by Ben Rehder
“Yeah?”
“I need to ask a favor.”
“What’s up?”
“You might not even be able to help, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“This must be some favor. Spit it out, dude.”
“Do you happen to have a phone number for Patrick Hanrahan?”
I started with a text:
I saw Tracy at Pierce’s house one week ago today.
Then we waited a few minutes.
“Think he’ll respond?” Mia asked.
“I wouldn’t. At least not yet.”
And he didn’t, not after ten full minutes. So I sent a second one:
I saw Erica at Pierce’s house five days ago.
More waiting.
“So what’s the deal with this Jessica?” Mia asked. “You getting serious?” Needling me, and making no effort to conceal it.
“Well, she’s definitely interesting. I really like her a lot. But here’s the thing. The other night, we started to get a little bit intimate, and I don’t want to share all the details, but it turns out she’s a dude.”
Mia simply shook her head slowly. She had known a line of bullshit was coming. “Always deflecting,” she said.
“Me?”
“Absolutely. When you don’t want to share, you turn it into a joke.”
“You weren’t sort of joking when you asked? Giving me a subtle jab?”
I looked down at my phone. Still no reply. So I sent a third one:
Three days ago, I was attacked at Pierce’s place.
Then a fourth one:
A man abducted me, interrogated me, then let me go.
I figured Hanrahan was getting curious by now. Or maybe he wasn’t, depending on whether he already knew any of this stuff.
“Okay, yeah, I apologize,” Mia said. “I was teasing you a little.”
“She’s very nice,” I said. “I like her.”
“Wow. This is real progress.”
“Teasing again?”
“You’re right, I am. It’s hard not to.”
“Oh, you can tease me all you want. I have no problem with it.”
“Because it gives you justification to deflect.”
“What are you, a therapist now?”
“Just a concerned friend.”
“Did I say something at some point that makes you dislike Jessica?”
“No, of course not. I’ve never even met her.”
“She actually reminds me of you, you know.”
“Oh, really? That’s interesting. In what ways?”
“Well, like you, she has a burning passion for her collection of Cabbage Patch dolls. She is also a devotee of Romanian folk dance. Oops. I’m deflecting again, aren’t I?”
“At least it’s always amusing, Roy.”
“Thank you. But I do appreciate your concern for my welfare, so I will do my best to give you an honest answer. Bottom line, I like Jessica because she is intelligent, interesting, and drop-dead gorgeous. She also has a great sense of humor.”
Mia was grinning. It was a cat-that-ate-the-canary type of grin. “Those are the ways she reminds you of me?”
“Ha. I didn’t necessarily say that.”
“Well, if she—”
My phone chimed. An incoming text from Hanrahan’s number.
“He’s asking, ‘Who is this?’”
“You have to be straight-up with him, right?”
“Yep.”
I wrote: My name is Roy Ballard. We need to talk.
He replied: Are you a cop?
No, I’m a fraud investigator. I saw these things while investigating Pierce.
He didn’t respond for several minutes. Long enough for him to Google my name and learn some things—not just about my own experiences with abduction, but about my involvement as a witness in a handful of lawsuits. Wouldn’t take Hanrahan long to see that there really was a guy named Roy Ballard who investigated insurance fraud. After that, he’d have to decide whether or not to believe I was actually that Roy Ballard. It would be tempting for him to suspect that I was an enterprising reporter from some tabloid journal or television show.
Then he finally replied: Come to my office in one hour.
35
The highrise at 301 Congress was one of the most prestigious business addresses in Austin. Nice-looking place, too, with an angled glass crown that made it stand out on the downtown skyline. Back in 1985, when they were excavating for the foundation, they’d uncovered fossils from a mastodon and a saber-toothed tiger. Those fossils were displayed in the lobby, but we were more concerned with the seventeenth floor.
Up we went, just the two of us in the elevator.
“Got a plan of any kind?” Mia asked.
“No, but I’m open to suggestions.”
Her silence indicated that she didn’t have any.
When the elevator doors opened, we were immediately confronted by a very wide and imposing reception desk—the kind with a counter so high you can hardly see the person behind it. In this case, that person was a perky brown-haired young woman in a blue business suit and a white blouse, with a red scarf knotted around her neck. She was also wearing one of those hands-free telephone headsets, and it was obvious she was in the middle of a call, but that didn’t prevent her from giving us a big smile as we stepped from the elevator and approached the desk.
While we waited, I took the opportunity to quickly scan the surroundings. Above the woman, mounted on the wall, was a logo formed out of three letters: PAH. Hanrahan’s initials, no doubt. Named the company after himself.
The place gave off a vibe of understated wealth. Everything classy and well designed. To the right of the reception desk was a small waiting area with leather chairs and a couch, and beyond that, a door with no knob, meaning it was an exit only. So, to get into the offices, you had to go left, through a double glass door.
