Clean Slate

Chapter 29

"Didn't show up for work program Friday," Earl answered.

Joe loomed motionless, frowning at his screen, dwarfing his desk. "She's on a monthly with me," he reported. "Not scheduled back for two weeks yet." He looked at Earl. "When I get the no-show report from your folks, I'll seven-day her."

Which was, of course, the routine. The larger question – why was Earl here, asking up – hung in the air unasked. Earl, remaining impassive, silently debated with himself about what to say, how far to push this. "Just talking out loud, is there anyplace else she's lived, that you know of? Anyplace you think she'd run off to?"

Pipestone's large shoulders shrugged just slightly. "Hey man, whatever we know is in the file here, and you can read it as easy as me." Joe squinted at the screen. "She's from, uh, Reynosa, Tamaulipas. Lived in Port Isabel tee ex for a while, before moving northward to grace our fair city." He looked at Earl. "Like I said, I don't remember anything special about her. Run of the mill minor-in-possession second, with unlawful blood alcohol level." He grinned, which, Earl discerned, did not always, with Joe, indicate amusement. "Surprises me you guys'd go chasing like this. She can't be the first offender to ankle the work program."

"Our people flagged this one," Earl replied, "because she apparently has two little kids. When there's kids at risk, we try to scoop the offender back up quick. It's pre-emptive."

"Uh-huh," Joe replied, betraying no hint of his opinion of pre-emption, which was, along with zero tolerance, all the rage in St. Marys County law enforcement these days. "Tellya what. If Navacarrada checks in with me, I'll inquire about her children, and email you. Till then we'll do it by the book." Joe's look, intent on Earl, told the superintendent that he had run with this as far as he dared to. "That work?"

"Very well," Earl said brusquely, and left Pipestone's office. As he headed up the hall toward the waiting room, he reflected with grim amusement on the fact that the law enforcement establishment of the County of St. Marys, for all the bazillions it had invested in computer technology and data management systems, plus the truly awesome powers of intelligence gathering and sharing rendered by the USA Patriot Act, had evidently not yet linked the knifed-to-death Medardo Zamarripa to Clarisa Navacarrada. Looked to Earl like their relationship – hell: their very existence – was unofficial, undocumented. They were unmarried. God alone knew which – if either – of their names appeared on the apartment lease, if in fact there was one. And the coppers on the case were clearly not treating it like the crime of the century. Clarisa, it would appear, was in the wind now, out of reach, and no threat to Earl. But of course his interest in finding her had less to do with her threat potential and more to do with –

"Superintendent!" the young woman called, rising from her waiting room chair as Earl entered. "A word with you, please?"

Earl squinted at her. Tall, young (though too old for him), kind of angular, aggressive. Leggy and come-on in a short black outfit, shaggy choppy red hair, freckles – oh yeah. He remembered now. "What do you want?"

"Libby Lewis," she said unnecessarily, adding, for good measure: "St. Marys Blade. You're a hard man to reach." She gestured toward the outer corridor. "Step into my office?"

---

"She works in material control, over in the finish and assembly area," Doug Harpster said, shifting in his guest chair, "opposite end of the complex from injection molding, where my work cell is."

"Okay," Mac said. He sat in one of his office guest chairs, right ankle on left knee, arms loosely folded, listening. There was no need to take notes; Harpster told some version of this story at every visit, which, because of his problems getting focused, were weekly.

Different woman. Same problem.

"I know I should stay away from her," Harpster said. He was a very fit 32, dark head shaved almost bald, with a flowing black mustache and what women called bedroom eyes. He wore a fitted gray teeshirt to show off his buff physique, dark pants and brown snakeskin cowboy boots. Mac, himself no judge of such things, knew, from the man's history, and from the double-take Doug got from every woman who saw him, that the offender sitting before him was gorgeous. "I got no business over in finish and assembly," Harpster went on. "And. . .you know. . .she told me to stay away. And not contact her. She's back with her husband, says they're rebuilding."

"Yes."

