Blood Trails

by Diane Capri

  “Keep looking everywhere but focus on Canada.” Telling her about Canada was a risk because Crane was watching her like a hawk with a field mouse. But she was right. They didn’t have the luxury of time to hide in the shadows anymore.

  “Why Canada?”

  “I’ll fill you in later.”

  She sounded even more annoyed now. “We haven’t found any records reflecting Richard Oakwood’s birth or where he came from or when.”

  “Have you found a social security number for him?”

  “We chased down the missing records based on the tip you got from the high school. After a lot of digging, we still haven’t found a social security number for her but we finally uncovered one for her father.”

  Flint nodded. The wind had kicked up a bit now. “You ran the SSN through the SSDI?”

  “No luck.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know how the Social Security Death Index works as well as I do.”

  “And Richard Oakwood is not listed at all?”

  “Which isn’t as unusual as it should be. The index goes back to social security numbers issued since 1936. But it only lists those people who actually collected benefits after 1962 and were later reported as deceased. In Oakwood’s case, he never collected benefits because he died before he was eligible. And as for his death, well, apparently no one reported that, either. Not that anybody had an obligation to.”

  Usually, death was reported by the family. Often, there were beneficiaries who were entitled to death benefits. Which would have been another way to track Richard Oakwood’s relatives, if he had any.

  Scarlett was still talking. “If he were alive today, he’d be eligible for benefits. Nobody is impersonating him or collecting on his account, unfortunately, because that could be a solid lead. As it is, bottom line, his SSN doesn’t hit in any of the systems because it’s too old and hasn’t been used in more than two decades.”

  “Same answer for Medicare, I guess?”

  “He was fifty-two when he died. Too young for Medicare.” She stopped for a breath. “We used the SSN to run more background checks that we couldn’t do before, though. More bank records, real estate, and so on.”

  A big rig powered down on the road, filling the air with the stench of diesel and more noise. Flint pressed his palm closer against his ear and turned away from the road. “Find anything?”

  “Nothing is easily accessible. Physical tax returns are usually destroyed by the IRS after about three years. Electronic filing was too new back in 1991 when Richard died so it’s not likely he filed electronically. But if he did, we could get the tax returns if they still exist. Maybe. Eventually. With a court order. I’ve got calls in to contacts I can lean on for a favor. Maybe just get the information without the documents. Still waiting.” She blew out a long stream of exasperation. “Nothing moves slower than the IRS.”

  “Unless it’s the DMV,” Flint teased. She didn’t laugh. “How about his application for the social security number?”

  “The SS-5? It would have his date of birth, place of birth, and parents’ names at least, as you know. We asked. They’re looking. He applied for the number after 1962, so the application should be in the system’s computers. He has no right to privacy after death, which means we should be able to get access. And we will, eventually. But they wanted a certified copy of the death certificate before they’d look for it. We’re getting the certificate now. We had to wake up a judge.”

  He walked away from Manning’s room to the quietest corner of the building. “Read the number out to me.” She did and he memorized it. He saw Manning leave his room and motioned him toward the waiting Land Rover. “And you’ve found nothing else on Richard Oakwood’s family of origin?”

  “We find anything and you’ll hear me whooping it up across the entire state of Texas.”

  He grinned. “I’ll be sure to listen for it. I haven’t heard you whoop in years.”

  “You do that.” She hung up.

  Flint grinned again and pulled a second burner phone from his pocket and dialed a source inside the FBI. When he answered, Flint said, “I need you to find the family of origin for the man attached to this SSN. Pronto.” He repeated the memorized number.

  “Got a callback?”

  “I’ll call you.” Flint disconnected and dropped both phones into his pocket until he could dismantle and discard them. He joined Manning and Brady in the Land Rover. Brady rolled out onto the road headed away from the center of town.

  Scarlett had come up empty on all leads, but checking off the dead ends made Flint feel like he was getting closer to the right answer. Or maybe that was nothing more than wishful thinking.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Manning provided directions from the backseat. Brady drove along Maple Road and turned north onto Pine. The street names were fanciful, given that the oil industry had long ago removed all the trees that had once grown here.

  Mount Warren was like other oil towns in Texas. It had seen booms and busts over the years, its fortunes rising and falling with the price of crude. At the moment, oil prices were in a long slump. Which, according to the financial press, was a perfect time for the likes of Shaw and Crane to gobble up oil-rich land. Buy low, sell high was the mantra of every developer everywhere.

  Flint noticed abandoned vehicles alongside decrepit buildings on both sides of the road. Most of this area had seen better days.

  A few miles west of town, Manning pointed to a large distribution center. Flint had assumed he was hauling oil-drilling supplies, but this was a consumer goods operation. Flint recognized the name painted in large orange letters on the building. It was a discount store favored by low-income workers. There were plenty of those to go around all over America these days.

  Brady turned into the distribution center driveway and stopped at the rusty guard shack. Manning lowered his window and passed his ID. The guard barely glanced at it before he waved them through.

  “Pull around the back,” Manning said.

