

“I’m all ears,” I said.

“The message was ‘Meet me in the breadbox. At midnight.’”

“That’s it?”

“That’s the message.”

“Meet me in the breadbox. Whatever that is. At midnight, when? What night?”

“Whatever night,” he said. “Guy’s probably just going there every midnight until the man he wants to see shows up.”

It occurred to me as I gave them their money that they could have just made up this message. They might be hopping on the train and laughing about it for the next few hundred miles, but then the silent partner finally spoke up.

“The message was for TK,” he said. “If that’s any help.”

“Oh yeah,” the other one said. “For TK.”

TK. Tremont King.

I thanked the two of them and wished them well. I was tempted to ask them a lot more questions about life on the rails, but they had a train to catch, and I had to go figure out just what the hell the breadbox was, so I could be there at midnight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was going on ten o’clock at night when I pulled up at Mrs. King’s house. Too late for polite company to knock on her door, but I figured this was important enough to bend the rules.

Then I stopped myself, just as I was about to get out of the truck. I was working with the gut feeling that one of her sons might be a killer, after all. I was still trying to find her other son, but in doing that it felt more and more like I might eventually end up finding them both. Could I really ask her to help me do that?

I thought about it for a few seconds. That’s really all it took. Then I got out and went to knock on the door.

“Alex!” she said as she opened it. “I thought you were going back home!”

“Yeah, I thought so, too, but then I thought better of it.”

“I don’t understand. You said there was nothing left for you to do.”

“There really isn’t,” I said, “but there is something for
you
to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell me where the breadbox is.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“It’s in the kitchen,” she finally said. “Where else would a breadbox be?”

“I don’t think that’s the breadbox I’m looking for.”

“Come sit down,” she said. “I’ll make some coffee. You can tell me what in heaven’s name you’re talking about.”

I was about to protest, but a cup of coffee sounded perfect at that point. I sat in the kitchen and watched her make it. I tried not to show my disappointment, because I had just seen my angle disappear. Her intimate knowledge of her two sons, that was my advantage, after all. My
only
advantage. The FBI had a national organization with agents spread out across the country. They had the technology. They had satellites in space, for God’s sake. All I had was Mrs. King.

“You’re the only one who can figure this out,” I said to her. “If Darryl wanted to meet Tremont at the breadbox, where would that be?”

She put the two mugs of coffee on the table and sat down.

“I never heard them use that term before,” she said. “Neither one of them.”

“Are you sure? Think back.”

She sat there and worked it over.

“No, Alex, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard either one of my boys call anything a breadbox, except the one we’ve got right here in the kitchen.”

“Well, I suppose they could always meet here,” I said, looking over at the wooden box on the counter, “but that just doesn’t make sense. Why would you say it that way? You might as well say, ‘Meet me at the toaster.’”

“Maybe they’re going to meet at a bakery,” she said. “Somewhere they make bread.”

“Do you know of a place like that? Maybe even called the Breadbox?”

“No, I don’t, but that bakery where they made the Wonder Bread, that was just a few blocks over.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Was that still open when Darryl was still…”

I did the math in my head.

“I think it was,” I said. “The big Wagner Bakery, with the
WONDER BREAD
sign out front. On Grand River.”

“Which isn’t there anymore.”

“He has to know it’s not there anymore, right? It’s been closed for years. In fact…”

“The casino,” she said. “They used that building for the casino.”

I tried to imagine Darryl King meeting his brother at the Motor City Casino. Maybe the most camera-dense environment in the entire city. He’d be a fool to show his face there.

Yet what if he sent that message down the line without thinking about what that building had become? He could be sitting outside that casino, watching for his brother to appear, cursing himself for not doing a better job in his planning, but sitting there just the same because the message had been sent and now he had to play out his hand.

“I should go over there and check it out,” I said. “Lacking any better idea.”

“I’ll keep thinking,” she said. “If I remember another kind of breadbox, I’ll give you a call.”

“All right, please do. I’m gonna get going.”

I was half out of my chair when she stopped me.

“It was really him? Darryl’s really looking for his brother?”

“Somebody’s looking for TK,” I said. “As of two nights ago.”

“That has to be Darryl,” she said. “After all this time, he’s looking for his brother.”

That much was true, I thought. As for what he’d do with him when he found him … I wondered if I’d end up being there when it happened.

*   *   *

It was a short drive to the Motor City Casino. Of course, that was the general idea behind the message. Pick a spot they both knew, a spot both could have walked to, back in the day. Pick a spot that would mean something to the two of them, but nobody else.

But if you were looking for the old bakery where they made the Wonder Bread, dominating the corner of Grand River and Temple Street, your only clue would be the
WAGNER BAKING CO.
sign high on the original brick walls. The rest of the corner was taken over by the gleaming metal facade of the casino, with the new hotel looming right behind it.

It lit up the night sky, of course, as all non-Indian casinos do. There was a parking structure next door that took up a good city block. It was already feeling like a lost cause, but I drove up through the structure, all the way to the top level. I parked near the edge overlooking the casino, and I went and stood there and looked down at the people all dressed up for the evening, going into the casino to lose their money.

I looked at my watch. It was pushing eleven o’clock.

“One hour,” I said to the night. “What are the odds it’ll be anywhere around here?”

I went down to the street and walked around the casino. I tried to look like I was on my way somewhere at all times. I figured the security guys probably wouldn’t look kindly on a man just standing outside, scoping out the building for an hour.

Midnight came and I had my answer. If Darryl was going somewhere every night at midnight, hoping to meet his brother, I was pretty sure it wasn’t here. My biggest worry was that the meeting had already happened. I just had to hope that a few days would pass before Tremont got the message and made his way up here, assuming he felt like coming at all.

I gave Mrs. King a call, apologizing for the late hour, but of course I knew she’d be up. I told her I had come up empty. That we would regroup tomorrow and try to think up a new plan.

“Put it in your head,” I said to her. “Right as you’re going to sleep. Ask yourself where the breadbox is. Maybe in the morning it’ll come to you.”