"But I can't help it," Harpster said softly, brushing his forehead with his right hand. Mac had become accustomed to the sight of the foreshortened fingers, trimmed during an episode of skylarking with dynamite that had gone bad, a visible sign of Harpster's poor impulse control and even worse judgment. "I call her extension and hang up. I walk by her office on breaks to catch sight of her. I all but go in and say ‘Hi, Cheri.'" He swallowed. "I know if I did, we'd be back at it. I know she'd go."

"So it's up to you," Mac said, "to stay clear."

"It's just so hard."

"It's supposed to be hard," Mac said. "That's what makes temptation such a powerful teaching tool. It's hard." This was also, as with most parolees, about appetites. Some were more slaves to their appetites than others; Doug was a textbook case. But he had what Mac found in all his offenders, to one degree or another: a spark of sorts, something in the eyes, that told Mac there was hope for him, a chance at a turnaround. First step was owning up, taking full responsibility, confessing all. Doug was getting there. Each encounter he got a bit more self-aware. "Tell you what," Mac said, straightening, conscious that their time was about up. "Next two weeks, instead of obsessing about Cheri, think about some other things."

"Like what?"

"Well," Mac said easily, "think about the fact that your boss, out of the goodness of his heart, gave you your job back after you got out of prison. He didn't have to do that."

"Yeah," Doug grunted. "He's a good guy."

"Think about how your wife's sticking by you even though you've had three kids by two women other than her. Including one kid you're not allowed to see till your parole is up. Which," Mac went on, "is in just six months. If you can keep your nose clean. Sorry," Mac interrupted himself, "wrong anatomical cliche. If you can keep your dick in your pants."

"Yeah," Doug said softly, "yeah. I can think about all that, sure."

Mac studied the offender. His diffident answer notwithstanding, it was clear Doug had heard him. Progress. So much for carrots; now for a light dose of stick. Mac rose and led Doug into the hall and through the large hole chopped between buildings. "And think about how dumb it would be to do something that you know is going to get you into trouble again. You know Cheri's nothing but trouble for you, right?"

"Yeah," he said uncertainly.

They approached the glass doors to the waiting room. "You're current on your conditions, your costs, your therapy, and the meetings here," Mac said. Pushing open the glass door, he allowed Doug to precede him. They stood by the reception desk, close together, Mac speaking in low intent tones. "I got confirmation of your continued employment so you're square there. Look around your life, you see things improving everywhere. Just stay out of the bars, keep clear of girls under 18, and --" he rapped Doug on the shoulder once, meaningfully – "do not go near Cheri Fritsch. Deal?"

"Okay, Mr. McGladrey. I appreciate it," Doug said, expression alight with the relief every parolee exhibited at the end of a PO meeting. "See ya."

"Bye now." Mac watched Doug head out into the corridor. Just outside the outer doors, Mac was surprised to see Earl Bucaro, the bailiff bureau superintendent. The stocky tan man in sober-toned civvies was talking to a taller, younger woman with flaming red hair. Turning, Mac activated the door buzzer with his neck tag and hustled into the inner sanctum. He had no desire to see Bucaro. And he had urgent business at his desk. At the time Doug Harpster showed up for his meeting, Mac had been digging into some interesting OPP files related to one Miller, Jessica Louise.

---

Up close, Libby Lewis was one of those women who seemed to dwarf Earl. Besides being tall on those miles of legs – of which territory a great deal showed, thanks to the short black skirt – she wore high heel sandals with pearls on the straps. Her snug black jacket had a tuxedo look to it, and beneath it the dress's plunging neckline betrayed just a hint of cleavage. Lewis's face, pale and lightly made up, was freckled and sardonic within the halo of haphazard hair that radiated red. "I've left you a half dozen messages, Superintendent," she said without preamble. "What are you, too good to talk to me?"

Earl had become accustomed to effrontery from workplace women, especially those employed by the press. He did not like it, but he had come to regard it as mere bombast, a swirl of hot air that would do nothing more than break over him and flutter away. "Too busy," he answered.

"That's no excuse," she countered. "We're all running WFO."

He stared at her. "Which means?" he asked, irked.

"Wide Fucking Open."

They stood in the corridor outside the double glass entrance doors to Department of Probation and Parole. The gray marble walls and greenish slate floor echoed with the never-ending sounds of footsteps from the steady stream of people, mostly citizens, pursuing their business among the various County departments on the second floor of Fannie Annie.

