Retirement Plan (18 page)

“How about other working girls? Would they know anything?”

“Most of them don’t live here. They pay for a room for the night so they don’t have to take tricks into the alley. We got a couple on the second floor—share a room. But they wouldn’t have nothing to do with 4A.”

“Would you recognize her pusher?”

Rex Griffin rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Probably.”

“Would you be willing to go downtown to look at some pictures?”

“Like on TV? Guess so.” He rocked forward as if to stand, then stopped. “Come to think of it, she did have one friend.”

Morgan settled back. “Tell me about him.”

“Wasn’t a him. It was a girl. Helped her move in. She come through here a couple of times after that.”

“Can you describe her?”

With great effort Rex Griffin stood. “Little gal. Short, dark hair. Vietnamese, I’d say.”

Morgan, lost in thought, stood next to Griffin, and together they started toward the door.

Griffin said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Huh?” She’d actually been thinking of Vice. They’d know who the pusher was, or they could find out.

Griffin repeated, “I know what you’re thinking. To folks in this country, most Asians look alike. But I spent a lot of time in Vietnam during the war, and I know a Vietnamese woman when I see one.”

Later, when the arrest warrant popped up, Morgan thought that if Johnson had a friend who helped her move in, maybe they’d known each other a long time. Maybe this woman had a record too. Outside, she told the uniform to take Griffin downtown to look at mug shots of drug offenders. Then she got into her own vehicle and headed toward home, to a hot shower and some much-needed sleep.

*

Celia Morning couldn’t get Kitty’s story about her father and Jon Woods out of her mind. November was nearing and another For Sale sign stood in front of the house next door. It had been more than a year since Jason Smallwood had moved into the neighborhood and the problems had started.

Over the summer Celia fixed up a small room in the basement for Kitty to use whenever she wanted to stay. She’d painted the walls white and moved the extra bunk bed from Timmy’s room down there. A larger room that took up most of the rest of the basement had been a winter playroom. When Merris was younger, she’d had skating parties down there; three or four little girls in knee pads and helmets skated on the smooth concrete floor. Only a couple of old recliners, a nineteen-inch TV set, and a foosball table were left. Two doors at the far end of the room led to a laundry room and a small bathroom with a toilet and a sink.

The day Celia showed Kitty the space, the girl looked uncomfortable and certainly didn’t say thank you. But she stayed for several days—longer than she ever had. When she left that time, she took some food (mostly peanut butter and bread) and fifty dollars from Celia’s purse. Upset about the money, Celia locked the house. She’d planned to not answer the door when Kitty returned. Let her spend some time on the street. Of course, Celia could afford to lose fifty dollars. It wasn’t the amount of money. It was stealing from a friend, from someone who’d done nothing but help her. But Kitty didn’t come to the door that night or the next. Celia didn’t see her again for a long time.

After a week, Celia began to worry. She sat at the kitchen table reading late at night. Often she’d find herself thinking about the girl and her last betrayal, and a few minutes later she’d realize that she’d read a page and had no idea what it said. Had Kitty asked for the money, Celia would have given her fifty or more. It wasn’t enough to leave town or rent a room. It must have been cigarette money. The kid seemed to live on cigarettes and peanut butter.

 On the rare occasions Kitty shared a meal with the family, she usually picked at her meat and pushed the vegetables around on her plate. Although Celia thought her much too thin, she gave up trying to persuade her to eat. She’d never done it with her own children. Her husband, Jack, who’d had a bit of a weight problem that he’d fought constantly, insisted that the less attention paid to what the kids ate, the less chance of them becoming overweight or having any type of eating problem.

Things settled back to normal. The house next door remained empty. The kids were busy with school and Celia joined a fitness club that she visited three or four mornings a week. Then one Monday afternoon while she was doing laundry, Celia wandered into the little room Kitty had used. She found the bed made and a note on the pillow. She sat down on the edge of the bed and read the childish scrawl.

Dear Celia,

Thank you for all your help. I have to leave. My dad found me. I don’t want to go back with him and I don’t want him to bother you or your kids. If he comes here and tries to make trouble, call the cops. I mean it. I will try to call you when I can. I borrowed some food and money. I’ll pay you back. Honest. You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had.