  When the Land Rover rounded the long, flat building, a row of trailers lined up to loading bays filled Flint’s field of vision.

  “Fifth rig on the right.” Manning pointed ahead to an older tractor unit already attached to a semi-trailer. The tractor cabin didn’t have a sleeper, which probably explained Manning’s overnight stay at the Texas Inn. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Manning stepped out of the Land Rover. Before he closed the door, he leaned in. “You owe me a finder’s fee, Flint. And I’ll take it out of your cut. Not hers.”

  “That so?” Flint said.

  “Don’t think you can mess with me. I’ll collect from your mother if I have to. Bette’s got the money and she’ll give it to me. You know she will.” Manning closed the door.

  Flint wasn’t worried about Manning, but the thinly veiled threat to extort the only woman who had ever loved Flint like a mother wasn’t lost on him. He’d lost contact with Bette but that didn’t mean he no longer cared for her.

  Flint watched Manning labor toward his rig, thinking how easy it would be to deal with him should he try to hurt Bette. He put her on his list to follow up with after Tuesday, whether he found Oakwood or not.

  Brady executed a perfect three-point turn and headed the Land Rover out along the same route they’d used to enter. When they passed the guard shack, he said, “Where to?”

  “Back to the plane, but drive through town this time.”

  Mount Warren was waking up. It was significantly larger than nearby Wolf Bend. People were walking dogs and riding bikes in the residential sections. Monday-morning traffic wasn’t heavy, but it was present, which it hadn’t been on the way to Manning’s rig.

  He counted three churches, all serenely perched on wide lawns. One was a Catholic church and school, Saint Michael’s. They passed the usual array of public schools and school buses, office buildings, and worker bees on their way to the daily grind.

  The only remotely noteworthy things were the two large
buildings in the center of town, one on each side of the street, facing each other. Both seemed prosperous enough. Well tended. Brick buildings faced by large windows and brass fixtures. From the look of them, they were built closer to the turn of the twentieth century than the twenty-first.

  Shaw Petroleum on the east side and Crane Oil on the west.

  Crane had said he and Shaw grew up together. Perhaps Mount Warren was the town where their granddaddies began the legendary feud that Scarlett had plopped him into. He wondered again what event had sparked their dispute and what had fueled it for so many years. Holding a grudge for decades required serious determination. Not many men could manage it.

  Brady sent a text to Davis when they were twenty minutes from the Pilatus. By the time he pulled the Land Rover next to the jet, Drake was ready to go. The wait had been uneventful.

  Flint didn’t know exactly where they were headed, but the general direction was north. Drake and Flint agreed on a flight plan as far north as Grand Forks, North Dakota. They’d need more information after that. From Mount Warren, Drake handled the jet and Flint turned his attention to ground operations.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Flint hoisted himself out of the copilot’s seat and moved to a table in the back of the Pilatus where he could work. He wrote a quick report of his chat with Manning, encrypted it, and uploaded it to his secure server, where Scarlett could collect it later.

  His FBI source had uploaded encrypted notes. He found the file and opened it.

  His source had been able to trace Richard Oakwood’s original SS-5 application form for a social security number, which identified Richard’s parents. He’d also been able to confirm that both of Richard’s parents were long deceased. With more digging and leaning on a few more sources, he’d uncovered Richard’s birth certificate.

  Flint grinned. Finally. An actual break in the solid wall of granite he’d slammed into at every turn on this heir hunt.

  “You’re looking pleased with yourself. Good news of the kind that might tell me where to set down?” Drake asked.

  “Possibly. Hang on for about thirty minutes and I should know.”

  Flint read through the data again. Richard Oakwood had been born in Regina General Hospital, Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, on April 3, 1939. He had one sister, Melanie Oakwood, born in the same hospital as her brother, three years later, in 1942.

  Pretty quickly after reading the message, Flint discovered everything he needed to know about Melanie Oakwood. Unlike her niece, she wasn’t trying to hide from anyone or anything.

  Melanie had been born, educated, married, delivered her children, and buried her husband all in the same town, ten miles from Regina.

  Flint said, “Find an airport close to Charlestown, Saskatchewan. Population is thirty-five thousand, so you should be able to find a private landing strip. Looks like a winner.”

  “Will do.” Drake turned his attention to the task and Flint went back to his work.

  Melanie Oakwood’s married name was Barnett. She was still living in the same house she and her husband bought together in 1965. The house where they raised their own son until he moved to Switzerland. The house where her husband had died five years ago.

  Many women in Melanie Barnett’s situation might have retired to a warmer climate after their husbands died. Or become snowbirds. But Melanie hadn’t. Which Flint took as a good sign. Maybe the woman was agoraphobic or something. Whatever her situation, maybe he would find her at home.

  After he’d unraveled Richard Oakwood’s connection to Regina, Saskatchewan, finding Richard’s sister had been simple. Flint assumed Laura Oakwood had accomplished the task much faster.

  Laura would have known where her father was born. She would have known he had a sister, which was what she’d told Manning immediately after the robbery. Armed with that knowledge, the young Laura Oakwood could easily have located her aunt. The trip from Denver, where Manning dropped her and the baby off, to Charlestown, Saskatchewan, was long but doable, even back in 1989.

