Sins of the Past

by Dee Henderson

  The commotion was more than a low buzz. That was his first impression as he followed Sharon into the commons building. In the lobby, tables had been set up, and volunteers supervised by officers studied maps and marked them up, talking about locations where they had already given out flyers and places they had checked. The smell of coffee and hot chocolate mingled with woodsmoke from the fireplace now burning brightly to counter the chill from the constantly opening doors.

  A woman barreled into John for a tight hug that stopped him in his tracks. He recognized her when he could see more than the top of her silvery head. “Annabelle, you know my mother well,” he said. “We’ll find her.”

  “We’re mostly filling coffeepots for the searchers and calling people.”

  “It’s help and it all matters,” he assured with another hug.

  He followed Sharon to the conference room where the police had set up shop. Sixteen people were working the room, a tight fit. The walls were taped with street maps, blueprints of the buildings, large sheets of butcher paper in place of a whiteboard, lists of names being marked off, checklists running down assignments. This room was about organizing what was happening in the lobby area and beyond.

  But it was a cop-driven search center, and when John read morgue, homicide desk, sex registry, accident calls, he felt his chest tighten. But he would have put them on the list himself. He moved on to more positive items, such as the timeline. A snowflake sketch showing Martha’s links to various people, including her friends here and a few from the past, neighbors, former co-workers. He didn’t see anybody who was even close to being an enemy; he didn’t think she had one. His snowflake would not be so tidy. Those who might harm her would come at her because of him.

  He spotted an item written in blue marker on the lead board. “Gray van?”

  An officer leaning over a table turned at the question. “Pulled through the parking lot Monday evening at dusk, slow-rolled, didn’t stop. Noticed by two residents walking back from the commons building. They thought it was a delivery van, but there was no logo on its side.”

  Sharon nodded toward the officer. “John, this is Detective Bryon Slate. He’s coordinating matters. Bryon, Martha’s son, John Graham. Tell me you’ve got the van on some camera footage.”

  “We’re looking. I don’t think it’s going to be our answer, Lieutenant. The couple who described it were walking to Martha’s building. They swear no one exited or entered the van. It simply circled and left. They would have seen Martha if she’d been outside or just coming out. I’ve got two people looking for some other video on it, but the van didn’t come around again that I can pinpoint. We’ll nail this down. For right now though, it’s an anomaly.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “Officer Martinez, run that video you found for the lieutenant.”

  A uniformed woman headed over to the laptop feeding the large wall screen. She typed, and soon grainy security-camera footage appeared on-screen. John walked with Sharon across the room to better see it.

  “The Sonic Restaurant at the end of the block has a camera facing south,” the officer explained. “This is today, 6:19 a.m.” She pressed pause. “That stone pillar at the edge of the image, that’s the front gate to this property. You can see the security gate arm is up—they open the drive at 6:00 a.m.” She restarted the video. “Normal street traffic going by. That white van entering is the newspaper delivery truck. Next a smaller cargo van, that’s the bakery delivery. Nothing for three minutes, then this.” She stopped the video on a dark-blue sedan, its driver’s door displaying a taxi logo.

  “We called the company to see about the pickup. They had no pickup on the books for the Village. We can’t see the cab medallion number from the angles we have. It could be a driver making some extra money off the books, but a 6:30 a.m. pickup seems like something scheduled. Cabs are a common sight here, since a third of the residents no longer drive. The thing is, we can’t find a resident who’s currently out of town, or one who left early this morning and came back later.” She ran forward the tape. “The cab leaves twelve minutes later. It’s an anomaly, like the gray van.”

  “If you’re looking for inconspicuous, a taxi would do that for you,” Sharon said.

  “I’ll find more footage, get a medallion number. They’ve got questions about taxis on the interview list. Hopefully we’ll find someone who saw this one.”

  “Good. Any video of Martha’s car returning from her bridge game on Monday?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Explain.”

  Officer Martinez cued up another piece of video. “The same Sonic Restaurant security-camera footage. Unfortunately, that view frequently gets blocked. This is Monday at 4:30 p.m.” They watched the street traffic. Cars regularly came and went through the Village gate. The image abruptly became gray metal with a sliver on the right of continuing street traffic. “A semitruck is unloading at the restaurant for twenty-two minutes,” she said.

  She fast-forwarded. The obstruction was gone, the image back to street traffic moving by, the occasional car entering or exiting the front gate.

  “I’ve been through the footage between 4:30 and 10:00 p.m.,” Officer Martinez said, “when the security guard says he knows Martha’s car was in her parking space. Since I never see her car enter, I can assume she turned into the front gate during a period when this camera view was blocked. I can give you six windows of time, fifty-seven minutes total, when the view was blocked. That’s a lot of traffic coming and going that I can’t see. And once it gets past dusk, the lighting becomes a problem.” Now on fast-forward again, the streetlights were coming on, and the ability to distinguish vehicles dwindled to shapes seen only by their headlights. “The most I can give you after dusk is that a car entered, and a rough idea of its model by the type of headlights.”

  “You have those blocked times written out?”

