“Maybe your wife will give you a welcome-home back rub. I’ll take the next ten hours. Go get some sleep.”
“I’ll take you up on that, boss. How about giving Christopher the apartment search?”
Sharon gave Bryon a second look. “Really?”
“He’s got something to prove.”
“Good point. Send him my way. He’s somewhere in the scrum of volunteers.”
“I still want Aruba.”
“When I get my captain’s bars, I’m hauling you and your wife to Aruba to celebrate, then contemplating staying there while you come back to do both our jobs.”
Bryon laughed. “Close this one, Lieutenant, before I have to even think about waking up and coming back to work.”
“That’s the plan.” Sharon scanned the room. “Detective Carter.”
The officer studying a screen with a frown started and half turned. “Ma’am.”
“You’re now Bryon. Watch the boards for me, keep everything moving, nag when necessary. Let me know when you want me to care about something.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Officer Martinez slid a piece of paper to an officer, who read it, rose, and left. She read another one, turned it facedown on the table. She went to retrieve more pages from the printer. Another officer left, paper in hand. Two more pages went facedown in the stack.
“Wait for it,” Sharon said.
“What?”
“Wait for it.”
John realized he was drumming his fingers on the table and stopped, embarrassed.
Another page from the printer, this one to Sharon. She looked at it, slid it over to him, and he read it quickly. The lieutenant was already getting to her feet. “Carter? Okay here?”
Detective Carter scanned the boards. “We’re good, Lieutenant. I’ll call if I need you.”
John caught up with her. “It’s pretty small. A grocery checkout clerk remembers Martha in the store Monday night about 5:30 p.m.”
“It narrows the timeline. There’s video over the checkout aisles. I get to see her on the day she disappeared. I’ll take it.” She pushed through the outer doors of the commons building. “Officer Jefferies, I’ve got an address for you.”
“This way, Lieutenant. The squad car is ready to go—warm even.”
She flashed a grin. “I like a bit of coddling now and then.”
“All in a day’s service, LT.”
“Let’s see where this call leads.”
“You have an interesting style, Sharon,” John remarked, his voice low as Jefferies pulled out into traffic. “The conference room,” he clarified.
“They like the work, they like the team. They humor the coach.”
John smiled. “I could see that. Where did you get the sweet-tarts?”
“A private stash, compliments of Bryon’s wife.”
“How long before you can move him up from detective?”
“He’s passed the test. He wants homicide. I move him up to lieutenant now he gets traffic. End of the year, we’ll swap a retirement, his promotion, and a lateral move so Bryon gets homicide and I get Vincent from traffic. We’ll all be pleased. If one of my missing-persons cases turns out to be a homicide, I’ll have Bryon to tap on the shoulder and know I’ve got someone who understands the priority it should have.”
“Smart. Populate the other departments with your own people.”
“The best way to get anything done,” Sharon replied with an easy smile.
He wondered how much he could be in on what was about to happen. “How do we handle the grocery-store interview?”
She studied him, clearly amused with the “we,” yet she didn’t push away the offer. “You’re a good-looking guy whose mother is missing. I plan to introduce us, then look at you. Everything this clerk thinks she might remember about your mom is going to come tumbling out of her like white water down a river, and you’re going to nod and say ‘That’s helpful’ and an occasional ‘Thank you.’ It’s going to be a thorough interview by the time it’s done.”
“If it wasn’t my mom’s case, I would really be enjoying this, Sharon. I could learn a thing or three from you.”
With a grin, she said, “Go ahead and be amused. It’s not disrespectful to your mother to find something in this day worth a smile.” She tapped his knee with the binder. “Allow me to give you a piece of advice. Levity during a crisis is a good thing. It promotes good health, and I encourage lightening the load to get through the day.”
He nodded. “Thanks for the advice. So, how many missing-persons cases in your portfolio?”
“Over the seven years? One hundred eighty-six at last tally. Not that many when you look at the calendar, but too many when you have lived with the intensity of each.”
“How many have been closed?”
Sharon shook her head. “Most, but not nearly enough.”
The grocery-store clerk was helpful, the store’s security officer quick to locate the correct security-tape footage. They crowded into a small office to watch the monitor—Sharon, John, the clerk, security officer, and store manager. John swallowed hard as he watched his mother set a handful of items onto the conveyor belt. The clerk finished making change for the customer ahead of her.
“Who’s she talking to?” John asked. His mom was speaking to someone in line behind her, at one point laughing. “Can we identify him?” The angle wasn’t great, the camera was above and to the right, but they could make out part of his face.
“Depends if he pays by credit card,” the store manager replied. “Do you know him, Tina?”
“No.” The clerk shook her head. “But I’m normally on morning shift. He might be a regular customer later in the day.”
The clerk rang up the items for his mother, and she handed over what looked like a single bill, probably a ten, accepted the receipt and the change.
“We can show the man’s photo to other clerks and the pharmacist,” the manager said. “What he just took out of his cart looks like . . . a cake box,” he said, peering at the screen. “We’ll pull receipts, see if it was a special order. Do you think he had something to do with her disappearance?”
