“Do you remember what she was wearing?” Bardonner asked.
He wracked his brain. “Black slacks and a black T-shirt with white dots.”
“What time did you expect her home?”
“Well, it varies. Sometimes she returns for lunch, sometimes she doesn’t. “Since she left at 11:00 today, I didn’t expect her home for lunch. Typically, she’s home no later than mid-afternoon. Occasionally 4 p.m. Rarely 5 p.m. But if that late, she would call from her cell phone with a game plan. At 6:00, I began to feel uncomfortable, more so at 7 and 8 p.m. I left a message for Adam at nine and then asked the dispatcher to contact him immediately at 10:00, when I knew something was very wrong.”
“Has she seemed moody or depressed lately?” Bardonner asked.
Jason didn’t hesitate. “Hardly! She’s always high-energy and upbeat, but she’s especially happy right now because Hannah has come back to life.”
Adam tried hiding his immediate interest at hearing Hannah’s name and listened intently as Bardonner said, “Oh?”
“Our daughter, Hannah, had a romantic disappointment about five months ago and took a nosedive. She temporarily lost faith in people and shut down to a low burner to heal her wounds. Jennifer worried some about her, but then just recently, our bright, fun-loving Hannah is back,” Jason explained, before returning to the real reason he was here. “So I guess that was a long-winded ‘no’ to your question. Jennifer definitely is not moody or depressed.”
Bardonner leaned forward. “Did she have any enemies?”
Jason looked pensive before shaking his head.
Bardonner studied the forms Jason completed. “Maybe a neighborhood dispute or a problem where she works?”
“Hers is a temp job, filling in for someone on medical leave. But no, she loves her work and the people there. And ours is just a quiet residential neighborhood. No problem there.”
She hadn’t told Jason of any difficulties at school where she mentored once a week. He considered her bridge group and tennis friends. “She volunteers with Childhelp, the organization that rehabilitates victims of child abuse. She belongs to an auxiliary that supports the organization in various ways. She’s told me some awful stories about unbelievable things some parents do to their kids, but she wouldn’t be exposed to any danger there.”
Bardonner tapped his pencil against his chin. “Sir, from a police standpoint, citizens can be exposed to danger any time, anywhere. A false sense of security is your enemy because you are always your own first line of defense wherever you are.”
Jason stared uncomfortably as he absorbed this information.
“Okay, has she any friction with relatives? Any situation at all that might cause her to leave voluntarily?” Bardonner asked.
“Nothing I know of. I’m certain. No.”
“Forgive my asking this but I have to,” Bardonner said. “Are you having any marital problems?”
Jason chuckled, “Every marriage has little glitches, but something big? Definitely not.”
“Is there any possibility that she has an admirer or a boyfriend?”
Jason’s startled expression answered that question for Bardonner. If she did, this husband knew nothing about it.
“You need to rule out the family, don’t you?” Jason asked. “At least, that’s how it works on the police shows. They always suspect the family first,” Jason said.
Bardonner sighed. “We’re trained to look at every possibility. Over 80 percent of victims are harmed by people they know, relatives or acquaintances, so you see the reason…”
Jason leaned forward, locking eyes with first Adam and then Bardonner. “Please do whatever you need to in order to find her. I promise my family will do everything in our power to cooperate and to help you.” He brought a clenched fist to his lips and tears glistened in his eyes as he added in a faltering voice, “We are desperate to find her.”
Adam said nothing as this man, old enough to be his own father, fought for composure. Bardonner also waited.
“Should I gather the family so you can talk to them?” Jason finally managed.
“That’s not necessary at the moment,” Bardonner said. “Just let us know how to reach them and we’ll follow up if we need to. I can see how worried you are, but if there isn’t a reasonable explanation for her apparent disappearance, we’re pretty good at what we do. We’ll try to have some news for you soon. Go on home and we’ll get to work. Do you need help getting back?”
