“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head no.“Store policy.”
I looked at his stringy hair and two day’s growth of beard on his cheeks.His eyes were still suspicious, but no longer bored.I tried to imagine his work days for a moment, filled with people buying beer and cigarettes, harried travelers stepping off of eastbound I-90, kids coming in for candy, the constant threat of shoplifters and gas drive-offs.
And don’t forget armed robbers, I thought with a touch of both irony and sarcasm.
A name tag hung sloppily above his left shirt pocket.His name was Don.And Don was not going make any exceptions for me.
I went to the cooler and pulled a plastic bottle of 7-UP from the shelf.“7-UP from the 7-Eleven,” I hummed to myself, wandering into another aisle and wondering why some ad guys hadn’t come up with it before.
I thought about getting a Snickers bar, but grabbed a packet of two aspirin instead.Don’s eyes had lost their suspicion and were just bored again by the time I set the bottle of soda and the aspirin packet on the counter.He rang up both items, announced the total and I handed him a pair of dollar bills.He returned my change.
“It’s a nice racket,” I told him.
“What’s that?”
“The whole not giving change policy.”I held up the drink and the aspirin.“You made a whole dollar-sixty-one for the company.”
Don’s eyes narrowed a little.“You some kind of smart ass?”
I shrugged.“I’m just sayin’.”
Don regarded me for another moment or two, his dull eyes simmering with anger.“It’s not my policy, all right?It’s store policy.And I’m on video, all shift long.Okay?”
I held my hands up.“Mea culpa,” I told him.When he didn’t respond right away, I added, “My fault.”
The anger in his eyes softened back into boredom.“Yeah,” was all he said.
I walked outside, the door dinging behind me.The pop bottle hissed when I cracked it open.I threw the two aspirin to the back of my throat and washed them down with a long draft of 7-UP.I leaned against the telephone bank and sat the bottle on the shelf.
With my eyes closed, I breathed deep through my nose.The odor of spilled motor oil and beer rose from the parking lot, but the even stronger smell of watery trash came from the dumpster that I knew was around the corner of the building.I suppressed a cough.
Inside my chest, my heart pounded harder and harder.A flash of white-hot shame shot through me and melted into anger a moment later.I pushed it away.I couldn’t be mad and I couldn’t be sad.Not if I was going to call her.
The receiver sat in its cradle.I could see my shadowy, dull reflection in the hard black plastic.The silver face of the payphone warped my features like a funhouse mirror.
I picked up the phone and dropped in my coins.I didn’t know her direct extension.She’d been promoted a few years ago.It’d been four or five years since I’d called her and that had been at her home.The next time I dialed her number, it was disconnected.I wasn’t surprised.
I dialed the front desk of the investigations unit.Glenda picked up the phone on the second ring, her cheery voice almost singing, “Investigations, Glenda.”
“Detective McLeod, please.”I tried to keep my voice as flat as possible.I doubted she would, or could, recognize my voice, but with Glenda, you never know.
“One moment.I’ll transfer you.”
“Thanks.Uh, what’s her direct line?” I asked.
She gave it to me immediately from memory and I repeated it in my head while the line clicked once and then rang.My heart pounded faster and despite the cold, a small trickle of sweat ran down my left armpit.I clamped my elbow down on it.
It connected on the fourth ring.I felt a brief moment of panic and a small catch in my throat at the sound of her voice before I realized it was her voice mail.
“Hello.You’ve reached Detective Katie McLeod of the River City Police Department.I’m unable to take your call right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.If this is in reference to an active case, please include your case number.Thanks for calling.”
Her voice sounded professional and detached until the end when it lilted almost girlishly during the words “thanks for calling.”
There was a tone and I knew I had four minutes of digital space to leave my message.
“Hi, Katie,” I began.“It’s, uh, it’s Stef.”
I paused, wondering what to say next.
Hey, I know I screwed up as a cop and I know I messed up with us more than once, but hey! I need a favor.
I tried to swallow but my throat was dry. I wished I’d taken a another swig of the soda.No time now. I pressed on before I lost my nerve.“I’m trying to help an old friend find his runaway daughter as a favor.I was wondering…I was wondering if you might be able to help me out a little.With some information.”
I imagined her face while she listened to this message.The image hurt.
No stopping now, I thought.I rattled off Kris Sinderling’s name and birthdate, as well as Matt’s.On a whim, I threw in Gary LeMond’s, too.All she could do was say no.
“Anyway, if you can, that’s great.If not, I understand.You can call me back at-“ I looked for the number on the payphone.In the place of a number was a bold message that read, “No Incoming Calls.”
Years ago, pay phones in high drug traffic areas were used to make drug deals so often that the police department and the communities asked the phone company to turn off the function for incoming calls.A few years later, cell phones became so prominent and inexpensive that the practice tapered off, but some phones still had that limitation.
I glanced quickly at the other two phones and saw the same bold message.
“Damn,” I said out loud.When I realized that I said it directly into the phone I almost repeated the word.
“This phone doesn’t take incoming calls.Listen, uh, I’m going to walk over to Polly’s Cafe.I’ll stay through lunch.If you can make it, you can.If not, like I said, I understand.Maybe I’ll try you back tomorrow or something.”
I paused again, words sticking in my throat, just like they always did when it came to her.Finally, I said a hurried “thanks” and hung up.
18
Polly’s Cafe was nearly empty by the time I arrived.The thick smell of syrup and grease hungin the air.An old rock song I couldn’t quite remember the name of was playing through tinny speakers.The sign next to the register directed patrons to seat themselves, so I chose a small booth in the corner where I could watch the door.My feet ached from walking in cowboy boots.
A bony-hipped waitress with sagging jowls brought a glass of water and a menu.I put her in her fifties and her poofy hair had the thin, frail look that matched my guess.Her name was sewn on a patch above her left breast.It read, “Phyllis.”
“Anything to eat, hon?” she said, her voice warmer than I expected.
“Coffee,” I said.
She jotted a quick ‘C’ on her notepad and looked up at me expectantly.When I didn’t answer, she said, “Special today is pretty good.”
“What is it?”
“Two eggs, bacon amp; toast.”
I shrugged.“Sure.”It’d work for a lunch, too.
“How you want those?”
“Scrambled.”
“And your toast?”
“Sourdough.”
She scrawled my order and tipped me a wink.“Be right back with your coffee.”
My initial image of her as a sourpuss quickly dissipated.
I tilted my head back and closed my eyes.It’d been about thirty or forty minutes since I’d called Katie.Even if she’d received my message shortly after I left it for her, it’d still take her time to decide whether or not to help, then some more time to run the names I sent her.More yet if she decided to print anything off or pull a report.Then the time to drive down here.
The clock on the wall above the cash register read 10:14.I said on my message I’d wait through lunch.That meant one o’clock at least.