“I’d check at a bar or café.”
“So would I.”
The bartender said, “Places along the river? Why do you want to know?”
Travathan said, “We’re movie location scouts. We’re checking out spots for a film, Terror of Evil. We need a heavily wooded spot by a river.”
“Well, your best bet would have been Albert Nordstrom, but he was killed. Too bad. He knew these parts better than anyone else. I just pointed someone else to him a few days ago.”
“Someone else wanted to know about the river?” Travathan turned to Kagan and said, “Damn. That jerk Fisher is trying to get the jump on us.” He turned back to the bartender. “Why did this other guy want to know about the river?”
“He said he was a photographer, and he was doing some kind of river journal. Takes all types.”
“What did this guy look like?”
“I dunno. He was tall. Over six feet, lean, like an athlete.”
Travathan pulled out a picture. “Is this the guy?”
The bartender studied the picture and nodded. “Could be. Yeah, it looks like him.”
Travathan swore, said, “Yeah, that’s Fisher,” and returned the picture to his wallet.
Kagan said, “You said this guy Nordstrom was killed? When? How?”
The bartender frowned, his eyes narrowing. “I figure I’ve said enough. You want any more information, talk to the cops.”
Travathan and Kagan left the bar. “Well,” Travathan said, “This is a problem. We can’t just walk into the cop shop and start asking questions about Albert Nordstrom. They’d want to know why.”
Kagan said, “So why bother talking to them?”
“How do we get more information about Nordstrom?”
“Gord, you were a cop, which is why you’re focused on talking to them. Me, I was a journalist.”
“Ah. The local newspaper. In a town this size, that would be page one news.”
According to the story, a kayaker had found Albert Nordstrom’s body below Hell’s Gate. The official cause of death was drowning, but the body had been so battered by the rapids that the coroner couldn’t tell if Nordstrom had hit his head on a rock, knocking himself unconscious before he fell into the water, or had slipped and drowned. His death was classed as accidental, Nordstrom was buried, and the case was closed.
Except that the man’s body had been found the day after someone fired at Travathan and Winters.
They left the newspaper office for their car. “By the way, who’s the guy in the picture? The one you showed the bartender?” Kagan asked.
“Well, it seems Tony Galina is still around, and he wants either me or Kevin Winters—or both of us—dead.” He wheeled the car onto the highway back to the city.
24
The light was fading when Travathan entered his hotel room. He checked his cell phone and swore. He’d forgotten to turn it on that morning, although he had to admit that was normal for him. He checked his voice mail. A voice said, “You have . . . two . . . messages. Message one.”
“Travathan, Doris MacIlhenny here. Give me a call when you get in. Any time. This is urgent.”
MacIlhenny. The detective. What did she want? He wrote down her number. The electronic voice said, “Message two.”
“Mr. Travathan, this is the coroner’s office. Please give us a call as soon as possible.”
Coroner’s office? MacIlhenny sounded more insistent. He dialed her number. A police officer told him she wasn’t in and to leave a message.
Travathan objected. “She already left a message for me. Gord Travathan. It sounded important. Can you page her or get hold of her?”
“I’ll take a message. She’ll call you back.”
Travathan called the coroner’s office, only to have an answering service announce that the office was closed and to call the next day.
There was time for one more follow-up. He dialed the number of Emily Dennison.
“Mrs. Dennison, my name is Gord Travathan. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter, Julia. Can I come over to your place?”
There was a silence, long enough for him to wonder if she had hung up when she said, “Do you have any information about her?” She spoke with a vigor that hadn’t been there when she had answered the phone. Hope tinged with a fear of tragedy.
He cursed himself. He should have realized she was a mother aching for news about a missing child. There were times he wished being an investigator didn’t take priority.
“I may, but I need to find out more about her. Would you mind if I came over?”
Another pause. “All right. I’ll be here.”
The Dennison house was about a half hour drive from his hotel. Her bungalow was jammed in on a street full of homes built from the same template, but there were flowers along the front, and the lawn was mowed, the scent of cut grass damp in the darkening evening.
Emily Dennison was probably in her fifties, but she was stooped, her face lined. Travathan had seen too many other men and women, their faces etched from years of desperation about a lost child.
She showed him into her living room. A man, also in his fifties with a body that looked accustomed to hard work, rose to greet him and extended his hand.
“I’m Don Harriman. I’m a friend of Emily.”
And probably here to provide some protection, thought Travathan.
He introduced himself to Harriman and prepared himself for Emily Dennison’s questions. But to her, hospitality came first. He accepted her offer of coffee and cookies, marveling at the tradition that nothing, not even news of a lost daughter, intruded on showing courtesy to a guest. He studied the room and its collection of photos, souvenirs, gifts, and memorabilia cluttered on shelves, searching for clues about the young Julia Dennison. Knickknacks that doting parents would hoard. Mementos that would occupy places of honor in their homes. The artworks of a child that would outlast all others.
When Emily Dennison left to get the refreshments, Harriman, his voice hardening, interrupted Travathan’s survey of the room. “What news do you have of Julia?”
