Say Goodbye

TWENTY-TWO

“THERE ARE THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND KNOWN SPECIES of spiders in the world,” Sal was saying. “According to what I read, experts believe that’s only one-fifth of the total. Better yet, they are the most popular ‘nontraditional’ pet in the United States. Jeez, and I thought all the freaks collected pythons.”

“Pythons grow too big,” Kimberly informed him. “Wind up released in the Florida Everglades, where they’re devouring everything that moves. I don’t think the alligators are very happy about it.”

Sal and Kimberly were sitting inside the cargo area of a white van, vaguely disguised to appear like a utility vehicle, while actually belonging to GBI’s tech department. It was night four of operation Fly Trap. Ginny was somewhere inside the Foxy Lady, wired up and waiting to see if Dinchara would show. Sal and Kimberly were holding down the fort in the tech van, floor littered with empty coffee cups (Sal) and water bottles (Kimberly). Assisting them was an audio technician, Greg Moffatt, and an undercover female special agent, Jackie Sparks. Moffatt sat way in the back, watching a glowing panel of audio bars while mumbling a litany of technical jargon only he could understand. Sparks, playing the role of a girl who just wanted to have fun, was somewhere in the club, keeping tabs on Ginny.

Ginny knew about Moffatt, but not about Sparks. Just because Ginny was risking her life by wearing a wire, after all, was no reason to tell her everything. They’d gone over the audio setup. They’d devised a cover story. They’d turned her loose.

Ginny’s assignment: Get Dinchara to admit shooting Tommy Mark Evans, or tie him to any of the six girls from the collection of driver’s licenses. That would provide the corroboration Sal needed to formally assemble a task force to pursue Dinchara in earnest.

Four nights later, however, Dinchara remained a no-show, which was starting to make the team anxious. Sal had had to practically beg, borrow, and steal to get this level of GBI resource. In another night, two if the operation didn’t deliver results, that would be that.

“Turns out,” Sal continued, headset connecting him to Ginny held against his left ear, tiny black earpiece connecting him to Special Agent Sparks in his right, “spider collecting isn’t as small a niche market as I thought. There are hundreds of Internet dealers offering everything from a spiderling for a few bucks to an adult female Brachypelma baumgarteni for eight hundred dollars.”

“Eight hundred dollars?” Kimberly asked incredulously.

“Yeah. Females are expensive. They live two to three times as long as the males, plus can be used for breeding. Which was the other education I received-you have no idea how many articles exist on how to sex a tarantula.”

Kimberly stared at him.

“It’s a big deal,” he assured her. “How’d you like to fork out the extra money for a female, only to get sent a male by mistake?”

“I can honestly say I hope never to have that problem.”

“Then there are the various spider societies,” he continued. “Plus ArachnoCon, the annual gathering of arachnid enthusiasts. I mean, do a Google search for ‘tarantula’ and what doesn’t come up? Spiders are everywhere.”

“No kidding.”

“I also turned up allusions to illegal imports of spiders,” Sal supplied briskly. “The really exotic specimens aren’t widely available for enthusiasts, and some guys-or gals-don’t like to wait. Hey, as long as a Colombian is importing drugs why not also throw in a Xenesthis immanis as well and make a quick extra grand?”

“A xenthis whatis?”

“Xenesthis immanis. It’s a kind of tarantula, has purple markings at the leg joints, ending in silver tips. Gotta say, online photo looked very pretty. Not that I’m in the market. Point is, that particular species isn’t available due to the current ban on Colombian imports. So the rabid collector might resort to a backdoor deal instead. Spider gets shipped to Mexico, from Mexico to Texas, from Texas to rabid collector, with lots of palms greased in between. Happens more often than you think.”

“Given that I haven’t thought about it at all,” Kimberly muttered, “that’s probably true.”

“It gives us another angle,” Sal stated. “Say Dinchara shows up and we get enough on tape to have probable cause for a warrant. Well, unless he leaves his bloody gloves out in the open, chances are we aren’t making an arrest that afternoon. On the other hand, the Department of Wildlife or the USDA or whoever the hell it is that has jurisdiction over creepy crawlies might be able to hold him on charges of illegal arachnid import. And that gives us more time and excuses to dig into his affairs.”

“Nice thinking,” Kimberly said, impressed.

“Well, that is plan B,” Sal replied modestly. “Originally, I was thinking we could use the spider angle to track him down, but once I realized a third of Atlanta has an arachnid fetish, I had to change gears.”

