“Pictures of Ferdy. I thought it would help if they had some different shots of him. The one they had at the press conference was of him all shined up for a friend’s wedding.”
“It’s almost impossible that no one has laid eyes on him after all this time,” I said. “I mean people fake their deaths and get found, and I assume they put a lot of thought into how to stay gone. Ferdy just up and disappeared!”
“Ferdy was taken by someone, or more than one person, who did a lot of planning before they ever went to his house to get him,” he said. “The condition of his house that day was a huge clue for me. He’s a total neat freak.”
I smiled, remembering how he would tidy up things on my desk when he came to the office. “I would try to have things organized when Ferdy came to see me,” I said, “but he would always fidget – it was like he couldn’t sit still until he had my folders in a perfect pile or my pens arranged according to ink color. I used to tell him he would be impossible to live with.”
“Trust me – he was impossible to live with. He was the same when he was a kid.” We ate our lunch while Sean shared fond memories of his brother.
“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in closer touch,” I said. “There’s something going on with me that’s dividing my attention and most days I don’t know which way to turn.”
“Don’t feel badly. There’s only so much you can do when it comes to Ferdy.”
“Can I see the pictures?”
He pushed the envelope across the table to me. “Be my guest.”
I went through the stack, pausing at each one long enough for Sean to explain how old Ferdy was and where the photo was taken. I had to admit he was right. Ferdy did look different in these then he did in the formal shot. “I’m glad you thought to bring them,” I said, “they should be very helpful.” I stopped at a shot of Ferdy playing basketball with Sean. They both looked a lot younger, a nice memory of brothers having a great time shooting hoops.
“That one was taken at the old house,” he said. “We’d have a game of pickup before Mom’s Sunday dinners.”
“Where was that?”
“Rochester.”
“Rochester, New York?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We grew up there. Eventually I moved to Pennsylvania for a job and Ferdy moved here to open his company.”
“How long ago did Ferdy move to Syracuse?”
“Oh, jeez,” he said, “has to be eight years now. Maybe a little longer.”
“Did he work in the software business in Rochester too?”
Sean shook his head, “No, software was a hobby for him. Ferdy was always a numbers man. Nerdy sort. But he took some courses in software development and loved that too. He got so good at both, he decided to open his financial planning business. He held several patents on software he’d developed for his and other companies.”
I nodded. I had marketed two of them for him. “So what did Ferdy do for a job before he opened his company?”
“He was a teller at the National Bank of Rochester, why?”
Chapter 18
As much as I wanted to tell Jack about this epic revelation, I wanted to be compassionate toward Sean. After all, he was tortured by the fact that his brother was missing; I couldn’t just leap up and run out of the restaurant. But as soon as it was possible to get away gracefully, I bolted.
I called Jack and told him that Ferdy had worked as a teller in the bank that Danny Stearns had robbed. “I read on-line that police thought the robbery had been an inside job because so much money was taken,” I said, “but then they talked to the employees and ruled out the theory. You don’t think that Ferdy…”
“Ferdy what? Was in cahoots with Danny Stearns? Anything’s possible, but we need to know exactly when Ferdy worked there. Why didn’t you ask Sean?”
“I couldn’t do that. He’s already a basket case over his brother’s disappearance. I couldn’t lay this on him too. I’m going to the office to do a search.”
I could tell Jack was thinking from the silence on his end of the line. Then he said, “I’m going to call Matt and see if he’s had someone from the department talk to Mike at the café about a description. If he has, I’ll come get you and we’ll go take a look. If it hasn’t been done, I’ll light a fire under him.”
“You don’t think it could have been Ferdy at the café? And that he drugged Tony? No. What would be his motive? He had no connection to Tony, other than they were both clients of mine. I don’t think they’d even met!”
“That we know of,” he said. “But before today, we didn’t know that Ferdy and Stearns were connected by a bank, whether it was an innocent connection or not. I want to follow up on it.
“But why? It makes no sense!”
“Because,” he said, “a lead is a lead.”
Back at the office, I unlocked the door, closed it behind me, and re-set the alarm; the new normal that would remind me of poor Miller every time I repeated those steps.
I booted up my computer and went to the page I’d bookmarked. I scrolled through the grainy black and white photos of bank employees; some had only a few people in them, others whole groups. I saw nothing in the first few, but then there was one of a dozen or so employees standing in the bank’s newly remodeled lobby. I searched the faces, one by one, staring at each much too long. But it paid off. Face #10 was Ferdy’s. No doubt about it. The date on the newspaper was November, 2000. Thirteen years ago. I printed out the page and called Jack.
“I found a photo of Ferdy as a bank employee 13 years ago. Jack – he was most likely still there at the time of the robbery, three years later.”
“Print it out…”
“I did,” I interrupted.
“Let me finish what I was saying,” he said calmly. “Print it out and put it in a safe place. But also send me a link to the page.”
“Okay, I’ll do that right now.” Harley could have done it faster, but I finally clicked SEND. “There. Did you get it?”
“Yes, but keep the page bookmarked on your end, just in case.”