He turned to Harriman. “Do you know the last time Emily and Julia spoke?”
“Any information about Julia will have to come from Emily. I’m here to give her whatever support she needs. Is she going to need some?”
“I’m afraid so.” Harriman frowned.
Emily Dennison returned carrying a tray with mugs of coffee and a plate with an assortment of cookies. “What news do you have of my daughter?”
“Mrs. Dennison, I’m not even sure that what I have relates to your daughter. Before I tell you anything that may be distressing, may I ask you a few questions first?” She nodded, but the word distressing had made its mark. “I understand from what you’ve said that your daughter is missing. When did that happen?”
“About five years ago.” Emily Dennison hesitated and glanced at Harriman. Whether she was trying to decide whether she should trust this stranger or was just gathering strength for a difficult task, Travathan couldn’t tell. She said, “Julia disappeared at the end of her first year of university. During the summer she had planned to work in the restaurant she worked at when she was in high school. But when she came home after the school term, she said she was going overseas for the summer. I asked her where overseas and how she could afford it. We’re not wealthy. But she just said that was her business.” Her shoulders sagged. “She left just after that. I never heard from her again.”
“I’m sorry. She never sent a postcard or letter?”
Dennison shook her head. “I didn’t think she’d last, what with the heat and all. She never could take much sun. She burned really easily.”
“Heat? Do you think she went to someplace hot?”
“Well, yes. That’s what I assumed. Isn’t that where they live?”
“Isn’t that where who lives?”
Dennison frowned. “Oh, I guess I didn’t mention that. Muslims. They live in t
he hot countries.”
Travathan gaped. “Muslims? What do you mean?”
“You didn’t know? Julia converted to Islam during her first year at university. I couldn’t figure out why. It’s not like she was religious. I couldn’t ever get her to go to church. But she said that with Islam, she found God. Before she went overseas, she told me she was on some kind of pilgrimage.” Her voice tapered off.
Harriman said, “We were all surprised when she converted. Julia had always been an unhappy child, even depressed, and Lord knows, she could find trouble. She got kicked out of high school because of, well, sexual misconduct. Emily and I had to browbeat her to study at home and write her college entrance exams. She was a bright girl, and she never had trouble getting good grades, so even the little studying she did was enough to get her into university. Then, one day out of the blue, she announced she had converted to Islam. She even took on a Muslim name and insisted we use it. She called herself Faiza. After the initial shock, we thought perhaps it would enable her to find some kind of peace. If that happened, we would have understood. I guess it’s tough being Muslim these days, but if Islam helped her, we would have accepted it. But when she came home after she converted, she was a completely different person.”
“How so?”
“She wasn’t depressed any more, she was angry. She and her friend never stopped attacking Western culture, America, and our lifestyles. We tried to reason with them, but they wouldn’t listen. Finally, after one shouting match, they told us they were going overseas, and they stormed out of the house.” He glanced at Dennison who had been sitting, head bowed, and added, “That’s the last time we saw her.”
“You said a friend. Who was that?”
“Her name was Mujaahida. If she had a last name, I never heard it. I think she also converted to Islam and adopted that name. She didn’t look Middle Eastern, and she didn’t have an accent.” He pulled a photo album from a drawer, flipped through it, and handed it to Travathan.
“This was the two of them on one of the few times they smiled.”
Travathan studied the photo, two young women, their beaming faces contrasting with the black of the chador. In a low voice, he said, “I need to borrow this. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.” He took the photo from the album and placed it in his folder before either of them had the chance to object.
Harriman took back the album and pulled out another photo. “This is Julia just after she came home from university. It’s a better picture. If it would help, you can borrow it as well. Actually,” Harriman added, “I don’t think she knew that Emily took this picture.”
Julia Dennison, wearing a one-piece bathing suit, was dozing in the back yard. On her shoulder was a mark Travathan couldn’t make out. “Is that a tattoo?”
Harriman shrugged. “It’s something to do with her Islamic group. She said her friend also had one, but we never saw it. She never appeared without her chador. Look,” he said, “you told us you might have some information about Julia.”
Travathan hesitated. He could duck the question. He could claim he needed to wrap up his investigation. But looking at the two of them, their faces reflecting hope and fear, he couldn’t leave them hanging. Any resolution is better than none.
“Mrs. Dennison, I believe your Julia is this woman.” He handed over the police photo of Sherry Galina. She studied it, and with no change of expression, handed it to Harriman.
“There’s a resemblance all right.” He handed the picture back. “How did she die?”
“She was murdered.” Emily Dennison gasped. “She was killed about three years ago. A man was convicted and is now serving a life sentence. I thought you would want to know.”
Dennison shook her head. “That can’t be. When Julia went missing, I couldn’t keep myself away from the news. I watched it all day, every day, in case there was something about her. If what you say is true, it would have been on the news. I’d have heard it.”
“Mrs. Dennison, she was using a different name. She called herself Sherry Galina. That name wouldn’t have meant anything to you.”