“No, thanks.” The smile of gratitude Jason intended for the detectives twisted into a grimace as he fought to control his emotions. Bardonner shook his hand, said good-bye and left the room.
Rising to his feet with unusual effort, Jason thanked Adam again for his help. On his way out the door, he turned back to ask, “Who was that Detective Bardonner?”
Adam cleared his throat, unable to think how to soften the truth. “Sir, he’s from Homicide.”
Open-mouthed, Jason stumbled from the police station into the parking lot and leaned against his car, groping for his keys and the strength to use them.
CHAPTER 35
Jeremy Whitehead wakened late and headed for the bathroom when the first strange feeling hit him. He brushed this indigestion away as a morning hunger pang until a wave of dizziness forced him to lie down.
When he arose, he still didn’t feel right but ate a small breakfast while watching TV. He flipped channels between programs to find the news, having cancelled his newspaper subscription a few years ago. Reading blurred news type made his head spin, likely because he needed new glasses. But he no longer trusted the medical profession, particularly after their proven incompetence in letting Ginger die.
Despite decades of sleeping eight-hour nights, Jeremy couldn’t remember ever sleeping twelve straight hours until last night. So what? Things changed when you were seventy-six!
He opened all the first-floor windows and turned on the kitchen fan. Without air conditioning, he knew ventilation on these hot July days was mandatory. He turned up the TV volume partly because the commentators just whispered and partly because the background sound gave the illusion of human company without its annoyances. Real people were an intolerable nuisance.
Therefore, he did not welcome an insistent knock on his front door. A pause and even louder knocking the second time. He opened the door slightly and growled through the crack, “What do you want?”
“Hello there, Mr. Whitehead. I’m Bob Wolf, your neighbor from next door,” said a pleasant voice from a friendly face.
“Well?”
“Any chance I might come inside for a minute, Sir?”
“No!”
“Oh, ah, okay. Well, we just wanted to see how you are getting along.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“My wife’s baking today. She asked me to bring these cookies over to you. They’re on a paper plate so no dish to return.”
Silence from inside the house.
“And,” Wolf continued, “what with it being summertime, of course it’s natural to open windows to let in the breeze, but we wonder if you realize your TV might be tuned up a bit loud. The sound carries all up and down the block every day. You know, this is a pretty quiet neighborhood and we just thought maybe you wouldn’t mind turning it down a little so that…”
“You young whippersnapper!” Jeremy pulled the door wide, his frail body framed in the opening. “You mind your own damn business!” he snarled. “My TV is not too loud, because my hearing is perfectly good. But even if I wanted it loud, this is America and in my own house I’ll do whatever I want. You stuff your cookies you-know-where and leave me alone! You hear?”
Jeremy glared at him as Wolf groped for some way to break through this cantankerous old goat’s wall of anger. As neighborhood spokesman, he hoped yet again to befriend the old man and perhaps also solve the community nuisance of Whitehead’s blaring TV.
“You hear?” Jeremy shouted and slammed the door with a crash so mighty, the sash of the adjace
nt open window thudded shut.
Having rudely slammed the door right in Bob Wolf’s face, Jeremy didn’t see his neighbor stare at the plate of cookies in his hand, sigh deeply and reluctantly turn toward his home next door.
Inside his own house, Jeremy dialed the TV volume even higher. “I’ll show them,” he muttered to no one. “Now look what they’ve done; I’m all riled up. Why can’t they just leave me alone? Is that asking too much, damn it all?”
The odd feeling swept over him again and he leaned against the table, trying to clear his head. The fingers on his left hand tingled and his vision blurred until out of the fuzziness materialized an absolutely clear thought: call in yesterday’s bad driver reports.
Jeremy stepped out the side door of his house to the carport and paused for breath. What was this tightness in his chest? Had he eaten breakfast too fast? No, it was that insufferable neighbor, trying to upset him. Well, they wouldn’t get the best of Jeremy Whitehead, no sir.