“No,” Sharon said. John watched as the man behind Martha paid for his groceries, also with cash. “But if she mentioned another errand, if she had plans, that helps us narrow the timeline. They talked long enough that it was more than just pleasantries. It seems she might have lingered while his groceries were bagged to finish the conversation. He’s still speaking with someone off-camera.”
“We’ll do what we can to get you his name,” the manager promised.
Sharon thanked the clerk, left her card with the security officer and manager, and they left.
John wondered if that would be the last image he ever had of his mother, her head tipped back slightly as she laughed. Happy. Living her life. Then gone.
The calls generated by the morning newscasts tapered off by 10:00 a.m. John got coffee and read quickly through the pages Martinez had tabled, then the reports officers filed who had followed up on less specific calls, and finally through the interviews since Tuesday afternoon. What could be followed-up on had already been noted and pursued.
The Village grounds had been thoroughly checked. Officers were visually clearing apartments at a good pace. Volunteers and cops were walking the area for a mile around, doing a ground search. Flyers had been distributed to residents in the Village for a second time, and volunteers were taking more to businesses and homes within the area.
There wasn’t anything further he could do or think of to do. This search was going cold in the slow-motion way that cases often did, like a frost creeping in.
“Would a reward help?” he wondered aloud. Sharon was settled back in a chair, idly turning a pen end to end, observing the progress around the room.
“Not yet. It clutters up the phone lines with creative fiction—callers hoping they can provide enough general information they’ll get some cash.”
Martinez added anot
her television station to the list of interviews arranged for the noon hour. John didn’t know yet what he would say, but he’d get in front of microphones and cameras if only to keep the photo of his mother prominent to the public.
John swiveled his chair to face Sharon. “Talk to me about Bobby Sail. The banker mom was having lunch with regularly. He’s still on the board with a question mark.”
“I think your mom is dating a nice guy.”
“Sharon.”
She smiled and silently apologized by rocking a hand back and forth. “He’s still on the board because I can’t rule him out, but I don’t like him for this. Bobby had lunch with your mother a week ago Wednesday and said they had plans—which are in her schedule book—for lunch again this coming Friday. They hadn’t moved their relationship beyond lunch, to a date in the evening yet. He didn’t want to rush her. What Martha told her friends about Bobby and their relationship is consistent with that.”
“They were still at the beginnings of something,” John guessed.
Sharon nodded. “I’ve had two of my best guys interview Bobby twice now. The bottom line, John, is that Bobby genuinely cares about her. My gut tells me if Bobby saw your mom on Monday, or had plans with her for Monday, he would have said so. If he hurt your mom, accidentally or otherwise, he would have tried to get her help, not sought to cover it up. He’s a banker, older than your mom by a few years. Not a physically strong or forceful man, he comes across as a gentleman. His statements stay consistent. There isn’t a false note. It’s plausible he’s our guy until you get to who he is, and then it just doesn’t hold together. But he could knock on her door, and she wouldn’t think twice about it, she’d simply be pleased to see him. If he asked her to come down to the car for a moment, she wouldn’t hesitate. She’d grab her keys and coat. So he stays on the board.”
John leaned back in his chair, watching her face as she spoke. He was hearing instinct speaking, and he tended to trust it. But this case was his mom. “What’s the problem with his alibi?”
Sharon reached over for the stack of police reports, found the one she wanted. “Bobby Sail left work at the bank on Monday at 6:22 p.m. according to the security camera footage. Monday evening he was home alone, reading and watching television. He spoke to his broker by phone about 7 p.m. and to his neighbor in person about 10 p.m. when he came over to borrow a plumber wrench. The broker and neighbor confirm the conversations. He was at work Tuesday morning at 7:55 a.m., again according to the security-camera footage.”
“That’s basically no alibi.”
“Hence the problem. I’ve got people trying to tighten it down. So far no one in the neighborhood remembers seeing him leave the house on Monday evening or remembers your mom arriving there. But if Martha was going to go visit someone, Bobby would be on my short list. If she was going to have a date that Monday evening, Bobby would be the one on my list. He is the guy most involved with your mom socially, if not romantically.”
“Something she hadn’t gotten around to mentioning to her son,” John said around a rueful smile.
“Which tells me he really was just a guy she liked and had lunch with on a regular basis, but who was not yet more than that in her thinking.”
Sharon considered the board again, frowned slightly. “Circumstances change. You and I both know that, John. Maybe Monday night was when their relationship was going to turn a new page, and they were going to go out that evening for a first true date. But Martha didn’t tell her friends, didn’t arrange to get her hair done, didn’t fuss about what to wear for a date that would be a significant step forward in her social life. Bobby is well-liked by her friends; an evening out with him would be noteworthy. It doesn’t feel right that there aren’t footprints in her schedule if a date was planned.”
John tried to theorize around the problem. “What if after Mom left the bridge game Monday afternoon, she went by the bank to make a deposit and stopped in to see Bobby for a brief minute. He makes an impromptu ‘How about we go out this evening after I get off work?’ or ‘How about coming over for an hour this evening?’ suggestion. She’s now got plans for Monday night without them showing up as a phone call or notation on her calendar. She leaves the bank, goes by the grocery store, she’s finishing getting ready for Tuesday Tea, and then she’s going to go meet Bobby for the evening.”
