Blind Spot

by Dani Pettrey

  “Murdered? That sweet man. How awful.”

  “We’re trying to track down the men who killed him, but to do that we have speak to a woman he had been meeting with.”

  “Hmm. Only saw him in here with one woman, but I always thought she was his sister.”

  “Brown curly hair, about your height.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “You were right. That’s his sister.”

  “I figured.”

  “Thanks for your help.” They finished their coffee, and Declan left a generous tip on the table.

  They crossed the street, walked the eight blocks over to the next stop, Beans & Buns, and entered to a totally different vibe. Millennial French pastry shop is what came to mind.

  It was a counter-service place with an extremely limited menu of primarily coffee drinks and baked goods. Declan still had no room left to eat anything, but Tanner ordered a latte, and they got the opportunity to show Steven’s picture. The woman behind the counter was a combination of rude and bored, but she hadn’t seen Steven with any woman that she could recall. At Tanner’s request the woman talked to the only other employee who waited on customers, and his answer was the same. Strike two.

  Fifteen minutes and a refreshing walk later, they entered coffee shop number three, the last one on their list—Denton’s. They moved to the counter and hopped up on two cushioned stools.

  A twenty-something woman with long brown hair pulled back into a braid came over holding an iPad. “Hey folks. Can I get you something?”

  “I’ll take a mint lemonade,” Declan said, and she swiped her finger on the iPad and turned to Tanner.

  “I’m good, but thanks.”

  The server turned to walk away.

  “Hang on a sec,” Declan said, flashing his badge. “Can we ask you a question?” He pulled out Steven’s photograph. “Do you recognize this guy?”

  “Sure. Number five.”

  He followed her hand gesture toward the menu board and saw a numbered list of coffee drinks. “Great. So he came in here a lot?”

  “Now and again since we opened last year, then almost daily, and then not at all.”

  “For the last four months?” Tanner said.

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “Guess he got tired of number five with an extra shot.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s dead,” Declan said.

  She scrunched her face. “Ohhh gross. Are you serious?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Poor dude.”

  “We were told he’d met a woman at this coffee shop not long before he left?” Declan said, leading the witness.

  “Nisa. Yeah, she stopped coming around the same time. I assumed they’d left together.”

  Thank you, Jesus.

  “What can you tell me about Nisa?”

  “She liked to mix up her order, try a lot of different combinations. She was a nanny to a rich family who lived somewhere around here.”

  “Where was she from?”

  “Somewhere in Asia. She told me once, I think, but I can’t recall.”

  “Did you get the impression she was a recent immigrant?”

  The server thought for a moment and then said, “I think so. Her English wasn’t very good, but she was eager to learn, and it was getting better.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Petite, tan skin, fabulous complexion, dark hair, pretty eyes. She was sweet.”

  “And you haven’t seen her in a while?”

  “Nah, probably not for . . . four or five months, maybe.”

  “Any idea where we could find her?”

  “Oh, so you can give her the bad news?”

  “We want her to be aware of what’s happened.”

  “Sure. I get that, but I have no idea where she lives, her last name, who she worked for. Nothing. Other than that she liked to talk with Number Five.”

  “Do you know what they talked about?”

  “Not really. It wasn’t like I could stand around and listen to their conversations.” She put her hand on her hip and frowned. “Though, now that I think of it the last time I saw her she was crying—but not like they were fighting. She said something about ‘they’ were going to get her. And he kept talking about a ship, said he would help her get away, but she ran out, still crying.” She looked around. “I only remember because she was so upset.”

  He raised his eyebrows at Tanner. It seemed that Nisa had been smuggled in on a ship—maybe even the Hiram—and whoever had brought her in was giving her trouble. “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem. I’ll be back with your drink.”

  Tanner held up her hand. “If it’s not too much trouble, could I try a number five?”

  The waitress smiled. “Sure thing.”

  “Number five piques your interest?” Declan asked.

  “Nope. Method investigation.”

  He arched a brow.

  “Like actors. You try and do the same things the victim or person you’re looking for did, and maybe you learn something about them.”

  “In that case, I should get a number five too.” He smiled.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you humoring me?”

  His smile deepened. “I would never.” He swooped in and stole a kiss. “It’s actually a good idea.”

  “Thanks.”

  The waitress brought their drinks and an address on an order slip.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s where the short-order cook said Nisa lived.”

  “They’re friends?”

  “Nah, but they lived in the same building.”

  “Lived?” Declan took a sip of his mint lemonade—too sweet.

  “He said the landlady told him Nisa just up and disappeared one day. Didn’t take any of her stuff neither. Left it all for the landlady to clean up. Super rude, if you ask me. I wouldn’t have expected that of Nisa.”

  “Thanks.” Declan slid the address in his shirt pocket. “We really appreciate it. And if it’s not too much trouble, I’ll take a number five to go.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  After leaving another very generous tip, they stepped outside with their number fives, and each took a sip.

  “Delicious,” Tanner said. “Tastes like dulce de leche.”

  “Yeah, like caramel sweet milk.”

