by JoAnna Carl
Joe and I would spread the word in case anyone in Warner Pier didn’t already know about the jewels, and we would vigorously deny that we had gotten any information from Hogan. And if the press asked questions, as they might, Hogan would deny any idea that a major robbery was likely to occur.
Joe grinned. “The Cookie Monsters haven’t attempted such a high-profile crime before, so we’ll say we don’t expect this to be any different.”
Anyway, that was the plan. Hogan would tell Alex Gold but no one else. It was, he said, worth a try. We were all still laughing as Hogan and Joe left for their respective offices.
“The jewels are supposed to be here Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,” Hogan said. “So if you have to hint at dates, those are the ones.”
I was scheduled to work from two p.m. until ten that night, so after our meeting with Hogan I had time for a little housework. I loaded the dishwasher, made the bed, and went back into the living room. There I noticed Mike Westerly’s album, which was still sitting on the coffee table. On impulse, I picked it up, and I decided to waste ten more minutes looking at it. Maybe it could reveal something more.
After going through every one of the pages, I noticed one face popping up repeatedly. And I realized that I had a new suspect.
Chapter 24
If there’s anything I hate, it’s running into people that I recognize when I can’t remember how I know them. I don’t know their names, I don’t know where I met them, I don’t know who the heck they are. But they’re familiar.
I don’t know if I went to high school with them, if I occasionally see them in the produce aisle at the grocery store, or if they’re nurses in my doctor’s office and know more about my body than my husband does. They’re familiar, yet not familiar enough.
Once I ran into the television weatherman twice in one afternoon. I greeted him effusively each time, then realized that, while I had seen him frequently, he had never seen me.
It was humiliating.
That’s what happened with that darn photo album. Most of the people in it were, of course, complete strangers to me, people Mike had known in the army years earlier. But there was this one guy—one guy—who was incredibly familiar.
All I could tell was that he had light-colored hair and light-colored eyes. He seemed to be unusually tall, but in most of the pictures he was sitting down, so I might have that wrong. His head was sort of square. He had a crooked grin that might knock some women flat and a way of giving the camera a sideways glance that was provocative and attractive. Who was he? I knew him, but how?
The first photo in the book had Watt in it. Then came two guys who didn’t trip any recognition wires, and then Mr. Familiar.
If there was a common denominator in the pictures, of course, it was soldiers in uniforms. And the square-headed guy with light eyes. Next in number came army equipment. Then houses that were definitely not in the United States. Then deserts. Next, helicopters. And, after that, Mr. Familiar again. He was in at least a quarter of the pictures.
Who did I know who had been in the army? Was he someone I had known in Texas? Someone from Michigan? From college? From an office where I had worked? A restaurant where I’d waited tables? From Holland? From my teenage days when Lindy and I hung out at the Warner Pier Beach?
There was one other hint. Mr. Familiar must have worked with machinery. Actually with more than machinery. He seemed to work with any sort of tools or gadgets or electronics. In every photo, he was screwing things, sawing things, nutting and bolting things, assembling things.
But where had I seen him? Where had we met? What had we been doing that made him so identifiable, yet so unidentifiable?
Of course, I told myself, if this album belonged to Mike, then that should give me a clue—Mike must know him, too. But when I tried to picture the few of Mike’s friends whom I knew, this guy did not pop up as a member of the group. The only pictures my subconscious dredged up included people like Dolly, Joe and me, Lindy and Tony, and other ordinary people around Warner Pier. Mr. Familiar did not appear. All that proved was that he didn’t live in Warner Pier. Yet—yet—yet—well, it seemed as if he ought to.
I tried to eliminate some categories. He didn’t ring the bell as a member of the Warner Pier Rest-Stop coffee club. I couldn’t associate him with any of the downtown stores. He didn’t pump gas at a Warner Pier gas station or make change at the community theater. Nor did he take my order for lunch or carry groceries out to my car or cut my hair.
I finally spoke aloud. “I guess I’ll just have to ask Mike who the heck he is.”
Then I gasped. Next, I murmured, “Oh my gosh! Mike said this was his album. But there’s not one picture of him in it!”
Not one picture of Mike. Well, maybe that was because Mike took all the pictures. Then he couldn’t be in them.
But that didn’t sound right either. This album was pictures of friends. Friends hang out together, saying, “Hey, guy, take one of all of us with my camera.”
And this album had lots of such pictures. Groups eating in the mess tent, climbing on tanks and helicopters, working on trucks, playing cards, posing with their arms around one another’s shoulders, snoozing on cots.
Like Mr. Unidentifiable, Watt was in about a quarter of the shots. But there was not one picture of Mike.
Yet Mike had claimed the album was his.
Did it matter? Possibly not.
Should I tell Hogan about it? Yes, I decided.
I picked up my phone and called Dolly at her desk. It was only fair to warn Mike. And there was no point in hesitating.
Dolly answered on the first ring. “Hi,” I said. “Is Mike there?”
Dolly’s voice was hesitant. “He’s supposed to come over. He should be here any minute.”
I tried to make my voice firm. “Well, tell him not to leave. I’m on my way, and I need to talk to him, too.”
