by Midge Bubany
“Oh, man, why did you have to ask that?”
“Sorry. I know there’s no just cause to search his residence,” Spanky said. “I hate that law.”
“Me too, but if I could, I’d run twenty-four/seven surveillance on Lopez.”
It was approaching six o’clock when I parked on the street in front of Chester Brook’s two-story stucco home on Twelfth Street NE. As I walked around a gray Chevy pickup in the driveway, I could hear shrill barking coming from inside the house. A foo-foo dog popped up in window and carried on something fierce as he defended his house.
A short, plump woman answered the door, behind her, a tall, lean man. He scooped up the little yapper just before he reached my ankles. After I gave them my name, the woman said, “I’m Peg and he’s Chester. Please, come in.”
The dog continued to bark.
“Muffy, be quiet,” Chester said, gently petting the tiny dog’s head. “Yorkshire terriers make the best guard dogs.”
Muffy growled at me.
“Yeah, they’re real lions.”
I smelled tuna hotdish. “Have I interrupted your dinner?” I asked.
“No, no. It’s not quite ready.”
I was lead to the living room and right into the eighties. The piping on the pink and magenta floral sofa and chairs showed wear, but they faced a flat screen television. The room was tidy and clean. A basket of knitting materials sat on the floor by a wood rocker.
Mrs. Brooks sat in the rocker, and Chester took the stuffed floral chair. They offered me the one chair that appeared new: a brown cloth recliner.
“This is a fantastic chair,” I said as I sat in it.
The couple beamed. “It’s a rocker too,” Mrs. Brook’s said. “Our kids gave it to us for our fortieth wedding anniversary. We bought ourselves a new HD TV.”
“Wow, nice. Look, I’ll try to make this quick, so you can get back to your dinner. You talked to my partner, Deputy Spanney, but I just wanted to touch base with you as well. Have you had any burglaries prior to this one?”
“No, that was a first for me. I know other people who have, so I never keep much worth stealing out there, but my shotgun. Now, it’s gone.”
“Hopefully, it will be recovered.”
“That would be real nice.”
“Anything else you can think of that would help us?”
“Golly, can’t say as I do.”
“Do you remember seeing a black Mercedes in the area?”
“No, I’d remember a Mercedes. You don’t see too many ’round these parts.”
“That’s true. I met your tenants.”
“Oh,” he said. “Good renters, both of ’em.”
“Do you run credit checks before you sign the leases?”
“Yep. Phillip Warner suggested I do that.”
Phillip was a local attorney—Adriana’s old boss.
“Tell me what you know about Bobby Lopez.”
“He had good credit. I’m not sure how long he’s gonna be there because he wanted a month-to-month, and that was okay by me.”
“Did you ask for a former address?”
“It’s on the form. Want me to get it for ya?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
While he was retrieving the paperwork, Peg told me they had four more rental properties in the area. I wondered if all that rent could afford them a new sofa. People are funny with what they choose to spend their money on. I admit I’m tight with mine, but I haven’t had frayed furniture since… well, since Adriana insisted I buy new furniture four years ago. Okay, not that long ago.
Chester photocopied the lease applications for both his renters. Bobby Lopez had listed his former address in Bel Air, California, and although the form had space for three references, he’d written only one.
“Al Gore?” I said.
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure he really knows him, but he paid for four months in advance and that was all the reference I needed.”
“Okay then,” I said.
I left Mr. and Mrs. Brooks to their tuna hotdish, then stopped at the department to sign out and turn in my vehicle. Because I hadn’t eaten since early morning, I stopped at Save Rite to pick up a prepackaged salad and the biggest steak they had.
While the coals were heating up, I sat on my back deck enjoying a beer when a blonde wearing short shorts appeared on the deck of the house across the alley from me. If binoculars wouldn’t be too obvious, I would have retrieved them to get a better look. That house had been vacant for months… and presto—now I have something to look at. I grinned and took a pull of my beer.
She was facing me but acted unaware I was there. She took out a phone and made a call. She laughed, then went inside. Jesus, I’m pathetic—a voyeur watching the hot neighbor woman.
I had just finished cleaning up the dishes when my cell phone rang. I looked at the display—my mother.
“Hey, Mom.”
“How are you?”
“Busy.”
“Were you gone?”
“Yeah, I was in Vegas and Minneapolis looking for Hawk. No one’s heard from him in ten days.”
“You didn’t find him?”
“Nope. I don’t know what to think.”
“Barb is beside herself.”
“She called you? You knew I was in Vegas?”
“Yes, and she was counting on you bringing him back.”
“He wasn’t in Vegas.”
“Then why did you go out there?”
“Look, Mom, I have to go.”
“Oh, okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, sweetie.”
“Get a job. Volunteer.”
“Oh… ha-ha. Bye now.”
I turned on my computer and Googled Robert Lopez; I got over five million hits. Common name it seems, and I knew he wasn’t the songwriter or the golfer.
