Vengeance Is Personal (A Colton James Novel, Book 2)

by Thomas DePrima

  I took out my ID wallet and opened it so she could see it as I said, "Special Agent James of the FBI."

  "I'm Mrs. Matthews. Could you come into the house so we can talk?" she asked tentatively.

  "Of course. I had intended to speak with you after I'd had a look around. Should I go around to the front?"

  "No, this is fine with me— if it's okay with you. There's a gate down by the corner of the yard." She pointed towards the gate, and I never let on that I already knew it was there.

  The house was spotless. I imagined the woman didn't work outside the house and took great pride in her home.

  "Would you care for a cup of coffee?" she asked.

  "Thank you. That would be great."

  "It'll just take a few minutes to brew," she said as she sat the child down on a small throw rug by some toys and moved towards a coffeemaker on the counter.

  As the coffee began to drip, the woman turned towards me and said, "Please have a seat, Agent James."

  It was warm in the house, so I removed my overcoat and sat at the table where she had pointed. She took a seat opposite.

  "When I saw you out back, I phoned the police. I always report strangers now. They told me it was okay and that you were with the FBI. They said that if anyone could find my baby, it would be you. They said you're the best there is."

  "I'll certainly try my hardest to find your child."

  "Do you think she's st— still alive?"

  "In most kidnapping cases where the child is as young as your daughter was, no harm is intended. Beyond that, I can't speculate. I've read the reports prepared by all of the previous investigators, but perhaps you can tell me everything you remember from that day."

  "Of course. I remember everything. I've relived that day over and over in my nightmares."

  I listened without interrupting as she related the story of how the young girl was playing in the rear yard while she washed dishes at the sink. She could see her daughter the whole time. But then the doorbell rang and she went to answer the front door. It was the vacuum salesman, and he was persistent. It took her about five minutes to get rid of him without being rude, and when she returned to the kitchen, she couldn't see her daughter. She imagined the child was somewhere not visible from the window so she went outside to check on her, but her daughter was nowhere to be found. Frantic, she hurried into the house and called the police. She was in tears by the time she finished telling me her story.

  I gave her a few minutes to compose herself, and she took advantage of the break to pour two cups of coffee. After adding milk and sugar to my cup, I said, "That corresponds to everything I've read in the official reports. Tell me, do you know of anyone who would steal your child?"

  "My God, no. I mean, I know a few women who envy me and the wonderful life I have, but I don't know anyone who would kidnap my little girl."

  "The previous investigators were very thorough, but I saw a name on the list of people who'd had contact with your daughter but for which there was no follow-up report. I'd like to close that gap. Do you know the current whereabouts of Helen Williams?"

  "Oh, poor Helen. I haven't even thought of her in several years."

  "Why poor Helen?"

  "Because she's dead."

  "Deceased? Do you know that with absolute certainty?"

  "Do you remember that really bad industrial explosion in Oklahoma about four to five years ago? The one where part of a small town was destroyed by the explosion and fire?"

  "Yes. I recall hearing about the incident on the news."

  "Well, Helen died in that explosion. She had been our nanny until a few weeks before that. That's probably why her name is mentioned in the reports. One day she got a letter from an attorney saying that an aunt had died and left her some money. Somehow, her ex-husband heard about it and demanded she give him half of her inheritance. She reminded him that they were divorced and that she owed him nothing. Helen said he told her he had spoken with an attorney, and he could tie up the money in court cases for years. He told her she would have to spend every penny on lawyers if he didn't get half. Helen told him she'd give him part of it if he promised to leave her alone after that and never bother her again.

  She then left to meet her sister in Oklahoma so they could go to the attorney's office together. She and her sister were the only two surviving relatives of her aunt. Well, her sister's home was one of the houses destroyed in the explosion. They found what was left of poor Helen's car, but the explosion and fire destroyed the house completely. It was such a tragedy. Poor, poor Helen. And just when she'd have a little money to enjoy life."

  "So as far as you know, she died in the explosion?"

  "She, her sister, her sister's husband, and her husband's mother were all officially declared dead by the fire investigators."

  "I see. Did you hire another nanny after that?"

  "I interviewed a dozen women over a six-month period, but I didn't get a warm sense from any of them. I was already pregnant with Dora by then, so I decided to raise my daughters by myself. I quit my job as a real estate salesperson and became a full-time mother."

  "Dora was in the home when Amanda went missing?"

  "Yes, she was only two months old at that time. She was asleep in her crib when Amanda disappeared. I was an absolute wreck for several days, but one of my neighbors had seen the police cars out front and came over to see what was going on. She helped take care of Dora— and me— until I was able to take over again. If I hadn't had the responsibility of caring for my baby, I might not have recovered."

  "I see. Well, I think that's all for today."

  "Please be honest with me. Is there any hope you'll find Amanda?"

  "There's always hope, Mrs. Matthews. I'm going to do everything in my power to find your child."