Sharon slowly nodded. “Yes. I can see that kind of circumstance. We can pursue the idea—we should be able to rule in or out your mom visiting Sail’s bank rather quickly. We can look at the footage here at the Village, see if Bobby’s car pulls in, if he was picking up your mom. We can do a third interview. It takes some strong nerves to steadily lie to the cops. We can see what’s there.”
John was running the idea out further, then stopped abruptly and tapped his fist against the table. “What if it’s not Bobby Sail, Sharon, but someone close to him? I’m going to inherit from my mom. If she gets married at this age, I’m going to be looking twice at the guy, wondering if he’s after what my mom has, if he’s looking for a ‘purse and a nurse,’ as the saying goes. Does Bobby have a son or daughter, someone not thrilled Bobby is romantically inclined toward a new lady named Martha Graham? Mom might have grabbed her coat and keys and gone downstairs on the spur of the moment to meet someone from Bobby’s family. She’d have had no reason to feel defensive or on guard with one of them.”
Sharon had stilled as he drew out the scenario, and now she visibly winced. “I missed that, John—you’re absolutely right. We look deeper. And we do it fast. At Bobby Sail and, even more critically, at his family. That question—what about his family?—suddenly feels very plausible.” She turned. “Detective Carter?”
“I’ve been following the conversation, Lieutenant. Five guys?”
She nodded. “Shift them on to this. We need a full bio, we need his family tree. We need to re-interview Bobby to ask him about who in his family knew about Martha. And we need to put a priority on getting alibis for anybody close to Bobby who could expect to inherit.”
“All over it, LT,” Carter promised, reaching for a phone.
“I want regular updates on what the guys are finding.” Sharon pulled out some interview reports. “John, read the ones with Bobby over again, see if anything else catches your interest.”
He could see her frustration with herself. “You kept him on the board, Sharon. This is just a question, a theory to push, to see what hits.”
She nodded tersely. “We’ll get busy on it, and we’ll soon know more than we do now. But the painful thing for me is that it could fit. Not your mom’s developing boyfriend, but someone in his family. That puts her in very dangerous crosscurrents.”
“She’s been there since she disappeared. We go through this door, see what’s there, and we go through others we have yet to spot. One of them will pay off. We’ll find her.”
“Thanks for that. Coming from you, it matters.” She stood. “I need coffee. You want some more?”
She had found an excuse to pace for a bit while getting it. He had to smile. “Sure.”
“Lieutenant,” Carter called over his shoulder, and Sharon paused. “Bobby Sail has three adult children—two sons and a daughter.”
Sharon simply pointed to the board. “Let’s get them up there and get officers working each of them. Thanks.” She went to get their coffee.
She came back with coffee several minutes later. Sharon’s phone rang as she set a mug down beside him, and John instinctively braced for bad news as she answered. He relaxed only when he saw her smile as she listened.
“I appreciate how quickly you were able to find the information,” Sharon said. “It’s helpful news. Thanks again.” She clicked off and said, “We’ve got a name for the customer at the grocery store. Eric Holland, an address on Longbow Ave.”
“Eric Holland?” John sat forward.
“What is it?”
“I know an Eric Holland. I saw his name on Mom’s phone-call list, didn’t think much about it. He’s from our
old neighborhood.”
“How do you know him?”
“His mother and mine were good friends in high school. Martha and June drifted apart—I doubt they’ve spoken in years, not since June moved to Florida. But it’s an old family acquaintance. Eric would have been entering college last time I saw him. I didn’t recognize him in the video.”
“That’s the birthday cake he was picking up. Happy Birthday, June. Your mother’s high school friend is back in town. Let’s go see Eric. Or do you want to stay here and focus on Bobby?”
John pushed to his feet. “I’ll go with you. An hour from now your guys will have a lot more information on the Sails. I want to hear what Eric and my mom talked about as they checked out their groceries.”
Sharon nodded. “Let’s go.”
THREE
In an unmarked police car, Sharon drove them to a ranch-style house in a quiet suburb within a few miles of the grocery store. The front steps were marked by flowerpots, which probably would hold a variety of colorful blooms come spring.
John followed Sharon up the walk, and she rang the doorbell. The door opened a moment later. “Eric Holland?”
“Yes.”
Sharon held up her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Sharon Noble. This is John Graham. May we have a few minutes of your time?”
“Of course.” He looked puzzled and stepped back to let them enter, then it clicked. “Of course, John.” He reached out his hand. “We’re going back in time a few decades. I heard you were working out west somewhere—Colorado, South Dakota?”
“I’ve been in Wyoming for a few years. My mother is missing, Eric.”
“What? When?” He looked startled and shot a glance into the living room, where they could see an elderly lady in a recliner, asleep with an afghan across her legs. He stepped farther into the hall and lowered his voice. “I just saw her at the grocery store. Like just two days ago. What’s happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Oh, man. This makes me sick.”
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