"Here we are," Earl said, choosing not to react to her coarseness. "What do you want."

"Well," she said, standing hipshot and at an angle to him, to force him to walk around her if he decided to head for the big staircase that led down to the building's public exit, "I'm still working the hooker papers story, and --"

"Brody?" Earl cut in. "I'd have thought you'd have moved on to better things."

"Evidently you haven't seen today's paper?"

Earl did not routinely read the Blade, considering it to be (aside from Cal Thomas's columns) mostly bromides, rumors, and leftist mush. "It's next on my list, Miss."

She scowled. "Ms. Brody called me yesterday. From an undisclosed location. She had some interesting things to say."

Couldn't have been terribly damaging, Earl thought, or the Judge would have mentioned it this morning on the ride downtown. "I can't imagine what."

"She told me," Lewis said, "that she left St. Marys because she fears for her life."

Earl smiled. "You just blindly take the word of a convicted felon."

"She said she had the goods on a lot of heavy hitters in this town," Lewis went on.

"She can say all she wants," Earl replied.

"Of course," Lewis added, as if Earl had not spoken, "whatever evidence she had, it all went up in smoke, thanks to you."

"Under court order," Earl said patiently. "Pursuant to an agreement that she entered into. All aboveboard."

"Which brings us to Edward Fant."

Earl looked up into the reporter's gray eyes. The jolt the name gave him did not register on Earl's expression or demeanor. "Who?"

"One of the men who helped you torch those hooker records that night," Libby said. "Where is he, Superintendent?"

"How would I know?"

"He worked for you."

Earl grimaced impatiently. "His whereabouts are no business of mine. I just ran the detail for Judge Scott, took along some day help. The keeping-track-of, I delegate all that."

"Mr. Fant and I, we had an interesting little exchange that night," Lewis said thoughtfully. "I want to pursue it with him."

"Be my guest."

She glanced at him, and then stared off into space, toward the glass doors leading into the probation department. In silence they stood, a minor test of wills, neither with a handy next move, neither willing to concede the ground. Then Lewis said, in low husky tones: "Wow."

She was staring into the probation department waiting room. Earl looked too, and saw, at the opposite side, a work program graduate and chronic jerk-off – Harpster, his name was – engaged in intense discussion with that PO Earl had met: Mac McGladrey. Doesn't McGladrey ever change his wardrobe? Earl wondered.

"Who's the gorgeous hunk of man flesh?" Lewis asked, tone warm and appreciative.

Startled at the frankness of her question and tone, but happy to distract her in any way, Earl replied: "Him? Oh, what he is, is a child molester."

She glanced down at him. "Get out."

"Married man," Earl said. "Started up an affair with a 14 year old babysitter. Got her pregnant. Did a year on statutory rape. Must be he's on parole now."

Lewis sighed. "That's a shame. A criminal waste of a great head of blond hair."

Earl looked at the men again, smiled to himself, and almost let it go. But then he had an idea, which at the time he thought was very clever, but that he had no way of knowing would be complicit in his undoing. "Oh," he said. "No. Who you're looking at, that's McGladrey. He's a parole officer."

Lewis smiled. "Get out."

"Matter of fact," Earl said briskly, "he's Fant's PO. Maybe he can help you." And get you off my back, Earl added, but did not say.

"Maybe he can," she said thoughtfully. "Thank you, Superintendent."

"Not at all, miss," he said, watching her shapely ass as she walked – make that prowled – toward the double glass doors.

---

But they were not to meet. Not quite yet.

By the time Libby Lewis strode into the OPP waiting room, Mac had already gone through the inner secured doors. He was walking briskly toward his office, anxious to finish his research on Jessica Miller. Who had been – no surprise – less than forthcoming with him. Curiosity about her burned within him, so much so that he'd woken up in the night, interrupting a dream about him and Nicholas at the beach, and sat up straight in bed, hearing her voice echo, as if she'd spoken aloud to him there: I know how you Court House guys are.

Who did she mean by "guys"? What did she mean by "how"?

Halfway to his office he saw Abigail poke her head out her door, then come bustling out toward him, expression clouded with concern. "You better get in there," she said, low and urgent. "You got big trouble."