But first you had to pass a smaller desk, at which was seated a security guard roughly the size and weight of an industrial refrigerator. It was odd the way the desk was sort of stuck to one side, almost like it was a temporary arrangement. A permanent guard station would’ve been designed to blend in better. The behemoth caught me looking and gave me a slow nod of greeting. I nodded back then looked away.
When the young woman ended her call, she looked up at me and said, “Good morning. May I help you?”
I said, “We’re checking in for the eleven o’clock flight to Los Angeles.”
Mia sighed.
The young woman, still smiling, said, “My outfit, right? I look like a flight attendant. The scarf is probably too much.”
“Not at all,” Mia said. “I like it. Is it silk?”
“It is.”
“Very nice.”
The young woman looked pleased.
I said, “It appears we also have to pass through security after check-in,” meaning the meathead at the small desk.
She gave a polite laugh and said, “And you’re here for…”
“We have an appointment with Patrick Hanrahan.”
“Your names?”
“Roy Ballard and Mia Madison.”
I noticed that she didn’t need to check an appointment book, and she didn’t have us sign the register on the countertop. Instead, she punched a button on her phone console and, a few seconds later, said, “Roy Ballard and Mia Madison are here for Mr. Hanrahan.”
The whole operation was very smooth and professional. I was prepared to usher Mia over to the waiting area, but before we even made a move in that direction, a woman emerged from the glass doors to greet us.
Not just any woman. It was Erica Kerwick.
I’m pretty sure Mia and I both managed not to react with surprise, but I guess it didn’t really matter. I had already told Hanrahan that I had seen her at Pierce’s, so she likely knew that I knew.
She was neither friendly nor brusque. She simply stepped past the guard station and said, “Come with me, please.”
And we did, pas
t the guard, who simply watched us pass with no emotions on his face whatsoever. Through the double doors and into a long, carpeted hallway. Erica Kerwick led the way quietly, and when we reached the end of the hallway, where it made a 90-degree turn to the right, she instead turned to the left and rapped softly on a closed door. Big slab of walnut or mahogany or who knows what.
I didn’t hear a response, but Erica Kerwick opened the door and stepped into the office. We followed. It was a damn nice space—oil paintings, expensive furniture, floor to ceiling windows with an amazing view of the river winding through the city below—but I didn’t have much time to appreciate it, because here came Patrick Hanrahan from around a huge desk. Great-looking guy. Black hair with some silver in it. He was dressed casually in a blue golf shirt and some dark slacks. When he reached us, he stuck out a hand.
“Patrick Hanrahan.” We shook.
“Roy Ballard, and this is Mia Madison.”
They shook too, and I heard the door close behind us. Erica Kerwick had left without so much as an offer of coffee. I didn’t know whether I should read something into that or not.
Hanrahan said, “Shall we sit?” and extended an arm in the direction of a cluster of furniture near the windows.
“Great view,” Mia said.
“I like it,” Hanrahan said. “In fact, you can actually see my house from here, out in Westlake Hills. It’s just a dot, but you can see it. I didn’t even know that when we leased this space. See that hill with the transmission tower on it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m on the hill just to the right of that. A white house.”
We pretended to see it, but there was too much haze in the air. “Anyway,” Hanrahan said, gesturing again toward the furniture. Mia chose a plush upholstered chair facing the window, so I sat to her right and Hanrahan sat opposite her.
“I imagine you get a lot of sun in the afternoon,” Mia said.
We were making small talk, and there was really no way around it. I’d been in enough similar situations to know that people who have just met don’t jump into serious conversations without a little meaningless babble first.
“I lower the blinds when it gets really bad,” Hanrahan said. “Winter is okay—the sun is lower and at more of an angle—but now, in the summer, yeah, it can be a little too much.”
Enough.
I said, “I’m very sorry about Tracy.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’m sorry you’re having to deal with the media.”
He gave me a sort of pained grin that was also part grimace. “That means a lot, because, uh, I know you are familiar with this sort of thing yourself.”
“Yeah.”
“I did some Googling…”
“Don’t blame you.”
“And it sounds like you went through hell.”
“Pretty much.”
“But I have to admit I’m not clear why you’re here.”
I nodded. “Let me summarize it. I was investigating Brian Pierce for insurance fraud, based on his workers’ comp claim after the accident at your restaurant. Just routine stuff. This was the day after Tracy went missing. I was walking along his fence line, using binoculars, and I saw a little girl in the doorway at Pierce’s house. I’m all but certain it was Tracy.”
I gave him a moment to respond, but he didn’t, and his expression didn’t change. Maybe he was just numb. I could understand that. Or maybe he was one of those men who, when under extreme stress, intentionally remained cold and analytical, rather than letting their emotions get away from them. Another possibility—maybe the cops had already questioned him about Pierce and my alleged sighting of Tracy, in which case this wasn’t news to him. But whatever the reason, his face didn’t give anything away.
So I continued. “Unfortunately, I didn’t get video.”
“How far away were you?”
“Maybe a hundred and twenty yards.” I realized I was trying to make the distance sound insignificant.