  ~ ~

  After checking into a local motel and settling in, I took out the gizmo and activated it. I set the device to the date and time of the kidnapping and set the location to the area behind the house. When I saw the woman who I knew to be Helen Carter because I had traveled back to her date of birth and gotten the name from the birth certificate, I jumped ahead to the present. Williams must have been her married name, but I needed to know what name she was using now.

  As I moved the gizmo's window through the house, I finally found a utility bill sitting on the counter in the kitchen. The envelope was addressed to a Mrs. Gloria Wilson. I roamed around the house but found no sign of a Mr. Wilson. However, I did find plenty of indications that a seven-year-old girl was living there.

  I sat back in the desk chair and took a deep breath. I was glad my job would end when I filed my report. I imagined there was going to be a lot of crying and heartbreak when the authorities arrived to collect the child and return her to her rightful family. I wondered if the child was even aware that Helen wasn't her real mother. Who knew what lies she had been told during the past few years?

  Although I knew all the facts and where the child was, I still couldn't file my report because I couldn't show how I had learned that Helen Williams was now Gloria Wilson, living in Tacoma Washington with Amanda as her daughter.

  I laid on the bed thinking about it until about six, then went to find something to eat.

  I pulled into three restaurant parking lots in my search for food. It was the dinner hour, but the first two were only marginally busy. The third was practically 'standing room only,' so I parked and went in. As soon as I began eating I knew why the place was packed. The prices were fair, and the food was delicious.

  ~ ~ ~

  After visiting the local PD on Wednesday morning and again missing the chief, I headed the rental car towards Oklahoma.

  It was well after business hours when I arrived in the Sooner State, so I got a room and grabbed a meal at a diner right next to the motel. The food was decent. Then I passed the hours until bedtime by watching a couple of movies.

  On Thursday morning, I spent a few hours scanning through the official reports filed after the exp
losion and studying the list of recorded deaths. Only about half of the filed death certificates had been supported through actual identification of the bodies. Numerous bone remnants found in the ashes and rubble still remained unidentified, so the deaths of many were assumed after careful investigation and testimony by eyewitnesses that the people had been home that day. Death certificates were needed so survivors could file life insurance claims. I ordered a full set of photocopies made of everything I had viewed, even though I was only interested in two of the names listed as victims of the carnage. If the previous investigator who had included Helen Williams' name in his report had checked, he would have found that Helen Williams had been legally declared dead. He simply hadn't included that additional information in his report.

  I next looked into the reported inheritance. I found the obituary notice of the aunt and followed the trail to learn the name of the aunt's attorney. I followed up with a visit to his office and spent ten minutes learning about the inheritance.

  With my business in Oklahoma concluded, I had a decision to make. Should I fly home to New York, travel to Tacoma, or remain here while I considered my next move? I decided to remain in Oklahoma for at least one more night. I still had to find a way to show how I had made the connection between Helen Carter Williams and Gloria Wilson.

  ~ ~ ~

  A good night's rest cleared my mind. I awoke with a plan and headed back to Missouri after grabbing a quick breakfast at a place where the parking lot was filled with pickup trucks and small vans. The food, when it arrived, was hot, plentiful, and delicious. Even the coffee was delicious. And while money wasn't a problem, it was nice to get a great meal for not much more than a large coffee at one of those designer coffee places that offered eighty-six flavors of coffee, and nothing but coffee.

  The interstate highway system in the U.S. was great, but I'd always wondered what birdbrain had decided the roads should run through large cities. It would have been smart to ensure that no main highway came within twenty miles of a city. The highway could then have been accessed with a dedicated section of road that gave fast highway access to and from the city. By routing the interstate highways through cities, the cities were able to adopt the highway as part of their urban traffic network. Trying to pass through a busy city without any intention of stopping there could be a nightmare during rush hour. The highway folks had tried to remedy the situation by constructing sections of road that circle around a city, just outside the city, but those highways always ended up also being co-opted into the urban sprawl. When normal road maintenance functions were factored in, it was easy to see why interstate highway traffic slowed to a crawl at times.

  Once I'd managed to stop-and-go my way through Tulsa, traffic volume dropped significantly and I made good time. The next major traffic snarl would be St. Louis, and thankfully I wasn't going that far.

  It was late afternoon when I reached Springfield, so I checked into the motel where I'd previously stayed and decided to get some work done before going out for dinner.

  Using the gizmo, I concentrated on watching the activities of Helen Carter Williams just prior to the explosion that supposedly claimed her life, as well as the lives of her sister's family. Then I watched her in the weeks before the snatch and her activity just after grabbing the child. She had spent a full week casing the neighborhood, paying particular attention to the activities of the door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman. She always wore a wig and dark glasses, and never left her car. She also never parked. She just drove slowly through the neighborhood at different hours, never hanging around long enough to be noticed. It was obvious that the vacuum salesman was not involved in her activities but that he figured into her plan.

  It made no sense to go back to New York for the weekend, so I decided to stay where I was. I called Mia to tell her I wouldn't be home for a few more days.

  "But darling," she said, "you promised we would always have the weekends for ourselves."