Dennison picked up the photo as if it were delicate, as if just holding it would cause it to dissolve. Her last link to her daughter. “Couldn’t it just be someone else who looks like her?”
“Yes, it could. There’s one way to find out. If you’ll consent to give a DNA sample, the police can compare it to hers and tell you one way or another.”
“I don’t know.”
“I understand. Look, please consider it. I think it’s important for you to know whether this woman was your daughter, and it’s also important for me and my investigation. If you did the DNA test, you’d at least know what happened to her.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Travathan wrote on the back of a business card. “Please call Detective Doris MacIlhenny. She’ll make all the arrangements.”
Harriman accompanied Travathan to the front step and said, “One thing you should know is that Julia was abused, sexually, by her father. Emily found out about it and tried to get him to stop, but he kept it up until she finally gave him an ultimatum. Leave Julia alone or get out. That’s when she asked me to help. I told her husband if he ever laid another hand on Julia or on Emily, I’d kill him. I know I couldn’t have carried through. That was the anger talking. But the next thing I heard was that he disappeared. That was ten years ago.”
Harriman hesitated, long enough for Travathan to say, “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Yeah, there is. Julia told me she tried to commit suicide, but she said Allah had intervened and saved her for some important work. I thought she was being grandiose, but she seemed fragile, and I didn’t want to upset her by challenging her.”
“I take it she didn’t tell this to her mother?”
Harriman shook his head. “No. I don’t think she would even have told me, but I guess I was a little hard on her when she told us she had converted. Given what’s happened recently with terrorism and all, I guess Emily and I were both still in shock. I was probably a little harsh. I think she told me about her suicide attempt because she wanted me to understand what her conversion meant to her. There’s no doubt in my mind that without something else to live for, she would have tried to kill herself again. She wanted me to know that Islam had saved her life.”
“Mr. Harriman, thanks for that information. It explains a lot. Look, it would really help me, and probably Emily, if she would agree to the DNA testing. Will you do that?”
Harriman nodded. “For over ten years, I was part of the family. I thought of Julia as a daughter. Finding out what happened to her is as important to me as it is to Emily. I’ll convince her.”
25
So Julia Dennison had become Faiza, who had become Sherry Trepanier, then Sherry Galina. Driving away from the Dennison house, Travathan knew that if he had had any doubts, the photos Don Harriman showed him had evaporated them. The DNA testing he was sure Emily Dennison would agree to was a formality. But that was the minor part. He needed to find someplace to think, where he could decide how this new information affected his investigation and how it threatened what would come next.
The wail of a siren snapped him back to the present, to his car and the realization he had no recollection of having driven to wherever he was now. He glanced in his rear view mirror at the flashing lights of a police motorcycle and pulled over, wondering how serious his inattention had been.
The cop asked, “Are you Gord Travathan?”
“Uh, yeah. What’s the problem?”
“Follow me.” The cop headed back to the motorcycle.
“Wait,” Travathan called out. “Where are we going?”
“I have orders to escort you to police headquarters. Will there be a problem in my carrying out those orders?” The cop was facing him now, hand on his holster.
Travathan shook his head. “Never argue with a guy who’s armed.”
He followed the officer to the station and into a conf
erence room where Doris MacIlhenny was talking with Max Kagan and Ruth Janner. A fourth man sat in a corner. Kagan leaped up and gripped Travathan by the shoulders. “Gord, you’re okay. Thank God.”
“Of course I’m okay. What’s going on?”
MacIlhenny waved him to a chair. “We need to understand exactly what you guys have gotten yourselves into. Exactly. Do you understand?”
“Wow. Police escorts in the night. Veiled threats in an interrogation room. What’s next? Pictures of thumbscrews?”
“Listen, I’m in no mood for games. I need you—”
“Neither am I. We have been conducting a legitimate investigation. We’ve broken no laws, and we have not interfered with the cops. If you have a complaint, let’s hear it. Otherwise, I’m leaving.”
Kagan said, “Gord, you need to listen to her. We were almost killed.”
“Killed? You and Ruth? How? When?”
“You and me. Listen to what the detective has to say.”
Travathan crossed his arms. “I’m listening.”
MacIlhenny frowned. “Do you know what was under the hood of your previous rental car?”
“I’m guessing a motor, except it was so gutless, it could have been squirrels on a treadmill.”
“There was a bomb. C-4. Plastic explosive.”
“C-4?” He shook his head. “Look, if someone planted C-4 in that car, either I or the valet would be in tiny pieces by now.”
The fourth man spoke for the first time. “Normally, you would have. But this time, you were lucky.”
Travathan turned to him. “And you are?”
The man did not stand or offer his hand. “I’m Agent Meyer. I’m with the Terrorism Response Agency.”
“Terrorism? What’s going on?”
“You tell us. Whenever C-4 is used, the police call us in.”
Travathan frowned. “So why didn’t it go off? Why do you say we’re lucky?”
“The bomb was on a detonator with a timer that clicked over while the motor was running. If you’d driven it for another fifteen or twenty minutes, you would be in tiny pieces. You and your friend.”
A Vicious Balance: A Mystery Thriller Page 14