I checked with the DMV database. He’d had a Minnesota Driver’s License since April. That must have been when he moved into Chester’s house. I turned to NCIC, the national crime database for law enforcement, to see if Lopez had a record. There were several hits, but none seemed to be the Bobby Lopez I met.
Chapter 8
May 23
Eleven days missing.
The early morning light filtered through the slats of the blinds, casting stripes across my bedroom. I rolled over to spoon Shannon, but my body only met the bunched-up comforter. I hated the moments when I realized she was no longer there.
I rolled out of bed. Sunrise—time to run. I put on shorts and a T-shirt and looked for Bullet. Then I remembered he was still at Shannon’s, and I’d have to drop by and pick him up. She doesn’t get to have him when I’m home.
When I rounded Sixth Street, I noticed a tall, blonde woman running a block ahead of me. Could be my neighbor. Her ponytail was swishing back and forth in time with each stride. I increased my speed, but she was really trucking, and I didn’t catch up until the Northwoods Coffee Shop parking lot. Must be six o’clock because the front door was just being unlocked by one of the employees. The woman went in. I felt for the emergency five bucks I kept in my pocket. When I entered, I headed directly to the bathroom to rinse the sweat off my face and arms. Then I went to the order station and ordered the coffee. A lemon scone could push it past five bucks.
The blonde and I were the only customers. I sat at a table three away from her and in her line of vision. She ignored me while she read the newspaper for fifteen minutes. I finally asked myself what the hell I was doing and jogged home.
After I got back, I showered and dressed, then flipped on the TV to watch the news as I ate my breakfast—three packets of instant oatmeal. Michael Hawkinson was not yet in the news, but that would change today with the news of his car being found. I had to get
hold of Cat before the media did.
She answered on the third ring.
“Sorry if I woke you, but you need to know Hawk’s car has been found in Birch County.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Where?”
“On an abandoned farm place.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“It means something. Do you think he’s… dead?”
“I don’t think anything right now. I have a meeting this morning with the sheriff, and we’ll discuss how to proceed.”
“But it looks bad. Doesn’t it?”
“Cat, I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you. I just wanted you to know before you saw it on TV.”
“Thank you for that anyway. Will you call me after your meeting?”
“I’ll try.”
Sheriff Patrice Clinton and Spanky were waiting for me in the large conference room on third floor across from the Investigations Office. Patrice was an attractive, trim, strong, well-spoken woman—the first woman sheriff of Birch County and politely said, a hands-on type of manager.
She wanted to be updated on the particulars of the burglary case. When wrapping up, Spanky said, “I think it’s related to Cal’s missing friend.”
Patrice cradled her head of dark hair with her hands. “Because his vehicle was found three miles away?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Cal?” she asked, removing her hands and leaning back in her chair.
“Could be.”
“Well, let’s give your friend’s missing person’s case a number.”
As I put a case number down on the form, a lump appeared in my throat. This was real. My buddy was really missing.
“Why has this gone on so long before someone took charge?” Patrice asked.
“We didn’t know if he’d made it back to the Cities or not,” I said.
“And now we know he didn’t” she said.
“Think is more like it. We don’t have…”
“A body,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“I can’t afford a massive search party without more information.”
I stared at her. “What can you afford?”
“Let’s use our new canine unit and our reserve equestrian team out near where his car was found. I’ll authorize it this morning. Is your friend into anything illegal?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He has a great job, a big house in Eden Prairie, a pretty wife.”
“This pretty wife hasn’t noticed any evidence of drug use or hidden financial problems?”
“I will ask again.”
“Has she been notified?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a big life insurance policy? Affairs?”
“I’ve thought of all that, plus more.”
“More?”
“His father-in-law is a powerful business guy.”
She cast me a quizzical look. “How powerful? Mafia powerful?”
“Probably not, but he fashions himself as a tough guy.”
Her eyebrows furrowed dismissively. “Well, while we’re searching for Mr. Hawkinson, I suggest you ready yourself for Victoria Lewis’s trial next week. Oliver Bakken wants to meet with you ASAP.”
“Shit.”
“Did you forget it was on the docket?”
“No, it just came up fast.”
“I should think you’d want to get it over with.”
I nodded. The trial meant Troy Kern and my ex-girlfriend, Adriana Valero, would be in town to testify. Just what my struggling marriage didn’t need.
Victoria Lewis was the daughter of a mega-rich business tycoon named Adam Lewis. My ex-girlfriend, Adriana Valero, had been married to Lewis for a few months. Not knowing her connection to Adriana, I’d briefly dated Victoria when she first moved to town to work at one of her father’s newspapers, The Birch County Register.