  “I have them as Post-it notes on the timeline. We need to find another video source. Her car six blocks away coming this direction, something like that, will give us the correct time window for her return. I’ll find something to tighten it down, Lieutenant.”

  “Anything that refines our timeline will be a great help.” Sharon scanned the room and the boards. “Bryon, what do you want to work next?”

  “Felons in the area. Turns out three with records work here on staff.”

  “I’ll be back to help on that.” Sharon turned to John. “We’re good at this part of the job. I’d like to take you over to your mother’s apartment. You’ll be more useful to me there. You know her best, and that matters when assessing what’s there and what’s not.”

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She led the way out. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearing 10:30 p.m. “Lieutenant, I’d like to speak briefly with Annabelle and the other friends of Mom’s who are here—try to convince them to get some sleep for a few hours, if nothing else.”

  “Check the library down the hall on the left. They were holding vigil for her there earlier this evening.”

  He nodded, skirted the other volunteers, and went to locate Annabelle. Five of his mother’s friends waited together. They turned his direction as he walked over. “Thanks for being here, ladies,” he began as he sat down. “I understand Mom stood you up for Tuesday Tea at Ten.” The lighthearted comment was just the right touch for the moment.

  “Oh, she would have hated to be the center of all this attention,” Annabelle told him, looking around the group at their nods of agreement. “Do they know anything, John? Anything they aren’t telling us yet?”

  “She came home from bridge. What happened after that is simply conjecture. She has her coat, so I don’t think she’s cold. She must have her keys since they haven’t been found. In the next twenty-four hours the cops are going to cover a lot of ground, and that should answer some questions. I expect Mom will be home by then.” They blinked at that reassurance, and he saw a measure of hope return to their weary faces.

  “Can we
do anything to help?” several of them asked.

  “Coffee for the searchers, prayers for my mother’s safe return, a sympathetic smile when I sit down to wait with you awhile. It all matters. You keep us going; you remind the volunteers by the simple fact of your presence how important Martha is.” He scanned the circle of faces and knew his mother had been right to stay in Chicago in the years since his father passed away. She had good friends here.

  He saw Sharon in the doorway. “Please, head back to your apartments now,” he suggested as he stood, “get some sleep, come back in the morning to help keep the volunteers organized. It’s likely going to be double the number of volunteers tomorrow, and what might seem like small acts of service do matter. I’ll be around until Mom is safely home. If you need me, a message at the front desk will get to me.” He paused to hug Annabelle, said his goodbyes to the others.

  Sharon handed him a coffee mug. “You called friends in to help before you left Wyoming?”

  He wasn’t expecting the question, and it took a second. He smiled. “It’s what a smart man does when his mother goes missing.”

  “I’ve got two from FBI now in the conference room, and a Chicago PD captain who says you used to work for him unloading heat-detection equipment. He plans to sweep the bike path and surrounding landscape when the night is the coldest.”

  He hated the reality of it, but was glad that would be done. “It needs to be cleared off the list.”

  “Agreed. And I’m accepting all help,” Sharon mentioned, “wherever it comes from. How many more friends should I expect?”

  “By morning or in the next hour?”

  She smiled. “I’ll take them as surprises then when they arrive.” She nodded to the side door. “Let’s slip out this way.”

  She still didn’t have any gloves. He held out his hand for the binder she carried and tucked it under his arm, and she shoved her hands in her pockets.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “A long plane ride with nothing to do but think the worst, followed by the reality of this—I’m glad I’m not in charge. It’s different when it’s personal. The assignment at her apartment will help. I’ve got a few good hours in me yet tonight.”

  Sharon nodded. “It’s hard leaving family to others, but Bryon is good, and I’ve been doing missing-persons cases for seven years. We’re going to make a lot more headway over the next hours.”

  She pointed out his mother’s car as they approached Building One. “Would you like an officer to open the car for you to take a look?”

  “Got photos of the interior?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll be easier to work from photos on a cold night.”

  He counted windows to the second floor, fourth window . . . the lights were on in his mother’s apartment. “Do you think she’s outside in this cold?” he asked.

  Sharon removed her hand from her pocket to squeeze his arm. She didn’t try to answer.

  They bypassed the elevator and walked up the stairs to the second floor. Wide hallways, carpet barely showing wear, good lighting, neat apartment numbers and traditional doorbells—he’d approved when his mother decided to move here. The officer outside the apartment nodded to the lieutenant, then looked over at him. “I’m sorry about your mother, Chief Graham.”

  He heard the sincerity in the comment and nodded as he read the uniform tag. “Thank you, Stephens.”

  Sharon opened the apartment door and stepped back for him. All the lights were on, even the tiny canister lights shining down in the glass display cases. In preparation for Christmas, his mom had laced a strand of white lights around her kitchen window curtains, and they blinked off and on.

  It was all so normal. His mother’s purse still on the chair inside the door, its contents now neatly set out on the side table.

  He walked slowly around. The pillows, magazines fanned neatly on the coffee table, her music selections. The faint smell of lilac, no doubt from the sachets she tucked in drawers to scent her world.

