All The Hidden Pieces

by Jillian Thomadsen

  She followed him down a hallway and into a corner office. The office had potted plants at each end, mounted brown cabinets, a long brown desk, two brown leather sofas placed perpendicular to each other and a coffee table.

  Colt took a seat on one of the couches and Greta sat down on the other.

  “Can I get you anything?” Colt asked.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Colt leaned forward and rested his forearms on his legs. “So you mentioned you’re in the middle of a custody dispute…”

  “That’s right. And I need your help. The case isn’t really going my way. But I think I have something on my ex-husband that might help me out. I just need your help.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Four years ago, in 2005, there was a car accident in Vetta Park, Missouri. I remember it very clearly because I witnessed it. I remember the exact night too, February 4. It must have been three or four in the morning. A Ferrari with two men inside ran a red light and hit a guy in a pickup truck. The men were wearing suits. I need to know who those men were. And I need this information in the next few days – Monday or Tuesday at the latest. My case resumes in court next Thursday.”

  Colt had been scribbling on a yellow-lined notepad. When Greta paused, he looked up at her and frowned. “I have an incredibly busy docket right now. With the holidays coming up, I have so many requests for surveillance on people who suspect their spouses are cheating…you have no idea.”

  Greta swallowed. “I just need their names and that’s it. I’ll agree to whatever payment terms you require to accelerate this. Just the names.”

  Colt smiled. “I have a friend at the Vetta Park police station. Let me see if this is as easy as a simple phone call, okay? I can’t promise anymore than a phone call within the next few days.”

  “Thank you,” Greta said. She shook his hand again, left the building and headed home.

  As she drove, she silently prayed that Colt’s contact at the Vetta park police station would come through for them. She even mentally envisioned it – a phone call from a longtime friend, a discrete trip to the records department, the procuring of a yellow manila envelope, then a return phone call to Colt Bundy’s direct line. Finally, a call to her with the answers to a mystery she had wondered about for four long years.

  Chapter Fifteen

  September 20, 2017

  Captain Weaver looked stressed. There were wrinkles angling across his face that Hobbs hadn’t noticed before, oblique circles casting shadows under his eyes. When he updated Hobbs on the failed efforts of the APB, he seemed not mad as much as surprised. “They can’t be on the road anymore,” Weaver said. “No surveillance video or roadside cruiser has spotted them anywhere.”

  Hobbs nodded at Weaver but didn’t say anything. She wanted to be anywhere in the world except for at work that day, and it didn’t help that temperatures outside were hovering in the low 70s with a slight breeze rustling through the fall foliage.

  Hobbs had spent the morning wishing she could call in sick, and occasionally her wishes surged through her like an unsettling queasiness. Was there such a thing as Munchausen syndrome by desire? It would have been so easy just to make that one-minute call, to open the windows around her apartment and sit on the couch with a book for the day. No one in the office would have thought too much about it.

  But she wasn’t the type of person to hide from confrontation, to allow others to assume situations she needed to lead. She got dressed as usual and affixed her badge to her belt, drove to the office and parked in her usual spot, and tried to feign a confident gait as she made her way to the precinct.

  Inside Weaver’s office, they had their morning catch-up – which lately was no more than a litany of futile efforts. Once that part was over with, Adams appeared in the doorway. “Captain – oh hey, Hobbs – uh, Steven Vance is here. He’s in room one.”

  “Thanks,” Weaver said. Adams retreated from the doorway and then Weaver pressed his lips together and looked at Roberta. “You ready?” he asked.

  Hobbs swallowed hard and felt a hot wave of anxiety wash over her, like she had suddenly been dipped in a sauna. Her stomach rolled and she felt sweaty. She bent over in her chair and rested her head just beneath her knees. She could feel the rush of blood.

  “Hobbs? Roberta?”

  Hobbs tried to take a few deep breaths and then come up slowly. When she was sitting up again, she saw deep frown lines on Weaver’s face, a look of concern.

