Tony drummed his fingers on his desk and looked at me. "We've got to stop meeting like this."
Detective Antoine "Tony" Fleming was a slender, fit African-American who preferred to be called "black." He and I had first met two years ago, when I was trying to find a missing woman for her parents, and he was trying to track the identity of a burned corpse found with smashed teeth and severed fingertips. We ran into each other practically on the suspect's doorstep, and together came through a gunbattle and standoff that followed. The experience gave us a strong sense of camaraderie that lasted for about a week, until professional duties interfered. I hadn't seen him since.
Now thanks to a ride back to the station with the Boys In Blue, I was sitting across his desk from him in the detective squadroom at ten PM.
"Stormfront's not a group you want to poke around in alone," he said.
"Somehow," I said, "having a black man with me probably wouldn't help."
"I'm not volunteering," he said. "I've got my own job, and I'd rather spend my time off with my kids than chasing neo-nazi punks."
A framed picture on his desk showed two five-year-old boys in lifejackets, smiling as wide as their faces would allow.
"Are these the twins?" I said. "They got big when I wasn't looking. Everyone doing well? How's Marcia?"
"Left me in March," he said. "Got it finalized over the summer."
"Oh."
"This job doesn't accommodate a real life very well," he said matter-of-factly.
"Sorry," I said.
He shifted his weight, changing the subject. "What about that big Samoan guy you sometimes hire for muscle?"
"Sammy Moapa? Same problem. Too Samoan, and too conspicuous."
"Yeah, I guess." He drummed his fingers further, a little riff that I almost recognized from some big band number. "So the Latinos didn't start the fight."
"Nope."
"And you're not going to identify the other players more specifically."
"No, because to do so I'd have to tell you the whole story, which would entail admitting that I was somewhere that legally I shouldn't have been."
"Gotcha." He pushed his chair back from the desk. "I'm getting some coffee. You?"
"I need to sleep when I get home." I stood up. "Speaking of which, can one your boys deliver me back out to that neighborhood where they picked me up? I need to get my car."
"We're not a taxi service." That meant yes.
He came around the desk, on his way for coffee.
"Listen," he said. "You need any help on these Stormfront guys, uniformed help, or you have anything good on them, you pass it along. I've got some friends that have been hassled by them before. One ended up in the hospital. Not enough evidence to convict anyone, but they're on my radar. Got it?"
"Got it," I said, and shook his hand.
** ** **
It was almost midnight when I got home. Both units were quiet. The light over my kitchen sink was on, and a note was propped against the salt and pepper shakers on the table:
Rennie,
Evening went well. Beth did her homework and was in bed by nine p.m. Hope the evening was productive for you.
Janice
I considered a late shower, then decided against it. After a quick bowl of bran flakes, I undressed and fell into bed.
I slept well for about three hours, until Beth's screams from the other bedroom woke me. I stumbled in to where she was shrieking and thrashing, slipped into her bed, and held her thin seven-year-old body until the whimpering and tremors subsided, and her breathing slowed and deepened. Eventually I fell back into a sleep that wasn't nearly as restful as it should have been.
In the morning, Beth tried to climb out of bed over my without waking me. It didn't work.
"Did I have another bad dream?" she asked nonchalantly, as if asking about somebody else. She never remembered the terrors that had her thrashing in her bedclothes.
"Naw, I did. I came in here 'cause I was scared."
"Liar." She shucked off her nightgown and started dressing for school.
** ** **
After trundling Beth off to school, I called Ernst Vielstich.
"Mr. Vielstich," I said, "I screwed up."
I explained briefly about the events of the night before.
"So I had the book in my hands," I said, "but I couldn't carry it and get away. And now Castler and friends will know that someone's trying to get it, and they'll keep it somewhere else not so easy to find."
"Hans Mueller will keep it," said Vielstich. "The blond man who chased you was the same man who offered to buy the book from me. He will keep it with him."
"Then he'll probably move out of the Castler's spare bedroom," I said. "In fact, he's probably already gone."
"But he will stay close. He must."
"Why?" I asked.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"Mr. Vielstich," I said, "I still want to retrieve your property for you. But to do that now, I need to understand more what exactly this book is, why Mueller and Stormfront want it, and what they intend to do with it."
Vielstich cleared his throat. "I have remembered," he said, "the friend of a friend who recommended your services. His name was Lindell Binns. Do you remember him?"
Lindell Binns had hired me the previous year to find out where his wife was spending occasional weekends "with her friends." It turned out to be far more than simple infidelity; by the end, the case had involved goddess worship gone bad, several felonies, and attempted human sacrifice.
"I remember Mr. Binns," I said.
"I feel, given your involvement there, that you are probably more sensitive than most to matters which fall outside of the mainstream. So I will tell you something more about this book. Let me find my bus schedule, and I will arrange to meet you at your office."
"Tell you what," I said. "I have a car, and I'm not at my office yet anyway. Give me your address and I'll meet you there."
He hemmed and hawed and almost told me it wasn't "proper," but eventually he relented and gave me his address.
"Please remember," he said, "I am an old man who lives alone. My home is orderly enough for my needs, but I rarely entertain guests."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said.