He opened his car door, pulled out the clipboard and stumbled back into the house. From his chair facing the TV, he heard the newscaster announce, “And here is a local news flash. Another woman is reported missing in the McLean area. In the past five months three other Fairfax County women have disappeared. Police suspect these cases may be related.”
Jeremy closed his eyes. His legs felt heavy, his left arm numb, and he had trouble catching his breath. The newscaster continued, “The latest missing woman is Jennifer Shannon, last seen on Saturday in McLean, Virginia, driving a white Cadillac SRX Crossover SUV with Virginia license plate YRDSALE. If you have any information about her whereabouts or the circumstances of her disappearance, call Fairfax County Police Crime Stoppers at the phone number on your screen.”
His eyes snapped open wide. Printed on the screen were a woman’s name, a license plate number and the Fairfax County Police phone number. Why did that license number look so familiar? Fumbling to pick up the pencil, he hadn’t time to copy the Crime Stoppers number before it faded from the screen, but he knew the Fairfax County Police number by heart.
Jeremy felt a surge of energy born of vindication. When he reported his information, the media would interview him and tell the world of his tireless efforts to rid roads of incompetent drivers. Showcasing his cause, this public platform would finally bring the recognition he richly deserved.
He sat still and tried to breathe deeply but a sharp pain stabbed his chest each time he inhaled. The phone... in the kitchen. More dizziness doubled him over as he rose from the chair, one hand clutching its armrest. He staggered into the kitchen, fell heavily into a chair and reached across the table for the phone.
With the clipboard in one hand and phone receiver in the other, he grunted with discomfort and focused on his task. There was the tag number he needed to report the white SUV. His hand trembled as he slowly punched buttons on the phone.
“Fairfax County Police,” said the voice.
“This is Jeremy Whitehead.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Whitehead. What can we do for you today?”
“I want to report... ” He was breathing rapidly now with the increasing effort for his leaden body to draw and expel breath.
“Another bad driver, Mr. Whitehead? Okay! Where did the violation occur?”
His large script blurred on his clipboard. He shook his head to clear his vision and amazingly, the page came into focus.
“3508 Winding Trail Road,” he read hoarsely.
“Okay, Mr. Whitehead. I’ve copied that. And what was the violation?”
His mind reeled back to the serpentine road and the white van, its sudden stop demanding his brilliant, skillful maneuvering. “Jammed on the brakes right in front of me, forced me to swerve nearly off the road or crash into that damn car. Nearly killed me,” he managed. Sweat broke out on his face and he felt clammy, even though the kitchen fan blew directly toward him.
“Sounds like a scary experience for you, Mr. Whitehead.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Can you describe the car for me?”
“It was a... a white Cadillac SUV.”
“Okay, now can you give me the license plate number?”
His left arm was useless now, his body so heavy and every breath a gasping effort.
“It’s... ” he wheezed audibly and stared at the writing on his clipboard, “Virginia tag YR...,” another gasp and a long silence.
“Mr. Whitehead, we need that license number to finish your complaint.”
“I can’t breathe!” The pressure in his chest intensified.
“Mr. Whitehead, are you all right? Do you need help?”
“I...I can’t breathe! My heart feels like it’s on fire! Yes…help me! Please!”
Clutching his chest, Jeremy Whitehead toppled to the floor; arms flung outward, eyes glazed.
CHAPTER 36
As she looked for a place to hide the screwdriver, three distinctive black-and-white striped boxes tucked under the basement stairs caught Jennifer’s eye in the artificial light. Identically sized and entirely different from the brown cardboard packing cartons stacked elsewhere, these old-fashioned round hatboxes were labeled: “Papa,” “Junior” and “The Boys.” Clearly these boxes hadn’t been opened for a long time. Were vintage hats inside?
Considering how much work this basement cleanup required, she’d moved surprisingly fast. Her garage sale experience in organizing disorderly items helped enormously. This unexpected “extra” time, coupled with her curiosity, allowed a hasty peek into these three boxes.
