“What did he do?”
“DuCharme was part of a bust with two vice cops. They were in the suspect’s house making the arrest when the suspect pulled a gun. One of the vice cops shot the suspect, and he died. The Broward cops conducted an internal investigation to make sure everyone’s story matched up. DuCharme and the vice cops were required to turn over their guns to have ballistic tests run on them. Guess what the tests revealed?”
“I have no idea.”
“DuCharme’s gun didn’t have a bullet in the chamber when the bust went down.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wouldn’t kid you, Vick. He’s a menace. Get rid of him.”
DuCharme hopped off the hood and came up to her door. Vick was afraid he knew they were talking about him, and put on a fake smile.
“Yes, sir. I’ll talk to you soon.”
She folded her phone and got out of the car.
“Still angry at me?” DuCharme asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Vick said.
Run down every lead, no matter where it takes you.
Vick walked up the path with DuCharme on her heels. The single-story house was owned by Wayne Ladd’s mother, Jewel, and had mustard colored walls and old-fashioned jalousie windows. The roof was missing several shingles, and resembled a patchwork quilt. Parked in the car port was an aging Saturn and a bicycle with two flats.
“I don’t understand why we came here,” DuCharme said.
“I want to talk to Mrs. Ladd,” Vick replied.
“But she’s a drunk. I spoke with her yesterday. It was a waste of time.”
“Please lower your voice.” Vick pressed the front buzzer. Hearing nothing inside, she pulled back the rusty screen door, and rapped on the front door. “Anybody home?”
“Hold on,” a woman’s voice called from within.
“I’ll wait,” Vick called back.
“Probably just crawled out of bed,” DuCharme said.
“Please stop.”
“I just don’t get why we’re here, that’s all.”
“Then I’ll explain. We think Mr. Clean abducted Wayne Ladd because he killed his mother’s boyfriend. Only Wayne’s girlfriend swears that Wayne isn’t the killer, and only confessed to the crime to protect his mother. That’s why we’re here.”
“So what are we looking for?” DuCharme asked.
“The truth.”
The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman reeking of booze. Hopelessly frail, she had a weather-beaten face and bloodshot eyes, and could barely stand up. A tabby cat slipped between her legs, escaping outside.
“Who are you?” she slurred, clearly drunk.
“Good morning, Mrs. Ladd,” DuCharme said, turning on the charm. “This is Special Agent Vick with the FBI. We’d like to speak with you. May we come in?”
“You were here yesterday,” she said to DuCharme.
“That’s correct,” the detective replied.
“Is this about my baby?”
“Yes, it is,” DuCharme said.
Her voice rose. “You found him, didn’t you? Wayne’s dead, isn’t he?”
“No, ma’am…”
Jewel Ladd’s face cracked, and she began to sob. DuCharme looked at Vick as if to say Now what? Vick felt like she’d been set up, and that DuCharme had known how this would play out well before she’d knocked on the door.
“Deal with her,” Vick said.
Being small had its advantages. Vick glided around Jewel Ladd and went inside. She entered the living room and took stock of the interior. Jewel had done a good job of blocking out the sunlight, and a TV flickered in the corner like a campfire. Vick found a hallway leading to the back of the house, and headed down it.
Vick wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She knew little about Wayne Ladd except for his crimes. That had jaded her into thinking he was simply another adolescent monster. Her talk with Amber had changed that perception. Amber had said Wayne was gentle and kind, qualities that violent boys rarely exhibited. It had made Vick wonder if really she knew anything about him.
She came to a pair of doors at the hallway’s end. Taped to one was a photograph of a blond-haired, dimple-faced young man wearing an Army uniform. Vick guessed this was the bedroom of the older brother, Adam, who’d died in Iraq.
The second doorway had a splashy poster from the movie Wayne’s World. She didn’t have to guess whose room this was.
She stuck her head into the second bedroom. Tiny, with a desk and a bed shoved into opposite corners. The walls were black, the ceiling white, with plenty of streaks where the colors came together. A Megan Fox bikini-poster hung over the bed. No one should have a body that gorgeous.
She cased the room. A pile of text books sat on the desk. She glanced over the titles. Advanced Algebra, Biology, English lit, third year Spanish, and a novel by Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions. The kid wasn’t stupid.
She found Wayne’s notebooks beneath the pile. She thumbed through them, hoping to find some personal notes or drawings that might give some insight to Wayne’s psyche. Instead, she found page after page of school notes.
The closet was next. Wayne’s wardrobe consisted of baggy jeans, chinos, and Nike sneakers. An electric guitar sat in the corner wired to a speaker. Behind it, a shelving unit containing song books and a shoe box filled with letters.
She went through the shoe box. The letters had been sent from Adam Ladd when he was stationed in Baghdad. In chilling detail, Adam had described life in a war zone, and the numbing effect it was having on him, and the other soldiers in his platoon. She put the letters away thinking the two brothers had been close.
The last place she looked was under the bed. That was where boys usually stored things. She found a thin cardboard box filled with photos of Wayne taken in elementary school. He’d been a handsome kid even back then.
Vick dusted herself off. Something wasn’t right here. It took a minute, but she finally put her finger on it. The room was too normal. She’d expected to find a collection of hunting knives, or an illegal handgun, or a diary filled with rants against his teachers and classmates with some graphic drawings thrown in. These were the things that indicated deep-rooted anger in teenage boys. So where were they?
She had a thought. Perhaps Jewel had gone through her son’s room after his arrest, and thrown out the bad things. That was the natural thing for a mother to do. She decided to ask her, and returned to the front of the house.
Jewel lay on her back on the couch, passed out. DuCharme stood beside her, shaking his head.
“She kept crying until she fell asleep,” he said. “She’s really looped.”
“I need to ask her some questions,” Vick said.
“Good luck.”
“You’re not going to help me wake her up?”
“What do you want me to do – sing to her?”
Vick knelt down beside the couch and gently shook Jewel’s shoulder. “Mrs. Ladd? Please wake up. I need to speak with you.”
Jewel muttered under her breath but did not come to. Vick hoped a strong cup of coffee would bring her around, and stood up.
“I’m going to brew some coffee. Stay here and watch her.”
“Get me a cup,” DuCharme said. “Sugar, no cream.”
“In your dreams.”
The kitchen was like the rest of the house – dark and depressing. Vick found the coffee maker on the counter. Beside it sat a fifth of vodka in a brown paper bag. She pulled the bottle out of the bag to see that three quarters was already gone. She fished out the sales receipt. Jewel had bought the bottle from a liquor store that morning.
It made Vick mad. Jewel was getting shit-faced while her son was being held captive by a killer. She poured the rest down the drain, and returned to the living room.
“No coffee?” DuCharme asked.
“Lock the door on your way out,” Vick said.