I hung up. It would be much better for Mike if he admitted to Hogan that he’d fibbed about the album himself.
If the album had any meaning at all, then Hogan needed to know about it. And if it didn’t—well, then why had Watt tried to hide it?
When I got to TenHuis Chocolade, Mike’s flashy red pickup was sitting in front of our shop. Good, I thought. I drove into the alley and parked in my own spot, picking up the white plastic sack that still held the album.
Dolly was standing on her tiny balcony. As I got out of my van, her eyes dropped to the sack.
She leaned over the railing and spoke. “Mike was right. He said you would be the one who looked the pictures over carefully enough to notice anything.”
I went up the stairs and into her living room. Mike was standing in the middle of the floor, waiting for me. I held the album up to display it, but I didn’t say anything.
Mike shrugged.
I spoke. “This album sure confused me.” I dropped the book onto Dolly’s coffee table and dropped myself onto the couch. “I’ve never run into anyone who owned a whole album without one photo of himself in it. And there was one other thing.”
As soon as I had the book out of the sack, I flipped it open and tapped my finger on a photo on the first inside page.
“Mike! Who the heck is that guy?”
Mike stared at me, then he laughed harshly. “You don’t recognize him? I’ve done all this worrying, and you don’t even recognize him?”
“Mike!” I held up one fist and shook it, then winked like Popeye. “Unless you satisfy my raging curiosity, nobody’s going to recognize you! Who is it?”
“You’re going to feel dumb when I tell you.” He grinned and sat down beside me. “Add a beard.”
“I imagined that. It didn’t help.”
“Add thirty pounds.”
Heavier and with a beard. Who could it be? “He was in the army with you?”
“He was a sergeant. He and Watt and
I got acquainted with each other because we had all spent a lot of time in Michigan.”
“But you didn’t tell the world about it. Why would you try to hide a friendship?”
“Some guys you just owe. When our chopper went down, he and Watt pulled me out of it. Through flames. I’d be dead if they hadn’t done it. I owe them.”
“But what are you trying to hide? Who is it? You’re driving me crazy!”
Mike looked through a few more pictures, grinning. “I’ve given you some hints. Think about it! Meanwhile, I’ll take the album over and explain to Hogan. I’ll tell him why I fibbed about owning it. And I still find it hard to believe there’s anything wrong.”
I closed the album and put it back in its plastic sack. “Here, Mike. But I’d really like to understand why you went to all this trouble for this guy and what you hoped to accomplish.”
Mike frowned. “Basically, I don’t want to be the reason somebody looks up his record. Or Watt’s. I’m pretty sure Watt is in the clear. And I thought the other guy was, too. But if not, he can take care of himself.”
“But what’s to know?” I asked.
“His record! Lee, the guy has a record! He’s been to prison! He got a dishonorable discharge! I don’t know if he did anything wrong or not. But knowing he has a record is going to put him at the top of the suspect list for whatever the hell is going on in Warner Pier!”
Mike left, leaving Dolly and me alone. She sank into a chair.
“Honestly! Will Mike ever learn to act like a normal person?”
“Don’t ask me, Dolly. I like Mike a lot. But some people always have a lot of excitement going on in their lives. Mike may be one of them.”
Dolly jumped to her feet. “Oh, Lee! That buyer from March’s Mercantile called this morning. We gotta talk about that!”
That was a signal for a discussion of a chocolate buyer who was an expert in her field, but who—like Mike—lived a truly dramatic life. I’d learned to listen to Dolly calmly, but the buyer still could send Dolly into a tizzy with a choice between milk chocolate witches with brooms or dark chocolate cats with pumpkins.
I thanked my lucky star that the two of them didn’t have to discuss things very often, and I let Dolly tell me the entire tale. This required about ten minutes of concentrated listening before I ended the talk with a promise to call the woman back and try to calm her down.
Dolly had just reached a reasonable level of emotion when we heard more excitement.
“Hey! Hey!” We heard a loud yell from outside. Then the sounds of a scuffle.
Dolly jumped to her feet. “That sounded like Mike!”
She ran toward the back of her apartment with me at her heels. She shoved the door to the little balcony open, and the two of us ran onto the porch.
Below us, in the alley, was a white panel truck. A man wearing a light-colored canvas hat was slamming the double doors on the side.
Inside I could see feet, big ones, made even larger by a pair of enormous work boots. They weren’t moving. I recognized those boots. They belonged to Mike.
Both Dolly and I screamed. “Mike! Mike! Let him out!”
The man in the canvas hat jumped into the driver’s seat of the truck, and the vehicle dug out.
Chapter 25
I nearly did a swan dive off the balcony. But I had enough common sense left to realize that would probably break my neck. So I ran back to the living room, grabbed my purse, dug for the car keys, dropped them, fell to my knees and scrabbled around until I got hold of them, leaped to my feet—nearly knocking Dolly down the stairs—ran down the steps, and sprinted out the back door.
I’d been clicking my electronic car door opener as I ran, so I swung the van’s door open, leaped into the car, and backed out of my parking place—once again almost killing Dolly, who was jumping into the other side of the van.