  He saw the wall of photos, and a wave of emotion came over him. His father, family vacations, his own face looking back with a wide grin and a baseball bat slung over his shoulder, his mother with friends here in the retirement village—all capturing rich memories. He blinked hard, and his hand fisted. She’d had a good life here. And it seemed likely she’d never walk into this apartment again. . . .

  Sharon silently stepped past him. A stray coil of red yarn from his mom’s needlework lay half hidden beneath the couch. She bent, picked it up, set it on the desk. “Your mom loves life.”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice, but appreciating the present-tense statement.

  “We’re going to give this back to her, John. This place and her friends.”

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath. “Where should I start?”

  She came to stand beside him. “Give yourself a minute first.”

  “I’m okay. It caught me hard, but I’m okay.”

  She studied his face, and nodded. “Hang up your coat. I’ll start some coffee.”

  He opened the closet and did so.

  It was a spacious apartment, but not too large: a nice-sized living room, small kitchen, two bedrooms, bath, stacked laundry machines. His mother had filled the space with comfortable furniture, and everything he saw told him she enjoyed living here among her friends, her things. He walked into the kitchen and accepted the cup of coffee Sharon offered. “What do you need from me here?”

  “What is here that doesn’t fit your mom? She strikes me as a lady who loves to entertain. Tuesday Tea at Ten is like a calling card for her personality. Whomever she went to meet has likely been here as her guest. Find me a guest I can define by a type of flavored coffee they like, the type of candy they prefer, the type of cheese in the fridge, something that says ‘not my mom.’ I’m thinking if a woman as vibrant as your mother had a man in her life or wanted to have a male someone in her life, she would make him welcome here with what she kept on hand.”

  “She would have mentioned to me if she was seeing someone. Or considering it.”

  Sharon tilted her head and smiled. “Maybe she is the one woman who actually would confide in her son. But speaking as a female, I can dream and hope for a lot of things before I’m ready to tell family about it.”

  He smiled back. “Point taken. I’ll look. She did have strong preferences for many things, so it shouldn’t be hard to spot what doesn’t fit.”

  “I also need you to build me a bio of your mom. I can read her calendar, look at names in her address book, but I don’t have the context of knowing her. Look at her receipts, her checkbook, her credit-card bills, her phone records. That folder I brought over has the printout for her phone—the messages and calls for as far back as we could go, copies of her calendar and address book we’ve been working from. What was Martha doing, who was she talking with? We fill in enough of the blanks, we’ll see the answer to why she went out.”

  John could see what she was after. “I’ll dig and pull together that information.”

  Sharon finished her coffee, set aside the mug. “I’m going to leave you here and go work with Bryon on the felon list. Call me if you find something we can help you pursue.”

  “Got a card?”

  She pulled out a business card, motioned him to turn, and used his shoulder to write a number on the back. “Don’t lose that card. It’s like the holy grail of private numbers around here.”

  He memorized the number, smiled at her, and slid the card into an inside pocket. “Thanks.”

  “We’re going to find her, John.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  She patted his arm. “I’ll be back in an hour plus.”

  Sharon closed the door behind her. John stood in his mother’s apartment, alone for the first time since the call had come in to the Cheyenne Police Department telling him his mother was missing.

  He felt cold, overwhelmed, and growing sadder with each hour that passed. He’d fall apar
t when this was finished, even if they found her, and that reality pressed on him like a mountain. But he wasn’t going to break before it was over. “I’m coming, Mom,” he whispered. “Wherever you are right now, hang on.”

  He’d tried to pray for her safety. It wasn’t as though he had any doubt about how much God cared about his mother. Or himself, for that matter. It was that the emotions of this, the pain of this, was too deep for words. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” The familiar refrain from the Psalm had been reassuring him since Cheyenne. He looked up with another heartfelt plea to God, then began to carefully look around.

  All right, he thought, this is doable. His mom liked to keep ticket stubs from movies she had seen, restaurant menus marked with dishes she’d enjoyed, coupons for shops and businesses she frequented. He could figure out where she’d been, where she might go, if he studied the pieces closely enough.

  John walked over to the desk, pulled out a pad and pen, walked back into the kitchen. He began with a systematic search through the cupboards. Sharon was right. His mother was a natural hostess, and a guest to her home would be treated to what they preferred in food and drink. What didn’t fit with her own preferences? Who else has been here, and why?

  John was comparing printouts of the phone calls and messages with his mother’s calendar when he heard a soft knock at the door, and Sharon stepped in.

  “Quiet in here,” she noted. “I figured you would have found music to break the silence.”

  “My thoughts are busy enough to keep me occupied,” he replied, setting aside the paperwork and swinging the desk chair around to face her.

  “Finding anything?”

  He rubbed tired eyes. “I didn’t know she was singing in a choir, helping a florist make Christmas wreaths, going out to lunch regularly with Bobby Sail—a banker, according to his business card—and reading through all the mysteries of Sue Grafton. My mother was an open book to me, and still I missed layers of these details.”