“‘Flu’?” I repeated. “You’re beginning to sound like one of us.” I chuckled.
“Sometimes I feel like one of you.”
Maybe a part of her felt like one of us because she technically was one of us. She trained here. She grew up here. Just because she’d spent the last twenty years somewhere else didn’t mean West Joseph was no longer her home.
“I’m not mad,” I said, waving the white flag. I was hurt. But the wound wasn’t deep enough to hold a grudge. Besides, I was still on the case, so technically there was no harm done. “I understand your reasoning,” I said, “I really do. But next time, let me handle things with my boss,” I stressed. She was still a visitor here.
“Sure thing, Sergeant.” Cait stepped back from the elevator when it opened. “Enjoy your breakfast,” she said as she walked down the hallway toward I.T.
I sighed as I stepped into the elevator. Landing a low blow wasn’t my intent. Neither was causing more tension between us. I had purposely kept Cait in the dark on two matters: one personal, the other professional. I didn’t mean to flaunt my position in her face on top of it all. She did technically outrank me in the field, but inside these walls, I was in charge of everyone—with the exception of Flu, of course. But that didn’t give me the right to squash her concerns.
Once I returned my desk, breakfast in hand, I vowed to make things right with Cait. I would give it a few hours, enough time for both of us to finish our assignments and perhaps distance ourselves from the events that took place over the past few days. I didn’t want there to be any resentment between us.
We were on our way to solving this case—and, once it was, Cait would go back to Lyons. I wanted there to be a possibility for us to continue seeing each other. After this, it would probably be just as friends. Even so, I was beginning to think that Cait was meant to be a permanent fixture in my life.
The late morning slowly crept into early afternoon as I unearthed every possible aspect of Novak’s life. Ryan Michael Novak—at least we knew where the ‘Mike’ in ‘Alfa Mike’ came from—owned real estate in Naples, Florida, along with two properties in West Joseph. The first local property was the house he’d lived in while working for West JPD. The second local space was a commercial building close to downtown with multiple offices for lease.
I couldn’t locate any cellular companies who had any record of a Ryan Michael Novak in West Joseph. He must’ve been using a burner phone. I didn’t have any luck with Novak’s bank records either. I needed a subpoena for his account information, and that could take up to a week. For now, I would have to scrutinize the information I had.
The addresses in West Joseph were the most probable leads, and I wanted to check out both locations. I still had six hours or so before sunset. Although that seemed like a lot of time, there was no telling what I would encounter once I got to the properties. Afterward, I wanted to come back to the station to read the file on Wilma Reynolds. Something seemed off about her being the missing victim—mostly because we didn’t have a video of her murder.
As if Cait had been reading my mind, she popped her head into my office just as I was about to call I.T. to ask for her. I motioned for her to come in, and she sat in the chair across from my desk. Over the past week, it felt as if my office had become her office too. It was like sharing a dorm room where all we did was study.
I wondered if Cait would consider transferring here permanently. She had commented that she felt like she was part of West JPD. What was stopping her from making it official? I didn’t know the size of her department at BCI. Maybe there were too many employees to give it the familial feeling of West JPD? We had ten detectives, Flu and I included. If Cait wanted to transfer here, I’m sure Flu would do everything he could to make it happen. She would be out of an office though. Only Flu and I had that luxury.
“I finished up with I.T.,” Cait said when she sat down. “You’ll want to buy a new laptop.” she laughed.
“That bad, huh?” There was still awkwardness between us, but I hoped these few hours apart had helped smooth things over.
“I also looked through Fionna Michaels’ laptop,” Cait said. “She had responded to a few ads looking for an actress.”
“Flu told me Abram was going to follow up on that,” I said.
“When was that? The laptop hasn’t been touched since Thursday.”
“Friday,” I answered. “He might’ve been behind, though, and was planning to do it today.” I shrugged. Abram was pretty good about completing assignments. He had called off today, but I was sure he would get to it tomorrow. We were past the point in the investigation of dissecting laptops, though. We had a person of interest now. “I have two addresses I’d like to check out,” I added. “One residential, one commercial.”
“Whose?”
“Novak’s,” I answered. As much as I wanted us to be on the right trail, I didn’t want this road to lead to Novak. “Are you coming with me?”
“Of course,” Cait said as she stood up. “That’s why I’m here, boss.”
“C’mon, I didn’t mean that.” I understood why she was offended. I had dismissed her concern for my well-being and reminded her that she was merely a tourist here. “I was just worried Flu was going to pull me off the case.”
“I know,” Cait said. “I’ll get over it.” She smiled.
I grabbed a set of car keys from my top desk drawer and led the way to the garage. Our first stop would be Novak’s residence. Even if he wasn’t living there, the house was still in his name. If he was renting it out, and maybe the tenant would have information on his whereabouts. My fear was that the house would be abandoned. If that was the case, it would be cause for suspicion that Novak was hiding out in Florida.
