“It’s not. I swear it,” says Olivia, a bit more trust in her voice. “If I can get to the city, I really believe I can become a fashion model. Then, when I start making some money, I can help my mother and my brother out. Maybe my mom won’t have to work so hard. That’s all I want. Honest.”
“Okay, I believe you,” says Red. “But, maybe you ought to at least give your mom a call. You know; so she won’t worry.”
“Oh, I will; just as soon as I get to the Y I plan on calling her, so she knows right where I am. And, besides, I left her a note.”
Just then, the scanner comes alive, and Olivia is able to make out some of what comes through the speaker. It’s something about an accident.
“Okay, look,” says Red, “there’s been a bad accident over at East Branch. We’re going to have to speed it up a bit. I want to get over there, and see if I can lend a hand. Hang on. I’ll drop you at the Roscoe Diner. You can catch a bus into the city from there. Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to call your mother, okay?”
“Okay,” replies Olivia, “and thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Red mashes down on the accelerator, and the police cruiser jumps forward in response. Ten minutes later, he drops the girl off in the diner’s parking lot, and before she can say thank you, he’s gone. Olivia stands there for several minutes, reflecting upon what a close call she has just had. She won’t make the same mistake again; with her luck, she’d open her big mouth, and forfeit all her dreams. The next time she sees an automobile that even resembles a police car, she’ll know what to do—run the other way.
Chapter 37
“Matt; it’s that fellow with the website. I guess he got religion.” Nancy is standing in my office doorway, hands on hips, with her legs spread apart like a soldier at “parade rest.” She’s grinning from ear to ear. “Pick it up,” she whispers, pointing to my phone.
I nod my head up and down, and motion for her to get back to her office. It’s been several days since my chat with Sheriff Cuervo. I’m guessing he had some success. “Chief Davis,” I say, picking up the receiver. “May I help you?”
“Chief, this is Frank Shields. I just got off the phone with Sheriff Cuervo, and he explained everything to me.” I’ll bet he did. I can’t help smiling.
“And, you’ll cooperate?”
“Absolutely,” he assures me.
What did that sheriff say? I wonder.
“I just hope you understand,” he continues. “I can’t just give out private information to anybody who calls and asks for it.”
“Of course, Mr. Shields,” I say, in a calm, reassuring voice.
“It’s just that you can’t believe all the nut jobs that call up here,” he add. “Seems like almost every day.”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, Chief,” says the website owner, “I can give you the information over the phone if you want, or fax it to you, whichever way you want it. How many people did this guy kill, anyhow?”
It’s funny, I think, he didn’t want tell me a thing, but now he wants me to tell him everything I know. I can’t help but smile. “Look, Mr. Shields, I’m really not at liberty to say. But, why don’t you just fax that information over, first chance you get, okay? I’ll have my secretary give you the fax number.”
“Absolutely,” replies the man. “And, if there’s anything else I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to—”
“To what, call you?” I say, finishing his sentence. “Don’t worry, I won’t. And thanks for your cooperation.”
“My pleasure, Chief.”
I can sense the man can hardly wait to get off the phone. “Now, hang on Mr. Shields,” I say. “And, I’ll have Ms. Cooper give you that fax number. Oh, and I can expect that information today, right?”
“Yessir, I’ll get it out to you immediately,” he says. I motion to Nancy, who’s standing in the doorway, and I put Shields on hold.
“Well, isn’t this fun?” I whisper to Nancy. “Always nice to hear from a concerned citizen; don’t you think?”
“Yeah. So concerned you had to practically call out the Marines to get his attention. Some people just amaze me.”
“Not me. After working New York Homicide for as long as I did, nothing surprises me anymore. Besides, I really can’t blame the guy. If I were in his shoes, I’d have probably done the same thing.”
“There you go again,” counsels Nancy, “putting yourself in the other guy’s shoes. You need to be tougher.”
“Actually, that’s how we solve most cases—by putting ourselves in the other guy’s shoes. So, go pick up the phone and give him the fax number—now!”
