“Did you report her missing to the police?” Martinez asked.
Johanna shook her head. “No. I assumed this was some kind of a stunt – that she’d find her way back to me. And it took two years for me to finally figure out that she wasn’t coming back. By then she was eighteen, legally an adult. What could I do?”
Martinez nodded and Hobbs looked down at the picnic table. The surface was patchy and bug-eaten, with knife carvings of initials and love declarations every inch or so.
“Where did she end up by the way?” Johanna asked. “How far away did she get?”
“Vetta Park, Missouri,” Martinez answered. “Ever heard of it?”
Johanna shook her head.
He pulled out his phone and showed her their town on a map. “It’s just twenty miles south of St. Louis or so. Parts of it are really nice, right along the Mississippi River.”
“So she never left the state,” Johanna said. “She could have driven back to me anytime she wanted.”
“Maybe she didn’t have your address,” Martinez suggested. “You’ve moved around a few times.”
“She could have found me if she really wanted to find me. You all found me. Any decent investigator could find me. If she really wanted to find me, she’d have found me.”
Hobbs wasn’t sure how to respond to this claim, so she dug a business card out of her wallet and handed it to Johanna. “Thank you so much for talking with us,” Hobbs said. “If you think of anything else, let us know. And if we find anything, give us your phone number and we’ll keep you posted.”
Johanna shook her head again – this shake was more vigorous, a statement of refusal. “No, I don’t have a phone. Won’t deal with the phone companies anymore. But I can get mail here if you want to stop by or write me a letter.”
Hobbs smiled politely and nodded. She and Martinez stood up and shook Johanna’s hand and were just heading back south along the lake when Johanna called out to them.
“Hey! Detectives! You said that some of the homes in…in…that town, Vetta Park, were really nice. Was Greta in one of those homes along the river?”
Hobbs took a few steps back towards the picnic table. She glanced across the lake at the kids – most of whom had lost their interest in the interview and were throwing stones into the water. It was an idyllic snapshot of childhood, Hobbs thought. Kids barefooted and grit-faced, playfully enjoying the mud and the lake, autonomous and self-governed on a cool September evening. For some reason, it made Hobbs envision little Olivia playing by herself in the backyard, under the watchful observation of Mary Miller.
“Not in one of the homes along the Mississippi,” Hobbs said. “But Greta has lived for years in a very nice home on a good street.”
“A good street…like friendly neighbors, that kind of thing?”
Hobbs nodded. Mary Miller was the only neighbor she’d personally met, but Adams and Martinez had canvassed the street in the week after the family’s disappearance. They had described all the neighbors as friendly, responsive, and appropriately concerned about the matter at hand.
“And still no one knows where my girl went?” Johanna asked, but it sounded more like she was saying it in disbelief to herself – rather than asking the Detective a question.
Hobbs answered anyway. “That’s correct,” she said. “As far as we know, nobody knows.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
September 28, 2017
Hobbs could tell she was interrupting something. It was early morning – the streets tranquil and the sky still dark – and she had shown up at the precinct an hour earlier than usual.
The lights were still off in the main area of the office – the cattle pen – they sometimes called it. Only Weaver’s office was illuminated, the white-yellow light creeping underneath the doorway. Hobbs could hear men’s voices too. They were muffled drones from that distance, but the voices clearly belonged to Weaver and Adams.
Hobbs walked over until reaching the doorframe of the office. Weaver had been speaking but stopped as soon as he saw her. “Detective Hobbs, I’m surprised to see you here. It’s early, isn’t it?”
Hobbs nodded. “I had a lot of work to catch up on since I’ve been in Springfield.” She then stepped fully inside Weaver’s office and lingered behind the empty chair next to Adams. Her mind sprinted in different directions while she waited to hear what they would say. Surely they were having a private meeting – although the door was open. Had the decision to send her to Springfield been deliberate? Why was Weaver meeting privately with Adams when no one else was in the office?
And then there was the issue of Adams himself. Hobbs hadn’t spoken to him since their fight the week before. She had thought about him the whole time she was in Southwest Missouri but couldn’t bring herself to reach out. Seeing him in the chair in this clandestine meeting with the boss was unsettling. Somehow Adams looked leaner than he had just a week before, cheeks more defined, and somehow this made him seem older, more serious. She was both surprised to find herself still attracted to him and unnerved to think about what he might have told the Captain about her or about the two of them.
After a moment of quiet, Hobbs thought Weaver was going to ask her to leave, but instead he directed her to close the door and have a seat. She did as instructed and gave Adams a vague half-smile when she sat down next to him.
Weaver held up a folder. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.
Hobbs shook her head.
Weaver opened the folder, took out a piece of paper and started reading. “February 5, 2005, 3:15 am. Corner of Memorial and Olympic Boulevards. Collision involving a yellow Ferrari and a white Chevy Silverado. Reporting officer is Lawrence Hardy. Officer Hardy took the statement of a witness, Mrs. Greta Brock. Witness claims she saw the Ferrari run a red light and hit the pickup truck at a right angle, nearly pinning it underneath. Two injuries were reported, no deaths, and one driver declined medical attention.”
