A Fool's Journey

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “That’s perfect, thanks.” A thought occurred to me, as we got ready to leave. “You said, later on you found out it was the tarot card, Temperance. It may not be important but how did you find out?”

  “The guy I took it to for framing,” Kavya said. “In fact, now that I think about it, he seemed to be familiar with the artist’s work.”

  “Where did you take it?”

  “A place called Frame-Up. It’s on Poplar Street.”

  Poplar Street. The same street Trust Few was on. My list for Sam may have been getting bigger, but the circle around her was definitely getting smaller.

  25

  I arrived home just before dark, jotted down some quick notes, then spent the balance of Sunday reading the latest John Sandford Prey novel. There would be time enough for the case of Brandon Colbeck in the week ahead, and I needed a break before my mind imploded. By the time I went to bed, well past the hour I’d planned—just one more page, one more chapter—I was more than ready for a good night’s sleep.

  I woke up at seven a.m. Monday, my inner alarm clock kicking into gear, and dragged myself into the shower, the hot water washing over me until I was suitably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  I turned on my tablet and surfed past the latest news, sports, and entertainment headlines over a large mug of cinnamon rooibos tea and two slices of pumpernickel toast with peanut butter and wild blueberry jam, then settled in on Christie Blatchford’s latest column in the National Post. I’ve followed Blatchford since 1995, after reading her daily coverage of the infamous Paul Bernardo trial in the Toronto Sun. I can still recall the way she described him as an oxygen thief, an appropriate term if there ever was one.

  Breakfast finished, I went into work mode, first checking the day’s calendar, which was a good thing, because somehow I’d almost forgotten about my noon meeting with Gloria Grace. It also served as a reminder that I had yet to meet with Michael Westlake, and I wanted to do that before I approached Sam Sanchez for a third time. I was at the point where I wasn’t sure what she was hiding, it could be anything, right down to knowing Brandon’s stepfather. I checked the time. Nine a.m. Not too early to make a telephone call. If I waited for him to call me, I might be waiting a very long time. I wasn’t even sure if Lorna or Jeanine had passed on my request.

  I lucked out on my first try to his mobile and started to introduce myself when he interrupted.

  “I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the investigator who’s been hired to look into my stepson’s disappearance. Jeanine asked me to call you but it’s…it’s been a rough few days. At any rate, I’m not sure what I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

  By rough, I assumed he meant Lorna filing for divorce. “I was hoping we could set up a time to meet in person. I pride myself on exploring every option.”

  There was a lengthy silence, then, “Very well. I can squeeze you in today at noon. Other than that, I’m booked solid for the foreseeable future.”

  It meant postponing my visit with Gloria, but she had recommended that I interview all of the family members first.

  “I have a conflict, but I should be able to reschedule. Can I call you back in ten?”

  “I’ll be here,” he said, and hung up. Not much on pleasantries, Michael Westlake.

  I dialed Gloria Grace and filled her in.

  “You absolutely must see Michael Westlake first,” she said when I’d finished. “I can do Wednesday morning, say eleven? Will that work?”

  “It will, and thanks. I owe you one.” I hung up and redialed Westlake.

  “We’re on for noon today. Where shall we meet?”

  “In my office. It’s on the main floor of the old Office Works building at Edward and Water. Michael Westlake & Associates.”

  I knew the building, and was once again grateful for choosing Edward Street as my home base. I could walk there in ten minutes, fifteen if I wanted to take my time. I did some of my best thinking when I walked. “I’ll be there.”

  The appointment confirmed, and with time to spare, I checked my messages to find a brief email from Shirley.

  Hi Callie, as per your request, I did some digging into Dave Samuels, Such & Such tattoo parlor, Nestor Sanchez, Sam Sanchez, and Trust Few tattoo parlor. I made copies of everything and uploaded them to Dropbox, so all you have to do is download and print, vs. having to check a bunch of individual links. Hopefully some of this helps. Unfortunately, my search didn’t reveal anything on Nestor Sanchez, outside of a brief mention in an advertisement for Trust Few. Seems he’s Sam Sanchez’s grandfather, though I expect you knew that already.

