Hollows glanced at the article.
“Big hero. The bounty hunter who found Ethan Moreno.”
Vega looked back at him and stopped smiling.
“You’re still not a cop. You’re a girl with a gun who’s watched too much Buffy. So I’m asking as nicely as I can here, with all respect to you, that you tell Maggie Shambley you quit and that you stay out of the way. We don’t need civilian assistance in this matter, Miss Vega.”
She let that sit for a moment. She waited until Hollows opened his mouth to say something else and then she spoke instead:
“You have twenty-nine police here, not counting yourself and your chief, right?”
Hollows was surprised but recovered quickly.
“I know that doesn’t sound like a lot—”
“I figure you’re probably the only captain in a town this size, maybe two lieutenants, two sergeants, on management and strategy, right? You seem to have had a bit of an oxy-heroin problem here for the last five years or so, so you probably have at least two teams of detectives on narcotics. Which leaves one team for homicides, one for sex crimes, one for robberies and burglaries. Which leaves fourteen patrol cops who answer the rest of the calls: domestic violence, shoplifting, assault and battery, vandalism. And in their spare time they do traffic control. You’ve had your funds cut three years in a row, and you can afford only one additional secretary at reception, so it’s very possible that you don’t divvy up the jobs at all and it’s more of a first come, first served or ‘clusterfuck’ type of situation. Which, judging by the age of that machine you’re typing on and the disrepair of this office in general, I tend to believe.”
Hollows paused briefly. Vega was not close enough to see if his eyes were dilated, but she bet they were. Thinking hard. He leaned back in his seat and threw up his hands gently into little finger fireworks.
“So you know how to use the Internet. I guess that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I’m sure you know how to use the Internet too. I’m sure you know about David Haber, who lives two blocks from the Brandts, convicted of statutory rape in 2004. And Robert Vilinsky who lives half a mile from the girls’ grandparents’ house, pleaded no contest to trafficking in child pornography in 2012.”
“I couldn’t confirm or deny either as it would compromise the confidentiality of an ongoing investigation,” said Hollows.
“Sure,” said Vega. “Do you know the name Warren Pearson?”
“Should I?”
“He was arrested for assault five years ago in Philly. Bar fight, slammed his opponent’s face into a pinball machine. Spent sixty days in County. His bunkmate was a guy named Jay Nunez who, in addition to being arrested for possession of crack and heroin, was awaiting trial for molestation of his four-year-old stepson.”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me how this relates to my case.”
“Last year Pearson got a job with a company called Diego Tree Service and Maintenance, the landscapers for most of Schuylkill County’s public schools, including Starfield Middle School and Denville East Elementary, where Kylie and Bailey Brandt attend, respectively.”
“So you think Warren Pearson kidnapped the Brandt girls to give them to a pervert he met in County?” said Hollows. He moved his tongue to the front of his teeth, cleaning out the space.
“Not particularly. But you had never heard of those men before I just told you about them. I’m not looking to impress you. And, with all respect, I think you need all the civilian assistance you can get.”
“To chase dead ends?”
“To shake out every rug in this trash heap town until you find those girls. It has been almost forty-eight hours. You don’t even have the time to be arguing with me right now.”
Hollows smiled and folded his hands together. This is the church, here’s the steeple.
Vega knew she was losing and kept calm. Her eyes combed Hollows’s desk—stapler, letter opener, a cup filled with pens. No scissors that she could see. Not yet, she thought. Not just yet. No sense breaking down the front door if you can pick the lock in the back, Perry would say. She wrote the email to the Bastard in her head: Captain Greg “Junior” Hollows. Give me everything you got.
—
Mrs. Svetich sat across from Cap in his office and watched the images on his laptop. Cap glanced back and forth between her face and the screen. She was an attractive woman, maybe not as young as the woman her husband was sleeping with, but she had nice eyes and smooth skin, and long brown hair tied up in a knot on top of her head like some Italian actress. Cap tried to see it from Mr. Svetich’s point of view. Gray hair at the roots, thin lips pressed together when she was upset, ruler-thin body but not from working out—naturally bony, thin wrists and thick hands.
She shook her head gently and said, “Okay, that’s enough.”
Cap pressed Stop and faced her. This was not an unfamiliar moment for him. When women thought their husbands were cheating, they were usually right, and he had had plenty of them as clients. He could typically tell how they were going to act—which were the sobbers and which were the plate throwers. Mrs. Svetich, though, could go either way.
“So,” she said. “What now?”
“Well,” said Cap. “That’s up to you.”
“I know,” she said, annoyed. “I was thinking out loud. I know you don’t know what now, I was asking myself that.”
“Of course.”
She laughed a curt little laugh.
“You know what, though, Mr. Caplan?”
“What?”
“I think this would almost be easier if he was a nice guy, but he’s not. He was when we got married a million years ago, but he’s been a jerk for a long time. We had a fight two weeks ago, and he called me an asshole. Who talks to their wife like that?”
She seemed to wait for Cap to respond, so he said, “It’s very disrespectful.”
“Yes, it is. And now, it’s like, okay, I’m free. I get whatever I want because I have this tape. I get the kids. I win. Who cares.”
Pause, thought Cap. Let her breathe.
“You married?” she asked.
“Divorced.”
Mrs. Svetich nodded.
“I’m sure you don’t have anything to tell me that makes this moment easier.”
There was, actually, a great deal Cap could tell her. What he really would like to say was, Two years. You’ll be a basket case for two years. Then you’ll start feeling like a normal person again. You’ll start enjoying the taste of coffee and watching your kid’s school play. But for two years you will be a schizophrenic. Angry, guilty, sad.
Instead he shook his head.
“Yeah, I thought as much,” said Mrs. Svetich. “Yes. So. Your bill,” she said, opening her purse.
“I can send you an invoice.”