Deceived
Page 23
In other words, the man made himself scarce in the small town closest to his home, where people might ask questions. Behavior consistent with someone who wanted to stay under the radar.
He had everything he needed from the woman, but just to play the pretext to its logical end, he asked the obvious follow-up question. “I don’t suppose he said where he was going.”
“He didn’t offer, I didn’t ask. Patrick Lodge might have a forwarding address, if you want to track him down.”
“I may do that. Thanks a lot for your help.”
As the line went dead, Connor rocked back in his chair. Talking to Lodge carried some risk. If, by chance, the man had formed a friendship with Sanders and still kept in touch, he might mention the inquiry. Plus, as a savvy executive, he would likely be cautious about giving information to a stranger—unless that stranger had some credentials that merited trust.
Like a Secret Service background.
No pretext for this one, Connor decided, although he’d keep the details of the case vague—and ask the man for his discretion while the investigation was under way.
But he had some groundwork to lay before he placed that call.
Rolling toward his keyboard, he grabbed his phone en route and entered the name of the man’s company in the browser. After tooling around the corporate website, he located the basic email format and the main corporate phone number.
Ten seconds later he had the operator on the line.
“I need to verify an email address for one of your employees. For some reason, I’m having problems getting it to go through.” He rattled off his best guess.
“You forgot the dot, sir. It’s Patrick dot Lodge.”
“Ah. No wonder. Thanks for your help.”
Setting the phone on his desk, he composed his email. Keeping the inquiry general, he referred the man to the Phoenix website, where he could verify the firm was legit, and asked him to respond ASAP with a convenient time to call.
Then he dug back into the data the information broker had sent after his 2:00 a.m. request, mining it for any nugget he might have missed.
Because more and more, he was beginning to believe that the strange story Kate had told him that first day in this very office was more true crime than fantasy.
No.
As Kate stared at the single word in the text from Barbara that must have come in during her last meeting, her heart sank.
John had never seen David Sanders as a patient.
So much for Connor’s theory.
Now what?
Appetite fleeing, she shoved aside the tuna salad sandwich she’d retrieved from the fridge in the break room and pulled the folder with the age-enhanced photo of Kevin out of her desk drawer. Usually she suppressed the temptation to look at it until the end of the day. Only then did she allow her hope to surface. To let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, her future might be different than the one she’d resigned herself to when she’d moved to St. Louis. That a miracle could happen and she’d once again hold her cherished son in her arms.
Now that dream was crumbling.
If they couldn’t find a connection between Sanders and her husband or son, there was no motive. And the most obvious connection had been the medical one Connor had suggested. What else could it be, given the distance between the two cities?
Her gaze traced the features of the little boy in the age-progressed photo, pressure building behind her eyes. She should never have let herself get carried away. From the beginning, the odds against this investigation leading to a reunion with her son had been astronomical. But while her mind had accepted that, her heart had stopped listening to logic. She’d even begun to imagine how it would feel to pull her son into a hug and hold him tight. To plan for the professional support he would surely need as he transitioned from the only life he could remember to a new one with his real parent. To look forward to the day when her world was placid and she could watch her son grow into—
A knock sounded on her door, and she swallowed. Took a deep breath. “Yes?”
Nancy stuck her head in, glancing at the sandwich as she spoke. “Your twelve-thirty is early. She hoped you might take her a few minutes sooner because she needs to run her daughter to the doctor. Why don’t I give you five to eat that?” She gestured to the tuna-filled croissant.
Kate shook her head and rewrapped her lunch. “I’ll finish it later.”
“It doesn’t look like you even got a start.”
“My eleven o’clock ran long.”
“You know . . . you need to use a timer, like those high-priced psychiatrists do. Want me to put that back in the fridge for you?”
“If you don’t mind. Thanks.” Kate handed over the sandwich.
As Nancy disappeared out the door, her phone pinged.
Another text from Barbara.
Odd.
She leaned closer to read the brief note.
Call me on my cell after work.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Had the receptionist found some connection after all?
No way to know for at least six hours, given her back-to-back appointments and the extra session she’d squeezed in after hours with Diane Koenig.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
When Patrick Lodge hadn’t returned his call by three-thirty, Connor wrote him off. It was a common problem with people who were big shots—or thought they were. If he needed him, he’d find a way to make contact.
In the interim, it was time to regroup with his colleagues and compare notes.
Rising, he gathered up his files and started for the door—just as the phone began to ring.
He paused . . . then circled back.
The caller ID area code was Washington state.
Maybe Lodge had come through after all.
He picked up the phone and grabbed his pen. “Sullivan.”
“Mr. Sullivan, Patrick Lodge. Sorry for my delay in responding. I’m not contacted by private investigators every day, so I wanted to do a bit of research on your firm. It’s quite impressive—and highly reputable, according to the St. Louis County detective one of my local police friends called. The man he spoke with happened to be a former colleague of one of your partners. How can I help you?”
