inside that house makes me think these folks aren’t even human,” Quinn said.
“We aren’t paid to be psychologists,” Lillie said. “Just get them to court.”
“You think those kids are still with them?”
“Don’t know,” Lillie said, flicking her cigarette out onto the road. “But let’s not take any chances. We’ll get the Memphis cops to go in first. I know you want to be the first to point that gun at Ramón and Janet, but, trust me, it’ll make it go better with the D.A.”
“I wonder how these two shitbirds met,” Quinn said.
“Maybe found each other on eHarmony,” Lillie said. “Both of them being good Christians that like going to the beach, puppy dogs, and sunsets.”
“What’s in it for him?”
“Maybe she pays him,” Lillie said. “Maybe it’s not a marriage at all but a business deal. Them being married gets his ass a green card.”
“He earned it.”
“We treat either one of them with some contempt and it’ll fuck up the case,” Lillie said. “I want them both in our jail, and I want you and me to file every bit of paper we can on these people. I want those children in a safe place, and I want the Torreses to be locked up in a cage a good long while.”
“You know Kenny kept one of those dogs,” Quinn said. “Spent five hundred on getting her cleaned up and dewormed and all.”
“Yep,” Lillie said. “That’s something Kenny would do.”
Lillie and Quinn followed 78 until it turned into Lamar Avenue in south Memphis, running through all those warehouses and big-rig garages, cheap motels for truckers to sleep, and barbecue joints to grab a sandwich, or western-wear shops for some new cowboy boots. The road soon turned into a clustered section of beauty parlors and pawnshops, used-car dealerships, and storefront churches. The Stonewall Jackson Motel was a half mile off the I-240 loop, tired and haggard and having seen its best days when Ike had been president. There had been a pool at one point, but it had been filled in, with thick weeds growing in the center. The motel was one story and a deep U shape. Lots of transient cars with out-of-state license plates littered the parking lot, probably laborers cutting through town. The sign outside the small registration lobby boasted free hbo.
You could hear the trucks and cars zipping past the old highway on the bypass. The sound of it made the motel seem lost and insignificant.
“Sometimes the chickenshits are the worst arrests,” Lillie said, parking and turning off the engine. “Domestics. Drunks. I had a crackhead bite me on the tit once.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Like you were with Boom?”
“I got him home.”
“He gonna go back to the VA? See that therapist?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “I thought about offering him a job.”
“A one-armed deputy?” Lillie said. “Boom’s strong, but he couldn’t pass the academy physical.”
“I got somethin’ else in mind,” Quinn said. “Something that would set his mind in the right direction.”
Lillie and Quinn climbed out of the Jeep and joined up with a couple street officers with the Memphis PD. Both of them black men in their thirties in stiff blues. They made introductions, and the men pointed out Unit 22, where the night clerk said the Torreses had registered. The men were both drinking coffee. Lillie showed them the warrant signed that morning by a judge in Tibbehah County.
“Where the fuck is that?” one of the cops asked.
“South of Tupelo, north of Starkville,” Lillie said.
“Never heard of it,” the cop said.
“Neither have most people.”
“Y’all in the hill country,” the other cop said. “My people from Marshall County.”
The night manager was a dark-skinned doughy man with badly thinning hair and the bulging eyes of a bulldog. He didn’t bother to speak to any of the cops, only reached into an old pair of black dress pants and pulled out a passkey, muttering to himself about the couple being the only
“We aren’t paid to be psychologists,” Lillie said. “Just get them to court.”
“You think those kids are still with them?”
“Don’t know,” Lillie said, flicking her cigarette out onto the road. “But let’s not take any chances. We’ll get the Memphis cops to go in first. I know you want to be the first to point that gun at Ramón and Janet, but, trust me, it’ll make it go better with the D.A.”
“I wonder how these two shitbirds met,” Quinn said.
“Maybe found each other on eHarmony,” Lillie said. “Both of them being good Christians that like going to the beach, puppy dogs, and sunsets.”
“What’s in it for him?”
“Maybe she pays him,” Lillie said. “Maybe it’s not a marriage at all but a business deal. Them being married gets his ass a green card.”
“He earned it.”
“We treat either one of them with some contempt and it’ll fuck up the case,” Lillie said. “I want them both in our jail, and I want you and me to file every bit of paper we can on these people. I want those children in a safe place, and I want the Torreses to be locked up in a cage a good long while.”
“You know Kenny kept one of those dogs,” Quinn said. “Spent five hundred on getting her cleaned up and dewormed and all.”
“Yep,” Lillie said. “That’s something Kenny would do.”
Lillie and Quinn followed 78 until it turned into Lamar Avenue in south Memphis, running through all those warehouses and big-rig garages, cheap motels for truckers to sleep, and barbecue joints to grab a sandwich, or western-wear shops for some new cowboy boots. The road soon turned into a clustered section of beauty parlors and pawnshops, used-car dealerships, and storefront churches. The Stonewall Jackson Motel was a half mile off the I-240 loop, tired and haggard and having seen its best days when Ike had been president. There had been a pool at one point, but it had been filled in, with thick weeds growing in the center. The motel was one story and a deep U shape. Lots of transient cars with out-of-state license plates littered the parking lot, probably laborers cutting through town. The sign outside the small registration lobby boasted free hbo.
You could hear the trucks and cars zipping past the old highway on the bypass. The sound of it made the motel seem lost and insignificant.
“Sometimes the chickenshits are the worst arrests,” Lillie said, parking and turning off the engine. “Domestics. Drunks. I had a crackhead bite me on the tit once.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Like you were with Boom?”
“I got him home.”
“He gonna go back to the VA? See that therapist?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “I thought about offering him a job.”
“A one-armed deputy?” Lillie said. “Boom’s strong, but he couldn’t pass the academy physical.”
“I got somethin’ else in mind,” Quinn said. “Something that would set his mind in the right direction.”
Lillie and Quinn climbed out of the Jeep and joined up with a couple street officers with the Memphis PD. Both of them black men in their thirties in stiff blues. They made introductions, and the men pointed out Unit 22, where the night clerk said the Torreses had registered. The men were both drinking coffee. Lillie showed them the warrant signed that morning by a judge in Tibbehah County.
“Where the fuck is that?” one of the cops asked.
“South of Tupelo, north of Starkville,” Lillie said.
“Never heard of it,” the cop said.
“Neither have most people.”
“Y’all in the hill country,” the other cop said. “My people from Marshall County.”
The night manager was a dark-skinned doughy man with badly thinning hair and the bulging eyes of a bulldog. He didn’t bother to speak to any of the cops, only reached into an old pair of black dress pants and pulled out a passkey, muttering to himself about the couple being the only
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