“Police,” a woman’s voice sounded.
Luellen worked a big cinderblock back from the door, and removed a concrete support steel bar that she had found on a construction site.
She had the same set of improvised locks at the back door, too. Even if Jerald or his bad friends could get in, she’d at least hear things scraping and clanging, and have time to get out her matte-black nine-millimeter Baretta Model 92FS pistol with its Tritium night sights, wood grips, and fifteen-shot magazine. The gun had come from Jerald, as well, and it had been a big mistake giving her this hand-me-down. If he so much as knocked on her door, it would be his last gesture.
“Come on in,” Luellen said to the two police officers at the top of concrete steps.
Brazil’s eyes adjusted to the glaring illumination of a naked lightbulb in a plastic Greek column lamp. A small TV was on, the Braves playing the Dodgers. There was a boom box in a corner, walls bare, the bed unmade and right there in the living room, a little girl sitting on it. She had braids and sad eyes. It was hot as hell in here, and Brazil started sweating. So did West. She had attached an endless form on top of her metal clipboard, and was prepared to do a lot of writing. Luellen began by telling the police lady all about Wheatie, including that he was adopted and jealous as hell of Tangine and the unborn baby, yet unnamed.
“He called you after he missed the bus,” West repeated as she wrote.
“Wanted me to come get him, and I told him I had no way,” Luellen said.
“Last time I was pregnant, he jumped on me and I lost the baby.
He was fifteen then. Always been hateful because he’s adopted, like I told you. Trouble from day one. ”
“You got a recent picture of him?” West asked.
“Packed up. Don’t know if I can get to it.” Mother described Wheatie as small, bad skin, wearing Adidas, baggy jeans hanging off, teal green Hornets T-shirt and baseball cap, and a fade haircut. He could be anywhere, but Luellen worried that he was running with bad kids and into drugs. Brazil felt sorry for Tangine, who seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things as she climbed down from the bed, fascinated by this blond man in his fancy uniform with all its shiny leather. He got out his Mag-Lite and started bouncing the beam around on the floor, playing with her like she was a cat. Tangine didn’t know what to make of this and got scared. She was screaming and did not intend to stop by the time the police left. Mother watched Brazil and West feel their way down the steps in the complete dark.
“Way to go,” West said to her partner, as Tangine wailed and shrieked.
Brazil missed a step and landed on his ass.
“I’d put a light on if I had one,” Luellen said from the doorway.
The next two hours were spent in the records room. West continued to fill out forms, having no idea that there were so many of them these days. It was astonishing, and she was unfamiliar with anyone back here tonight, and all were rude and not inclined to respect West’s rank.
Were she paranoid, she might have suspected a conspiracy, as if someone had instructed the clerks to give the deputy chief a bad dose, to stick her but good. Mostly, West got their backs as they typed, and sipped their Frescas and Diet Cokes. West could have asserted herself, but didn’t. She entered the missing person information in NCIC herself.
She and Brazil rode around for a while in the Midland area, hoping they might spot the small adopted son with bad skin and Hornets cap.
They drove slowly past kids hanging out on corners, and beneath street lights, hateful eyes following. Wheatie remained at large, and as the evening wore on, Brazil had developed a relationship with him. Brazil imagined Wheatie’s wretched life, his loneliness and anger. What chance did anyone like that have? Nothing but bad examples, and cops out there like cowboys waiting to lasso and round him up.