  "I'm sorry, sweetheart. This trip is more complicated and taking longer than expected, but I have to find the little girl who was kidnapped, and I think I've found a good lead. Tell you what— when I get back I'll take some time off from work and we'll travel to someplace where it's warm for a getaway vacation. You pick the destination."

  "Anywhere?"

  "As long as it's on the planet Earth."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise."

  ~ ~ ~

  I spent about half the weekend watching the Delcona mob and more closely examining some of their activities. Every time I saw Delcona, my blood began to boil. I kept seeing a mental image of Billy's bullet-riddled body and began to picture Delcona lying on the floor, bleeding profusely from multiple bullet holes in his body as I stood over him with a smoking gun. I tried my best to stop thinking about it so much, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted Delcona dead more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life. There's an old saying that before you leave to seek vengeance, dig two graves. I certainly didn't have a death wish, but even my death would be worth it if I was able to end the life of the crime lord and murderer responsible for so much misery. The law enforcement surveillance teams were still watching the warehouse and the private residence of Delcona, and it seemed as though they intended to be there for a while, so neither he nor I could proceed with our plans. I wondered if he regretted sending those two thugs after me, or if he regretted not sending a dozen.

  ~ ~ ~

  On Monday morning, I pretended to be a real investigator. I first visited the real estate office where Williams had leased an apartment when she was still nanny to the Matthews family. I was greeted by a Mrs. Helmar.

  "FBI?" she said. "What does the FBI want with us? We pay our taxes promptly."

  "The IRS has its own people who investigate tax issues, Mrs. Helmar. The FBI investigates other forms of dishonesty. And this company is not the focus of any investigation that I'm aware of. I'm only seeking information about one of your previous tenants."

  "Oh, I see. That's a relief. I'm scared to death of the IRS. I've heard so many terrible stories about them and how they operate. I understand that with them, you're guilty until proven innocent instead of the other way around."

  "I've heard that as well. And, like yourself, I always pay my taxes on time. Today, I'd like any information you can share about a tenant named Helen Williams."

  "Williams? Helen Williams? I'm afraid I don't have any listing for a Helen Williams."

  "I'm investigating what we call a cold case. Ms. Williams rented an apartment through this agency four to five years ago."

  "Let me check the files. This will take a few minutes. We only computerized current and new listings about three years ago."

  Mrs. Helmar turned and walked to a door that opened into a very large closet, or perhaps a small office that had been converted to a file room. I watched as she pulled open a drawer and began riffling through file folders. Finally, she stopped and pulled one out, then returned to where I was standing.

  "Please sit down, agent, while I review the contents of this folder."

  I joined her at her desk and sat in the side chair.

  "Yes," she said after a few moments, "a Mrs. Helen Williams, who was separated from her husband, did rent a place through us. I remember this tenant now." Reading from the file, she said, "After about two years, she suddenly stopped making her monthly payments. Up until then she had been very prompt. Our efforts to contact her were ineffective. We had just begun legal proceedings to evict when we were contacted by her husband. He told us that she had been killed in Oklahoma and that he would be collecting her personal possessions from the apartment.

  "He wanted a key. We told him the monthly rent was three months in arrears and he would have to pay that, prove his identity, provide us with a copy of a death certificate, and show us a court order that granted him ownership of her possessions before we could give him anything. He stormed out of the office after a bit of cursing and yelling that he would see us in court. We get s
o many empty threats that we've become used to them."

  "So what happened?"

  "We never saw him again, and he certainly never began legal proceedings. If he'd contacted a lawyer, he would have been informed that everything we'd told him was according to the mandates of state law."

  "What happened to Ms. Williams' personal possessions?"

  "When we received the right to evict, we contacted a firm that performs cleaning services. They cleared the apartment and cleaned it so it could be rented again."

  "What happens to the tenant's possessions?"

  "They're crated up and taken to a storage location owned by the cleaning firm. They're under contract to us to hold the tenant's possessions for six months. If the tenant tries to claim them, they must pay the past due rent, cleaning service charges if they exceed the damage deposit, and the storage charges. If they refuse or never try to claim them, the cleaning firm acquires ownership and sells them. They keep whatever proceeds they collect."

  "And you get nothing?"

  "Correct. Once the possessions are removed from the apartment, we're completely out of it unless the tenant claims their property and pays all charges. We don't even want to know the final disposition of the property. We'd only get involved if a tenant came to us with a complaint that the cleaning firm sold the possessions before the six months were up. But that's never happened."

  "I see. Can you provide me with the name and address of the cleaning firm and any document numbers related to their activities on your behalf?"

  "Of course," Mrs. Helmar said and began writing that information on a sheet of letter paper. "Here you go, Agent James. Uh, what is this about? Did Mr. Williams file a complaint against us?"

  "No. As I said, the focus of this investigation doesn't involve your firm at all. I can't tell you any more than that."

  "I see."

  As I stood up, I said, "Thank you very much for the information and for your cooperation, Mrs. Helmar."