by Greg Enslen
Frank nodded.
“That’s assuming that you and Chief King and Nick know all the disgruntled citizens who might hold a grudge and need to be checked out. Anyone let go as a result of the budget issues? Anyone quit?”
Peters shook his head.
“We’re looking for someone who hates Nick Martin enough to risk going to jail for the opportunity to make Nick’s life miserable,” Frank said, mostly to himself. “Or someone who needs money and is under the erroneous impression that the Martin’s have it.”
Peters nodded. “Sounds like you’ve been through the financials.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “And they’re not pretty.”
“Nope,” Peters agreed. “The economy has been tough on folks around here. A bunch of downtown and local businesses closed in 2010 and earlier this year. We’re just hoping more can stick it out. It would be a shame to see these downtown buildings boarded up and empty.”
Frank looked down at his scribbled notes. “Did the girls have a reputation for running off? It’s still possible they skipped town.”
“Nah, too young,” Peters said. “They are seven and eight. They couldn’t have gotten to Troy or Vandalia without someone calling it in.”
Frank looked up. “Where?”
“Troy, five miles north of here, on the highway. Vandalia is south. Now, if they had been teenagers...”
“This would be an entirely different case,” Frank agreed. “Any extended family for either girl who might have taken them on vacation or somewhere harmless? Just forgot to mention it to anyone?”
Peters shook his head again.
Frank nodded. “It would have been extremely unlikely, but it’s best to check off every possibility.”
Peters nodded and sipped his coffee. He reached and took out a small notepad and pen from his pocket and flipped it open, jotting down some words.
“I like that,” Deputy Peters said. ‘Check off the possibilities.’”
Frank looked at the notepad and saw those words written down. “You taking notes?”
Peters looked up. “Chief King does it all the time. And you’re miles ahead of that other guy. He hasn’t said anything that I thought was worth writing down.”
Frank nodded. “Cut him some slack.”
“You haven’t met him,” Peters answered.
“That’s true.”
Frank flipped open the next file and began reading about the business associate, Matt Lassiter. He’d come to the area a few years ago from out west. He was originally from California, Modesto, but had settled into the Midwest and become a critical partner in much of Martin Construction’s success. Lassiter had been hit hard by the economic downturn as well, seeing his net worth fall steeply over the past two years. He had been part owner in a strip mall in some town named Piqua but had recently sold the property. And he and Nick Martin were the sole owners of the Holly Toys building project, splitting the finances 50/50.
Frank looked up at Peters.
“What do you know about Lassiter?”
“Oh, not much,” Peters said. “He was at one of the first interviews with the Martins. He’s a family friend, and they’re close, as far as I can tell. He’s from California, you know,” Peters said conspiratorially.
Frank looked up.
“Yes?”
Peters was making a face. “Yup, he’s from California,” he said, stressing and stretching the name of the state.
“What are you saying?”
“You know what I mean,” Peters said.
Frank shook his head. “Actually, I don’t.”
Peters leaned forward. “He’s...a little light,” he shared quietly. “In the loafers.”
Frank got it.
“Oh, you think he’s gay.”
Peters’ eyes went wide, and he looked around.
“Okay, okay, don’t shout it!”
Frank shook his head.
“There’s a whole big world out there, Deputy,” Frank said wearily. “You should embrace it. First, being from California doesn’t make him gay. You might want to get a new euphemism for that. And second, gay doesn’t make him a kidnapper.”
“But he’s different,” Peters argued. “He has a different lifestyle, and that means--”
“It means exactly nothing,” Frank cut him off. “Shit, lots of people have different lives and lifestyles. You and I are different, based on our interests, or background, or upbringing. I like jazz music. Coltrane, Ellington, Benny Golson, Booker Ervin. Have you heard of those guys?”
Peters only stared at Frank, then looked down at the table, as if the case files and folders were suddenly fascinating.
“You would do well to look at the facts in the case,” Frank chided loudly. Other patrons looked up at them. “And the facts only. Some things are pertinent, and some things don’t matter. It’s easy to get caught up in the details, and even easier to get distracted by them. Now, again, what do you know about Matthew Lassiter?”
Peters squirmed in his seat for a moment, and Frank suddenly felt like a teacher chastising a student. After a long second, Peters looked up.
“There’s no need to cuss.”
Frank stared at him. “What?”
“My mom said that people only cuss when they run out of things to say.”
“Deputy, I don’t give a shit about what your mom used to say,” Frank said good-naturedly. “The only thing I’m worried about right now is finding these girls. Now, stay on task. Matthew Lassiter.”
Peters looked at him for a long moment and then began talking.
“Matthew Lassiter seems like a close personal friend of the family,” Deputy Peters said slowly. “I’d originally thought something was going on between him and Mrs. Martin, but then after I figured out--well, I ruled that out,” Peters said, eyeing Frank. “She didn’t seem--well, they were close, but then I got the impression that they were just friends. But he was there for them, sitting in on the interviews when we allowed it. I’ve always gotten a good vibe off of him,” Peters said.
“Even though he’s gay?” Frank said, not bothering to take the edge off his mocking tone.