The executive had done his homework—exactly what he himself would have done in Lodge’s position.
Nice to know he was talking to an astute, thorough professional.
“I’m working on a very sensitive case, and I believe you may be able to offer some helpful information and insights about the person I’m investigating. But I’ll need to ask for your discretion in this matter. Until we have all of the data we need, we’re playing this very close to our vest.”
“Our conversation will remain between the two of us. Who is it you’re investigating?”
“A man by the name of Greg Sanders. I understand he was employed as your caretaker for several years in Montana.”
“Yes, he was.” Lodge sounded surprised. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What can you tell me about him?”
“He was honest to a fault and absolutely dependable. When I hired him, I was planning to do an addition to our cabin, and I thought having a caretaker with a construction background would be helpful. That proved to be true. He kept a close eye on the work and offered several suggestions that improved the final product. From everything I observed, he was also a loving father who doted on his son—and the feeling seemed to be mutual. The two were always together.”
Connor continued to scribble notes as he asked his next question. “How did you happen to hire him?”
“To be honest, I expected to employ a local. I put up flyers around Philipsburg and advertised in the Missoula and Butte newspapers. I was a bit taken aback by Greg’s application, but he sounded perfect. And he came with stellar references from his pastor and his former boss.”
“How did he hear about the job?”
Connor flipped to the next sheet of paper in his notebook. “Why did he leave?”
“I think he missed the construction business, and of course the pay is much better for that kind of work, especially in a large city. So when a friend of his contacted him about a job in St. Louis, he decided to take it. I also got the impression he wanted to send his son to a bigger school too. The boy will be starting first grade in the fall.”
“Are you aware of any financial problems he might have had, or any travel he might have done prior to working for you?”
“No. Greg never said much about his past. I know he lost both his wife and son a few years before he came west.”
Connor stopped writing. “But he has a son.”
“Yes. Todd’s adopted. Apparently he and his wife were in the midst of the process, and after she died he carried on with it.”
So that’s how he was explaining the boy. Clever. Since adoption records were never publicly available and often sealed, no one could dispute his claim.
“You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Lodge. I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me. Is there anything else you can tell me about Greg that might give me some insights into his character or personality?”
“Not that I can think of. As I said, he was a quiet man and kept to himself, but I had absolute trust and confidence in him. He and his son lived in a small cabin on the property, and when we came for our periodic visits he stayed in the background unless we needed him. There was also a certain sadness about him, but I didn’t find that unusual given the losses he’d suffered. If I think of anything else, I’ll be happy to give you a call.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Dev cracked the door, pointed at his watch, and raised his eyebrows.
Connor nodded and stood. “Thank you again for your help.”
“You’re welcome. I hope your investigation is successful—but I’d hate to hear that Greg was involved in anything questionable. He didn’t have any other relatives, and I don’t know where that would leave his little boy.”
With his real parent—though Connor kept that to himself as they rang off.
“You ready?” Dev pointed at his watch again.
“Yeah.” Connor grabbed his files and stood. “But it was worth the delay.”
As he joined his partner in the hall, Dev smirked at him. “I walked by your door earlier and heard the phony Texas twang. Don’t tell me anyone fell for it.”
“Hook, line, and sinker. Belle even invited me to stop in for an omelet if I ever get out to Philipsburg.”
“Belle, huh? You must have really laid it on thick.”
“I was just my usual charming self.”
“It’s getting deep in here.”
“Eat your heart out, buddy.” He followed Dev into the conference room where Nikki and Cal were waiting. “Sorry for the delay. One of my sources returned my call as I was walking out the door to this meeting.” He took the same seat he’d occupied earlier, opened his file, and launched into a recap of his phone conversations and his futile attempt to mine more relevant information from the data the information broker had sent.
“So we now know Sanders did have income during the three years before he came to St. Louis,” Cal said. “That would explain the source of his funds for the debt payments he was making—but it still leaves a two-year gap in employment.”
“Which I can explain.” Dev flipped open his notebook. “I tracked down Sanders’s boss at his former company in Cleveland. I used the high-school-buddy-trying-to-reconnect ploy.”
“A popular pretext today.” Connor released the tab on the can of soda Nikki had pushed toward him as he sat.
“I, however, didn’t resort to a phony Texas accent.” Dev consulted his notes again. “The man remembered Sanders very well. Said he’d worked for the firm for eight years and they were sorry to let him go. But after new construction projects in the city dried up, they cut their workforce in half. The people with less seniority were let go.”
“Did you get answers to any of Connor’s other questions?” Nikki asked. “Because I did.”
