Officer,
I'm not trying to break your balls. I just want to know why it seems like everything's back to normal now that Daniel
Linwood has turned up, yet nobody's really turning over any rocks to find out where he went.'
'Listen here, you little punk,' Lensicki said. 'You go back to your typewriter and your fancy paper. The day you tell us how to do our jobs is the day you see us coming down to your office and sticking a Bic up your ass. You want a comment about Daniel Linwood? Here you go. The investigation is ongoing. If and when we have any news to report, don't worry, we'll make sure you and the rest of the respected media get all the info.'
'So…can I quote you on that pen-in-ass comment?'
'I got nothing else to say to you,' Lensicki said. 'You have any more questions you direct them to our press secretary. She's eighty-three years old and can't see out of one eye and I'm sure she'll be happy to help.'
'Wow. You know, I watched Columbo, and always thought cops were helpful and jolly.'
'Blow it out your ass, Parker.'
''Detective has strange ass fetish.' That's my headline for tomorrow. What do you think?'
Unsurprisingly, the line went dead. I felt good about myself, not just for pissing off a cop but because Lensicki's standoffishness made it clear the Hobbs County PD wasn't serving and protecting quite as strenuously as their job description called for. Somebody called 911 to alert the cops to Danny's whereabouts when he woke up, and if Lensicki wasn't interested in digging, I'd be happy to pick up his slack.
I debated calling Curt Sheffield to get his take on it.
Curt was a young African-American officer with the
NYPD. We'd grown close over the past few years, mainly due to our unwanted celebrity, our respect for our jobs and our admiration for a good pint. He'd been a source on numerous stories, and I was happy to repay him with a few good shout-outs for his squad. That's what was most important to Sheffield. That the job was given as much respect as possible. I was happy to help, because they needed all the help they could get.
In the aftermath of 9/11, NYPD recruit applications had dropped more than twenty-five percent. And while the police force still had approximately fourteen applications for every spot they needed to fill, a drop in overall applications meant a drop in quality of applications. That's why a cop like
Curt-young, good-looking and ambitious-found himself on every recruiting poster between here and Hoboken.
Many blamed lack of recruits on the NYPD's staggeringly low starting salaries-just $25,100 during the first six months on the job, a salary that would make most janitors shake their heads. Having young men like Curt on the force showed those quality applicants that the best, the brightest and the most appealing citizens made up the
NYPD. What pissed Curt off was that he was a damn good cop, yet on the street he was treated like Mickey Mouse.
Kids and their parents recognized him from posters. He spent more time signing autographs than patrolling his route. I tried to get him to keep things in perspective, but unlike many cops, Curt's celebrity didn't go to his head.
He wanted to stay behind the scenes. Just like a certain reporter who desired celebrity as much as he desired rickets.
I called Curt's desk, got a message saying that today was his day off. Which meant he was probably sitting on his couch watching SportsCenter and eating one of those meat-lovers pizzas that contained a little over eighteen thousand calories per slice. If I had Curt's dietary habits
I'd look like Norm from Cheers, but the guy had the metabolism of a Thoroughbred. He could eat a cow smothered in steak sauce and not gain an ounce. Sometimes life wasn't fair.
I tried his cell phone. Curt picked up on the third ring.
There was a pause between 'Curt' and 'Sheffield.' I must have caught him in the middle of a burp.
'Hey, man, it's Henry.'
'S'up, Parker?'
'Let me guess. You're on your fifth slice and third
SportsCenter rerun of the day.'
'Nope. Gloria's got me on a health kick. She made me some spelt toast with peanut butter, mint jelly and honey.
For lunch I got a bowl of plain oatmeal with some raisins and soy milk in the fridge.'
'Sounds like a delicious colon-cleansing meal.'
'Yeah, it's, uh…it's really tasty.' I tried to stifle a laugh.
'Dude, if I don't get, like, something that used to moo in my system soon, I'm gonna start pissing soy beans.'
'I do owe you a meal or two, but I'll own up later. I got a question for you. When you're investigating a disturbance, what happens if it's a false alarm? Like a burglary or break-in is reported, but when the boys in blue show up there's no evidence of anything illegal?'
'It's investigated, man. Every one. Can't say they spend a ton of time on it, but you gotta make sure it was a false alarm. God forbid it turns out you just missed a clue or someone really needed help and you left instead of lifting a finger.'
'That's what I thought.'
'What's this about, bro?'
'Not sure yet. I have a few questions about the Daniel
Linwood disappearance that nobody's in a rush to answer.'
'Kid who got kidnapped then dropped out of the sky, right?'
'That's the one.'
'I feel for that family, man. Nobody deserves to go through that. My mom used to hyperventilate if I came home half an hour late from school, let alone five years.
Good luck, Henry. If anyone's gonna get those answers it's you, you tunnel-visioned asshole. And hey, don't forget about your tab. Steak and a beer within the week.'
'You can count on it.'
I hung up and ordered a pizza to be delivered to Curt's house. I just hoped he'd finish it before Gloria got home, otherwise he wouldn't be around long enough for me to repay the rest of the tab.
There had to be more to the Linwood story. Something
I'd missed, perhaps. Something in Daniel's voice, his word, his cadences.
I took the tape recorder from my desk, rewound the tape and pushed Play. I listened to the whole tape again. And when it was finished, I was pretty sure I'd discovered one pretty big question. Not to mention an explanation as to why
I was confused by certain aspects of Danny's statements.
One huge question had been asked by Danny Linwood himself. Only the boy didn't even know he was asking it.
8
Paulina Cole forwarded three e-mails to her assistant,
James Keach, then turned off her computer and put on her
Burberry trenchcoat. James had asked several times if he could leave for the day, but each time Paulina answered him by not answering him-ignoring him was her favorite form of communication-and he soon slunk back to the cubicle zoo where the other peons sat and stewed. It had become somewhat of an amusing ritual. At the end of each day Paulina would send whatever hate mail she received to James, who would make copies for three departments:
Human Resources, Public Relations and the Dispatch 's editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. Paulina had requested the