  “I’m okay,” Hobbs said in an unsteady voice. “I just don’t feel one hundred percent today. Can I sit this one out? Maybe Martinez can do the questioning himself?”

  “Sure,” Weaver said. “You can watch from the glass. Unless you need to go home.”

  “No. I’ll be okay.”

  He didn’t ask her to elaborate on her condition and she was appreciative for that. When she walked through the hallway, she saw Martinez just outside the interrogation room. He gave her a quick nod and then walked inside the room.

  “Steven, thanks for coming in today,” Martinez said.

  Steven Vance looked up at Martinez and grinned warmly. “And thank you so much for inviting me. You know I love to spend my Wednesday mornings with you guys.”

  Hobbs hadn’t seen Steven Vance in five years. He hadn’t lost his penchant for sarcasm. But the years had slightly greyed his hair, placed a few more wrinkles on his forehead, given him scattered sunspots on his face and arms. He was thicker too than she remembered – bulkier and more muscular but also heavier. When Martinez sat down at the table, Vance appeared to loom over him. His voice was scratchy and deep…exactly how she remembered.

  “I’m sure you know why you’re here,” Martinez said.

  “Of course I do,” he said with a smirk. “You guys are looking into buying my resort in Kiawah Island. Well, like I told the chick over the phone, give me eighty percent of the asking price up-front, and then we can negotiate the rest.”

  Martinez stood up and kicked the leg of Vance’s chair. To Hobbs’ surprise, it moved an inch – although Vance didn’t seem fazed.

  “You want to be here all day?” Martinez asked.

  Vance laughed. “Relax, okay? Jesus, simmer down.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt, took one out and dangled it in between his lips. “Got a light? The cute redhead at the front took mine away. I think she likes me.”

  “Do you see an ashtray in here, fuck stick?” Martinez asked.

  Vance made a display of searching the table for an ashtray and then said, “No, the last guy must have taken it with him. Can I get a light and an ashtray, in that case? And a soda?”

  Martinez smacked the cigarette away from Vance’s lips and Vance responded by getting up. He stood about a foot taller than Martinez.

  “I should get in there,” a voice next to Hobbs said. She looked over and saw Adams next to her. She wasn’t sure when he’d arrived or what Weaver had mentioned about her brief episode in his office. At some point, they were going to figure out that she got physically ill every time Steven Vance’s name was mentioned – that she preferred to leave the room rather than entertain a conversation in which he was named. Maybe they already had put the pieces together.

  “Steven Vance looks like a gladiator next to Martinez,” Adams added. “I mean, it’s no contest. I should get in there, right?”

  Hobbs looked at the two men – still standing confrontationally a few feet apart but neither behaving violently. Hobbs barely knew Vance anymore but she remembered that he was feckless – always preferring to send his deputies out to do his dirty work rather than partake himself.

  And Martinez wasn’t especially huge or intimidating but he was a veteran. He’d dealt with every miscreant Vetta Park had to offer – from violent repeat offenders to drunk bar patrons. She knew he could hold his own against Vance.

  Sure enough, Vance settled down, eased into his seat and looked straight ahead. Martinez continued the questioning. “Are you
familiar with the Carpenter family?” he asked.

  “This is about their disappearance, right? I mean, I watch the news. Wait – you think I had something to do with this? Are you guys the worst police force ever? Honestly, if you worked for me, I’d fire you.”

  “Well, good thing I don’t work for you.” Martinez sat in a seat at the edge of the table, next to Vance. Despite the insult, he gave the mogul a disarming look and asked, “What kind of soda do you want?”

  Vance looked briefly surprised and then said, “Coke.”

  Martinez stood up, walked over to the door and said something to someone stationed outside. Thirty seconds later, someone handed him a Coke can. He took the can, closed the door and reassumed his seat.

