Junior talked over her, said, “That’s enough, now.”
Vega did not think that was enough; she kept talking fast and low in his face.
“She’s so active, Hollows,” said Vega. “So much time at the gym.”
Junior was caught off guard and speechless for a second, and Cap saw just the smallest hint of painful recognition in his eyes.
“Miss Vega, every word you say digs you a deeper hole. It’s a little pathetic,” said Junior, still calm.
“I saw her Facebook page—not the one with your kids and your dog and all that shit. I’m talking about the good one, GymBabe80?”
“Watch your mouth,” Junior snapped.
Cap realized, finally, where she was going. Ralz pawed at the ground a little next to Cap, and the air in their little circle turned to glass that was about to break.
“She really likes spin class, right? A lot of nice pictures of her, but not one of you or the family. That’s a little funny, huh?” said Vega, whispering now. Then she grew thoughtful and almost humble: “Now, I don’t know a lot about social media. What does it mean when you have a ton of ‘likes’ from guys?”
“Watch your fucking mouth, I said,” said Junior, pointing a finger in her face.
Vega leaned into the finger and said, “They seem to know her really well.”
Cap kept his eyes on Ralz, who looked unsure as to how to proceed. He could almost see the hamster wheel in Ralz’s brain rattling around as he ran through the options.
“Detective Ralz, please place Miss Vega under arrest right now,” said Junior, his voice a little hoarse.
“What for?” Cap said. “Talking trash about your wife? You’d have to arrest half of Denville.”
Cap was just gambling now; he’d never heard anything about Junior’s wife, but saw that Junior was sure as shit uncomfortable talking about her, and that made Cap very happy. Junior glared at him.
Vega shrugged, her shoulders rising and dropping casually.
“You’re right, doesn’t matter,” she said to Junior, cheery and conciliatory. “Probably doesn’t mean a thing.”
Junior’s shoulders came down a fraction of an inch at the prospect of her backing off. He even looked like he might turn around and go back to being his regular shithead self.
But then Vega snapped in a loud, clear voice, “My guess is they clicked ‘like’ because there’s no ‘I fucked her’ button.”
And that was it. Junior lunged, grabbing for the collar of Vega’s jacket, and suddenly Cap felt all his limbs loosen and an old blind confidence fill him up, and he stretched his arm out to bat Junior away, but couldn’t get there before Ralz landed a punch on his jaw, smashing Cap’s lower lip between his teeth.
He hadn’t been hit in a few years and was unprepared for it, lost his balance and stumbled sideways onto the ground.
Cap sat up, saw Em standing with Ralz in a headlock, Ralz’s face red, both of them tumbling backward with the momentum, and Cap was so dazed he started laughing. When he stopped there was a buzzing in his ear, like a bug was deep in there. He shut his eyes and heard his name over and over through the static. Caplan, Caplan, Caplan.
He opened his eyes. The noise cleared. Traynor, the chief of police, stood above him.
“Caplan, you need a medic?”
Cap shook his head, tasted the blood on his tongue, and stood up carefully. All at once he felt the various points of pain on his body—shoulders, coccyx, jaw. He pressed his palm against his chin, trying to adjust it. He knew in an hour it would swell, in four it would bruise.
Then he looked around. They were all staring at him, frozen. The chief, right in front of him, fit and attentive. Here were Ralz and Em behind him, both sweaty and no longer attached to each other. Here was a slightly hefty guy in a blue suit and a burgundy tie, alert, clear eyes—must be the Fed. Here was Junior, panting and dazed. Here were a few cops, some in shirtsleeves and some in uniform, some Cap knew, a couple young ones he didn’t, on the steps and on the ground.
And there was Vega, standing next to the chief, loose strands of hair waving like spiderweb filaments, her fair skin punctuated by red blots on her cheeks and forehead, chest rising and falling in measured surges.
They were all watching Cap. Cap looked back at Traynor.
“What’s going on here, Caplan?” he said.
Cap knew there was rage in there, contained and primed. Cap thought that back when Traynor was a drinker he must have been a bastard; he’d heard stories about him showing up for work with black eyes and bloody knuckles, blowing .12 on the Breathalyzer at eight in the morning before coffee. But now he was wide-awake, chewing the end of his mustache, waiting for an answer.
Cap didn’t plan, just started talking.
“I’m working for the Brandt family, Chief, with Alice Vega, over there. We think there’s a connection between the kidnapping and the dead kid we just found, and we’d like to tell you about it.”
Traynor glanced at Vega, then back to Cap.
“Get inside.”
“He can’t enter the premises,” said Junior, pointing at Cap. “It’s in the terms of his agreement.”
“What terms?” said Traynor.
“My resignation,” said Cap.
Traynor thought about it for only a second.
“Was the condition negotiated on behalf of the family or the department?”
“Department,” said Cap.
“Good,” said Traynor. “Consider the condition suspended for the length of this investigation.”
“Chief, legally speaking it might not—” Junior began.
“You get yourself a JD, Hollows, in your spare fucking time?”
Junior stepped back and appeared to shrink in volume.
“Then we worry about it later. Let’s go,” the chief said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
He turned and headed toward the steps, striding, and everyone else was quick to follow, jumping to attention like they were already late. Vega held her hand down to Cap. He took it, feeling her soft cold skin, and she pulled him up. She let go, said nothing, straightened her jacket out and clapped her hands together once softly like they were chalkboard erasers she’d just finished cleaning.
10
She sat at a long oval table in a dim blue room with a bunch of cops.
Cap was next to her, and the chief of police and the FBI agent were at the front of the room, projecting images from a laptop onto a ratty screen. Cap and Vega were near the head of the table. The presentation was for them.
There was a school photo of a girl on the screen, round faced, with straight blond hair to her chin. She smiled out at the camera, but it was one of those trained-kid smiles. Smile, smile, smile, Vega could hear the photographers in her head. Always laid it on thick for the girls—Come on, princess, you’re gonna be Miss America, smile for me. All the boys got was a Hey buddy, say cheese.
“This is Sydney McKenna,” said the chief. “Disappeared on her way home from school two years ago near Harrisburg. She was eight years old at the time. You remember?” he said to Cap.
Cap nodded. “I think so, yeah.”
“Splashed around the news for a couple of months. Never found her.”