“I wonder about the tattoos,” Kimberly murmured. “That’s an impressive tat climbing up Ginny’s neck. What do you want to bet Dinchara took her to the tattoo parlor himself, a place he knew because he had work done there as well?”

“We should photograph her neck,” Sal agreed. “Get the picture into circulation; see if someone recognizes the artist. Oh, what I’d give to have a real task force at my disposal.”

“You mean, with officers other than our current overworked duo, one of whom may have to abandon the investigation in order to give birth?”

“It’s a complication.”

“Story of my life,” Kimberly said drily. “Complicated.”

She sighed, staring out the front windshield of the van. She didn’t want to think about her personal life. The tenuous détente that marked her day-to-day interactions with Mac. That fact that they had one week to figure out the rest of their lives, and here they were, day four and she was once again working late.

Mac didn’t ask her anymore. Didn’t pry. He just waited, and she found his silence more unnerving than his sales pitch.

He should take the supervisory position in Savannah. It would be stupid not to. He was right; their lives were changing. Might as well focus on his career because one way or another, hers was slipping into low gear. What the hell. She would stay at home. Nurse the baby. Watch Oprah. Read self-help books.

Except that didn’t sound like her. She was selfish, emotionally stunted, and obsessed with work. And, in her own way, she was happy.

“We got conversation.” Moffatt, the technician, spoke up.

Sal and Kimberly snapped to attention, obediently tuning in to their headphones. So far, Ginny had been propositioned about half a dozen times. If they’d been working a prostitution sting, they would’ve done good business.

This, however, appeared more serious.

“We need to talk,” Ginny was saying in an urgent voice. The hooker sounded strung out, anxious.

“Why aren’t you working?” a man was asking. “Get out there and shake that moneymaker, honey.”

“First, we need to talk,” Ginny tried again.

Sal lifted the black handheld radio from his lap, broadcasting to Special Agent Sparks: “We need a visual: unidentified male, currently speaking with Miss Jones.”

“Roger that” came the crackling reply, then a short pause as Sparks made her way through the club.

“I want a blood test,” Ginny was saying, voice more strident. “I’ve been reading about tattoos and the risk of hepatitis.” This had been Kimberly’s idea. “How do I know I don’t have anything? What about my baby? What if it gets sick, too? You need to help me.”

“I have a visual,” Special Agents Sparks reported in a low murmur. “I see a white male, approximately mid thirties, five foot ten, one hundred sixty, one hundred seventy pounds. Wearing dark brown workman’s boots, blue denim, and long-sleeved green shirt, rolled up to the forearms. Has a worn red baseball cap pulled down low over his face, obscuring his features.”

“What the fuck?” the man was grumbling harshly. “You called me down here for a blood test? What’d I look like to you, an HMO?”

“I need money-”

“Then get back to work!”

“I can’t work,” Ginny whined. “I’m tired all the time, guys don’t want me. Creeps ’em out, you know, a pregnant hooker.”

“Shoulda thought of that four months ago. You wanna eat, I suggest you find a bleeding heart who pays extra for a hard-luck fuck.”

Kimberly heard the swish of denim. The man turning to leave? Then, a quick slap as Ginny grabbed the man’s arm.

“I wanna negotiate,” the girl said desperately. “Hear me out. I got something to say.”

Kimberly and Sal exchanged glances.

“What do you mean negotiate?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Not here,” Ginny said. “Privately.”

“Ah shit,” Sal said.

“She’s going AWOL,” Kimberly seconded. Ginny was under strict orders to remain in public view. They should’ve known better.

“Jackie…” Sal rumbled into the radio.

“I’m on it,” the special agent replied.

“Don’t fuck with me,” the man was saying now, voice ominous.

“I just wanna talk. All right? We’ll go to your car. Fool around. It’ll be like old times.”

The man didn’t reply. Kimberly had a mental image of Ginny pulling him through the churning crowds.

“Subject approaching the front doors,” Special Agent Sparks intoned over the radio. “Exiting in three, two, one…”

The front doors opened. Ginny stumbled out first, looking shaky and agitated. She wore the customary micro mini, but a longer top to help conceal the hardware they’d tucked inside her push-up bra. She fiddled with the bra now, jiggling the cups a little, and a rush of static flooded the headphones.

