by Ben Rehder
“You helped him with this research?” he asked her.
“Yep.”
“You can vouch that he didn’t Photoshop this all together or something?”
I wanted to answer that myself. With a long string of insults and profanities. I managed to restrain myself.
“Absolutely,” Mia said. “But feel free to get on Facebook and double-check our work.” Smart.
He drummed his fingertips on the table. Again. And again. I knew what drove guys like him. He was the type who loved to make people wait for him to make Critical Decisions. Because he was an Important Man.
Finally, just as I was about to stand up and leave, he looked in my direction. “Okay. I’ll check into it.”
I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “You’ll check into it?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask what that will involve?”
He shook his head.
“Can you get a warrant?”
He looked at Mia. “You should add ‘pushy’ to your list.” She laughed. He grinned. I didn’t know he was capable of it.
“I bet you have enough to get a warrant now,” I said.
Ruelas said, “Also add ‘repetitive.’”
And Mia laughed again. She was just playing along. Trying to make things go more smoothly. I think.
Walking out of the substation, I said, “You know, it pisses me off a little.”
“What does?”
“He wasn’t grateful at all. Didn’t say, ‘Thanks for bringing this to my attention. Good work. Well done.’ Nothing. What an ass.” She didn’t reply. I unlocked the van and we climbed in.
“Don’t you think?” I said.
“What?”
“That he’s an ass?”
She shrugged. “He seemed okay. Just a cop. He has to deal with the public, and the public can be filled with idiots. I know that firsthand.”
I started the van and backed out of the parking spot. “Still, there’s no reason to act like an ass when you’re dealing with people who aren’t idiots. And to not even let us know how he’s going to proceed…”
“You did the right thing, Roy. Now it’s out of your hands and you don’t have to worry about it. Think positive. Be optimistic.”
I pulled out of the parking lot onto Ranch Road 620. We rode in silence for about a mile.
“You two seemed to be getting along well,” I said, with an unmistakable implication in my tone.
“Oh, shit, Roy, did you really just say that?”
“All I meant was—”
“Who’s being the ass now?”
I can’t even tell you how fortunate I was that my phone alerted just then. Heidi emailing. Saying she’d be sending a new case by noon tomorrow.
29
After we got back to my place, Mia took off, and I ordered a pepperoni pizza. I was looking forward to a quiet, uneventful evening.
I hadn’t realized until after our meeting with Ruelas how much the Tracy Turner thing had been stressing me out. It did feel good to know it was out of my hands now. I had no idea what that situation entailed, but the fact that someone related to the Hanrahans was involved made me much more confident that Tracy wasn’t in danger. A stranger was much more likely to do harm.
But there was still one little detail lingering in my mind. One odd little circumstance that was difficult to dismiss as a coincidence, even though I’d earlier argued that it might be just that.
Jessica.
What was she doing in one of the Hanrahans’ photos? What were the odds? Better question: Why was I worried about it? It was on Ruelas’s plate now. Not my concern.
Of course, as Mia had pointed out on the drive home, I hadn’t mentioned Jessica to Ruelas.
“Didn’t see why I should,” I’d said.
“Really?”
“Why would I drag her into it?”
“‘It’s always nice to have all the facts when you can.’”
I had a feeling she was tricking me. “That sounds familiar.”
“You said it earlier today. I’m sure Ruelas would agree.”
“Well, I never said I was a genius, but I’m flattered that you can quote me.”
And that had been the end of it.
Okay, not completely. It was starting to eat at me. Both things—Jessica being in the photo, and my not telling Ruelas about it. But there was a solution. Call her up, make a date, and simply ask her about it. Discover that it’s a coincidence, or that there is some harmless explanation, and be done with it.
I got voicemail.
“Jessica, my name is Vladimir and I’m a producer with the Playboy Channel. We received your audition tape and I’m pleased to say we were intrigued. That thing you did with the kumquat was unexpected but very creative and entertaining. Quite a show. So we would be very interested in speaking to you further. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience.”
She called back five minutes later.
“You are one sick puppy.”
“Who is this?”
She used a soft, sultry voice. “My stage name is Lola, and I can do interesting things with fruits and vegetables.”
“Even, say, canned green beans?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I’m sure I would. Speaking of food, are you at work right now?”
“No, I worked the day shift. Why?”
The pizza I’d ordered went straight into the fridge for tomorrow night’s dinner, and an hour later Jessica and I were seated at a Tex-Mex joint called Rosie’s Tamale House, because it was Jessica’s favorite place. It’s located in a large metal building on Highway 71, south of Lakeway. That was convenient for Jessica, because it turned out that she lived in some condos not far away. Nice condos. Nicer than I would’ve expected.
“I worked at a barbecue joint when I was a teenager,” I said as we waited for our food to arrive. “Which meant that I got more than my fill of barbecue. Considering where you work, I was surprised that you wanted to eat here.”
“Oh, I don’t eat the food at work. If I did that all the time, I’d be as big as a house. I have to save enchiladas for a special occasion.”