XXXXXXXOOOOOOO

Kitty

Why hadn’t she thought to check this room before now? Celia stared at the abbreviated hugs and kisses before the signature and her eyes overflowed. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Chapter Thirteen

Morgan and her new partner had established an awkward truce. She wasn’t exactly happy with him; on the other hand, she could see how his meticulous nature could be of use—especially in paperwork. Plus, he was the one who finally made the connection between the Vietnamese woman the witness had seen and Ruby Burnett, a recently paroled inmate of Dwight. He’d talked to Burnett’s parole officer and got an address. Something bothered Morgan about Ruby Burnett, but try as she might, she couldn’t bring it to mind. It was like walking into the kitchen and not remembering what the hell she was doing there. They drove across town silently.

As they pulled up in front of Burnett’s address, it came to her. Morgan’s mother knew two women who used to live here. Morgan had babysat for them when she was fourteen or fifteen on their pinochle nights. Those women would be quite old now. The little boy, Matt, had died in Afghanistan. Could Ruby Burnett be his mother? Morgan’s memory was sketchy, two women living together, raising a grandson. Morgan had been experimenting with smoking back then and burnt a hole in the arm of their couch.

When she and Redick approached the Burnett house, a knot formed in Morgan’s guts. She didn’t understand why, but she hoped Ruby wouldn’t be home. Yet a short while after Redick rang the bell, she heard stirring inside and then the door swung open.

Ruby was a small woman, four or five inches shorter than Morgan and comparatively quite slender. Her messy dark hair was swept up and clipped in back, and she wore a green T-shirt that hung to her knees. It was two in the afternoon and she was rubbing sleep from her eyes—they’d woken her.

After a few seconds, Ruby’s eyes conveyed no recognition. She turned her head toward Robert Redick and seemed to wilt. “Yes?”

“Ruby Burnett?” Morgan asked.

“Yes. What’s this about?”

“We need to talk to you. We’d like to take you downtown.” Redick pulled out his ID and badge, and Morgan did the same. Ruby barely glanced at them.

“Why?” Ruby repeated. “What’s this about?”

Morgan said, “The death of Tia Johnson.”

“What?” Ruby said. “When?”

Redick said, “Can you come in and discuss this with us? We know you were in Dwight with her.”

Ruby exhaled. “I work nights. I was sleeping. Can’t we talk here?”

Redick started to speak, but Morgan cut him off him. “May we come in?”

Ruby stepped back and motioned them inside. The living room was small and cluttered, in a homey way. “Have a seat. I’ll just be a minute. I want to put something on.”

Morgan hesitated.

As if Ruby read her mind, she said, “I won’t run. I just woke up. I’d like to put some clothes on and use the john.”  Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked down the hall.

Redick tossed his briefcase on the coffee table and in a single step was across the room heading outside. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll cover the back of the house.”

Morgan called after him, “Back door’s on the east side.”

Alone, Morgan strolled around the room looking at family pictures that were displayed almost everywhere. She recognized Matt’s Cub Scout picture. He’d been a promising kid—smart and focused and rarely discouraged. On the wall next to the archway that led to the kitchen was a picture of the four of them. What a motley crew they were: two white women, one short and round, the other tall and slim; Ruby when she was about twenty, long dark hair, dressed in a gauzy sundress; and five-year-old Matt, in a white dress shirt and red bow tie. His smile showed the dark gap of a missing tooth. The women stood behind mother and son.

Ruby startled her. “I don’t know why Mom keeps all these old pictures up.” Still barefoot, she wore a pair of jeans and a fresh white T-shirt. Her hair had been smoothed.

“It’s old age,” Morgan said. “My mom did the same thing. I guess at some point the past gets longer than the future.”

Ruby motioned Morgan to the couch and sat in a rocking recliner and drew her feet up.

Morgan unbuckled the bag that Redick had left on the coffee table. She pulled out a clipboard and started filling in the details on the interview sheet.    

“What happened to the guy you came in with?”

Morgan didn’t look up. “He had to step out for a minute.  He’ll be back.”

The chair squeaked as Ruby rocked. With a nervous smile, she asked, “So. Why are you here?”