  Let me know if you need me to look into anyone or anything else.

  Thanks,

  Shirley

  I wasn’t entirely surprised at the lack of information on Nestor Sanchez, though it was disappointing nonetheless. I clicked on the Dropbox link, thankful Shirley had taken the time to arrange them in a printable format. Each attachment had been carefully labeled, Dave-1, Sam-1, etc. She got bonus points for organization. I downloaded the files into my Brandon Colbeck folder, creating a sub-folder titled “Shirley Research,” then printed each one, arranging them in order on the tabletop. As curious as I was to the contents, they would have to wait until after my interview with Michael Westlake. Right now, I had to pick an outfit. First impressions always mattered, but I had a feeling they mattered all the more to a man like the one Lorna and Jeanine had described.

  I flicked on a layer of mascara and burgundy lip gloss, slipped into a pair of black dress slacks, a white jersey knit camisole, and a black quilted blazer embellished with four geometric buttons shaped like a square, a diamond, a circle, and a rectangle. The sales associate had called them a whimsical touch. I studied myself in the mirror, satisfied with what I saw.

  The Office Works building was located on prime Marketville real estate with the Dutch River on the left hand side of the property, and the town’s multi-purpose trail system to the right. Built in the late nineteenth century, it was home to a prominent manufacturer of filing cabinets until the company, and the building, was sold in the early 1960s. A few incarnations and owners later, Office Works was now a mix of condominium housing on the three upper levels, and professional offices on the main floor. Despite all of that, and the carefully restored six-pane windows, it still looked like an old factory. There was, however, a side lot for visitors and reserved parking for the businesses and residents. I located four spaces with a neatly lettered sign: Reserved for Michael Westlake & Associates. Two spots, VISITOR painted in white on the pavement, were empty. The paint looked new, or at least new enough that it had yet to weather a Canadian winter. A white Hyundai Accent and a black Mercedes SUV filled the other two.

  A brass plaque inside the entrance indicated that Michael Westlake & Associates was located in Suite 104. I made my way down a narrow, wainscoted hall, opened the door, and was greeted by a well-preserved, silver-streaked brunette. I pegged her as the owner of the Accent. Someone like Westlake would be the Mercedes-Benz type. Still, it never pays to make assumptions.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, with a casual glance at my buttons. I wanted to tell her the mismatch was intentional, but bit my tongue. Too bad if she didn’t appreciate whimsy.

  “I have an appointment with Michael Westlake at noon. I’m a few minutes early.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She picked up the phone, spoke quietly, and then turned to her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard as she worked her way through a massive pile of paperwork stacked next to her. Not only a receptionist, then.

  “Is that your Accent?”

  She looked up and nodded. “Why?”

  “I’m thinking of getting one.”

  “It’s very reliable.”

  “Good to know, thanks.” I looked around the room. Tired was the best way to describe it. I settled into a well-worn tweed loveseat, mostly taupe with some twists of brown and caramel, and waited.

  After
everything I’d heard about Michael Westlake, I expected a large man, imposing in height and weight. The man before me stood no taller than five-foot-ten, with a slender build, steel gray hair, pale blue eyes, and a warm smile.

  “Callie Barnstable,” he said, holding out his hand. “Michael Westlake. Follow me. My office is at the end.”

  I did as instructed, taking note of two empty offices along the way. Either everyone was at lunch, or Westlake’s associates were no longer employed with the firm. Was the Mercedes the last vestige of affluent appearances? For the first time I wondered just how much the family had invested, financially, to find Brandon Colbeck.

  I was about to find out.