  “Steven, if you ask me for a chilled glass or a straw or whatever, I’m going to take this token of good measure and fling it across the room. No one is saying you had something to do with their disappearance. I’m just asking you some questions. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Vance said. He cracked open the top, took a few sips and leaned back. “But I don’t think I can help you.”

  “Did you know Greta Carpenter?”

  “Oh well yeah, I knew her…twenty years ago…when she was Greta Wagner. Cutest girl you ever saw. I helped her out; you know that, right? She was a little pixie thing, blonde hair, blue eyes. Looked like the type of girl who should’ve been surfing a beach. And she was living in a homeless shelter! I found her an apartment, got her cleaned up.”

  “Were you ever involved with her?”

  “Involved how? She was like a daughter to me. Are you asking me…do you mean were we intimate?”

  Martinez stared straight at Vance.

  “Christ, detective. She was a kid. Fifteen or sixteen and I’m a businessman with a reputation to protect. Once she turned eighteen I tried to hire her to work at my club. I’m sure you know I own The Thirst. Dancing or waitressing or even being a shot girl…she would have made some great tips. But instead she found some loser, moved in with him and got pregnant. And that’s it.”

  “So once Greta moved out, you never saw her after that?”

  Vance made a motion – a cross between a twitch and a shrug. His eyes flitted across the room and then rested on the top of his soda can. He hunched forward slightly, ran his fingers through the top of his hair.

  “You’ve got him,” Hobbs whispered.

  For five or ten seconds, it was completely silent in the interview room. Hobbs thought that Martinez should repeat the question – maybe louder and more forcefully, a signal that indicated they knew this was leading somewhere. But Martinez just remained still, staring at Vance with an unforgiving look.

  “Yeah, I saw her,” Vance finally said. “She came to see me.”

  “When?”

  “Uh, I guess it was about two years ago.”

  “She came to see you at home?” Martinez pressed.

  “No, in my office. I have an office in the back of The Thirst.”

  “Why did she come to see you?”

  Again Vance was silent. He rubbed his eyes, massaged the bridge of his nose. To Hobbs, he appeared to be searching for the right words or phrasing – a way to spin his way out of a mess instead of into one.

  “Detective, I do not know,” Vance said. “I wasn’t expecting the visit. I was surprised by it. She looked…she looked kind of crazy.”

  “Crazy? What do you mean by crazy?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it. I mean, I knew her when she was a teenager. She was young and…and…full of life. And then twenty years or so went by and when she came to see me, she was the complete opposite of what I remembered. Crazy-looking. She looked tired and nuts, if I’m being honest. She said someone had hurt her son and she thought it was me.”

  “Was it you?” Martinez asked.

  “No! No, of course not. I don’t know where she got that idea. I tried to tell her but she wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe I did some shady stuff years and years ago, back when she knew me…but I got out of that line of work in the late nineties. You know…after the plea deal. And Greta, unfortunately…there was no reasoning with her.”

  Martinez nodded and looked down at his file of notes. He seemed to accept what Vance was saying about his professional life but Hobbs knew better. She had heard it all before – his lies, his pleas of legitimacy, his smooth earnestness. Steven Vance was – and always had been – a very convincing liar. So many people bought it because he had practiced and perfected the act. His lies were smooth, sugar-coated mendacities. Hobbs had once swallowed his deception but no more.

  She was just thinking about how she needed to get in there and press him on his line of work – to overcome her apprehensions about seeing him again and burst into the room wielding pointed accusations – when he added some more color to his previous statements.

  Without any particular prodding, Vance said, “Do you know that Greta threatened me when she came to see me?”

  Martinez looked up from his file of papers but said nothing.

  Vance continued. “She said she’d bought a gun. And that she’d been to the firing range and knew how to use it. Those were her exact words.”

  “Really,” Martinez said, rubbing his chin.

