Dorsey was across Butler, relaxing behind the steering wheel of the Buick. Traffic had been sporadic for the most part, punctuated by the passing of trailer trucks that used every inch of the street, causing Dorsey to wince each time one moved along. Part of the morning had been spent in front of a computer screen, confirming that Anthony Predic had purchased the building two years earlier at a rock-bottom price. The previous owner had been a shoemaker with his shop on the first floor. Dorsey wondered if the shoemaker had known what was going on upstairs all those years. He also wondered if the trick with the key had been on the deed. Now, across the street, when the trucks gave him a break, he watched a young man wash the storefront window of what was now The Boilermaker Lunchbox. From his vantage point, Dorsey could see a long serving counter with restored swivel stools, several large and well-shined coffee urns, and a line of booths at the far wall.
Behind the wheel he scratched a few comments into a notebook, the sort of thing he always did because he realized that in this business, the final report is everything. Send the report and attach the invoice, and hope that the report convinces the customer to pay the invoice. His notes described the people who had left their children. All had been working class, the two couples appearing to be stuck at the bottom of the scale. The men had the half beards of hoped-for maturity and wore old jeans, T-shirts with a hockey-playing penguin on them, and matching ball caps. The women wore the same outfits, but they somehow made them appear a bit more feminine. The single woman had been dressed in the white uniform that identified her as anything from a nurse to a waitress. It convinced Dorsey that the nursing profession should find itself new, and more specific, attire.
He dropped the notebook on the seat next to him and worked his back deeper into the upholstery. Why bother with notes? He reminded himself that after his last job with Mrs. Leneski, she had refused a written final report, but she had paid. As always, she was an exception. And you, you figured she might be heading toward dementia. The undertaker steals, the checkout girl cheats customers to get in good with the manager she’s already sleeping with, and maybe the cabbage heads are talking to her. But Catherine has been nowhere near the serving counter all morning and instead is up to something on the second floor. Mostly shaky people knock on the door, she drops the key, in they go and come back without their kids. Nothing illegal in that — pretty goddamned weird, but not illegal.
Dorsey stayed on watch for another hour or so until one of the young couples who had been there earlier returned. The routine with the key was repeated, and they came back out with a child and stroller. Dorsey slipped out of the car, adjusted his sport shirt to cover the Glock he carried in a waistband holster, and crossed the street. He slipped by the young couple without a word and went into the Lunchbox.
“Where’s the back steps?” Dorsey asked the young man behind the counter. “Tony and Outlaw said I ought to use the back way, not mess around with the key.”
“Neither of them are here,” the young man said, dunking coffee cups into a sink of blue water. “Want to wait? Supposed to be back in just a bit.”
“I know all about that,” Dorsey said, “but I’m supposed to wait up top.”
Dorsey watched the young man’s eyes dart about. C’mon, kid, buy into it.
“Maybe I should call them on the cell,” the guy said.
“Fine by me, but I’m supposed to be looking over the second floor before they get back, understand?”
The man sighed. “C’mon, back this way. But I’m still gonna call.”
He led Dorsey behind the counter and past the glass doors of a cooler stocked with sliced luncheon meats and into the backroom. There was a flight of steps to the left and as they climbed Dorsey asked the young man if he had to get ready for the lunch crowd.
“What there is of it,” he answered, unlocking the door at the top of the steps. He pushed it open and stood aside. “But I still have to get it ready.”
Dorsey wedged past him and heard the door being closed and locked behind him. He was in what had once been an apartment kitchen, no appliances but a large sink decorated with rust stains was attached to the far wall. Around it, three stacks deep, were sealed cardboard cartons. Dorsey looked them over and found flat screens, microwaves ovens, and a few Bose radios. He smiled. Don’t look too bad for having fallen off the truck.
Out in a long hallway that ran the length of the building, Dorsey moved along listening to the sound of recorded music and children’s singing voices. He passed a closed door and made his way to an open doorway at the front of the building, across the hall from the front staircase. Inside were two boys and a girl, topping out at age five, Dorsey figured, half asleep on the floor in front of a flat-screen TV. An animated story was playing out; a couple of bears were singing advice to a wide-eyed girl.
None of the kids took notice as Dorsey crossed the room to three cribs against the far wall, opposite the windows. One was empty but the other two held sleeping infants, apparently undisturbed by the singing. On the floor between two of the cribs was a kitchen food scale lying on its side, plastic baggies scattered around it. He heard some light footfalls in the hallway, turned, and saw Catherine walk into the room.
“Who the hell are you?” she said in a voice that was a bit angered but also bewildered. She wore jeans and a black T-shirt and her hair was matted back against the sides of her head. It was the eyes that Dorsey concentrated on. Half shuttered and high as a kite. “I didn’t hear anyone knock.”
“And you didn’t send down the key,” Dorsey responded. “Forgot about that part.”
“That’s right,” she said. “The key.”
Dorsey shook his head and turned to the children in front of the TV. He took two of them gently by the shoulder and tried to rouse them. All he got in return were two weak yawns. He turned back to Catherine.
“Doesn’t really matter what you’re on these days,” Dorsey told her, settling his eyes on her face. “But what did you give these kids? And what are you doing with them?”
Catherine appeared to drift for a second. “Benadryl,” she said. “Just a little. Keeps them quiet.”
Dorsey stepped back to the cribs. “The infants too?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “They sleep for hours that way.”
Jesus, Dorsey thought, day care for drugged-out parents. “What is it?” he asked her. “A young couple needs to get their heads straight, so they drop the kid off while they score?”
“Some.”
And more than that, Dorsey realized, remembering the young woman in white. Poor, single, and working for a paycheck. But not one big enough to get legitimate child care. No family, no friends. The underground economy of stolen goods and drugs. Just add a little day care for the clientele. For a fee. And don’t even think about what that might entail.
Dorsey took another look at one of the infants and started digging in his pocket for his cell. “Got a problem here,” he told Catherine. “This kid’s turning blue.”
He started to punch in 911 when the young man from the Lunchbox came in from the hall. “In here,” he called out. “Right in here.” He pointed at Dorsey. “Better stay off that phone.”
“Why?” Dorsey said. “You obviously didn’t.”