  26

  Michael Westlake’s office had a corner view that took in the trail, the river, and Edward Street. I could spot the spinning studio in the distance, and it dawned on me that New Beginnings Center for Life was a stone’s throw away. Interesting that Jeanine had set up shop so close to her father. Some might even say Freudian.

  Like the reception area, the furnishings were spartan, if slightly more high-end. A marble-topped mahogany desk with a telephone, desktop computer, a sleek black pen and pencil set in a Lucite block, and two clear plastic paper trays, one marked “Out,” the other, “In.” Both were empty. I wondered, briefly, if Westlake had emptied them before admitting me, and figured it was likely. Despite the warm smile, I suspected this was a man who didn’t give up secrets willingly.

  “Have a seat,” Westlake said, pointing to one of two black leather armchairs across from his desk. It should have been nothing more than a friendly gesture, but somehow he made it seem like a command. Or was I allowing preconceived notions of who he was to influence my perception? I took a seat.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. As you know, my firm, Past & Present Investigations, has been commissioned to find your stepson.”

  Westlake’s lips twisted into a grimace. “You make it sound as if Brandon might still be alive. I find the prospect highly unlikely. Brandon may have been a confused young man, misguided, even, but he wasn’t cruel. Surely he would have contacted Lorna or Jeanine at some point.”

  “There was the recent call to his grandmother.”

  “Which, I remind you, the police dismissed as a scam.”

  “That’s certainly one possibility, but I’ve learned to explore every option, however remote.” I made it sound as if I’d had years of experience, versus two cases. “At any rate, my purpose today isn’t to debate the validity of the telephone call, but to find out about your relationship with Brandon as it might pertain to his leaving home, as well as what you remember about the days leading up to that decision.”

  “Fair enough, although I’m sure much of what I have to tell you will be repetitive,” Westlake said. “I’d also like to go on record as saying that I’m unwilling to invest any more money to find him. That may sound heartless, but I’ve been down this road too many times, with nothing to show but a declining bank balance and the necessity to downsize.”

  My observation of the empty offices had been correct. “I can assure you that our bill will be paid by the individual who hired our firm. As for being repetitive, all I’m asking for is your honest recollection.”

  Westlake studied me for a moment. I kept my head high and my shoulders back, hoping I’d pass whatever test he was putting me through. After what seemed like forever, but was likely less than a minute, he began.

  “Brandon and I had what might best be described as a complicated relationship. I entered Lorna’s life when Brandon was seven. From the beginning, he resisted any parenting efforts on my part. Contrary to what Jeanine may have told you, I tried everything from being his friend to being his father. Nothing worked. As the years went on, Brandon became increasingly antagonistic towards me. He adored Jeanine, and he was always respectful to Lorna, though never submissive. Submissiveness was never part of his nature.” He smiled. “Nor mine, truth be told.”

  “You say you tried to be his father, and yet you never adopted Brandon.” I saw the dark flush spread across Westlake’s face, and knew I should have been more diplomatic. “I’m sorry if that crossed a personal line, but I need to know everything that might provide insight into Brandon’s state of mind.”

  The flush receded. “I planned to adopt him, but then Lorna got pregnant almost right away, and then Jeanine came along, and I was building up the firm, and…well, life got busy. A poor excuse, I know, but by the time Lorna and I sat down to discuss adoption with Brandon, he was ten. He told me in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to be adopted because one day his father would come for him. I blame his grandparents for filling his head with fairy tales and nonsense. Eleanor and Tom spoiled that boy to the point where he was virtually unmanageable, and Lorna did nothing to stop it. I put an end to those visits at their cottage.”

  For the first time, I had a sense of the real man behind the warm smile. Michael Westlake was someone used to getting his way, no matter the cost to anyone else. He was also used to being right, or at least being told he was right. I decided to play into that.

  “It must have difficult for you, hearing that from a boy you’d taken into your home and treated with love and respect.”