Victoria was a sociopath who wanted her daddy’s attention and admiration—and would do anything to get it—like orchestrate anonymous threats against her own person. She paid some fool kid to shoot a hunting arrow through my apartment window nearly missing us—Victoria and me—so she could get a newspaper story about the incident. Also, she got off on frightening and retaliating against those whom she perceives as having done harm to her or her daddy. My ex, Adriana, was one of those people. Victoria dumped paint on her BMW convertible and burned her house to the ground. We had enough evidence against Victoria to arrest her and bring her to trial.
Since Troy and I investigated all these cases, we would be called in as witnesses. Oliver Bakken could have added filing false police reports to the mix, but he was only prosecuting Victoria on fraud, vandalism, and arson. Because of my “entanglement”with her during the newspaper threat incidents, it was going to be tricky businesses.
I wasn’t exaggerating when I said she threw herself at me, and I was hooked by her beauty and sexuality. Our relationship was brief and ended once I saw her for who she was. She had a thing for cops and had duped several of us, including our very own Spanky. While she was in town secretly harassing Adriana, she hung out with him—reeling him in up to his bobber. He didn’t know who she really was because she went blond, had some plastic surgery and assumed her roommate’s identity—Sadie Jones. He’d be called as a witness in her trial. He’d made the arrest. In hindsight, he was the wrong person to bring her in.
“Oliver thinks it’s a shoo-in, ” Patrice continued.
“Oh, that’s not a good sign,” I said. “Oliver does better when he’s unsure about a case.”
“He doesn’t think she will even show up.”
“She may not. She could be hiding out in France with her aunt,” I said.
“I think it was ballsy to bring her to trial anyway.”
Spanky said, “Matt Hauser says the attorneys her father hired are so slick they slide through the courtroom like greased pigs.”
Matt was a deputy assigned to courts since he was hired twenty-six years ago. He could pretty much call the jury verdicts.
“It’ll be interesting,” I said.
My first order of business was to obtain warrants for Frank’s Plaza and Wells Fargo for the film footage of their security cameras. Both businesses said they still had the discs for May 12 and would have just handed them over, but it was always best to follow legal protocol.
After getting Judge Olann’s signature, I stopped at Frank’s Plaza on First Street and Highway 51. I found Anton Frank in his office. He smiled and shook my hand.
“How’s it going,” he asked.
“Good, and you?”
“Great, great. I suppose you’re here for the discs?”
“Yes. Did you view them?”
“Didn’t have time.” He handed two over. “One is for the camera behind the cash register, the other is above the pumps,” he said.
I smiled. “If one gives us something, I’ll have to keep it as evidence,” I said.
He nodded. “No problemo. Have some coffee or soda before you leave,” he said.
He offered free beverages to all law enforcement officers.
“No, thanks. I have to get back to work.”
“Sorry about your friend. Tamika is bummed she’s not on the case.”
Of course she is.
“She’ll be involved.”
Tamika was his wife and the other full-time investigator. He was white, she was African American; he was five-foot-seven, she was five-eleven; he was 140 pounds, she was 170; he was forty-eight, she was thirty-eight—and they were happy.
“Tamika said the odds of finding your buddy alive aren’t good at this point.”
“No… well, I better be on my way.”
You know how
you can complain about a family member, but if someone else does, you get defensive? That was how I felt about hearing Hawk’s chances. I wanted to believe he was okay. But after eleven days, I had to face it—the statistics weren’t in his favor. But Hawk wasn’t a typical victim. Was he into something bad, or was he an innocent victim of a random crime?
I then drove one block to First Street and Wells Fargo Bank and picked up their disc, which showed footage of the ATM. I was thrilled they still had the recording of May 12 on disc.
Tamika, Spanky, and I each grabbed one of the three discs. Spanky took the ATM, Tamika took the inside camera at Frank’s Plaza, I had the gas pumps.
Tamika said, “Anton’s looking mighty handsome behind the register.”
“Good to know,” I said.
I scrolled through the black-and-white recording to May 12, then down from 9:00 a.m. Frank’s had two rows of four pumps. The camera was mounted on the top of the middle of the canopy over the pumps for a full view of all vehicles. When I got to May 12, at 11:13, Hawk’s Mercedes pulled up to pump number five. I know the number because that’s the one I liked to use.
“Here he is getting out of the Mercedes.”
Spanky and Tamika came to take a look. He was wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a long-sleeved dark T-shirt. We watched together as Hawk slid his credit card into the slot, pressed a button, and began pumping gas. A light-colored van pulled up behind Hawk.
A white male with long hair exited the slide door of the van and tried to pump at six without using a credit card. He was wearing a sleeveless light-colored shirt and dark shorts.
Spanky said, “He’s going in to pre-pay with cash.”
Tamika said, “He’s a big dude. Looks like he’s a body-builder. Look at those tattoos covering his arms and legs.”
“That’s a lot of ink,” I said.
“That’s a lot of man,” Tamika said.
Spanky and I frowned at her.
“What?” she said.
When he returned from the store, he moved in close to Hawk and spoke to him. Hawk said something to the guy.