  Tanner licked a drop off her lip. “Exactly, but with espresso.”

  “It’s interesting,” Declan said. “Not what I picture a fellow Fed drinking, but I suppose not everyone can handle the real stuff.” He winked.

  She smirked. “So plain black coffee is the real stuff?”

  “Yep.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Of course you do. And what would your definition of the real stuff be?”

  “Espresso with a dollop of whipped cream.”

  “Strong and sweet.”

  “Yep.”

  He smiled. “Rather describes you.”

  “I suppose I could say the same of your drink of choice.”

  “Oh? How do you describe black coffee?”

  “Strong, no frills, and hot.” She winked.

  He nearly choked on his drink, but very ungracefully sputtered in bemused surprise. Tanner was going to keep him on his toes. He’d suspected as much early on, but this was at a far steeper level than before. The adrenaline coursing through him said he was in for an amazing journey at her side.

  At her side? Wow. He was in far deeper than he’d realized, or perhaps just deeper than he wanted to acknowledge. Once he acknowledged it, everything became real. And once it was real, he could lose it.

  20

  Mr. Brentwood, how about you go take a moment to compose yourself and calm down while I speak with Emmitt.”

  “I do not need to be told to calm down like I’m a child.”

  Funny, that’s exactly what he was behaving like. A petulant child.

  “I’ve concluded my other interviews
,” Jason said from the doorway. “Why don’t you follow me into the library, Mr. Brentwood? We can talk while Griffin and Emmitt finish up in here.”

  Lowell’s eyes narrowed. “Why can’t we be interviewed together?”

  “Procedural policy,” Griffin said bluntly.

  Lowell exhaled. “Very well. If you insist.”

  Jason started for the library, and after a moment of posturing, Lowell Brentwood followed.

  Griffin glanced back at Emmitt, who remained pretty much where he had stood through Griffin’s entire conversation with Lowell. “Please sit down, Mr. Powell.” He gestured to the open chair across from him.

  Emmitt nodded and took a seat at the kitchen table, the wooden chair legs scraping against the stone floor as he slid the chair back. He set his helmet off to the side. He was about Griffin’s height and build and of partial Asian ethnicity. When he spoke, it was in a low and thoughtful tone. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “Let’s start with how you learned the news of Haywood’s death.”

  “The Coveys came up to us as soon as we returned, demanding to know what we were going to do to get their stolen funds back. Apparently, they had just come from being questioned by your partner, and he informed them of the theft as well as Haywood’s death.”

  “And how did Lowell respond?”

  “He promised to get to the bottom of everything, and assured them they’d be well taken care of—that he’d see to it personally.”

  “How does he plan to do that?”

  “I don’t think he has a plan. He was simply reacting.”

  “He appears to be good at reacting.” Griffin shifted his focus fully to Emmitt. “How long have you been at the firm?”

  “Three years.”

  “And who hired you?”

  “I met with both Haywood and Lowell, but Haywood officially hired me.”

  “And in your years working with Haywood and Lowell, have you seen or sensed any discord between them?”

  “Not really.”

  Griffin rested his forearms on the oak table, the grain smooth and indicative of late nineteenth-century workmanship. “I need you to be completely honest with me. We need to know the truth.”

  Emmitt shifted uncomfortably, but after a moment he spoke. “They butt heads occasionally. It’s not surprising. They both have . . . had . . .” He raked a shaky hand through his dark spiky hair, still messy from his riding helmet. “I can’t believe Haywood is gone. . . .”

  “None of us can.”

  Emmitt swallowed. “They were both headstrong. Lowell had a different vision for the firm. Modern. Techie. Sleek. Haywood was more of your good-ol’-boy, hardworking, no-frills type of guy.”

  “What about money? Did they ever argue over money? The firm’s or how the clients’ funds were handled?”

  “They didn’t let me in on that type of discussion.”

  “Sounds like you were kept at the outer edge, even after years of working with them?” That had to be a sore spot.

  Emmitt shrugged. “They’re partners. Like Lowell said, I’m just an employee.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “It doesn’t make me feel good, but it’s the top firm in the area, and I’ve learned so much. Haywood really mentored me. I still can’t believe . . .”

  “Do you believe that Haywood was capable of stealing from clients?”

  “I never would have believed it.”

  “But?”

  “If he didn’t, why did he commit suicide?”

  “Any chance Lowell could be the one behind the theft and was just making Haywood the patsy?”

  “Lowell?” Emmitt tucked his chin in. “I can’t see either of them stealing.”

  “But someone definitely did. If it wasn’t one of them . . . ?” Time to put some pressure on.

  “Whoa!” He held up his hands. “First of all, I don’t have sufficient access to mess with the client accounts, but even then, I would never steal. I pride myself on my work ethic and on my faith.”

  “Your faith?”

  “I’m a Christian. Stealing is one of the big ten.”

  That was one way to put it.

  “Okay. Then between Lowell and Haywood . . . ?”

  He inhaled, thought about it, and exhaled. “If I had to pick one . . . I would have said Lowell, but with Haywood’s suicide, it sure makes him look guilty.”