Large oak trees lined Novak’s street as we drove toward the first address. It was a rather quiet neighborhood. Sidewalks allowed for families to walk their dogs and for children to ride their bikes safely. It was the type of neighborhood perfect for kids to grow up in or for grandparents to spend their retirement. Some homes had fenced-in yards, while others showed off their meticulous landscaping
Novak’s house was toward the end of the cul-de-sac. The yard had been freshly mowed, which was a good sign. It meant someone had been here recently. The cement walkway that led from the driveway to his two-story colonial was clear of any weeds or overgrown grass. Whoever was living here took care of the outside, much like the other well-kept homes in the neighborhood. There was no cause for alarm when approaching the house. The windows were spotless, and the wicker patio chairs made the porch seem very welcoming.
I parked the car on the street and stared at the house before getting out of the car. Just because it appeared clean and inviting didn’t mean we were in friendly waters. I looked for any sudden movements inside the residence. Then I looked in the driveway to see if any cars were parked there. There were none, but the garage door was closed. It was possible someone was home, but there was only one way to be certain.
Cait and I stepped out of the car and walked onto the front porch, my hand on my gun as we approached the front door. We stood on the hinged side, and I knocked five times. The screen door slapped against the frame with each knock. I listened for any noises inside, but all was quiet. After a few moments, I knocked again, this time identifying myself.
“Ryan Novak? Sergeant Evans with West JPD. Open the door,” I ordered. When I knocked again, Cait walked toward the edge of the porch and looked into the front windows. She turned to me and shook her head. “West Joseph Police,” I yelled into the door.
“He’s not home.” An elderly voice broke through the wind. I turned to the left and saw a woman standing on her porch next door to Novak’s. “He isn’t home during the day,” she added.
“Do you know who lives here?” I stepped toward her. But there was still at least thirty feet between us, so shouting was a must.
The woman nodded. Her short, gray hair was tightly curled. “I don’t know his name, but he’s a young fella.
” I wanted her to clarify exactly what “young” meant. Given the woman’s approximate age, “young” to her could have meant anyone under sixty-five.
“Can you tell me anything about him?” I asked.
“I only know that he comes home very late at night and leaves very early in the morning.”
“How long has he lived here?” I asked.
“Don’t know. I just moved in a few months ago.”
“Does anyone else ever come by?” Cait asked.
“Someone does come over from time to time. I don’t know if it’s his brother, or maybe it’s a friend. Who can tell anymore?” The woman scoffed. “He’s a big guy. And they have no manners. When I was his age, if someone new had moved in next door, I would at least say hello. I’ve tried to go over there to introduce myself, but no one’s ever home. We live among strangers. Imagine not knowing who your neighbors are. That’s just how it is now, I guess.” She sighed.
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed, although I didn’t know the majority of my neighbors either. “Thank you for your time.” I turned to Cait and motioned for her to walk toward the car.
Once inside, I picked up the radio and called into dispatch. “This is Sergeant Evans requesting surveillance at three-fourteen Dyson Avenue. Residence seems vacant. Have patrol stay until occupant returns. Over.”
White noise loomed over the radio. “Copy, Sergeant. Patrol seven is in route. Over.”
“I’ll wait for patrol just in case whoever lives here comes back between now and then,” I said to Cait.
I kept my eye on the woman standing on her porch. She didn’t seem interested as to why two detectives were looking for her neighbor. She sat on her porch as she looked over the neighborhood.
As soon as patrol number seven pulled up behind us, I turned on the ignition and drove toward downtown. Novak’s commercial space was next on our list. I was a little disappointed we didn’t learn more at Novak’s residence. But the elderly woman had given us a little more information than we would have gained had she not been home, so that was sort of a win. At least the drive out there wasn’t completely pointless.
It was close to four o’clock, and the downtown bustle was still well intact. If it wasn’t for the commercial building having a designated parking lot in the back, we would have had to rely on a meter—and all of those were full. The office building was three stories high with what appeared to be two offices on each floor. Bushes lined the brick building, and a cement staircase led to single glass door.
On the outside, mounted next to the front door, was a sign with a list of the businesses’ names. Four of the six offices were occupied, leaving two blank spots on the panel. According to the sign, the building was open Monday through Friday from 7:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., but there didn’t seem to be a doorman in the lobby to enforce the hours of operation.
I opened the glass door. Cream-colored marble floors reflected the bulbs in the chandelier that lit the room. Steel elevator doors filled the wall farthest from the door. Two hunter green sofas sat opposite of each other in the center of the lobby. Overall, the space afforded a welcoming atmosphere. Secluded but clean, with a fresh potpourri scent. Cait and I walked toward the elevators, and I pressed the only button available. The “up” arrow illuminated as the elevator lowered itself down the shaft.