Blowing dust from the top, she slid the cover off the box marked “Papa” and stared inside. A scarf-size flag with a swastika, medals and battle ribbons and the photo of a middle-aged man standing in front of a foreign-looking bombed out building. The soldier wore a WW II uniform, much like the one belonging to her own father. Another photo, but this one of a letter. She vaguely remembered mail like this received long ago from her dad when he fought in Europe. V-mail, was it called? Examining the photo-letter in the thin light beneath a hanging light bulb, she squinted at the small photographed print and read:
“Martha—You know I can’t describe my whereabouts. Loose lips sink ships. I am still okay and eager for this damn war to end. The problems we faced there on the farm were a picnic compared to this god-awful mess. Sorry the boy is such a problem. I know you’re strict with him but you need to break his spirit, like you saw me do with the horse. When I get home, I’ll whip him into shape all right. The army has taught me a lot more about discipline, which you know better than anybody I could already dish out pretty well. I will straighten everything and everyone out when I get back. Junior will obey us, I promise you that. Your husband, Charles”
This letter slid from Jennifer’s fingers back into the hatbox. She tried to absorb its content before carefully unfolding the yellowed paper of a second letter. Under an official seal at the top was typed, “June 9, 1944. From Department of the Army of the United States of America to Mrs. Charles Yates: We regret to inform you that your husband, Charles Mathis Yates, was killed on June 6th during the Normandy invasion in the European theater of action. Please accept my sincere condolences and know that our entire nation is grateful to you and your family for his and your sacrifice.”
She refolded and returned the second letter before replacing the box’s cover. Had she heard a sound from up above? What if the man dashed down the stairs to find her snooping instead of working? Motionless, she listened. Convinced at last that no one was coming, she hastily opened the next box labeled “Junior.”
Inside lay a wedding ring, a small bouquet of dried, faded flowers, a crumpled paper and a stack of photos. The first pictured a young man beside a beautiful young woman who wore a modest tiara with a short veil. They held hands, looking at the camera—she smiling, he stern. A wedding picture? The second photo showed the same two standing in front of a store, neither smiling. A third photo captured the two of them again, she very pregnant and clearly unhappy, he with a menacin
g grimace. Fourth photo caught her holding a young baby, a haunted expression on her face. The next picture showed the same woman standing before a barn. She held the hand of a sad little girl while at her side sat two unhappy boys atop a hay bale. All their expressions seemed like deer in the headlights. The final photo showed two little boys, perhaps three and two, with gaunt, serious expressions. Did one sport a black eye and the other a large bruise on his left arm, or were those oddly placed shadows of years-old amateur photography?
Carefully replacing these photos, Jennifer gently spread open the tightly wadded paper:
“Wendey, you bitch. You are an abomination and a scourge on my name. When you dared to question my authority and you refused to obey me, I gave you the discipline you deserved. I couldn’t beat the poison out of you or starve it out of you in the confinement box but even though I won’t be there to continue your lessons, I promise you will suffer even after they take me away to that place. I will destroy everything you care about. You doted on the little girl and I got rid of her, didn’t I? Never doubt my power! You cannot escape my wrath because each time you look at your sons, my scalding hate will stare back at you from their eyes and in their faces you will see my face. You might think I am not there, but through my boys I will torment you every minute of every day for the rest of your life, exactly as you deserve. – Tobias”
Jennifer’s hands trembled. The cruel face of the man in the photo and now this! Did the basement’s damp chill trigger her shiver or what she’d just read? She hesitated; dare she even look inside the final box? Despite a morbid fascination to do so, she shrank at what she might find. Yet she had to know. What if information inside helped her gain freedom?
Slowly she lifted the lid from the last hat box labeled “The Boys.” On top lay a photo of two little boys, maybe four and five, dressed in tattered clothes. Both looked wretched, though the older had his arm protectively around the younger. The younger one’s face favored the cruel man, even more noticeable since he shared his father’s identical sour expression. But did either of the boys in this grainy photograph resemble the man upstairs or was this someone else’s tragic story?
Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) Page 17