by Michael Omer
“Hairy eyebrows, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Okay,” Hannah moved her head to the side. Her neck still hurt. “Anything else?”
“Frank’s sister reported seeing a blue Ford Fiesta whenever Frank came to visit her. But she says it wasn’t Frank’s.”
“So now we have a red Toyota Corolla and a Blue Ford Fiesta,” Hannah scratched her forehead. “We’ll be able to open a car dealership soon. Do you want me to join you over there?”
“Well, I only have four apartments left,” Bernard said. “Sounds like a waste of time. Why don’t you go over our harassed women? Check out their social network profiles, try to establish if any of them has a tall, big-nosed, bald husband with bushy eyebrows.”
“Okay,” Hannah said. “Good luck.”
She sat down and found the page on which she’d scrawled the list of the women Frank had targeted. She opened their Twitter accounts, and any matching Facebook and Instagram accounts she could find, and browsed through them. She paused on one of the Instagram photos, a woman leaning on a brown Toyota Corolla. It wasn’t red, but still… She called the DMV, while glancing at the Instagram profile name. Jenny Tarp.
A man answered, sounding as if all he’d done for the past fifty years was smoke one cigarette after the other. Hannah asked him if they had a brown Toyota Corolla registered to Jenny Tarp in Glenmore Park. The man put her on hold for a few minutes, then came back and said they did, giving her the details.
She thanked him and nearly hung up, then changed her mind. She explained that they had a murder, and a suspect was seen fleeing in a red Toyota Corolla. Could the DMV send the Glenmore Park police department a list of all red Toyota Corollas registered in Glenmore Park? Oh, and all the blue Ford Fiestas as well. Sure, the man said; he’d get right on it.
Hannah thanked him again and hung up. She knew from experience that “getting right on it” meant they’d get the list in a few days. The DMV had a different interpretation for “Getting right on it” than she did.
She printed Jenny Tarp’s image. A few more minutes of going through the different social network profiles produced another printed image. She saw that Violet had sent the diagram of the crime scene, so she printed it as well. Then she retrieved an image of Chad Grimes from his record and printed that, too, for good measure.
As Bernard walked into the squad room, Hannah was taping the images to one of the squad’s whiteboards. “Anything?” she asked, without turning her head.
“Nope. You?”
“Yeah, some.” She pointed at a picture of a bald, middle-aged man staring sleepily out a window. “This is Derrek Foster, Melanie Foster’s husband.”
“Okay,” Bernard said.
“He matches the description of the man who accosted Frank in the restaurant.”
“His eyebrows are not bushy,” Bernard pointed out. “And his nose is not that big. I think.”
“Whatever,” Hannah said testily. “It’s not a bad match.”
“Okay, who’s that?” He pointed at a selfie of a woman, taking a picture in a parking lot.
“That’s Jenny Tarp.”
“She’s not really bald. Nice eyebrows.”
“Yeah, but the car she’s leaning on is a Toyota Corolla.”
“A brown Toyota Corolla,” Bernard said. “Brown is not red.”
“Thank you, Big Bird. I can distinguish between colors. Brown might seem like red in the dark,” Hannah said. “Maybe the taxi driver got it wrong.”
“It might not be her car.”
“It’s her car. I checked.”
“Is her husband—”
“I couldn’t find a picture of her husband in her Instagram account,” Hannah said.
“Okay,” Bernard said. “Any luck finding that blue Ford?”
“No, but I asked the DMV for a list of all the blue Ford Fiesta cars in Glenmore Park.”
“Okay, good,” Bernard said. He sounded distracted.
“What is it?” Hannah asked.
“The blue Ford. Does it ring a bell? I feel like I’ve run into a car like that somewhere before.”
“It’s a pretty common car, Bernard.”
“Yeah…” He was silent for a second. “What about the rest?” he finally asked.