Nancy frowns.
“Is that tough enough?” I ask, sarcastically.
“I’m shaking in my shoes,” she says, with an exaggerated shudder and a laugh.
Five minute later, Nancy is back in my office.
“Did you give him the fax number?”
She nods her head.
“Good,” I say. Nancy hasn’t moved. “Is there something else?”
“Uh huh,” she says. “I almost forgot. We got something back from State on those boot prints.”
“And, you were going to tell me that when?” I ask, feigning disapproval.
“Well, if you’re going act like that, I might never tell you,” she says with a laugh. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got the fax on my desk.”
In a minute, she returns, the piece of paper held up to her face, as she scans its contents. “Hmmm…it looks like some kind of Army Surplus boot. Jesus! Size 15! Can you believe that?”
“Do you mind?” I reach for the fax, and gently prying it from her hand.
“Oh, sorry, Matt,” says Nancy.
“Well,” I say, with a chuckle, “you said I needed to get tougher.”
“Yeah, but not with me.”
I scan the report from CSI, noting, as did Nancy, the exceptional size of the boot. The manufacturer is listed as S. Pritchard Footwear, 224 South Rugby Street, Sherborn, Massachusetts. The phone number is in a 508 area code. I decide to give them a call.
“S. Pritchard Footwear,” says a pleasant female voice, with a pronounced New England accent. “May I help you?”
A minute and a half later, I hang up. “Damn!” I shout, at nobody in particular.
“You calling me, Matt?” shouts Nancy from her office.
“No, Nancy. Not unless your name is…oh, never mind. I was just blowing off some steam.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“They only sell wholesale, and mostly to small Army-Navy retailers, scattered along the East Coast. She’s going to Email me a list in a little while.”
“Well,” says Nancy with a shrug. “The sooner we get the list, the sooner we can get started making the calls.”
“What you mean, we, white woman?” I say, in an exaggerated American Indian accent, reminiscent of an outdated joke between The Lone Ranger and Tonto.
“Gee, and to think, I actually thought you might make all those calls,” says Nancy, over her shoulder, as she disappears back into her office. “What was I thinking? But, don’t worry,” she shouts, “I’ll let you know when that e-mail arrives—so you can tell me who to call.”
“Me thank ‘em you very much, Miss Nancy,” I joke, in mock Indian dialect.
“Not funny,” says Nancy, adding, “Keep it up, and I just might call the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“What? And ruin our beautiful relationship?”
“What relationship?”
I start to answer, but don’t, deciding instead to let her have the last word—as usual.
The fax from Franklin Shields arrives about five o’clock. The good news is that the purchaser of the Iraq War bracelet is someone in New York State. The bad news is that he lives in the little town of Mexico, which is at the edge of Lake Ontario, nearly two-hundred-miles away. It’s a long ride; I know, because I drove there once to fish the lake for salmon. Hopefully, I can find out what I need to know witho
ut having to make the trip.
The buyer is a Frank Lynn; at least that’s whose Visa card was used to make the purchase. It’s issued through some credit union. All the information is right there in the fax, even the purchase price, which amounts to twenty-two dollars and eighty-six cents, including tax and shipping. However, the one thing I really need – the phone number – is missing. It’s unlisted. Thank God for reverse directories. I go online to a special site, and enter the name and address. In less than twenty seconds, I have the number.
The phone rings seven times without an answer before I hang up. Thinking I might have dialed incorrectly, I punch in the numbers again and wait, and wait, and wait. Finally, after twelve rings, I surrender. Even after all my years as a policeman, it never ceases to amaze me that some people still don’t have answering machines. I make a mental note to try the number again when I get home, but forget anyway.
The following day, true to her word, the woman at S. Pritchard e-mails me with the information she promised. Nancy brings it to me at my desk. “Here’s that list of those retail distributors for those boots, Matt. Shouldn’t take me more than…oh…maybe a month to contact all of them.”