  “Yes it does.” But perhaps that had been the point all along.

  21

  Declan held the smudged glass door of the run-down apartment building open for Tanner. He preferred she not even go inside, but this was Tanner. No way was she waiting outside. They found the landlady behind a glass window in the office cubby at the base of the narrow stairwell.

  Please, Father, let her be helpful. Help us find out what happened to Nisa or where she is. If Burke believed her to be in danger, I worry something bad may have already happened to her. Even if this doesn’t lead us to evidence of our terrorism case, I can’t just walk away without checking. It wouldn’t be right. Please help us.

  “Excuse me.” Declan rapped on the glass with a smile.

  The woman looked up with a frown, but took one look at Declan and smiled as sweetly as a grandma holding a newborn babe. She stood and leaned across her desk, sliding the glass window open. “May I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Nisa.”

  “She doesn’t live here anymore. Crazy lady just took off. Left all her stuff behind.”

  “We’d heard that. Any chance we can see her room?” Declan held up his badge. He could get a warrant if necessary.

  “Sorry. Someone else is living there.”

  “What about her belongings?”

  “I could have thrown them away, with her just leaving them for me to deal with, but I didn’t. I went out of my way. Boxed them up and put them down in the storage unit in case she came back. I can take you down there, if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Wait right there. I need to grab my key.” She disappeared from sight.

  Tanner smirked. “Looks like someone else is smitten with the handsome Declan Grey.”

  Lindy, as she introduced herself, smiled a little less after seeing Declan had a companion, but she still led them down to the storage unit in the basement. “I think I put Nisa’s boxes over here.” She rummaged through a few printer-paper boxes and finally located the right ones. “Here you go. These three red ones.”

  “Three boxes. That’s all she had?”

  “Yep. The apartment was fully furnished, so she didn’t move in with anything big.”

  He moved to the first, took the lid off, and began pulling out items one by one.

  “I’ve got work to do,” Lindy said, clearly bored. “I’ll be in my office. Just let me know when you’re done so I can lock up.”

  “Will do. Thanks again,” Declan said, turning back to the items.

  “Looks like Nisa didn’t have much,” Tanner said as Declan eyed the tattered clothes, shoes, and a single paperback romance with .10 marked in pencil on the top right-hand corner of the first page.

  “But if this is everything she owned, it is hard to believe she would leave without anything.”

  “So she either left in a hurry or . . . ?” Tanner began.

  Declan put the lid back on the box. “Or she didn’t leave. She was killed.”

  “You think because she talked to Burke?”

  “My guess is whoever paid for her on this end probably kept a close eye on his ‘property’ and when he saw her talking to Burke, he did some digging. Realized Burke was a Fed and took Nisa out before she could say anything to jeopardize him or his business.”

  Anger flushed Tanner’s cheeks. “That’s disgusting.”

  He swallowed. “At the very least.”

  “Now what?”

  “Let’s see if we can’t get the local Bureau office to send over a sketch artist to Lindy and the cook from Denton’s, and then try running Nis
a’s rendering through as a missing person. See if we get any hits.”

  “Okay. And then?”

  “Tomorrow we get on a plane and head back home. I need to pay a visit to Captain Randal Jackson.”

  Griffin and Jason concluded their interviews and ran a background check on Haywood and the Markums, discovering Elizabeth Markum was a prominent defense attorney. It seemed odd that she had not mentioned that last night, but she’d clearly wanted to keep their conversation as short as possible, excusing herself and her husband at the first opportunity. Parker and Avery had finished processing the known crime scene and collected all the evidence to be worked back at the lab. They were just about to pack up when Griffin received a call from K9 Corporal James Howe.

  “Hey,” Griffin said. “Have any luck over at Loch Raven?”

  “If you consider finding a finger good luck,” Howe said.

  Within fifteen minutes, Griffin, Jason, Parker, and Avery were at the Merryman branch of Loch Raven Reservoir.

  The late afternoon sunlight shafted through the red leaves above, casting a crimson glow over the reddish-brown soil of the trailhead where they met Howe.

  “The two dogs picked up the Markums’ scent here at the trailhead lot and led us down the trail branching to the left about two hundred feet in, and Knox, here”—he patted the German Shepherd with pride—“found the finger in some foliage near the falls’ edge. Follow me and I’ll show you.”

  Griffin watched as Parker knelt beside the foliage and Avery snapped pictures.

  Why a finger?

  Had the killer taken the time to dismember the bodies before dumping them into the deep water below?

  He looked around. There wasn’t enough blood, unless the rain had washed it away, but the rain had only fallen in the area for about an hour—from one to two, according to the local meteorologist Griffin had confirmed Parker’s estimate with on their way over. That meant anything that occurred after that time would be muddy but not washed away. What blood surrounded the finger indicated the severing occurred post-rainfall, which could prove a huge win for them. It meant they could take shoeprint and tire impressions. There’d no doubt be several for Parker to sort through at the trailhead lot—though Howe had been considerate enough for the integrity of the investigation to avoid parking the vehicles in the lot proper, and instead had parked along the side of the road.