Weaver stopped reading, looked up and waved the file again. “Now do you recognize it?”
Hobbs smiled. “Yes, of course. But where did you—?” She glanced at Adams, whose expression revealed nothing.
Weaver continued. “Then, there’s more from the next day, Sunday February 6, 2005. This time the reporting officer is one Roberta Hobbs. In the comment area of the report, you wrote, ‘Greta Brock, witness to the accident, arrived at the police station at 9:30am. Ms. Brock changed her story to report that the driver of the Chevy Silverado, who she does not personally know, was the at-fault driver. Witness claims the Silverado driver ran the red light and not the Ferrari driver as she’d previously stated. Witness says she also does not know the identities of the driver and passenger in the Ferrari.’”
Weaver stopped reading and looked up.
“Is that all it says?” Hobbs asked.
Weaver looked back down at the page. “No, there’s one more thing. You wrote, ‘Witness seemed scared.’”
After letting this comment sink in, Hobbs said, “So we should investigate the identities of the Ferrari and pickup drivers.”
“Yes we certainly will,” Weaver said. “Now at least we have names.”
“How did you find the file?” Hobbs asked.
Weaver used the file to point across his desk to the seat next to hers. “Adams found it…in the basement last night. He asked to meet early this morning to discuss it.”
Hobbs looked over at Adams and nodded as if to thank him. His way of accepting gratitude was to smile sheepishly and look down. He seemed aware of the weight of her expression and was unable to match it by looking directly at her. Instead he studied the floor and ran his fingertips across the edge of his chair.
“Where in the basement?” Hobbs asked. “I thought Rochelle gave it a thorough sweep.”
“It had slipped underneath one of the filing cabinets,” Adams said. “It must have fallen out during the move and no one saw it.”
“I see,” Hobbs said, still staring at him.
“We
ll, we’ve got names and phone numbers,” Weaver said. “Let’s start with the Ferrari drivers, Arthur Forsett and Will Carter. Adams, I want you to reach out and let me know what you find. Hobbs, stay in here and let’s talk about your meeting with Greta’s mother.”
Adams stood up, took the file and left the room. For the next thirty minutes, Hobbs debriefed the Captain on the details of the meeting with Johanna Wagner. Weaver seemed to listen attentively while she spoke but there wasn’t much useful information to glean and she was distracted anyway.
For the whole time that she was speaking and answering questions, Hobbs’ thoughts were circling on something else. Thousands of files in the basement and Greta Brock’s traffic file is coincidentally the one that falls underneath the filing cabinet? No way.
***
Adams was leaning back in his desk chair, chatting on his cell phone. His legs were perched up on his desk, crossed at the ankle. Roberta had never seen him this relaxed at the office before, and it seemed to her that he was sending a signal. He was fine, unwound, loosened up. He wasn’t bothered by her presence in the office – and when she sat on the edge of his desk and crossed her arms, he responded by laughing at whatever the person on the other end of the phone call said. It didn’t sound exactly right though. It was more like a warble, a bird’s off-tune trill.
“You’re right, you’re right,” he said. “Oh okay. I’ll see you tonight. Okay, bye.”
Adams brought his phone away and tossed it onto his desk. “Roberta, hi! Good to see you back!”
It seemed like an act and he was playing the part horribly. There was too much exaggeration – too much of a caricature of the newly single guy at the office.
Roberta uncrossed her arms. “Dean, I’d like to talk to you.”
He smiled. “Okay, talk.”
“Not here. One of the meeting rooms please.”
“What, am I in trouble?”
“Let’s just go. Please. Five minutes.” She stood up and walked into one of the tiny meeting rooms. It was the same room where they’d broken up and now it seemed different to her – the off-white color a bit more shaded, the size more claustrophobic. This room was tainted; it had history. And she had to suppress her emotions and forge ahead just to be inside of it again.
Hobbs didn’t look behind her but knew Adams was following her. When he walked inside, he closed the door but lingered near it.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Tell me where you found the file,” Hobbs said.
“I told you. I found it underneath one of the file cabinets in the basement.”
“That’s bullshit,” she said. “Someone was holding on to that file, and you know who it is.”
“So…what if I do know who had the file,” he said. “What makes you think I’d share that bit of information with you?”
Hobbs sighed. “Because we are colleagues and we treat each other with mutual respect. Dean, you know how much I care about this case. I’ve never worked so hard on something that led nowhere. Every other case has been solvable. This one – it’s like all the leads are pointing in a circle. And each day that passes…”
Hobbs stopped talking because there was no need to complete the sentence. Adams knew the statistics. Every day that passed without any credible leads increased the risk of it becoming a cold case – unsolvable, an infinite question mark. And the possibility of police involvement made the case even more problematic.
“I found the file in Martinez’s desk drawer,” Adams said. “I looked through your desks while you were both out of town.”
“What?” Hobbs felt her pulse accelerate. She swallowed hard, sunk into one of the chairs and rested her palm against her forehead. “That’s not possible,” she muttered. She could forgive the violation of her desk. She didn’t keep anything personal in there anyway – always cognizant that Vetta Park employees could be fired at-will, their desk contents searched and reclaimed.
