Between a Grizzly and Her Cub: Part 5

Chad steered his Prius towards his home. A sleek, black sports car sat on his driveway, left him no room for his own vehicle. Detective Redwood leaned backwards against the sports car. He wore a suit, tie, and black sunglasses.

Chad’s cellphone rang in his pocket. He answered while he parked his car along the road.

“It’s Ernie,” his called said. “I found the security footage you wanted. Still haven’t identified Valdus Qasim. Won’t get the chance until tomorrow.”

Chad shut off his engine. “Thanks. I’ll head towards your place in half and hour.” He disconnected, selected an app on his phone, and slid it into the pocket of his windbreaker.

He took his time, wanted to force the smug detective to wait. Chad checked his mailbox, discovered a bill and an eviction notice. White envelope. Not pink. Nothing to panic about yet.

He strolled up his driveway. “Officer Redwood.”

“Detective Redwood,” the cop said. “I fear you got it wrong on purpose this time.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Let’s discuss it inside.”

“No.”

Redwood digested that. “Pardon?”

“We can talk out here.”

“I'd rather not.”

“Then go home.” Chad pushed past him and headed towards his front door.

“You possess an attitude, Mister Heel,” Redwood said. “You’re arrogant.”

Chad spun around in a three thousand-horsepower huff. “You don’t possess honesty. You’re a shitty cop.” He marched towards Redwood. “You know damn well someone murdered my brother, but you won’t do anything about it.”

Redwood removed his sunglasses, exposed the ugly scar that disfigured his face and the smoky orb that served as his right eye. “Don’t act too smart for your own good.”

“That a threat?” Chad stood nose-to-nose with the other man.

Redwood spoke slowly and steadily. “I had a puppy when I was a kid. He used to bite the wire that connected my mother's lamp to an electric outlet. He wouldn’t let it go. He chewed and chewed, until lightning flashed through his jaws, cooked his brains.”

“Too subtle,” Chad said, stone-faced.

“When you left the autopsy room, you wore the expression of a puppy that wanted to chew on something. I took the time from my busy schedule to come here and warn you to. Let. It. Go.”

Chad went for broke. “You’re protecting someone. Who killed my brother? I deserve the truth.”

“The truth?” Redwood snorted, slipped on his sunglasses. “The truth is that curious, stubborn puppies get buried in the backyard.” He got in his car, started his engine.

Chad unlocked his front door, entered, and shut it. He removed his cellphone from his pocket, switched off the phone's voice recorder app. He hadn’t captured a confession from Redwood, but he had a threat.

He called Internal Affairs, made an appointment for tomorrow afternoon to speak with someone named Agent Teller.

Chad knows how not to get himself adopted. If a family won’t take his brother, David, then Chad ensures that they will not take him. When potential foster parents interview him, Chad picks his nose, says wildly inappropriate remarks, farts if necessary.

He hangs onto the hope that his father will surface. He clings to that hope the way a child holds the string of a balloon.

Balloons and hope run out of air, shrivel . . . deflate.

Ernie sat in front of his desk in his basement. Chad sat on the other plastic chair.

On Ernie’s computer screen, security footage from an ATM played. David stood onscreen. His eyes darted with a curious mixture of guilt, optimistic anticipation, and shot nerves.

“He withdraws five hundred dollars and then another sixty,” Ernie said. “Three times, each on a Thursday.”

Chad watched his dead brother onscreen. “Where?”

“Lehigh Acres. Middle of nowhere.”

“Must be something near there.”

Ernie’s fingers danced across a keyboard. Google Maps materialized on a second computer screen. “We have a bar, a liquor store, a motel that looks like a great place to stock up on meth, and a rusty trailer park.”

A lump clogged Chad’s throat. His eyes drifted towards the first monitor, towards his brother’s sweaty, guilty expression. “Can you give me an address for the hotel?”

“I can do better than that.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Ernie’s fingers assaulted his keyboard. “I can give you directions.”

Detective Redwood sat in his den inside the house he shared with two dogs. Ice clinked in his glass. He flopped into a heavy, green recliner, heaved a sigh, and made a phone call.

The receiver rang in his ear four times before a gruff, Russian voice answered. “Do you have Mister Heel under control?”

Redwood sipped his Scotch. “Negative. We'll have to persuade him to mind his own business.”

To be continued . . .