The steel doors opened, and Cait and I stepped inside. The wood-paneled walls stretched from top to bottom, with a brass handrail affixed at waist-height along the three walls. We reached the second floor within seconds. The elevator doors opened, and Cait and I stepped into a small hallway with two glass office doors, one on either side of us.
On our left, at Gilman and Sons Law Firm, all the lights were turned off. The hours of operation on the door indicated they were open from 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. The office on our right belonged to a psychologist named Dr. Andrew Redman.
I led the way toward his office and opened the door. The receptionist behind the desk politely greeted us when we stepped inside.
“Hello, do you have an appointment?” she asked with confusion on her face.
“No,” I said and showed her my badge. “I’m with West Joseph Police. Is Dr. Redman around? We just need to ask him a few questions.”
“He’s with a patient. Is there something I can help you with?” We had no right to interrupt his appointment just to ask basic questions. If he was a suspect, that would be a different story.
“Do you know the owner of the building?” I asked as I put my badge back into my pocket.
“Mr. Novak?” the receptionist replied. “I’ve never met him.”
“Do you know if Dr. Redman has?” Cait jumped in.
“I’m not sure. I’ve only been here for about a year. Dr. Redman has been in this office for three years. But the only time I see Mr. Novak’s name is when Dr. Redman asks me to fill out a maintenance request.”
“How do you submit the requests?” Cait asked. “Does someone pick them up?”
“No. There’s a mailbox in the lobby. I put the maintenance requests in there.”
“What about the rent?” I asked. “Doesn’t Mr. Novak come by to collect it?”
“No. It’s all done by direct deposit.”
Cait nodded and then looked my way as if to signal that she had no further questions. I couldn’t think of any either. “Thank you for your time,” I said before I turned toward the glass door.
We had a few other businesses we could question, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t be much help either. If Novak had the tenants paying rent via online banking—and if he had a maintenance man to respond to any requests in mailbox in the lobby—then he really wouldn’t need to be here. He could easily manage the property from Florida.
The only way we could know for sure if he was ever actually in the building was if he had security cameras in the lobby. But I couldn’t recall seeing any. Besides, to gain access to any footage, we would need his permission—or a warrant.
Cait and I walked into the hallway and toward the stairwell. We took the fifteen steps up to the third floor, where we found an empty office and Shulman’s Architects.
We opened the architects’ door, and a plump woman, well over the age of fifty, stood in front of the receptionist’s desk. She was too focused on the paperwork on the desk to notice us walk in.
“Hello, I’m Sergeant Evans.” The woman’s jaw clenched and her body instinctually drew back. “We didn’t mean to startle you. This is my partner, Special Agent Porter. Do you work here?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m the owner. Marie Shulman.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I replied. “We have a few questions about the owner of the building. We won’t take much of your time.”
“I don’t have much time to give.” She went back to sorting through the paperwork. “My receptionist is on maternity leave, and I need to find a new payroll manager. But what can I help you with?”
“How long have you been here?” Cait stepped in.
“Well, I’ve owned the company for thirty years. But I moved into this building…,” she trailed off, looking as if she might be doing the math in her head, “…seven or eight years ago.”
“Do you know Ryan Novak?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said without looking up from the stack of papers. “He used to come around a lot the first five years. He was very friendly, social. If we needed anything fixed, like a clogged toilet or a broken lock, he got to it by the next day.”
“How often have you seen him in the last two or three years?” I leaned on the desk in order to get her attention. She looked up and let the papers fall from her hands.
“The last time I saw him was in March. It was to pick up the rent check. He was pretty good about making his rounds through the building every month. He would ask me how business was, if I had any maintenance issues, and then he would collect the check.”
“Can you think of any reason why you haven’t seen him since March?” Cait asked.
“No.”
Marie shook her head. “He sent everyone in the building an email in April, telling us rent needed to be paid by direct deposit. He gave us his routing number and account number, and that was the last I’ve heard of him.”
“He doesn’t ask about maintenance issues anymore?” I asked.
“No. We just fill out a form now. That’s why the tenants across the hall moved out. There used to be a photography studio across from me. But the roof started to leak on that side, and it took almost a month for Ryan to even come out and look at it. At least I assume he looked at it. I didn’t actually see him. He sent the tenants an email saying it would be repaired as soon as possible, but they were pissed. Some of their cameras and all of their backdrops were destroyed. And Ryan offered them zero compensation, so the photographers terminated their lease.”
“Do you still have the email he sent you?” Cait asked.
“Yeah,” Marie huffed and walked to the computer at the receptionist’s desk. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. Like I said, my receptionist is out, and I’m looking for a new payroll person.”
“What happened to your old one?” I asked. Employees usually give two weeks’ notice, which should have given Marie enough time to find a new payroll manager.
“She drowned,” Marie said coldly before she looked up from the computer screen. “I found that email if you want me to forward it to you?”
“Yes, please,” Cait said and fished a business card out of her pocket. “To that address.” She passed the card to Marie.
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