“Tell me she didn’t just-” Sal started, but then audio returned. He breathed a sigh of relief, but Kimberly didn’t think they were out of the woods yet.

A man had appeared behind Ginny. Trim, wiry build. Brown hair, tanned forearms. Jeans and shirt were nicer than she expected. Less chicken farmer, more Eddie Bauer. The brim of a faded red baseball cap was pulled low over his face, leaving behind the impression of a hat, instead of a person. Now you see him, now you don’t.

The man headed down the street, Ginny no longer talking but hanging on to his arm. A moment later, the front door opened and Sparks appeared, making a show of lighting up a cigarette, then strolling off in the same direction as the happy couple, cigarette dangling from her fingertips.

Sal and Kimberly exchanged another glance.

“What the hell is Ginny doing?” Sal whispered in agitation.

“I don’t know.”

“We’re FUBAR.”

“Wanna tell Sparks to abort?”

“Nah,” Sal said nervously. “Not yet.”

They went back to their headsets, listening for Ginny in one ear and Special Agent Sparks in the other.

From the left, the sound of a car door opening, slamming shut. Ginny’s high-pitched giggle. “So you really are happy to see me…”

From the right, Sparks’s clipped tones. “Subject and Miss Jones have entered a black Toyota FourRunner with silver trim. Vehicle coated with mud; can’t read license plate.”

“We can have him picked up on a minor infraction,” Sal whispered.

“Shhhh.” Kimberly held a finger to her lips.

“So what’s it gonna be, big boy,” Ginny was saying. “Suck or fuck?”

“Talk, you little bitch. I didn’t come all the way down here to get played by some hooker. Asking me to pay for a goddamn blood test. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Ginny said hastily. “I mean, I couldn’t think of any other way to get your attention.”

Long pause.

“Ginny, you’d better start talking, or so help me God, you won’t be worrying about hepatitis no more.”

“They’re asking about me.”

“Who?”

“Special agents. From the GBI. They claim that working girls are disappearing. They wanna know what’s going on. They keep asking for Ginny Jones.”

“What’d you tell ’em?”

“Nothin’! I mean, girls head to Texas all the time, right? I said maybe they should try there.”

“Other names they mentioned?” the man pressed.

“Dunno.”

He slapped her. The sharp crack of the blow caught Kimberly off guard, made her flinch.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t-”

Another thwack of skin connecting with skin. Sal’s knuckles had gone white on the headphones. His face was grim.

“DON’T LIE TO ME!”

“I don’t remember! I’m sorry, they were talking, there were so many names and I was trying to be quiet, not call attention. No, don’t hit me, I’m not lying, I swear, I swear, I swear, I swear.”

Another blow. More screaming.

“Abort,” Kimberly said, looking at Sal, the lines etching his face. “She’s done. We gotta get her out.”

But Sal shook his head. “No, he’s just messing with her. He’s not serious yet. That’s what’s so crappy about it. He doesn’t even mean it yet.”

And maybe Sal was right, because the other end of the headphones finally grew quiet.

“You got thirty seconds, girl. What the hell do you really want?”

The silence again, long and taut. Then Ginny exclaimed in a rush: “I want to see my mother, okay? I just wanna…see her.”

“What?”

“Holy mother of God,” Sal intoned.

“She’s going for it,” Kimberly agreed, and found herself on the edge of her seat. Ginny had given up trying to get Dinchara to mention the names of the missing girls. She was attempting to tie him to her mother’s murder instead. Kimberly was torn between wanting to hear what Ginny was going to say next, and wanting to bolt down the street straight to the mud-covered SUV, because this wasn’t going to end well.

“I remember the tape,” Ginny was whispering. “I know she’s gone…what you did to her. I tried to tell myself it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she ever cared about me.”

“You implying I did something wrong, Ginny Jones?” the man asked coldly.

“I’m just saying…”

“You, the high-school dropout, ran away from home to sell your ass for twenty-five bucks a pop, four months knocked up?”

“Stop it…”

“I mean, if I were a cop, I’d say you look pretty good for it. Small-town girl nobody ever liked. Killed your mom to get away, killed your rivals in order to compete. Do we got lethal injection in Georgia? I don’t remember, but seems to me it wouldn’t be that hard for a jury to send white trash like you off to where you belong-inside stone walls, baby taken away, strapped to a gurney, needle entering the vein…”

“I hate you,” Ginny whispered. “Why are you like this? You’re so mean.”