Hanrahan was waiting for me to go on.
“Two days after that, I watched a woman in a white Jetta visit Pierce’s house. I set up some video surveillance equipment, got some good footage of that woman, and we were able to get on Facebook and determine that her name was Erica Kerwick.”
Hanrahan still said nothing.
I said, “Same woman who just brought us into your office. I believe she’s related to you somehow?”
Hanrahan said, “Where did you hear that?”
No reason not to tell him. “There’s a kid named Curtis Hanrahan on Facebook—”
He was nodding. “One of my nephews.”
“And she called herself ‘Aunt Erica’ in a comment on Curtis’s page.”
“She’s my cousin.”
“How long has she worked for you?”
“About seventeen or eighteen years.”
I changed gears abruptly, on purpose. “Can you tell me if that was your stepdaughter at Brian Pierce’s house?”
“Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Call her my stepdaughter. As far as I’m concerned, she’s my daughter.”
“I apologize. Can you tell me if that was your daughter at Pierce’s house?”
This time, he didn’t say anything right away—just cocked his head and appeared to be contemplating whether he should give an answer. Finally he said, “I wouldn’t know whether it was or not. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you. My attorney would go ballistic. You know as well as anybody how words can get twisted around, get taken out of context. I’ve had it happen in my professional life, and I can’t afford for it to happen here. I’ll just say this: Nobody on this planet cares more about Tracy than I do. I would go to any lengths to ensure her safety and well-being.”
“What was Erica doing at Pierce’s place?”
“I don’t know specifically, but she and Pierce are employees of the same corporation. Use your imagination.” Big, fake, patronizing grin.
Intuition told me he was being deceptive.
“So it was work related? That’s what she told the police?”
“She didn’t speak to the police.”
“They didn’t contact her?”
“Oh, they contacted her, but she didn’t speak to them. I asked her not to. I’m sure you understand why, with your experiences.”
“I can, yeah. Do you know where Tracy is now?”
He gave me the type of frown that suggested my question was in bad taste. Then he said, “My daughter is missing. I don’t know where she is, and if I did, she wouldn’t be missing. I was hoping you might have some useful information for me, but it seems like all you have is questions.”
“I’m sorry. If you have questions for me, by all means, go ahead.”
He looked out the window for a minute, out at the skyline and the river, or at nothing at all. Then he said, “How sure are you that it was Tracy at Pierce’s house? Honestly. Please don’t exaggerate.”
“Let me put it this way: I would bet a whole lot of money on it.”
“Would you bet your life?”
“Pardon?”
“Would you literally bet your life?”
Now it was my turn to pause and consider. I said, “No, I wouldn’t.”
“How clear is the video of the woman in the Jetta?”
“Plenty.”
“You are positive it’s Erica?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Mia. “You agree?”
“Absolutely. It’s her.”
“Both of you would bet your life on it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I would,” Mia said.
I didn’t have the slightest clue whether Hanrahan was shocked or surprised by these revelations.
He said, “Let’s stop beating around the bush. Are you implying that Erica and Brian Pierce have kidnapped my daughter?”
I almost laughed. “We don’t know what to think, but doesn’t that look like a possibility to yo
u?”
“Absolutely not. No way. Erica would never do that. You yourself just said you wouldn’t bet your life it was Tracy.”
“Only because there is almost nothing I would bet my life on.”
He was squirming in his chair, about to stand up. “This is a waste of time.”
“We’re trying to help you, Mr. Hanrahan. We’re just trying to find out what happened.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why do we care?”
“Exactly. You aren’t cops.”
“No, but if we can help find your daughter, why wouldn’t we?”
“I have to be honest, Mr. Ballard. Some of the things I saw online made me wonder about your credibility.”
“Hey, I understand.”
“You say you saw Tracy at Brian Pierce’s house, but you were all alone. Nobody else saw her.”
I remained calm. “I have no reason to make it up.”
“But people make stuff like that up all the time. That’s one of the drawbacks of offering a reward. The cops told me about all kinds of nutcases who have called in about Tracy. No offense. I didn’t mean for that to sound like you’re a nutcase.”
“Been called worse.”
“What is this you said about being attacked on the side of the road?”
I told him, very briefly, what had happened, including the part where The Guy tried to claim he was working for someone else in the area.
He said, “You think this man was protecting Pierce?”
“Seems obvious.”
“You don’t appear injured.”
“Just my pride.”
“Nobody else can verify your story.”
This time I did laugh. “Well, the man who attacked me can verify it. And he will, one of these days.” It was obvious from his body language that Hanrahan was about to call an end to this meeting. So I said, “Have you received a demand for ransom?”
“You think I’m going to give that kind of information to a complete stranger? Here’s something for both of you to think about. You obviously have this notion that you might be able to help find Tracy, to bring her home safely. I appreciate that. I truly do. But you should also consider the possibility that you might be endangering her. That’s why you should leave the investigation to the professionals. Let them do their job.”
He stood up. The meeting was over.