“Marsh is dead?” he said.
“You ain’t cops!” announced Mrs. Lanawicz, departing from the doorway. “I’m calling the cops!”
“That’s right, Charlie,” said Cap. “He knew something about the Brandt girls and someone didn’t want him to talk. So if you know something about the Brandt girls, someone might not want you to talk either. You following this?”
Bright’s face was red, veins squiggling down his temples.
“He came to me.”
“Who did?” said Cap.
“Marsh.”
Cap nodded at Vega, and she removed her foot from Bright’s neck. Bright sat up and coughed, rubbed his Adam’s apple.
“He offered me money. Fifty K to move two girls.”
He stopped talking and looked up at them, embarrassed.
“I didn’t do it,” he said, scissoring his arms in front of him like an umpire. Safe. “I didn’t take it. I didn’t want to get involved in all that. Come on.”
“He flat out asked you?” said Cap.
“We were smoking after work one day, and he said it all off the cuff, that he’s got a way for me to make fifty K, and all I gotta do is drive the car.”
“And you weren’t interested in that at all?”
“No, man. You can clean this place out; you’re not gonna find fifty K.”
“Where did Marsh get that kind of money?”
“I don’t know,” said Bright. “I swear, I don’t know who was laying it out.”
“Do you have any idea who might be interested in a deal like that?”
Bright struggled to sit up, hunched over his knees.
“Shit, man, this is fuckin’ D-Ville,” he said, laughing, sad in a way. “Take your fuckin’ pick.”
—
Traynor had a list.
They’d put Bright in a small room with the cop named Harrison, and out had come a list. Now Vega was in Traynor’s office with Cap, Harrison, and the Fed. She stood in the corner while the men talked.
“Revs Cleary, John McKie, Harland DeMarco, Jason Boromir, goes by Bent. You remember these guys?” Traynor said to Cap.
“Little bit,” said Cap.
“They’ve all been in and out two, three times for possession, but nothing sticks. If they’re dealing, they clean out before we get to it.”
“We’re just going on Mr. Bright’s opinion at this point?” said the Fed.
“That’s correct,” said Traynor, looking up from his notes. “You’re saying this might not be the best use of our time?”
The Fed didn’t move. “I’m saying that, yes.”
It was maybe the most civilized exchange Vega had ever heard. It was like they were discussing what color to paint the living room.
Then she said: “It’s Bright’s opinion, but these are Evan Marsh’s known associates, right?”
The men turned to her.
“Right,” said Traynor.
“And they’re dealers or fences or whatever?”
“Right. Users at the least.”
“So you’d agree that’s a demographic likely to traffic in large sums of money illegally obtained?”
“Ma’am,” said the Fed. “I have no doubt these gentlemen are likely candidates—what we’re looking at is men and the time it will take to chase all of them down. We’re looking at the most likely, and how do we discern that in the quickest amount of time possible.”
She stretched her fingers at her sides, thought, Well, we stop sitting around fucking chitchatting about it for one motherfucking thing. Then she glanced at Cap. He was staring at her intently, and then he tilted his chin downward, nodding. She was confused by the gesture at first, couldn’t identify his expression.
It was conviction, that thing underneath. I am calm because I believe in you. I am right here.
“So ten minutes, okay?” she said, her mouth dry. “You have something on them, right—pictures, priors?”
“Yeah,” said Traynor.
“Let me and Caplan look at them for ten minutes, that’s it, match up the names to Maryann Marsh’s list. See if anything jumps?”
She said it like a question out of respect. I am not pissing on your investigation, Chief. I will not make trouble, Special Agent. I will stay out of your way and keep being right, and you all can come around any time you want.
—
In the blue room Ralz laid out photos and files. The faces were all familiar to Cap—he wasn’t sure if that was because he knew them personally or if they just looked like a hundred other drug dealers he’d shoved into the back of his car when he was a cop. Same dim stares, same dumbass tribal tattoos, same line of bullshit too—I wasn’t there, been outta town since Tuesday. Where’s your warrant, asshole? And then the ones who wanted to get to him, threats spit through their hillbilly teeth: You got kids, officer, I’ll find ’em. Sure hope you have a daughter.
“So,” said Junior, impatient. “What’s the course here, Cap?”
Cap looked at the three of them—Hollows, Ralz, and Vega—and realized they were all waiting for him, and also that it might be a nice thing to stop and take a little dip in the moment, but there was no time.
“We’re taking ten minutes, seeing if anything jumps for anyone. We’re looking for a type desperate enough to get past dealing or fencing or possession into kidnapping.”
“Okay,” said Junior, picking up a mugshot. Shaggy red-eyed stoner. “Revs Cleary, last time in was last year for speeding; we found marijuana in the car but just under thirty grams. He was in County for a month and released.”
Cap flipped through the file and handed it to Vega.
“Jason ‘Bent’ Boromir. Busted for possession of oxy, but the cognitively impaired prosecution couldn’t manage to prove that he had intent to sell. Apparently he had a couple thousand pills and ten boxes of commercial food service sandwich bags for his own personal use. Did just one year at Allenwood.”
Cap and Vega stared down at the photo—shaved head, teardrop tattoos. Cap handed her the paperwork.
“Harland DeMarco,” said Junior.
“I know this guy,” said Cap, remembering.
He held the picture in his hand. DeMarco was older than the rest, with white hair and tinted glasses, looked like he should have been at the other end of a craps table.
“I thought Forman got him,” said Cap.
“Forman did get him,” said Junior. “On back taxes. DeMarco lived in a new development, kept his stash in the damn wine cellar. The warrant said we could search the immediate premises, and his lawyer, some ringer from New York, got the jury to agree that the wine cellar didn’t count as immediate. We could have him on a felony. Instead we get back taxes.”
“Fuck me,” said Cap.
“Classic Denville clusterfuck,” said Junior.
Cap passed the file to Vega, said, “I can’t see him getting into kidnapping kids.”
“Why the hell not?” said Junior. “He’s got his hands in everything else from here to Harrisburg, why not kidnapping?”
“Junior,” said Cap. “Likelihood. Odds.”
Junior pawed at the ground with his foot.
“All right,” he said. “Then I say Bent could do it—he smokes a little meth himself; he’s pretty shithouse crazy. Revs, no—if we’re placing odds, no.”
“Why not?” said Cap.