Downstate

Chapter 22

Ebbett’s Falls lay an hour west of Plains.

The burg had a population of twenty-five hundred and labeled itself a “hamlet,” with far more humility than Beverly Corner. The mix appeared to be a fifty-fifty split between Anglo and Latino. People tend to think of the migrant population — documented or otherwise — working in the picking fields of California’s verdant Central Valley or the cotton and tobacco fields of the South. But the hog-butchering, skyscraper-building, smoke-spewing Illinois of the Robert Frost poem was only a portion of the state, and a small one at that.

And Ebbett’s Falls was typical of that vast majority of acreage. Its residents grew untold quantities of staples destined for America’s tables: sorghum, oats, wheat, soybeans.

And, of course, corn.

One resident of the town, Felipe Vargas, was among those who kept the cycle of food humming along smoothly.

The boy lived in a two-story beige apartment building, on a bland but clean block near downtown.

Constant Marlowe rang the bell and the boy, in jeans and a white T-shirt, appeared, letting her inside. She noted immediately that his rooms were well scrubbed and ordered, if a bit spartan. A bedroom containing a neatly made futon and dresser. A living room with a couch and small-screen TV that appeared to be used for watching streaming shows from his small laptop. A blond dining table in the kitchen sat between two mismatched chairs. A few superhero posters graced the walls, bright and bold and utterly out of context.

The most memorable feature was a shrine to his sister.

A photograph of her Catholic confirmation, another of the two of them together, when in their early teens. A dozen more. A candle was burning. It was scented. Some Indian spice aroma — jasmine maybe.

The hour was about 5:00 p.m., a weekday, and the smell of shampoo or soap was in the air too; he would have showered after his shift in the fields.

Marlowe declined the offered ice tea or soda. “The judge has scheduled the trials. No bail for Raleigh or Carr. They’ve arrested a couple others who were working for them.”

Matones...

“You need another statement?”

“No, I had to check on a related case and thought I’d stop by to give you an update. And just say hi.”

Felipe had recounted for the record the details of the day of the shoplifting incident. Wisely he mentioned nothing about his intent to kill Raleigh, but said he stole the gift cards in an attempt to prove that the man was guilty of sex trafficking and murdering his sister. That this made no sense didn’t bother the local prosecutor, who was, like most of them, less interested in motive than with the nuts and bolts of testimony and evidence to win a conviction.

The DA took into account that the “shrink” in question — the cards — had zero value and were not part of a fraud scheme. And he believed that the knife had been planted by one of the two deceased thugs to make him appear more dangerous. Charges were dismissed. And it was not within Plains County’s bailiwick to pursue Felipe for being in the country illegally. If ICE or Homeland Security wished to pursue that issue, that was up to them.

And if they did, Constant Marlowe would intervene. She was owed favors from law enforcement officers working for many different agencies. Given that his parents died at the hands of drug lords, and he too was at risk, she would make certain his asylum status was approved.

She got a text.

“Ah, that’s the other case. I’ve got to meet with a state police officer. Okay if I let him in?”

“I guess.” Felipe had probably had enough law enforcement in the past few weeks to last a lifetime but if it was Constant Marlowe doing the requesting, he wasn’t going to say no.

At the knock, she opened the door and let in a young uniformed state trooper.

And another individual too. A pretty, dark-haired Latina, around eighteen or nineteen years old. She looked around the room warily until her eyes landed on Felipe.

The identical reactions — of shock — were priceless.

He stepped forward and threw his arms around his sister, Sofia. She too gripped hard, as if it would be all too easy for the other sibling to vanish.

Both began crying softly.

“Tico, Tico...” Sofia kept whispering.

After a moment she stepped back. She turned and hugged the trooper too, embarrassing him to no end, and — after Marlowe thanked him with a smiling nod — he headed out the door to attend to less sentimental police work.

“But... How?” Felipe stammered.

Marlowe said, “You told me that one of Raleigh’s techniques was intimidating people. And that the man was cheap. I was thinking that it was a lot easier — and less expensive — to simply spread the word that he’d killed a rebellious trafficking victim rather than actually hurt her.

“I found the FleetFoot driver who took her to Raleigh’s customer in East St. Louis. He gave me the name. I went there and had a discussion with him. He admitted your sister was with him. In the basement.”

“So he’s in jail?”

Marlowe cocked her head. “He will be. After he gets out of the hospital.”

Felipe gave a brief smile.

“You’ve got a lot to get caught up on. And—”

She was interrupted by a hug of her own from Sofia. “Gracias, gracias, gracias.”

Marlowe nodded a farewell to both siblings and soon she was on her way back to Chicago.

For ten minutes, she debated.

Call?

Don’t call?

She called.

“Hey,” said Evan Quill.

Marlowe said, “Mackinac Island. Grand Hotel.”

The magnificent place was in Lake Huron, between the Upper and Lower Peninsulas of Michigan. The massive hotel dated to the 1800s and had counted among its guests a half dozen US presidents and their families. Mark Twain regularly stayed there, and Thomas Edison premiered this thing called the phonograph on the front porch.

When she was young, her parents were planning to visit the island, on what would have been their first family vacation. But events intervened and the trip never happened. Marlowe had always wanted to go.

“Heard of it. Are you... is this a trivia call?”

“Meet me there tomorrow. Just for a couple of days.”

“Long drive.”

That was impossible to deny.

He then said, “What time is good?”

“Cocktail hour?”

“That works.”

She added, “No cars. Horses only.”

“I can’t ride.”

“It’s buggies.”

“I can buggy.” A pause. He asked, “You sure about this?”

There were reasons Evan Quill would ask this question.

“I’m sure.”

“See you then.”

They disconnected.

A half hour of evangelical radio later, her phone buzzed with a text. From her boss, Stan Robbins.

She dictated and the word populated the screen:

A moment’s delay while he processed.

Then she asked:

Robbins’s response was:

No hesitation as she told her phone what to say next:

She set her phone to silent and placed it on the passenger seat — on top of the empty McDonald’s bag that had been part of the sting to collar Marcel Descartes.

Now her mind turned to a vital question: What should she pack?

This was not an idle inquiry. The last time Constant Marlowe had taken a vacation was... Well, she honestly could not remember. A little black dress? She thought she had one.

Bathing suit?

Maybe in the attic somewhere.

High heels?

She laughed.

Well, she would figure it out. She edged the car up to eighty and rather than turn on the radio again, she simply sat back and enjoyed the cool autumn air, streaming in through the window, open by default, as the phalanx of tall corn stalks, stern and indifferent, sped past.