Deputy Peters nodded, sheepish.
“Good,” Frank said. “You need to remember to be objective. It can be difficult, but try not to project your bias into the mix too much. His being gay or black or Jewish or bald doesn’t matter, unless you come up with something else, some other piece of evidence that MAKES it matter.”
Peters nodded as he took notes. It felt strange to Frank, having someone treat him like a source of actual information. It had been so long.
“Maybe he’s involved in a group that makes you curious about his associates,” Frank continued. “Or maybe it’s harmless and unconnected. Check it out, then dismiss it if you can. Eyes open, that’s what my old partner used to say.”
Frank set the file down and smiled, as Peters jotted down “Eyes open” on his little pad. Ben Stone would’ve been happy, knowing one of his sayings was getting passed down to the next generation. Stone was always coming up with shit like that. He should’ve been a motivational speaker. And he should have avoided dark alleys in Coral Gables.
Frank flipped through the last two--one was on the other major business partner, Jimmy Weil. The file was short, mostly concerning the lawsuit between him and the Martin Construction company over that failed strip mall. Frank read though it quickly, making a note to ask Chief King about it for more detailed financial records on Weil and Lassiter and the other partners.
The last file was on the three “silent” partners. It all seemed very straightforward--they invested in the company, taking varying degrees of involvement in the company’s direction or focus. One of the silent partners wasn’t even in the state. He was an architect in St. Louis.
“What about these other partners?” Frank asked.
“Nothing much. They’re all losing money in the real estate market, hand over fist. All in the same boat. But it all seems legitimate,” Peters said and then grew silent. It loo
ked like he had something he wanted to say.
Frank knew better than to interrupt. Often, people used silence to get their nerve up. Frank waited.
Around them, the coffee shop buzzed. The woman behind the counter took orders and made drinks, the brass espresso machine hissing as she steamed milk. Near the window, two teenagers played chess at a large alabaster board. Above them hung a giant fake spider in a thick web. A woman came back from the bathroom and joined her friend, who was flipping through the magazines arrayed on the low tables. The zombie stood by the fountain, the “blood” gurgling like a bubbling wound.
The silence drew on, but Peters finally broke it.
“I don’t think it’s any of the partners,” Deputy Peters said quietly. “No one close to the family seems to be that needy. Of course, I could be wrong, but we did exactly what you’re doing. Chief King interviewed everyone, pulled all their credit reports and backgrounds. No red flags, nothing strange--but the case itself. It’s like everything doesn’t add up.”
“Yup, my feelings exactly,” Frank said, nodding.
Peters looked up.
“You should speak your mind more often,” Frank continued, gathering up the files and putting the two red folders on top. “Use your instinct, but only after you’ve been through all the hard data. And as you do more investigations, you’ll get the hang of what to look for. But we need to keep digging--this information is fine,” he said, tapping the files. “But we need more.”
Peters nodded, and then smiled.
Chapter 23
Frank pointed out the car to Deputy Peters as they left the coffee shop, each carrying a box of reports and files. Peters stumbled over the sidewalk coming down the stairs of the coffee shop and almost dropped his box again. Frank smiled and popped the trunk on the Taurus, dropping his box in and holding it open for Peters.
The electronic locks didn’t work anymore, so Frank climbed in and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Peters nodded at a group of three women passing on the sidewalk. Frank had parked across the street from Perks, and the three women waved at Deputy Peters before heading inside a small bookstore, The Haunted Bookshop.
Peters sat down in the car and looked around.
“Don’t say anything,” Frank said.
The interior of the car was a mess, and Frank knew it. There was trash in the floorboards and a crack in the windshield and part of the ceiling fabric had come loose in the backseat, sagging down like a tattered brown curtain. The jury-rigged, battery-powered CD player sat on the floorboard between them, tied into the car speakers with exposed wiring.
“It’s...nice,” Peters said.
Frank started the car, pulling away from the curb. The music came on, “Beggar Man Blues” by Willie B. Huff. Old blues, from back in the day. Bayou music, they called it.
“Don’t lie--you’re horrible at it,” Frank said, glancing at Peters. “It’s an old Alabama Bureau of Investigation vehicle, and I got it on the cheap. It was used in sting operations but got in a crash. The IT guys in Birmingham said the electronics got screwed up--the locks don’t work, or radio, but the GPS tracker and speakers are OK.”
“GPS tracker?”
Frank nodded. “Yeah, all the Bureau cars had them, especially sting cars, so they could be remotely tracked during operations. Too bad it doesn’t work anymore. I should see if it can be fixed. Along with the radio and door locks.”
Peters shook his head. “What’s the point? No one is going to steal this--”
“Careful,” Frank interrupted. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”
Peters smiled. “The CD connections look loose--you want me to fix them? I’ve got some of those plastic zip ties. I take them with me, everywhere I go. Handy.”
Frank looked at the wires that led from the dashboard to the CD player on the floor between them, but shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”
Peters nodded and pointed up the road.
“Okay, head back west on Main,” Peters said, taking another long, curious look around the interior of the car.
