it made no mention of the SUV.”
“Accidentally?”
“I accidentally came across it while I was looking to file something away in the branch manager’s cabinet,” she said with a small smile.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Matt asked, though he figured he knew the answer.
“I called corporate and asked to speak to the head of branch security.”
“Brian Davis?” asked Jesamyn.
She nodded.
“What did he say?”
“He very gently suggested that the information wasn’t relevant since we were
She put her head in her hand for a second and then rubbed at her temples with a long graceful hand. She looked up at them again.
“I’ve been with this bank twenty years; I’m fully vested. I’ve got two sons in college.”
The waitress placed the coffee in front of them, asked if they wanted anything else, and walked off when no one answered.
“I’m sorry,” Thelma said. “I’m so sorry for that girl.”
Jesamyn put a hand on her arm. “We all have to make choices, Ms. Baker. We don’t judge you. Coming forward now is very brave.”
She looked up at them then and nodded. “Thanks,” she said, gently withdrawing her arm. “I appreciate that. But I really hope it’s not too late to help her.”
“We do, too,” said Matt. He didn’t judge Thelma Baker either. It was easy for a person to get squashed by a corporate giant; it happened every day, all over the world. They used people up, controlled them by threatening their livelihood. But he couldn’t quash the rising tide of frustration and anger he felt swelling in his chest. If they’d had this information two weeks ago, where would it have led them?
“I saw part of the license plate,” she said, pulling a pen from her purse and scribbling on a napkin. “My eyes are not great but I think the first three digits were H57. That’s all I know.”
She got up then, quickly, as if she’d woken from a trance and realized she was in a strange place. She looked around her, Matt guessed for other bank employees. She took five dollars and threw it on the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said again as she left.
Jesamyn looked at the napkin in front of her. “A partial license plate and a vehicle description,” she said, almost incredulous, as if someone had just told her she won the lottery. It was literally the first substantial clue they’d found in two weeks. Matt’s excitement was only tempered by the thought that it was probably way too late.
Too little, too late,” said Kepler back at the Ninth. His office reeked of cigarette smoke and hamburgers. There was no smoking allowed anywhere indoors. But that didn’t seem to bother their captain. Everyone knew Kepler smoked with the door closed, leaning out over his windowsill when he was feeling considerate. No one tried to stop him. He was an even bigger bastard when he couldn’t smoke.
“You’re joking,” said Jesamyn. “This is huge.”
She stood at the edge of his faux wood and aluminum desk, as Kepler leaned back in his gray vinyl swivel chair. Mount stood by the door, leaning against the jamb. Kepler looked at Jesamyn and gave her a small nod.
“The fact that you think it’s huge just underscores how little you have.
Matt and Jesamyn both stared at him. Jesamyn had a brief but vivid fantasy of throwing herself over the desk at his throat. Kepler stood and walked around his desk. There was a ketchup stain on his tie. His gray hair looked as if he’d been running his fingers through it all day. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.
“So she got herself messed up on drugs, hooked up with some dealer, and she cashed in her bank account to buy crack,” said Kepler. “In a few weeks, she’ll show up in the system after a crack house sweep. Stranger things have happened.”
“No-” began Matt.
Kepler cut him off. “It doesn’t mean anything, Stenopolis. Except that someone gave her a ride to the bank.”
Mount looked like he was about to have a brain aneurysm; his neck was turning red.
“Okay,” said Jesamyn, trying to diffuse the tension that was rising in the room. “You have to let us run the plate at least.”
“It’s a partial plate and a vague description, which means you’ll get multiple hits. And then who’ll follow up on those?”
“We’ll put it on the back burner,” she bargained.
Kepler took a thick, heavy file from beside him and handed it to her with a sigh. “The way back burner,” he said.
She took the file from him. “Rosario Mendez,” she read.
“Missing woman from the projects on Avenue A. She’s eight months pregnant. Girlfriend, or ex, to hear him tell it, of Jorge Alonzo.”
“Latin Kings,” said Matt, recognizing the name. “He’s one of the big guys.”
“That’s right. The case belongs to Rosa and Wong, but they need all the help they can get. Go see one of them and make yourselves useful.” He nodded toward the file. “Those are some of the statements-family, friends, Kings.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Three days. The boyfriend has been cleared as a suspect. They’re looking at rival gangs.”
Kepler walked back behind his desk. “That’s it. Why are you still here?”
Back in the cube that contained both of their desks, Matt and Jesamyn sat silent. Jesamyn flipped through the file on Mendez. Matt stared at his laptop screen. He’d plugged in the partial description and plate number and was waiting for a hit. The system was slow for whatever reason and as he waited, Jesamyn saw his eyes drift up to the picture of Lily he kept over his desk. He looked sad; she felt for him.
“You don’t need to look at me like that,” he said, without turning to look at her.
“Like what?” she said, putting her eyes back on the page in front of her.
“Like I’m pathetic, pitiable.”
“Grow up, Mount. Seriously.”
The phone on his desk rang and he picked up while giving her a dirty look.
“Stenopolis,” he said gruffly. A pause. “You’re kidding. What does she want?” Another longer pause, then, “Uh, no. I’ll come down.” He hung up the phone.
“Guess who’s here?” he asked her.
“Who?”
“Lydia Strong,” he said, walking out the door. Jesamyn followed him with her eyes and listened to the thunder of his big feet on the stairs.
“Oh, brother,” she said out loud to no one.
Five
You really didn’t need to go out of your way like this, Ms. Strong,” Detective Stenopolis said, taking the CD from her. The precinct was busy for a Monday afternoon. Two uniformed officers were bringing in a couple of transvestite hookers, commonly known as she-males, dressed in platforms and micro-minis. They were making a point of being loud and belligerent, male voices coming out of smooth and heavily made-up faces. An older man was yelling at the young female officer at the desk about how his building on Avenue B, where he’d lived for nearly twenty years, was turning into a crack house. The phones never stopped ringing.