“Fine. You can go next—but I’m not finished yet. His boss confirmed the wife died of cancer and that his son had been diagnosed with some sort of serious problem involving the brain.”
Like Batten disease.
The pieces were all beginning to fall into place.
Now they just needed confirmation that the man had taken his son to see John Marshall. Perhaps the receptionist in Rochester would come through for them on that score.
“His boss said Sanders didn’t talk a lot about his personal problems, but he knew money was tight from a few comments the man made. As far as his boss was concerned, Sanders was a hard worker who loved his family and tried his best to provide for them. Apparently he took his wife’s death very, very hard.”
After a moment of silence passed, Nikki spoke up. “Are you finished?”
“The floor is yours.” Dev made a sweeping motion with his hand.
“I struck gold with the church secretary. After I got her name off the bulletin on the church’s website, I skimmed through back issues to see how long she’d been employed there. Turns out she’s a twenty-year veteran, so I knew she’d be a great source—if I could get her to talk.”
“Why do I think that wasn’t a problem?” Connor took a swig of soda.
“Because you’ve seen me in action. Most recently with the clerk at Build-A-Bear.” She sent him a pert smile. “I told her I was a former neighbor and that I’d found some photos from a backyard barbecue I thought Greg might like to have, since his wife was in some of them. She didn’t have any information on his current whereabouts, as I expected, but we had a nice long chat.”
“I’ll bet.” Connor picked up his pen and prepared for the download.
“Can I help it if most people like me?” Nikki patted her hair and sent his red-haired partner a pointed look. “I won’t repeat the stuff Dev said, since she agreed with all of it, but I did learn some new information. David Sanders died of Batten disease—the late infantile form, which the woman told me is very rare. He was diagnosed when he was four and got progressively worse.”
“Why do we need the Bureau of Vital Statistics when we have Nikki?” Dev chugged his water.
“May I continue?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“By all means.”
“In the beginning, the Sanderses tried all the conventional treatments. Then Jennifer Sanders developed cancer, and the family had to juggle both diseases. After she died, David’s condition continued to deteriorate—and Greg lost his job. Eventually his insurance ran out . . . along with most treatment options. The church held a fund-raiser for David, but it didn’t begin to cover the expenses. Even though all competent medical authorities consider David’s condition terminal, Greg apparently refused to believe the situation was hopeless.”
A muscle ticked in Cal’s jaw. “Our guy’s had some tough breaks.”
“That doesn’t condone criminal activity,” Connor shot back.
“I didn’t say it did. I’m just saying trauma can push some people over the edge.”
Though Cal’s tone was mild, Connor knew there was a world of hurt buried under his comment. Losing a wife to murder was about as traumatic as you could get—and he had a feeling his college buddy had come close to the edge on occasion himself in his early days as a grieving, too-young widower.
“So what else did you discover?” Dev ripped open a bag of potato chips and directed his question to Nikki.
She skewered him with a disapproving look as he chomped on one.
“Hey . . . I’m hungry.”
>
“There are more nutritious snacks.”
“I like these better.”
“They’re your arteries.” Shaking her head, she went back to her notes. “During the last six months of his son’s life, he got desperate. He began to look into experimental treatments, hoping to have one approved by his insurance before it ran out. When that didn’t happen, he remortgaged his house and took David to a clinic in China that used stem cell therapy to treat the disease. They were gone a month. Three weeks after they returned home, David developed encephalitis and pneumonia and died soon after.”
“There’s our explanation for the airline charges.” Connor finished off his soda, rested his elbows on the table, and steepled his fingers. “Tickets to China cost a chunk of change. But my guess is that was a small expense compared to the treatment.”
“It was. The woman at the church didn’t give me any totals, but I got the impression the cost of the therapy and the living expenses in China were in the tens of thousands of dollars.”
“And it didn’t work, anyway.” Connor’s gaze moved to the vase of exotic flowers on the cabinet across the room. They appeared to be real, but on close inspection turned out to be fake.
Kind of like the hope Sanders had no doubt been offered by the clinic in China.
But desperate people took desperate chances for those they loved—no matter the risk.
And when things went south, they often searched for scapegoats.
As if reading his mind, Cal spoke. “Assuming your client’s husband saw David Sanders, I wonder if revenge is our motive.”
“That seems like a stretch.” Dev drew a question mark on the pad of paper in front of him. “Marshall’s diagnosis would just have confirmed the medical community’s position—that the disease couldn’t be cured. Why go after him?”
“If Sanders saw Marshall . . . the most respected expert in the country on this disease . . . I’m guessing Kate’s husband was his best—and last—legitimate option. Assuming he heard bad news, he may have cracked at that point. But I agree with your assessment. I think we’re missing something.” Connor frowned and tapped his index fingers together. “Revenge alone doesn’t explain how Kate’s son plays into this.”