We tore out of the alley, but by then the white van had completely disappeared. I was muttering its license plate number to myself as I drove. One advantage accountants have in a car chase is that numbers are easy for us. We can remember the license numbers of the cars we’re following.
We called 9-1-1 and reported the kidnapping while we drove around Warner Pier, looking for a white van. On every street corner we yelled at someone standing there, “Hey! Have you seen a white van?” Then I’d holler out the license number. Of course, nearly everyone had seen a white van, since they are incredibly common. Hardly anybody could remember the numbers.
After a couple of blocks, of course, a patrol car from the Warner Pier PD caught up with us. But that meant we had to stop and explain the whole thing, and it slowed the chase up. It was terribly frustrating.
We kept after it. The Warner Pier Police, the county cops, and the state police helped. We turned the streets of Warner Pier into a pinball machine, with my van and at least a half-dozen cop cars bouncing around, back and forth, trying to find that van.
We started the chase about eleven a.m., and by noon we still hadn’t found them.
By then Dolly and I were tired out and at the ends of our ropes. And Mike was still missing. The white truck must have slipped into a hiding place.
“The van’s simply got to be downtown,” Dolly told me. “There’s no way it could get onto the interstate or some country road before we were ready to take off after it.”
“Hogan’s checking all the downtown garages and other possible hiding places,” I told her. “That van’s got to be somewhere. And it didn’t have very long to get out of the area.”
“Yes, I know it’s got to be here,” Dolly answered. “It’s so frustrating to feel like we’re right next to it, but can’t find it.”
By twelve fifteen Dolly and I were sitting in the break room at TenHuis Chocolade, thoroughly discouraged. We stared at the walls, we looked at a city map, we even checked the aerial views from Google Earth, and we couldn’t figure out how that van managed to disappear.
“In a flash!” Dolly said. “All my life I’ve heard of things happening ‘in a flash!’ But this is the first time it’s actually happened! Right before my eyes!”
Every cop in southwest Michigan was looking for that van and for Mike, whom they considered a fellow officer.
The only good thing was that the kidnappers had not taken the photo album. We had found it under the steps leading to the TenHuis back door. Dolly and I guessed that Mike had managed to toss it under there as he struggled.
Joe kept calling for updates. He had headed for his office in Holland that morning, running late after our talk with Hogan. Naturally, after the kidnapping, I had Dolly call to tell him about it while I drove up and down the streets of Warner Pier, looking for the van. But Joe couldn’t just drop everything—such as representing a client before a judge—and rush back to Warner Pier to help search.
But he did give me an idea. An unlikely one, but an idea all the same.
When we were talking about how the white van disappeared so quickly, Joe chuckled and said, “Maybe they got away by water.”
“Or maybe they’ve hidden the van at your shop,” I said. “It has plenty of space, and all the locals know where it is.”
“They’d have to get inside.”
“That would be no problem at all. The property owner—a guy who looks a lot like you—hides his key in a magnetic box he puts behind a downspout. Any burglar could easily find it.”
“Yes, but it’s awfully convenient when he needs to ask his wife to look for something there, and she left her own key at home.”
We didn’t laugh, because we were too worried about Mike. But sort of joking about Joe not locking up securely planted an idea in my brain.
The idea kept eating at me. But I kept working on finding Mike. That’s stupid, I told myself. After all, Joe is the nephew-in-law of the chief of police. And the son-in-law of the mayor. Nobody would use his shop as a hiding place.
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Or maybe it would be a smart place to hide a kidnap victim. If the crooks didn’t plan to leave him there long. The shop had no close neighbors; nobody could hear a kidnap victim yell.
But it was nearly a mile from our alley to the shop, and that mile was full of turns and obstructions. Slow driving. They wouldn’t have had time to do much before the cops were on their tail.
But Vintage Boats—Joe’s shop—would have had plenty of space. If Joe could work on a thirty-foot boat in it, some bad guy could definitely hide that van there.
But by now, I told myself, the kidnappers had dragged Mike out of the van and had crammed him in some other vehicle—a pickup truck, a compact car, a giant Caddy, or maybe a semi. Finding the white van probably wouldn’t help at all.
Once again, I consulted the Google Earth map that showed the streets, roofs, and alleys of Warner Pier. If you wanted to go from TenHuis Chocolade to Vintage Boats by the shortest route, how would you do it? I was surprised by the answer. It wasn’t as far as I had thought. It was well under a mile. Not a fun drive, true, but not far.
The suggested route ran three blocks north and a half block right, then whipped onto the main road into Holland. It crossed River Drive, then turned onto the far end of Dock Street. From there it would be two blocks to the riverbank, ending with a turn into the boat shop itself. And the whole route had plenty of trees and bushes for a van to hide behind.
But it would be useless, I told myself. There was no way that the white van or any other vehicle would be there. With Mike inside or not.
I got up from my desk and walked around the shop for a few moments. I ate a truffle, but after I swallowed it, I couldn’t remember what flavor it had been.
Finally I decided that I had to know if it was possible for the van to get there so quickly. I got my purse out of my desk drawer and called out “Tell Dolly I’ll be back in a few minutes” to Aunt Nettie. Then I headed out the back door.