I look at the list. She’s not kidding. There must be over a hundred names and addresses. “Well, the sooner you get started, the better. Remember, we’re only looking for sales of size 15s. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find.”
Nancy yanks the piece of paper out of my hand, and walks away, muttering “shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” I guess her assessment is different from mine.
Chapter 38
Rhonda, some time the previous fall – still day eleven, late afternoon
Bryce is having a difficult time concentrating on the road. The girl sitting next to him is a wild one—and young—just the way he likes them. He needs to find an excuse to spend more time with her. Maybe she could be a “keeper.”
“So, what’s in Roscoe?” he asks, “I mean, to make you try to get there on such a shitty day?”
“Well, for starters, I’m not really heading for Roscoe—not exactly. I’m trying to get to North Carolina.”
“North Carolina? I think you’re headed in the wrong direction. You need to be headin’ south.”
“Actually, I’m trying to get to the city,” says Rhonda, “so I can catch a bus.”
“Ah ha,” says Bryce. “Now I get it.” His mind is racing a mile a minute, as he tries to figure a way to stall her. “So…uh…who’s in North Carolina? Boyfriend?”
“Don’t I wish,” says Rhonda, her voice tinged with sarcasm. ‘Fraid not. Just my grandparents. I’m running away from home.”
Oh great, thinks Bryce. Just what I need, a runaway, no doubt with the cops looking for her. But, just as he is about to say something, Rhonda puts his concerns to rest.
“But, you don’t have to worry,” says Rhonda. “Nobody cares. I beat the crap out of my stepfather, and it’s already been almost two weeks, and nobody’s even tried to find me.”
“Cool,” says Bryce. “Then there’s no rush?” he asks. “I mean, right? What’s the hurry? Why don’t you hang out at my place for a while—‘til the weather clears up, I mean?”
“Where’s your place?”
A shiver runs down Bryce’s spine, and he feels that old familiar tightening in his groin. He clears his throat, “Uh, actually, it’s not that far from here. Do you know where Delancy is?” Immediately, he regrets the question. Of course, she doesn’t know where Delancy is; nobody knows where Delancy is. It’s in the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t wait for an answer; instead, he decides to take another tack.
“Forget about Delancy. How’d you like to see my studio?”
“You mean at the radio station?” asks Rhonda.
“Yeah. I’ve got it all fixed up so I can stay there. Sometimes, I’m there for a week at a time. Come on; it’ll be cool. I’ll even let you ‘intro’ a couple of songs. I don’t go on until ten, so we’ve got plenty of time. Whatta ya say. Wanna come?”
Rhonda peers through the windshield at the snow, and then glances over at Bryce. He is kinda cute, she thinks. “Oh, what the hell. Why not? Sure. But, first, can we stop and get something to eat? I’m starved.”
Bryce is in shock.
“Well, can we?”
“Wha—oh, food…uh…sure. Whatever you want.” He can scarcely contain himself. “Oh, shit!” he exclaims.
“What’s wrong?” asks Rhonda.
Bryce has just remembered Chief Davis’s warning about his being seen with young girls. “Ah, it’ll probably be okay,” he mumbles. She’s worth the risk. Or, is she? He can’t make up his mind. “It’s nothin’,” he says, finally. “I was just thinking that the diner might be too crowded. It really gets mobbed when the weather’s bad. You feel like a pizza?”
“Sure,” says Rhonda.
“Good. Screw the diner. There’s a great pizzeria over in Walton. We’ll get a pepperoni pie—you like pepperoni, don’t ya?—and we’ll bring it back to the studio—couple of beers, too.”
Rhonda pictures the two of them—alone—eating pizza and drinking beer. How cool, she thinks. Besides, North Carolina will still be there in a day or two. What’s the rush?
“Pepperoni’s cool,” she says. “Hey! We’ll have a party.”
“Yeah, cool. A party.”
Rhonda gives Bryce a peck on the cheek. “Par-tee!” she shouts, moving her torso to the music on the radio.