But it was this indictment against Ray Martinez – her partner for five years. What did she know about Ray? He was a family man, with four small children, mostly boys. He went to church every Sunday and talked a lot about football. He was a compassionate, caring man. He always asked Hobbs how she was doing. He seemed legitimately concerned for her wellbeing. He covered for her. He had her back. He was her partner. It wasn’t possible.
But it was possible. In this line of work, you learned quickly that you never know the truth about anybody. There were no surprises about human nature. You never, ever knew.
Adams walked over and sat down next to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you before I talked to Martinez. I know you guys are close.”
Hobbs took her palm away from her forehead and gazed at Adams. He didn’t seem like he was pretending anymore. He seemed genuinely concerned for her and this show of affection only sent her further into a tailspin of mistrust of her own instincts. Hadn’t Ray Martinez always seemed authentic? When they were searching the family’s house, speaking with potential witnesses, reviewing the facts of the case? Hadn’t he looked at her genuinely, with doe-eyed fondness, sometimes squeezing her shoulder and offering comfort? Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of it, he always said.
Meanwhile he had been at that meeting – the one in which Weaver had questioned her memory and possibly her sanity. Martinez had been there, just as virtuous as always, the traffic file safely buried in his desk drawer.
Hobbs was pissed – but just as much at herself as she was at Ray Martinez. It was history repeating itself – her tendency to trust the wrong people. There was no better justification than this for her desire to be left alone. She felt vindicated in breaking up with Adams, even though it hurt. It had been the right thing to do.
“I just can’t believe it,” Hobbs said quietly. “Where in his desk did you find it?”
“In the very bottom drawer, tucked under a bunch of other files. Either it’s been in there awhile and he forgot about it or he did a very good job of hiding it.” He chuckled. “I almost missed it.”
Hobbs shook her head. “I can’t believe it,” she repeated. “What are you going to say to Weaver?”
“I’m not going to say anything to Weaver. Are you kidding? He would have Martinez fired or reassigned. I’m going to talk to Martinez first, see what he has to say for himself.”
Adams’ confrontation with Martinez was the last thing Hobbs wanted to be a part of. There was the admission that Adams had been snooping around in his desk. Then there was the confrontation itself – an attack on Martinez’s integrity, the pressure for sensible answer.
Hobbs wanted no part of any of it. But she also thought about the Carpenter/Brock family portrait – four smiles on ostensibly innocent faces. She thought about Johanna Wagner’s anguish. The thought that Martinez had anything to do with the family’s disappearance made Hobbs feel sick inside. But if there was a reasonable answer for his sheltering of the traffic file, she wanted to be the one to hear it.
***
Det. Martinez didn’t come into the police precinct that morning. He called Hobbs on her cell phone, explained in his hurried way that one of his kids was sick, and that he’d show up later in the afternoon. The conversation came and went so quickly that Hobbs didn’t have a chance to say what she had prepared to say: We need to talk as soon as you get here.
Without Martinez, Hobbs spent the morning and early hours of afternoon checking out Arthur Forsett and Will Carter. Both men seemed clean. Will Carter had a DUI from years back, but neither had any other criminal history or outstanding arrest warrants. Arthur Forsett didn’t even have so much as a moving violation.
Once she’d done the research, she determined that an in-person interrogation wasn’t warranted. Instead, Adams placed a phone call, first to Will and then Arthur. Thirty minutes later, Adams and Hobbs were both in Weaver’s office, discussing the case.
“What’d you find out?” Weaver asked.
Adams looked at his notes. “Alright, we
know that Greta changed her story about the car accident that Will and Arthur were involved in. First she said they were responsible and then she said they weren’t. At the same time, Will and Arthur were in Vetta Park because they were meeting with Greta’s husband at the time, Griffin. You know Northman Shopping Center?”
Adams looked up, paused, and Weaver abruptly snapped to attention. “What? Oh, yes. Northman. I go there every time I feel like I need to lose a few thousand dollars on an article of clothing.”
Adams smirked. “Well it used to be a big empty lot owned by the Brock family. Will and Arthur were in town for their company Carter Commercial Development – to buy and develop that land from Griffin.”
“How much do you think Carter Development paid Griffin for the land?” Hobbs asked.
“What, I’m supposed to guess now?” Weaver asked. “I don’t know, how much does land go for? It’s a pretty upscale part of town so I guess…one-hundred grand?”
“Five hundred grand,” Hobbs answered. “They paid ten-thousand dollars an acre for fifty acres.”
“Wow,” Weaver said. “That’s quite a payout.”
“At that time, it was the most paid per acre in Vetta Park,” Hobbs said. “We’re thinking that Griffin didn’t want the deal to fall through. He must have told Greta to change her story to keep the money guys out of trouble.”
“Okay,” Weaver said. “What else?”
Adams read from his notes again. “Will and Arthur say that in 2009, Greta came to visit them, very unexpectedly. She didn’t know anything about the deals, just that they were involved with her husband, and she wanted some details. At that time, their company Carter Development was involved in another deal with the Brock family that was about to close.”
All The Hidden Pieces Page 17