Frank took two rights, passing and recognizing the hair studio where Laura worked. He made a left at the barber shop to get back on the main drag through downtown.
He stopped at the train tracks behind a line of cars, all stopped and waiting for a train that was passing through town. As the train crossed Main, it blew its whistle loudly.
“Doesn’t that get annoying?” Frank said, pointing at the train.
Peters shook his head.
“I honestly didn’t notice it. You get used to it. I know people who live downtown that can’t even hear the train whistle blowing--I guess they just filter it out.”
Frank nodded, thinking about it. “Seems like a bad idea, having a slow-moving train come through town multiple times a day. Do they ever block the fire or police calls?”
“Doesn’t happen that often that the tracks are blocked,” Peters said, looking at the train roaring past them, moving from right to left, heading south to Dayton and points beyond. Graffiti raced past them, painted on the sides of the train cars. “Once in a while, the train stops in town. But you can always get around it. There are crossings north and south, if you know where to look.”
The train finally ended, and Frank and the other cars moved in a procession past the signal gates, over the tracks and up Main Street. Frank admired the beautiful old Victorian homes that lined both sides of the street. One of them was for sale, and a crazy idea drifted through Frank’s brain that he should buy the house and have Laura and Jackson move in. Any place would have been better than that apartment she was in now.
They passed through a green light and Frank realized that Peters was talking to him.
“What?”
Peters was pointing. “That was Hyatt,” he said, as they passed through the intersection. “The Martins live down there,” he said, pointing to the left. “I asked if you wanted to drive past the house.”
Frank shook his head. “No, let’s check in with King. I’ll check it out when we do the re-interview.”
“Re-interview?” Peters was looking at him.
“Yeah, it never hurts,” Frank said, nodding. “And bringing in new investigators is a perfect excuse to conduct new interviews--if only to get the new guy up to speed.”
Peters pointed ahead.
“A left up here, at the hardware store, and then the station is on the right.”
The building that housed the Cooper’s Mill Police Department was smaller than Frank would have guessed. Peters explained that they actually took up half of the larger Government Building, as it was known--the CMPD offices, conference and interrogation rooms and one temporary holding cell. The other half of the building held the offices of the city government--City Manager, tax department, utilities, planning department, and the Council chambers, where the City Council met every other Monday evening.
Frank parked in front and they went inside, avoiding the small group of reporters gathered outside.
“Can I help you?”
Frank turned to see an attractive young woman behind a window. She was doing her nails, an emery board pausing in the air, as she waited for an answer.
Peters walked in behind Frank.
“It’s okay, Lola. Thanks, anyway,” he said and smiled. She nodded and went back to painting her nails. Peters took out his security card and waved it at the reader, then led Frank through a set of double doors.
Inside was the police station, made of up of a large central room and two smaller offices for Chief King and Detective Barnes. A warren of cubicles for the other police officers and deputies took up most of the room. White boards lined the walls, along with corkboards and bulletin boards covered with tacked-up mug shots, faxed police reports, and alerts from other localities. One window looked out onto a weed-grown parking lot and the back of a supermarket.
In the middle of the room was a grouping of conference room tables and freestanding whiteboards. Several officers were seated at the
long table, reading from stacks and piles of papers in the middle.
Chief King was talking to a small group of policemen and, following their eyes, turned to see Frank. King said something to the other officers and came over.
“Hi, Frank,” he said loudly, shaking Frank’s hand. Frank knew immediately that this wasn’t for him. King was making a show of welcoming Frank to the office and, by inference, to the case.
Frank nodded and murmured his thanks. King turned and led them over to the group of officers and made the introductions.
“Guys, this is Frank Harper,” Chief King said to the others. “He’s retired from the New Orleans PD, over twenty years on the force. He’s had extensive experience in kidnappings and has agreed to look over our files and lend a hand.”
The reaction was decidedly mixed, but one of the men put out his hand.
“Welcome, Frank. I’m Barnes.” They shook hands. “Lead Detective. We’re working all the leads, but information is thin. And with the ransom drop going south, we could use the help. I really dropped the ball on that, getting distracted like I did.”
At the mention of the ransom drop, several of them looked at a young man to Frank’s right. He was dressed more formally than the others. He wore a lanyard that read “Ted Shale, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Frank stuck out his hand.
“Ted, nice to meet you. I liaised with the Cincinnati office one time,” Frank said. “They still downtown?”
“Good to meet you, Frank,” Agent Shale said, shaking Frank’s hand. “No, they moved offices--now we’re out by the Kenwood Mall. Yeah, that ransom drop thing--that was me. All me. We should’ve had better roadblocks, and then the car--”
Frank put up his hand.
“Don’t blame yourself,” he said to Ted. King was right--the kid was young, a sure sign that the Bureau office in Cincinnati didn’t think this case was important. Or solvable. “It happens to all of us.”
King finished the introductions: Deputy Simon, another young member of the squad, and Sergeant Graves, third in command and next in line for Detective.
“Okay, Frank is getting up to speed,” King said. “He’s going through all the files first, and then we’ll take it from there. Show him all the courtesy you would a fellow officer. Frank, let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll get you out in the field.”