“Par-tee!” echoes Bryce, as he reaches over and turns the music up even louder.
“Par-tee!” they shout in unison, and Rhonda snuggles in next to the disc jockey.
This is more like it.
Chapter 39
Only three of the Army and Navy stores are located within a hundred miles of Roscoe, so Nancy decides to call them first. The first two claim they never stock size 15s, but do special order them when necessary. No one at either store recalls selling anything larger than a size 14 within the last year or two, but they promise to check their records and call her back. It’s nice to get some cooperation, thinks Nancy.
The third store is located in Liberty, a small whistle stop “town” (if it can be called that), midway between Monticello and Roscoe. Nancy is very familiar with the place; it’s called “Liberty Army & Navy,” and other than a soft-serve ice cream stand, a rundown diner, and a couple of gas stations, it’s the only commercial edifice on that stretch of Route 17. If residents want to purchase groceries or other necessities, they must drive to small strip malls, scattered along the secondary roads that radiate out from the main highway. She dials the number, and waits patiently for an answer.
“Liberty Army Navy,” says a deep, gruff voice. “Watcha need?”
Ignoring the inane response, Nancy says, “This is Nancy Cooper calling for Chief Davis over here in Roscoe. I was wondering if you could help us with a little information about some boots you sell?”
Apparently, Matt’s reputation carries some weight with the man on the other end of the line, because his demeanor changes remarkably. “Oh, yes ma’am, Ms. Cooper. What kind of boot are you looking for?”
Nancy smiles to herself, replying, “Well, we’re not exactly looking to buy any boots. We’re more interested in whether or not you’ve sold a certain type and size.”
“What’s the make?”
“Roughriders. We were told by the manufacturer that you carry them—”
“Correction,” says the man. “That’s carried! We haven’t stocked Roughriders in probably five, maybe six years.”
Nancy frowns. This is not the answer she wants to hear. “Did you ever carry any size 15s?” she asks.
“Can’t say,” replies the man. “Might have. We sell a lot of boots here. You know, hunters, hikers. People come from all around to—”
“Well, could you check?” asks Nancy, somewhat impatiently. “It’s very important.”
“I can try. Do you know the model number?”
“Just a second,” says Nancy, “Le
t me look. She quickly scans the piece of paper on her desk. No, it just says ‘Roughrider,’ size 15. I’m sorry; that’s all I have.”
“Okay, okay. Well, I’ll have to go over my old invoices. We only keep that information for seven years—and not a day longer. Just in case, you know…we ever get…audited. So far, so good,” he says, with a chuckle. “But, you never know. Anyway, I can’t do it right now. Might take me a couple of days to dig up those invoices. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“That’s okay,” replies Nancy. “But, the sooner the better.” Then, realizing the man might think her rude, she adds, “I’m sorry, but it’s really important.”
“So you said. And I’ll get back to you as soon as I can—like I said.”
Nancy thanks the man, and hangs up. Men!
Over the next few days, Nancy slowly makes her way through the list of the other retailers, but with no encouraging results. One store in Pennsylvania acknowledges actually selling a pair of size 15s two years ago, but finds no record of the actual transaction other than an entry in their inventory databank indicating an order for a replacement pair—that they still have in their inventory. The other two stores within a hundred miles that promised to get back to her are still “missing in action,” so she decides to make follow-up calls to each of them.
The first is in Cooperstown, and after an interminable wait, Nancy is informed that they have not sold any 15s (as the woman had indicated in their first conversation), and, in fact, haven’t even stocked a pair in over five years. The other establishment, in Newburgh, finds that it actually has one pair in stock. The Liberty store is still her best hope, thinks Nancy, and she decides to call again, rather than wait. Her persistence is rewarded when she is told that a pair of size 15 Roughrider boots was sold to a woman named Andrews, who special ordered them back in March of 2005. “Unfortunately,” says the man, “she paid for them in advance—with cash, and—”
“Let me guess,” says Nancy. “There’s no address and no phone number.”
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 16