I don’t think she even realized that she’d just referred to eating dinner with me as a ‘special occasion,’ but I found that I was happy she felt that way. Bottom line: I liked her. Smart, funny, sweet, and beautiful. Great combination. Tonight she was wearing khaki shorts, sandals, and a red sleeveless blouse. Stunning. Great tan on her arms.
I said, “It’s been years since I’ve been here, but things don’t seem to have changed much.”
The décor consisted of faux oak paneling, velvet paintings of Spanish conquistadors and horsemen, and an entire wall of yellowing Polaroid pictures—photos of regular customers throughout the years, going back three or four decades, including homegrown Texas celebrities like Willie Nelson and Tom Landry.
“The lights on the paddleboat are always a crowd pleaser,” she said, nodding toward a painting on the wall nearest us.
“Not often you see artwork that requires an electrical cord,” I said.
“I like it. It’s kitschy.”
“Whether it was originally intended that way or not.”
She smiled. “It was good to hear from you again.”
“It was good to be heard.”
“But you have more questions for me, don’t you? About Brian Pierce.”
I offered a weak grin. “Wow. Busted. How did you know?”
“Intuition.”
“But I was planning to call you anyway.” She dipped a chip in salsa and didn’t reply.
“You don’t look convinced,” I said.
“We’ll see. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
Right then our waiter brought our food, warning us that the plates were hot, and then he scooted away.
“My question isn’t so much about Pierce,” I said. “It’s about a photo. I saw you in a photo, waitr
essing at some black-tie event attended by Patrick and Kathleen Hanrahan.” I waited a beat, to see what sort of response I got. Not much of one. Her expression didn’t change. She was busy with her food. “Do you know them?”
“Well, sure. Very weird what’s happening to them right now. Where did you see this photo?”
“Facebook.”
“On whose page?”
“One of Patrick and Kathleen’s relatives.”
“Wait. You’re losing me. Why are you digging around on Facebook for pictures of the Hanrahans?”
I wanted to get more answers from her, but it appeared I’d have to give her some answers of my own first. So I said, “Can I tell you some things confidentially?”
“Hey, I haven’t said a word to anybody about this thing with Brian so far. Why would I start now?”
“I appreciate that, but this is bigger than that. This has nothing to do with Brian’s insurance claim.”
“Okaaay,” she said, starting to look at me with suspicion. “What exactly does this have to do with?”
I lowered my voice. “The abduction of Tracy Turner.”
She stopped with her fork in mid-air. “Roy?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you a cop or something?”
“No. No, I’m not. I’m a videographer, like I told you. Scout’s honor.”
“Then why—”
I held up my hand to stop her. Then I told her all of it, straight up. Yes, it was a big risk. But my gut was telling me that I could trust her—completely. There was just no way this woman was involved with a kidnapping or an abduction. And she’d been so open with me so far, I felt that it was only fair to return the favor. She ate slowly while I talked, occasionally frowning or looking surprised at key moments—like when I described seeing Tracy Turner at Brian Pierce’s place, and when I described being waylaid by The Guy, and when I identified the Jetta woman as a relative of the Hanrahans. I even told her about meeting with Ruelas and that I had seen no reason to mention seeing her in a photo. By the time I was done with all this, I’d been talking for a solid fifteen minutes.
I expected her to say something like, “Why didn’t you tell me all of this from the beginning?” But then again, she was a smart gal, and she must’ve understood why I hadn’t volunteered all of that information without a compelling reason. Instead, she asked a much less predictable question.
“I get the feeling you don’t know who owns La Tolteca, do you?”
“No idea,” I said.
“Patrick Hanrahan.”
30
Son of a bitch! How had I missed that?
I had picked up my fork, but I put it back down. “You are friggin’ kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“For how long?”
“Since it opened. He opened it.”
“I feel pretty damn stupid for not knowing that.”
“Well, it’s not like his name is on the door. He owns a lot of stuff, and restaurants are just a small part of it. Nowadays he owns maybe a dozen restaurants across the country. That’s where I first met him.”
“Where?”
“When I was working at a high-end seafood place called Chowders about, what, six or seven years ago. That was Patrick’s, too, and he was a lot more hands-on back then, because he wasn’t quite so high in the stratosphere yet. I mean, I think he was doing pretty well, but he hadn’t reached that level of wealth where he owned places that he never even visited. Anyway, I worked there, and so did Kathleen. And so did Brian Pierce.”
My mouth literally fell open. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t discovered the connection between Pierce and the Hanrahans until now. Sloppy of me. Unprofessional. Just plain embarrassing. I felt like I needed to call Ruelas and tell him. Then I thought: He must know by now. After all, he was a cop, not a dumbass videographer.
I said, “Hanrahan hired his own wife to work there?”
“No, this was before they got married. She was a waitress, too.
Your food is getting cold. You should eat.”
I picked up my fork again. “Kathleen was a waitress?”