  When her niece showed up on her doorstep with a sick baby, was Melanie Barnett the kind of woman who would have turned the young mother and child away? Unlikely.

  “I might have found a good spot to land. We’ll see when we get closer,” Drake said. “You already know that Canadian immigration laws are not as relaxed now as they were during the Vietnam War for draft dodgers, right?”

  Flint nodded. “Laura Oakwood would have been a Canadian citizen even though she was born in Texas, because her father was a Canadian citizen. She probably slipped over the border, but she’d have been able to get proper documentation on the other side.”

  “Didn’t she have a kid with her? What about the baby?”

  “Not sure. The baby might be a Canadian citizen, too, because her mother is.”

  “Sounds iffy.”

  Flint nodded and said nothing. The legalities didn’t concern him overmuch. He hoped Canada’s national health service would have covered the child’s medical care, because they kept meticulous records.

  Flint was close. He could feel it. The important logic was almost flawless and the gaps didn’t matter. Everything was falling into place, as it so often did near the end of a hunt.

  “What about those two goons that have been following you around? We still watching out for them?” Drake rubbed the side of his neck reflexively on the spot where they’d injected him in front of Scarlett Investigations.

  Perhaps Paxton and Trevor had discovered Melanie Oakwood Barnett, too. His best guess was that either Crane or his two land men had hired Phillips to delay him when he left Wolf Bend. Which suggested they’d learned something new, something they wanted to follow with Flint out of the way.

  That lead could have been a desire to reach Melanie Barnett first. Which might explain why they weren’t at Shaw Tower with Crane when he’d dumped Reed and why he hadn’t seen them lately.

  “Let’s hope they have been here ahead of us. Those two are the opposite of socially adept. They piss off everybody they come into contact with.” Flint grinned. “If they already found the woman we’re looking for, she’s going to be more than happy to help us.”

  Drake frowned. “Or we’ll be attacked. Or arrested. Odds are about even for all three.”

  “Keep your sidearm handy.”

  Drake’s frown turned to a scowl. “Concealed weapons are illegal in Canada. Can’t carry without a permit. Which we don’t have.”

  “Better to argue about that from a standing position than from a coffin, eh?” Flint hadn’t found Oakwood yet, but he had a better chance with his boots on the ground in Charlestown than anywhere he’d been before.

  Melanie Oakwood Barnett felt like a long shot, yes. But a long shot that could work. He’d told Scarlett he would find Laura Oakwood, and find her he would. Eventually.

  Shaw’s deadline was of very little concern to him. He was through worrying about Shaw and Crane. Scarlett mattered to him, although he’d never say that to her.

  If he found Oakwood before the deadline, Scarlett would be pleased. Not to mention all the extra money they’d both have if he succeeded.

  Besides, at this point he simply wanted to prove he could do it. He loved a challenge. Find Laura Oakwood when no one else could. On time. When Scarlett could not? Sure. No problem.

  “What’s our ETA?” Flint asked, grinning. He quickly encrypted everything he’d learned and posted it for Scarlett to bring her up to speed.

  “Still flying VFR, so we have to avoid the major airports and at lower altitudes. Takes a bit longer.” Drake punched some numbers into a keyboard. “We’re cruising at 425. Calculations say the flight should take a few more hours.”

  Flint nodded. He had time to develop a plan.

  He pulled up maps. He checked tax rolls, voter registrations, census records, driver’s license databases, prison records, death records.

  “Do you think the Oakwood woman is living in Charlestown?” Drake asked.

  “It’s a
place to start. Her aunt lives there. Name’s Melanie Barnett.” Laura Oakwood was smart, clever, resourceful, and probably, like most fugitives, more than a little paranoid. He assumed she wouldn’t live near her aunt because she might be easily located by anyone watching Barnett. She’d have moved to a town with a good hospital and good schools. Probably not too far away.

  “Where do you expect to find her, then?”

  “Working on it. You’ll be among the first to know.”

  Drake frowned and stopped asking questions for the moment.

  After a bit of digging, Flint found three good possibilities within driving distance of Charlestown. But he was running out of time and he needed to prioritize. He couldn’t thoroughly check every town in Canada before the deadline, even if he’d wanted to.

  He stood up and walked to the back of the plane, stretching his taut muscles. The galley was set up for executive travel. He found a coffee maker and brewed a couple of cups. He carried one to Drake in the cockpit.

  The caffeine seemed to kick his thinking into higher gear. He paced the narrow aisle.

  He wasn’t the least bit sentimental. The intense desire for belonging to biological connections wasn’t a driving force for him. But most people felt differently. After food, shelter, and safety, love and belonging were right at the top of the list for most people. Normal humans, the theory goes, have a basic need to love and be loved in return.

  Flint was no therapist. But he’d grown up an orphan and the orphans he’d known wanted nothing more than to find a real family. Ideally, their own birth family. Failing that, they wanted a family they could love and that would love them back.