Adrenalin washed through me. Ferdy, I thought. Then I snapped back to reality; Ferdy was a nerd of epic proportions. Nerds don’t rob banks. It would take them too long to explain the intricacies of their mission to a teller. I dismissed the thought of Fergal Finnegan doing anything unseemly.
I turned off the computer and looked around my office, wondering if there was a future for me here at all. This building had been my salvation for so long – a place to come where I had specific things to accomplish each day, and deadlines to keep me on track. Would it be fair to me if I closed the doors permanently? Would it be fair to my clients if I didn’t?
The rent was paid until the end of the year, so I had some time to figure it out, but questions persisted. Could I even find another Harley? Did I have it in me to bring on new clients to replace the income I’d lost from Tony and Ferdy, not to mention Carrie? Did I dare find another Miller, knowing that something could happen to him too? Jack would tell me I was over-thinking, but I didn’t know how else to make a decision this significant. Maybe closing was too large a response for the actual problem, like burning down a house because it had ants.
After hours of debating with myself, I decided to go halfway, and close my doors temporarily; the clients I had left would have to fend for themselves for now. I called them all and explained that I was taking some time off; that I would be in contact when I returned. I offered to recommend another small agency in the area and a couple of them took me up on it. I then called each of my media reps and told them I would be out of touch for a while.
Realizing that this place would feel like an empty shell in another couple of days, I decided to start clearing things out. I went to my filing cabinet and started pulling folders, artwork, scripts, and billboard designs; anything I was working on for new campaigns, and copies of old as well as newly-paid invoices for each client. It all went into neat piles on my desk, on Harley’s desk – excuse me, on Harley’s forme
r desk, and on the floor. It took three hours to get the padded envelopes and boxes stuffed and addressed. I hauled them out to Nelly and piled them in the hatch. Finally, I went back into the office, grabbed my purse, locked up, and headed to the post office.
Once that was done (to the tune of $247.00), I headed back to the office for my printer and filled an empty box with ink cartridges, paper, and my Rolodex. I left my letterhead, envelopes, and business cards, for another time. Done for now, I was too tired to clear out the kitchen or go upstairs and pack my clothes and remaining personal items.
Before I left the building, I put in a call to Carrie Ashton’s office to tell Harley I had taken her advice to close, at least temporarily.
“Hi Carrie,” I started, “this is Audrey. I’d like to speak with Harley, if she’s free.”
“Oh, hi there, Audrey, Harley’s not here.”
I looked at the clock. “She left early today? Well, I’ll try her cell. If I don’t reach her, I’ll call back tomorrow.”
“No,” she said, “that’s not what I mean. Harley’s not here anymore. I assumed you knew. She called yesterday and quit. Just like that. And she’s not answering her cell.”
Oh, Lord, I thought, did Carl find her? “Did she say why?”
“No explanation whatsoever.”
“Did she say where she was going? Another job maybe?”
“Nope. I can tell you she sounded like she was in a hurry, though. I asked her if she wanted me to send her the check she had coming, or if she wanted to pick it up, but she said no, that I should donate it to Vera House. Any idea what that’s all about?”
I do, I thought. Vera House was the agency in the city that provided shelter for victims of domestic violence. Carl must have tracked Harley down, and she had fled. I didn’t believe I’d ever see or hear from her again. I grabbed a tissue and wiped my eyes, imagining the hopelessness she must be feeling. So alone. And terrified. She would have to find a place safe from Carl, and how far away would that take her? I said goodbye to Carrie and hung up.
I supposed Harley could be here, under the protection of Vera House; after all, she had donated her last pay check to them. Maybe she’d done that as a clue to me, either to let me know where she’d gone, or that she’d left because Carl was on her trail. Only a handful of people knew the location of the shelter; not even the police knew where it was. So if that’s where she’d landed, there was nothing I could do to help her. I tried her cell, thinking maybe she’d pick up for me. Nothing. Not even voice mail. I felt my own world shrink in the wake of Harley’s disappearance, and I put my head in my hands and sobbed.
Chapter 19
Jack called. “Hey, can you come down to the police station? We’ve got a composite of the guy who spoke with Tony at Mike’s Diner. Like you to take a look at it.”
“I’ll be right there.” I grabbed my keys and headed toward Nelly, wondering if I would recognize the man. Was it someone I knew, or had at least met? As upset as I still was over the conversation I’d had with Carrie, a sort of nervous excitement bubbled up in my chest at the anticipation of seeing this sketch. I pulled onto the street and drove away.
“So?” asked Jack. I was sitting in a chair next to Matt’s desk, staring at his computer screen. “Have you ever seen this guy? At the diner? Anywhere else?”
I shook my head in disappointment. The guy in the sketch looked so plain, so unremarkable, that I stared at the rendering, wondering if he could even be real, or if Mike was just not good at giving descriptions. This was a rendition of a million guys rolled into one; dark shaggy hair, mustache, glasses. A run-of-the-mill Joe. Try as I may, I could not see Ferdy in it. I felt relieved at that, but wondered if it was possible I’d seen this guy at the counter and not remembered; if I worked at it, would the memory of him come to me? Right now, the answer was no. “Sorry,” I said.