“I ruled out two women who were clearly single according to their profiles, and one who’s married to a woman. One woman is married to a man with a ridiculous-looking haircut and a beard, so he’s out.”
“So we have two potential husbands so far.”
“Yup.”
“That’s a good start.” Bernard said.
Hannah and Bernard decided to talk to Melanie Foster first, since she was currently at work at Yorrick & Rodrick Co., which was also where Frank Gulliepe had been employed. Yorrick & Rodrick was on the seventh floor of a tall office building in the city’s center. It was a vast office, split into dozens of cubicles. The entire place was alight with white, aggressive fluorescent lamps. Considering the number of people sitting in this huge space, the atmosphere was quiet and somber. Most of the noise came from vigorous typing of the employees in the room. Hannah glanced at a couple of the monitors. They all seemed to display Excel spreadsheets. Bernard asked one of the employees if Melanie was at work today, and the man pointed in a vague direction. He tried to ask two additional employees until a wide, curly-haired woman said, “I’m Melanie.”
She was about thirty-five, with a plump, pinkish face and a kind smile. Her hair, though blonde, had long, dark roots. She wore a large, unflattering pink shirt and tailored black pants. Hannah thought she seemed like the kind of woman who would fit in better at a bakery making cinnamon rolls than in a cubicle typing into a spreadsheet.
“How do you do, Mrs. Foster?” Hannah said. “I’m Detective Shor, and this is my partner, Detective Gladwin. Can we take a minute or two of your time?”
“Sure,” Melanie said. “I’m glad you’re finally taking this seriously.”
“I’m sorry?” Hannah said.
“My stalker. The guy who is harassing me. I’ve been waiting for more than two weeks for some indication of progress.”
The detectives exchanged looks. “Did you complain to the police that someone was harassing you?” Hannah said.
“Yeah. More than two weeks ago. I thought that was what this was about.” Melanie seemed deflated. “You aren’t here because of the complaint?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “We’re here on a different matter, though it might be related.”
“Oh. What is it then?”
“Do you know Frank Gulliepe?”
“Sure!” Melanie motioned to the empty, adjacent cubicle. “He works next to me. A really sweet guy.”
“When did you last see Frank?”
“Yesterday. He was at work.”
“When did he leave work?”
“Around four, I think. What is this about?”
“Mrs. Foster, Frank was found dead in his apartment last night,” Hannah said, and looked into the woman’s eyes.
Melanie shrieked.
It was an ear-piercing sound, full of horror and sorrow, worthy of a theater show. She followed up the spectacle by bursting into tears.
The detectives waited for the sobbing to subside. Hannah was very much aware that every eye in the room was trained on them.
“Excuse me.” A black woman with an expensive-looking gray pantsuit and unpleasant makeup approached them. Her tone of voice was hard and sharp enough to cut through diamonds. “Is there a problem here?”
Bernard flipped his shield. “Police, ma’am. We’re on official business.”
“They say that Frank is dead,” Melanie said, blubbering.
“Is this true?” the woman asked.
“Is there a place where we can talk more privately?” Hannah asked.
The woman nodded briskly. “My office.”
Hannah, Bernard, and Melanie Foster followed the woman, clearly one of the managers, to her office. It stood on the edge of
the open space, separated from the rest of the cubicles by a thin wooden door. There were only three chairs, and Bernard walked out to find a fourth, returning a moment later with one in his hands. The manager looked at him and narrowed her eyes as he sat down, and Hannah imagined a chair reallocation e-mail would be sent later to all the employees.
“What’s this about?” the manager asked.
“I’m sorry, we weren’t properly introduced,” Hannah said. “I’m Detective Shor. And you are…?”
“Abbey Yorrick,” the manager said.
“You’re one of the owners, then?”
“That’s right.”
“Mrs. Yorrick, Frank Gulliepe was found dead last night in his apartment.”
“I see,” Abbey Yorrick said dryly. “That’s terrible.”