  Michael’s pale blue eyes viewed me with suspicion. I managed to keep a poker face, easier said than done, given my growing dislike of the man before me, but I must have succeeded. He acknowledged the statement with a brief nod before continuing.

  “It altered our relationship from that day forward. It was about that time I realized that tough love would be the only way to get through to Brandon.”

  Except you didn’t get through to him, I thought. You drove him further and further away, until he felt his only recourse was to leave home. “Tell me about the days leading up to his departure.”

  “Brandon had always been a straight-A student, despite his best efforts not to be, but he flunked out of his first term in his second year of college. It surprised Lorna, but I’d seen it coming. He’d become increasingly detached. At first I suspected drugs or alcohol abuse, but there were none of the obvious signs. Then I thought it might be an addiction to online gaming, gambling, or porn…but it wasn’t that, either.”

  “How can be sure?”

  “I monitored his internet browsing with tracking software.”

  Tracking software? Not only was that morally and ethically wrong on every possible level, I was pretty sure it was illegal. I refrained from offering my opinion of his actions, knowing that to do so would terminate our meeting immediately. “Was there anything he seemed obsessed with?”

  “Tattoos and tarot. Brandon knew I wouldn’t abide either, certainly not while he lived under my roof, and yet he had an online reading done every day, sometimes more. As I recall, he was especially enamored with something called ‘The Fool’s Journey.’”

  “What did the police make of that?”

  For the first time since we’d sat across from each other, Westlake wasn’t able to make eye contact. He shifted in his seat and that’s when I knew. This was his secret. The secret Gloria Grace insisted they all had.

  “You never told them,” I said.

  The flush deepened, spreading down his neck. “The keylogger software I used wasn’t exactly legit. And I couldn’t see how telling the cops about Brandon’s fascination with tattoos and tarot could help them find him. I never told anyone. Until now. And the only reason I’m telling you is because this is the absolutely last time I go down the ‘Find Brandon’ rabbit hole.”

  “You say you never told anyone. Not even your wife?”

  “Especially not my wife. Lorna would never have approved.” He pursed his lips. “She always took Brandon’s side.”

  Brandon’s side? Who were the adults in this relationship, and who was the child? The longer I sat in Westlake’s office, the more I wanted to take a long, hot shower. I forced myself to stay calm. “Does the name Nestor Sanchez mean anything to you?”

  Westlake f
rowned. “No, should it? Who is he? What does he have to do with Brandon?”

  “I don’t know, at least not yet. I do know Brandon had purchased some of his artwork, and I believe Brandon took it with him when he left. Whether that’s meaningful to his disappearance remains to be seen.”

  “Artwork?” Westlake seemed genuinely perplexed. “Where would Brandon get the money for art? He wasn’t employed, didn’t even bother with a summer job before the fall semester.”

  “I don’t have an answer for that.”

  Westlake shook his head. “Lorna. She must have been giving him an allowance. I should have known. The harder I worked, the more she spent. I blame Eleanor. Her mother never taught Lorna the value of a dollar. Then again, maybe it was Eleanor. She could never refuse Brandon anything—”

  I stopped him before he went off on a tangent about his mother-in-law and his soon-to-be ex-wife. “Is there anything else you can think of, anything at all?”

  “Nothing.” His pale blue eyes locked into mine. Sincerity personified.

  He was lying, I knew it and so did he. Proving it, and finding out what he was lying about, that would be another matter.

  27

  I mulled over my meeting with Michael Westlake on the walk back. I was convinced he was holding something back. But what? I was no closer to an answer when I arrived home. Frustrated, I changed into my running gear and hit the trail. Sometimes the best thinking comes when you’re not trying to think.

  I was about five miles into the run when a thought struck me. Brandon took his laptop with him. And Westlake had been monitoring him remotely using keylogger software. Could he have traced Brandon’s movements, at least initially? Is that why Westlake had taken four months before filing a missing person report? Because he knew his stepson was okay? Or because he knew he wasn’t?