  “I’m serious,” Vance said, shaking his head. “When I tell you that Greta went crazy, she went crazy. That woman was out for blood.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  October 19, 2009

  Greta waited by the phone for most of Monday. She busied herself with random tasks to keep her mind occupied. She was just beginning to give up hope when the phone rang. She wanted to leap for joy when she recognized Colt Bundy’s voice on the other line.

  “Your friend at the police station came through for you?” Greta asked.

  “Yes, my friend came through,” Colt said. “I have the names of the guys in the Ferrari. Do you have a pen?”

  Greta found a pen and a piece of paper. “I’m ready.”

  “Alright…” Colt said. “The driver of the Ferrari was Will Carter, born in 1976. Illinois driver’s license, issued January 1, 2005. He’s a male, 5’10, 165 lbs, brown eyes. His home address as of 2005 was 104 W. Oak Street, Apartment 5A, Chicago Illinois 60610. Did you get that?”

  Greta was writing furiously while he spoke. She said, “Mmhmm,” but as she stared at the name and personal information of the driver, she was struck by its lack of familiarity. It was just words on a page, like a grocery list -- carrying no meaning for her. “How about the other guy – the passenger?” she asked.

  “The passenger’s name was Arthur Forsett. He left in an ambulance and there’s no driver’s license information for him. The officer noted he was in his early twenties and African-American.”

  “Okay,” Greta said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, they told the officer they were here traveling for business. They said the name of the company they owned – Carter Commercial Development Company. The notes say they worked in the firm’s Chicago office. That’s all we have.”

  “Okay,” Greta said. After sharing her credit card details with Colt, she hung up the phone and stared down at her scrawling, disappointed. She had waited so long to get these names, convinced that there would be an accompanying epiphany – an a-ha moment that explained Griffin’s actions and put all the pieces together.

  Instead, it just spelled out more work for her: First, a call to Tuck to beg him for a favor and then, a hastily arranged trip to Chicago.

  ***

  Greta approached the Chase Tower Building and looked up. The building was a large, boxy rectangle jutting towards the sky, gray-black and glassy, with a patch of greenery in front.

  After giving her personal information to the lobby security, she rode a mirrored elevator to the 61st floor, stepped off and looked around.

  Carter Commercial Development took up the entire floor, with the interior just as glossy as the outside. There was a reception area, with leather couches, coffee tables and a yo
ung, attractive receptionist. There were framed oil portraits of previous executives on the walls and marble tile on the ground, which accentuated the clack of heels and shoes as employees rushed past.

  The receptionist greeted Greta and led her into a conference room. The room had a long wooden table flanked by black Aeron chairs. “Can I get you anything?” the receptionist asked sweetly. “Coffee? Tea? Bottled water?”

  Greta took a seat and shook her head.

  “Well, I’ll just let Will and Arthur know you’re here then,” the woman said and then left the room.

  Greta felt unmoored by her surroundings – the procession and formality of it all – the sense that there was a way things worked that existed outside the narrow scope of her life in Missouri. She was reminded of her childhood schooling – being different than everyone else, the sense that everyone else got what she had missed.

  When she’d called late Monday afternoon and set up the meeting with Will and Arthur, no one on the phone flinched at her insistence that the meeting happen immediately. No one even asked her for specific details on the meeting.

  Perhaps this was how deals got done – with firmness and an impatient voice, the offering of a name and nothing more. Perhaps the folks at Carter Commercial were nervous about offending her if they asked for more.

  But, as Greta sat in the conference room and waited for them to arrive, she was disturbed by the thought that she was already in way over her head…and that the two men would quickly show her the door once they learned why she was really there.

  ***

  They showed up in the room in quick succession. Arthur first, and then Will. Both looked professional – dressed in business suits just like four years ago. They introduced themselves and shook her hand with the savvy of salespeople – men who wanted to charm their way into a deal.

  They sat down – Arthur across from her, Will next to her – and took out notepads. When the room was quiet for a minute, Arthur asked, “What can I help you with? I’m guessing Griffin asked for this meeting?”