“It is,” Hannah agreed, quirking an eyebrow. “Now, if you don’t mind, we need to question Melanie for a few minutes.”
“Very well.”
“Alone.”
Abbey Yorrick looked at Hannah in shock. “This is my office—”
“Yes,” Hannah interrupted her. “And your employee was found dead. This is a murder investigation, Mrs. Yorrick.”
Abbey Yorrick opened and closed her mouth a few times, and then stood up and left her office in a huff, slamming the door behind her.
“Okay,” Bernard said. “Now. Mrs. Foster, I understand that you’re married.”
“Yes, I am,” she said in surprise.
“Do you know where your husband was last night?”
“Absolutely. He was with me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! What’s my husband got to do with this?” Hysteria was quickly being replaced by indignation.
“May I ask what you were doing?”
“It’s none of your business, but I don’t mind telling you. We watched some TV and went to bed.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Around half past ten.”
“So as far as you know, your husband could have sneaked out once you were asleep.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she stared at them both, her face red, her lips clenched tight.
“Mrs. Foster do you recognize the Twitter profiles youslut134, youslut444 and melaniefatslut?” Hannah asked.
“Those are all Twitter profiles of my stalker.”
“Why do you think he was stalking you?”
“Because he knows private stuff about me. The names of my husband and children, where I work, where I live. I told all that to the cop who interviewed me when I reported this.”
“Mrs. Foster, were you aware that Frank Gulliepe was the man behind those Twitter profiles?”
“Don’t be dumb,” Melanie said, her voice rising. “Frank was a good man. Everyone who knew him thought so. He was caring and considerate. He was always there for me. When my son was sick, when I had troubles at home, when I was nearly fired… Frank helped me get through it all. I knew him well. You have the wrong guy.”
“I assure you we don’t.”
“Detective, I know Frank. You don’t. I’m telling you, you have it all wrong. The man who is behind those profiles is a sick man. He’s stalking me and harassing me. Frank actually promised to check it out. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if… Oh my God.” Melanie covered her mouth with her hand. “What if the man who’s stalking me killed Frank?”
“Mrs. Foster,” Bernard said, trying to veer the questioning away to a different path, “what is it you do here?”
“We’re data miners.”
“What does that entail?”
“Well… we go online, research a certain type of product line and then document it.”
“Go on.”
“There is no going on,” Melanie Foster said. “That’s what we do.”
“What was Frank working on recently?”
“Screws.”
“Screws?” Hannah asked.
“Yes. He was documenting various prices and attributes of screws.”
Hannah felt as if she were going to fall asleep just from hearing about this. “Mrs. Foster, can you think of anything out of the ordinary that happened lately, and relates to Frank?”
“Yes. I told you. He said he would try and track down my stalker.”
Hannah sighed. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Foster.”
They walked back to her cubicle, and Melanie sat down. Hannah was just fishing for one of her cards when Bernard said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Foster, who’s this?” He pointed at the background wallpaper on her monitor. It was a photo of a smiling man with a dark, wavy mane of hair.
“That’s my husband,” Melanie said.
“But…” Bernard hesitated. “Isn’t he bald?”
“Of course not. What gave you that idea?”
“There’s a picture on his Facebook profile…”
Melanie stared at them both coldly. “Is that what the police have come to? Following our Facebook profiles? I’ll be sure to remove mine. Yes, my husband was bald. Two years ago. He had cancer, and he was going through chemo.”
“Oh,” Bernard said weakly.
“He’s much better now, thank you for asking,” Melanie said acidly.
“So what do you think?” Mitchell asked Jacob as they drove back to the station. “Her mom says she had no friends or boyfriend.”
“Wouldn’t be the first mom to know nothing about her daughter,” Jacob said. “She was clearly with someone the night she was killed. Probably her boyfriend.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and his fingerprints will be in the system.”