“Why are you such a loser, Ginny? Why do you sell your body, get yourself knocked up? Hell, seems to me you’re the one with all the problems. I’m certainly not dialing you up to piss and moan all night.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Nah, I’m the man in charge. And you’d better start remembering that. Now get the fuck out, and don’t bother me again. It’s the cops’ job to ask questions. It’s your job to shut the fuck up. Got it?”

“I want to see her.”

“Girl, weren’t you just listening-”

“She was my mom! And now I’m gonna be a mom. And it…It just doesn’t feel right, ending like this. I wanna talk to her again. Tell her ’bout the baby. Make peace. Say goodbye.”

“What are you, fuckin’ crazy?”

“She’s somewhere, right? I mean, you buried her or dumped her or burned her or did whatever it is you do to the bodies. But she’s somewhere. A grave. If you could just tell me where, so I could go to her…I won’t touch anything. I just wanna talk.”

“Jackie…” Sal whispered nervously.

“Are you wearing a wire?” Dinchara’s voice suddenly boomed.

“Wh-wh-what? Don’t be crazy-”

“Are you setting me up? Are you setting me up?”

A hastily indrawn breath, Ginny’s sharp, short cry.

“Jackie!” Sal, over the radio, demanding now.

Kimberly, rising out of her seat, trying to figure out what to do.

“Where the hell is it! Tell me! NOW!”

“Stop it! Stop it! You’re hurting me! Let go of my arm. I just wanna talk to my mom. Haven’t you ever been around a pregnant woman before? It’s hormonal. Honest!”

“Where is it, where is it, where is it? Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“Stop, stop, stop! It hurts. Oh God, let go-”

Kimberly leapt for the door of the van, hand on the door, preparing to slide it open. Just as Ginny started to scream in her ear again, high-pitched and thin, a sudden pounding sound came from the other side of her brain.

“Hey.” Special Agent Sparks’s giddy voice broadcast through the madness. “Sounds like a party. Can anyone join in?” Another high-pitched giggle, the crack of chewing gum. “Hey, mister, nice wheels. You like to go four-wheelin’? How about takin’ me for a ride?”

“Holy mother of God.” Sal looked like he was having a heart attack. He was doubled over in his seat, both hands on his head.

Kimberly wavered next to the door, equally transfixed.

Sparks babbled away: “I mean check this out. I haven’t seen mud like this since I rode my daddy’s John Deere across the chicken farm.”

“Get out.” Dinchara spoke up tersely. “Private party.”

“Now, now, now, mister. It’s a slow night. Can’t blame a girl for trying, ’specially with a fine-looking man. Been a while since I’ve seen a full set of teeth, know what I mean. Hey, honey, are you pregnant?”

“I’m tired,” Ginny intoned. “I think I’d like to go now.”

“Oh, honey, you’d better. Working while you’re pregnant? That’s no way to live.”

“Ah fuck it,” Dinchara said. “I’m tired, too.”

“Now, now, no need to be like that. I mean, if you really wanna rumble, big fella-”

Door creaking open. Sounds of a minor scuffle. Ginny’s startled exclamation. The man’s low curse. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Hey, now, big daddy-”

“I am not your fuckin’ daddy. Get out of my truck!”

“Okay, okay, no need to get testy. I’m just a sucker for leather seats. Reminds me of the pigs on my daddy’s farm-”

“GET OUT!”

“I’m going, I’m going, don’t get your panties in a wad. Men. Give ’em fancy wheels and they think they rule the world.”

Footsteps now. A vehicle door slamming shut. An engine roaring to life.

Sparks, back in the earpiece, her voice clear and concise. “Suspect has pulled out, heading north-”

Her tone got them both moving again. Sal grabbed the radio, describing the vehicle and requesting a traffic stop. Kimberly opened the van’s door, preparing for Ginny and Sparks to scramble in.

She spotted Sparks half a block away, running up the street, pulling Ginny behind her. Ginny’s right cheek bore the red imprint of the man’s hand. Her nose was running, her lashes clumped with tears.

“Who the hell is this?” she screeched immediately upon spotting Kimberly. “Did you send someone to spy on me?”

“More like backup,” Kimberly said briskly.

She helped them both climb in, glancing left, then right. So far, so good. She slid the door shut behind, while Sparks unhanded her charge, then held out her other arm in triumph.

“Brought you a present,” the special agent declared. “Look what fell out of the truck amid all the confusion: I got the man’s boot!”