I went from the police station to the hospital. I wanted to see what Tony remembered about Diner Guy. Why hadn’t he mentioned him before? The trauma of the accident, I guess, could have overshadowed many details and I wondered what else Tony might have forgotten.
Rose was at her brother’s bedside when I arrived. She waved me in and introduced me to her sister Bella, and brother Nick. “Look how good our boy looks today,” she said.
Tony indeed looked more like his old self. The bandages that had covered the top of his head had been removed, and a lot of the facial swelling had gone down. He smiled at me. “They haven’t given me a mirror yet,” he said. “Do I want one?”
“You look wonderful to me,” I said, and I went to the side of the bed opposite Rose. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you making so much progress.”
“We’ll leave you two alone,” said Rose, as she motioned to the others, “and go get something to eat.”
I waited until they were gone to ask, “Tony, do you remember a man at the diner who came to your table the morning of the crash? Someone who shook your hand – maybe said he was a fan? Mike said he sat down at your table.”
“Yeah, the police already asked me about him. He came over to me and said he recognized my voice. Said he’d listened to my traffic reports for years and was happy to meet me.”
“Did they say why they were interested in him?”
“No,” he said, “but they asked if there was anything strange about the way he walked, or moved, you know, like a limp. Or if I remembered something different about the way he spoke; if he had an accent or a lisp or anything like that.”
“Did he?”
Tony shook his head.
“They think he put sleeping pills in your coffee,” I said. “They’re trying to figure out who he is.”
“Why didn’t they tell me that?”
“They probably didn’t want to upset you. They don’t know you like I do; don’t know how strong you are. The police talked to Mike and created a composite,” I said. “I saw it but didn’t recognize the guy. Did you see it?”
He nodded. “I meet a lot of people,” he said, “and usually have a good memory for faces, but nothing about the printout they showed me looked like the guy I saw that morning. In fact, they’re sending over a sketch artist – someone from out of town. They’re supposed to be more accurate than the cut-and-paste computer programs. They want to compare Mike’s memory with mine.”
“I’m just glad Mike remembered the guy at all. The police thought I was the one who put something in your coffee.”
“You! Why on Earth would anyone think that?”
“I know, right? They were going on the fact that I was the last one to see you that morning. But now they know I wasn’t – Diner Guy was. So they need to find out who he is.”
Tony looked up at the ceiling. “You remember when that cop asked me if I’d left my table?”
I nodded. “You didn’t get up while I was with you. Why?”
“Because I did use the restroom right before I had my last cup of coffee – not just before I left, like I first thought.”
“So you came back to the table and then ordered another cup?”
“No, I ordered it before I went to the restroom. I was just getting up when the guy came over and shook my hand. I asked him to join me, told him I’d be right back. He sat down and I left, but I was only gone a few minutes.”
“And your coffee was there when you got back?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“That has to be when he slipped the pills into your cup. Mike said it was busy after I left. No wonder no one saw him do it.”
“I didn’t even remember the sequence,” Tony said, “until just now.”
“I can’t wait to tell Matt St. John. I’m sure he’ll come to take a formal statement.”
“Listen, Audrey, I’m getting tired. Do you mind?” he asked.
“Of course not. I’m sorry I stayed so long. Get some rest. I’ll be back.”
After picking up a decaf at a drive-through, I headed to Harley’s house. I had only caught a glimpse of Carl’s face throu
gh the truck’s tinted window, which was as good as never having seen him at all. I wanted to see this guy who had hit Harley and made her so fearful she’d had to disappear. It would be good to be able to recognize him, in case he decided to show up at my apartment or at the office.
I parked down the street, because he knew Nelly. There were a lot of Jeeps exactly like her on the road, but I didn’t want him to have even an inkling that I was nearby. I hadn’t finished half of my coffee when a man exited the house. It had to be Carl. He walked quickly and gave me the impression that he was prone to jerky movements; about as laid back as a squirrel. Just the sight of him upset me. I looked at his hands; the hands he’d hit Harley with.
Heat built at the back of my neck and my heart rate picked up, as I imagined myself revving up Nelly and ramming into him, pinning him against a building, waving at him through the windshield, and then gunning the engine and driving further into him, until he squished like a bug. I felt flushed as adrenalin pumped through me, and I realized that in the excitement of the moment, I’d put down my coffee and was clutching the steering wheel with both hands.
As my heart rate slowed, I watched him enter a little grocery store, just a few doors down. Harley said that he almost never left the house, except to pick up beer and cigarettes. He wasn’t in there very long, and as I expected, he came out carrying a six pack. It was not only nerve-wracking seeing him, but even from this distance, I realized there was something familiar about him. But what was it?
Having had enough of this day, I headed home. I ordered dinner at the bar and hiked my sorry behind up the back stairs to my apartment. I juggled the food, my purse, and the Styrofoam cup that held the cold remains of my coffee, and unlocked the deadbolt, cursing it, yet grateful for it. Everything went on the table. I ran back downstairs to grab my mail, then back up to lock myself in and wedge kitchen chairs under the doorknobs. I showered and donned a pair of flowered PJs, poured a diet soda, grabbed some silverware, and set my feast in front of the TV. Oh, the grace of tiny living.
Brainstorm Page 9