Jacob nodded absentmindedly, staring out the passenger’s window. He was thinking of his own daughter, and how little he knew about her in some regards. And she was mad at him for some reason. It occurred to him that she might have cut her hair the day before. He couldn’t be sure, but it had looked a bit different. And if she got a haircut and he hadn’t mentioned it… well, that could explain her mood. Definitely.
His phone rang, an unfamiliar number. He answered. “Detective Cooper.”
“Hello,” a gentle, feminine voice said. “Uh… my name is Vera. Vera Aliysa. I’m Dona’s sister? I understand you just met my mother, and informed her—” Her voice cracked.
“That’s right,” Jacob said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your mother didn’t mention that Dona had a sister.”
“Yeah,” Vera said softly. “She wouldn’t. I’m not very close to my parents, Detective. Dona was always the one they fluttered around.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only something that sounded like sad acceptance. “After college, I pretty much stayed away. I don’t see any of them much.”
“I see.”
“But I talk to Dona… I mean I talked to Dona every week. And sometimes we’d chat online. It’s funny, I hated Dona when I was living at home, but once I moved out… we became really good friends.”
Jacob had heard that story many times before. He remained silent, let her talk.
“Anyway, my mom said you were asking about a boyfriend, and of course she told you there was no one.”
“That’s right,” Jacob said.
“Dona was seeing someone for the past three months, Detective. His name is Blayze Terry. And I know that you’ll be able to find him pretty easily, because he just got out of prison six months ago. That means that you have his file, right? With fingerprints and DNA and everything.”
“That’s right miss. We’ll be able to contact him.”
“I… look, Detective, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that’s your guy. And maybe you’re right. But he was sweet with Dona, and caring. My sister can be a really difficult person to be with, and he was incredibly patient. I talked with him twice, and he always sounded full of love. He wasn’t a violent man, or anything. He was a burglar—that’s why he was in prison. He never hurt anyone.”
Jacob knew love could turn into hate pretty quickly, and passion could become violence. Nevertheless, he said, “Thank you
for telling me this, miss. We don’t assume anything, but we would like to follow all possible leads.”
“Thanks, Detective.”
“Did your sister mention anyone else she was in contact with? Maybe someone she had a disagreement with?”
“No… my mom was right about Dona avoiding people. She was suffering from depression, and mostly stayed at home. She tried to kill herself last year, but Dad found her before it was too late, and got her to a hospital. Sorry, I’m rambling. She didn’t mention anyone.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in your sister’s manner? Was she agitated or angry or—”
“Detective, my sister can have radical mood swings mid-sentence,” Vera said. “So asking about unusual behavior is a bit moot.”
“Okay,” Jacob said. “Thanks. Please let me know if anything occurs to you.”
“I will. And I would appreciate it if you kept me posted on any progress. Uh… my mom won’t necessarily let me know if there’s any update.”
“Goodbye, miss.”
He hung up, and turned to Mitchell. “Looks like we found our boyfriend,” he said.
Chapter Nine
Jacob and Mitchell drove back to the station to check out the file on Blayze Terry. They wanted his address, as well as the name of the cop or detective who had arrested him. They didn’t want to go into this blind. If Blayze Terry was a dangerous man, they wanted to know it beforehand.
The name of the officer who had arrested him was one Jacob Cooper.
Every job can get monotonous after a while. Lawyers, doctors, clerks, porn actors, trapeze acrobats… whatever your profession is, if you do something for long enough the days tend to blend into each other. It doesn’t mean you don’t like the job, or you find it boring. It’s just that not every day is a fireworks display of excitement and adventure. Even secret agents probably sometimes feel that the plans for the nuclear submarine they just “procured” kind of feel like the secret plans they stole last month.
Jacob couldn’t really remember arresting anyone named Blayze for burglary. He couldn’t remember writing this report. It probably hadn’t been a very interesting case. Guy broke into a place, guy told an acquaintance, the acquaintance turned out to be a snitch, guy went to jail. Been there, done that. And it had happened more than five years ago, he told Mitchell hotly.