“How well did you know Tia Johnson?”

“We were cellmates in Dwight. Since you’re here, I’ll assume you know that.”

“Have you had any contact with her since then?”

“Some.”

They both heard Redick’s steps on the front porch, and then the door opened. His eyes went from Ruby to Morgan as he moved toward the couch and sat.

Morgan said to him, “We’re just getting started. We need to record.”

Redick dug into his leather bag and pulled out the recorder. He tested it, “One, two. One, two,” and played it back, then pressed Record and set it on the coffee table.

Morgan turned to Ruby again. “Now, where were we?”

Something had changed. Ruby seemed calmer. “You were asking about Tia. We had very little contact. We said we’d keep in touch, but then—”

“Tia Johnson,” Morgan said, “was murdered last week. A witness told us that you knew her, visited her.”

“So it was Tia.”

Redick’s deep voice cut in. “You know it was.”

Ruby shook her head in disagreement. “The newspaper didn’t release the name.”

“You don’t look too upset.” It was Redick again.

“I’m on parole,” Ruby said. “I have two homicide detectives sitting in my living room. My mother’s due home any minute. Believe me, I’m upset.”

Redick leaned back as if he was satisfied, and Morgan picked up the torch. “Why didn’t you try to call Tia? I mean, if you thought she might be dead—”

“I promised my mother I wouldn’t have any more to do with her.” Ruby rocked the upholstered recliner a little more vigorously. “Okay, here’s the deal. Tia and I were cellmates. We planned on getting a place together when I got out. We thought it would be easier to stay clean together. But I found out she was using again, so I contacted my family for help.”

“How did Tia come back into your life? Why was she here?”

Ruby shrugged. “She wrote me a few months ago. She said she wanted to get clean again. When she got to town, I helped her find a room and I took her to an NA meeting. But my mom found out she was in town and put her foot down.”

Maybe some people would, but Morgan didn’t see a thing wrong with a forty-year-old woman worrying about her mother’s rules. She’d learned a lot about mothers and daughters recently. She asked, “Did Tia stop using?”

Ruby sighed. “Look, I helped her find the place, and I helped her move in. She didn’t have much, so we went to the thrift shop and picked up a couple of lamps and things. I hadn’t seen her or heard from her in weeks.”

“You know there was a warrant out on her?”

Ruby seemed to consider the question; in the end she didn’t answer it. “I was only trying to help her get a place to stay. I offered to put a word in for her at Walmart—you know, for a job.”

“Here’s the thing,” Morgan said. “You violated several conditions of your parole by just talking to her. But we don’t want to make trouble for you unless you’re involved in her murder. It would help us if you’d answer the question and we could be on our way.”

“What question?”

Robert Redick asked, “Was Tia using?”

Softer now. “No. I don’t think so.”

Morgan persisted. “It wouldn’t be wise to lie. I think you were both using. You were seen with her. People who don’t use drugs usually don’t hang out with people who do.”

Ruby didn’t answer, and through the prolonged silence that followed, Morgan watched the steady red light of the recorder.

In the end Redick leaned forward. “Where did she get her drugs?”

“You know. The usual.”

“I don’t know.”

Ruby looked at Morgan pleadingly. “Don’t you guys keep track of that stuff? You know who the dealers are better than me.”

“Our witness puts you there when Tia bought drugs—at least once,” Morgan said.

“Okay, I saw him, but I don’t know his name,” Ruby said. “He’s a white guy.  Younger than me. Maybe mid-twenties. He has shoulder-length, grungy blond hair.”

Redick said, “Could you pick him out of a lineup?”

“Do I have to? If my PO finds out—”

“We’ve already called your parole officer,” Morgan said.

Ruby cursed beneath her breath. She seemed to wilt even more and be close to tears.

Morgan said, “If you help us out, if you’re honest with us, I don’t see a reason to tell your PO any more than you want us to.”

“All right.”

“How often did this guy come around?”

“Tia told me, two or three times a week. Always on weekday afternoons. Weekends dealers make more selling to chippers. Anyway, I was only there that one Tuesday.”

They got little else from Ruby. As they walked to the car Redick said, “What now? Do we set up a stakeout?”