I was having a hard time picturing the woman I’d seen on CNN as a waitress, but I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud, because it would’ve sounded insulting, and that wasn’t how I meant it. Just the opposite; Kathleen Hanrahan seemed the type who would think that sort of job was beneath her. Serving food to common people?
“That’s where she and Patrick met, and a little more than that,” Jessica said. “She was sleeping with the boss. She was pretty wild back then. Party girl. Big drinker, and into drugs, I think. And she was married at the time.”
“To the Turner guy. Tracy’s dad.”
“Right.”
“Was the affair before or after Tracy was born?”
“After, I think. Yeah, she was already working there when she had Tracy. She took a few months off for maternity, came back to work, and that’s when this thing with Patrick started up. The affair was a dirty little secret but everybody knew about it. Patrick would act as manager two or three nights a week, and Kathleen would always hang around after closing until all the other employees had left, so that it was just her and Patrick there. I think they use to have sex in his office, or that’s what people said. It was just, I don’t know, a pretty gross situation. So much so that when she got pregnant, everybody was saying Patrick was the dad.”
I was having a tough time squaring this description of Kathleen Hanrahan with the woman I’d been seeing on TV. Goes to show that you can’t judge people by their appearances.
“But they never acknowledged what was going on between them?”
I said.
“Not until she filed for divorce, and then they acted like they had just started dating, and then, surprise, like six months after that, they ran off to Cozumel or someplace and got married.”
I couldn’t remember ever getting so much useful information from one person in such a short period. This was fantastic.
I said, “So you and Pierce have worked for Patrick Hanrahan all this time?”
“Well, I have. Good pay and good benefits, because I’ve been with the company for so long. New employees don’t get the same hourly rate that I get, in addition to tips, so I’m hanging with it until I get my doctorate, which is another story. Anyway, after Chowders closed down, most of the staff disappeared, but Patrick asked a couple of us to work at La Tolteca. Brian—I don’t know where he went, but he showed up at La Tolteca early last year, I think. I had forgotten about him, to be honest, because I hadn’t known him that well back at Chowders. His first day at La Tolteca, he said hello as if he knew me, but it wasn’t until later in the shift that I even remembered who he was. Not really the memorable type. Back then, at Chowders, he hung around more with the busboys, who were all teenagers, rather than with the wait staff, who were mostly in their twenties.”
“What did he do at Chowders?”
“Same as now. Dishwasher.”
“He must’ve been pretty young.”
“I guess so. Eighteen, nineteen. Which is another reason I didn’t recognize him right away. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. Looked more like an adult. Also, I should mention—when you were grilling me about Brian the other day? Asking if he was creepy? He really isn’t. He’s just a quiet guy. Sort of a loner, but not a serial killer type of loner.” She laughed. “Well, not as far as I know.”
I was trying to think of other questions to ask. I wanted to make sure I got it all. “So what’s your take on this situation with Tracy Turner?”
“I really have no idea. I feel bad for Patrick, and for the girl, of course.”
“No gut feeling?”
“Well, what you’re saying—that you saw her at Brian’s place—that just doesn’t make any sense at all. And this other woman…”
“Erica Kerwick.”
“Right. She’s related to Patrick and she was at Brian’s place? Are you positive about that?”
“Or she’s related to
Kathleen.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know anything about her. Don’t think I’ve ever heard the name.”
“Did Brian have some sort of friendship with Patrick? Then or now?”
She laughed a little. “Uh, no. Brian was always way too low on the totem pole. I mean, Patrick would hire Brian to do odd jobs outside of work, like paint his house. Stuff like that.”
“How well do you know Patrick?”
“Fairly well, I guess, but only as a boss and an employee. It wasn’t like we were ever friends, either. If you simply said the name ‘Jessica,’ he wouldn’t think of me. He’d need a last name. That sort of relationship.”
“What about your relationship with Kathleen?”
“I steered clear of her. Not the kind of person I’d want to be friends with, then or now.”
“Does Patrick come into La Tolteca?”
“Not much anymore.”
“When was the last time you saw him or Kathleen anywhere?”
She thought for a minute. “Last fall, I think. See, Patrick is involved with various charities, and they sometimes have banquets or galas or whatever, and some of us earn extra money by waitressing at those events. Very good money.”
“So that explains the photo I saw on Facebook.”
“Right.”
“Any idea which event that was?”
“I couldn’t tell you without seeing the picture, but the one last fall was a thing for autism. You know what happens when Kathleen sees me at one of those gigs?”
“What?”
“Absolutely nothing. She acts like she never met me before. It’s kind of funny and pathetic at the same time. I think she likes to pretend she was always a rich man’s wife and she doesn’t want any reminder of what she used to be. And I notice she still puts away a lot of wine. She seems half-sloshed most of the time.”
I couldn’t think of any other questions. So I said, “You mind if I excuse myself for a minute?”
“Sure.”
I headed off toward the bathroom area, but stopped just outside, where I could see her across the restaurant. Took out my cell phone and called her number. I could see her at the table, reaching for her purse, retrieving her cell phone, then smiling and shaking her head when she saw who was calling.