“I got a call from one of Travis’s friends…one of the idiots he works with.” Leon winced, recalling his painful familiarity with those idiots. “I guess…after your fight with Travis, his cell phone fell out of his pocket. They found it, thinking they’d give it to him at work today, but no one’s heard from him. And he’s not answering his home phone.”
“Rachel, maybe it’s nothing.”
“No! It’s all over the news, too. They’re saying it’s part of the…epidemic of missing people. All professionals. What’s going on, Owen?” She pinched her fingers into his arm as if digging for enlightenment, rationality.
“I’m not sure. They’re probably…not related cases, at all.” More lies. His gut told him so. “Everything’s going to be all right. Have the police talked to you yet?”
“No, not yet. They want to talk to you, Owen. Why?”
“I really don’t know. I truly don’t.”
Her voice lowered to a near growl. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this. Tell me, Owen.” She slapped her hands onto his chest, but unlike last night, anger—not ecstasy—drove her. “Tell me. Say it!”
Leon pulled her hands down, restraining them against her sides. “I swear to you—to God—I had nothing to do with Travis’s disappearance. I didn’t. It’s like I said. Travis pummeled me, and then I came immediately to your place.”
“You’d better be telling me the truth. You’d better be…”
“It’s the truth, Rachel.” Not that it mattered. Not any longer. He saw the seed of doubt planted, the most insidious of weeds.
The lunchroom door swung open. Sidarski strolled in, an uncharacteristic robust color brightening his cheeks. Behind him, Capshaw stood on tiptoes peering around the detective. “Hello, again, Mr. Gribble.” Sidarski flicked a cutting-edged smile then dropped it just as quickly.
“Detective Sidarski.”
“And you’re…Rachel Sturm? Hello, Ms. Sturm. I’m Detective Brian Sidarski with the Barton Police Department.”
Rachel nodded and dabbed her eyes with her palm. “Do you have any news about Travis?”
With a weary sigh, Sidarski sat down. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Capshaw positioned himself in front of the vending machines, pretending to study them. “Mr. Capshaw?” said Sidarski. Capshaw snapped to attention, always ready to be of assistance when it came to anything Leon-related. “I won’t be needing you any longer. Thank you for your time.” Visibly outraged at his dismissal, Capshaw slammed the door on his way out. “I see you two know each other.”
“We work together, Detective,” said Leon.
“Of course you do. Mr. Gribble, I’d like to speak with Ms. Sturm alone, and I’ll need to speak with you as well.”
“I’ll be here. Anything I can do to help.”
Sidarski checked his watch, taking his sweet time, before he said, “Tell you what, Mr. Gribble. I’ve several other visits to make today.” He shoved a card into Leon’s hand. “I know I gave you a card before.” Out of the corner of his eye, Leon saw Rachel gaping at him but didn’t dare look her way. “Here’s my work address. Why don’t you come down and talk to me at the station when you get off work?”
Leon accepted the card and dropped it into his pocket. He dove his shaking hand after it to still the tremors. “What does this mean, Detective?”
Sidarski looked flustered, possibly for show. “I’m sorry? Oh! No, no, you’re not under arrest or anything, Mr. Gribble. I just need to talk to you, and I’m short on time this afternoon.”
“Fine. I should be there about…five-thirty or so.”
“Sounds good. See you later.” He remained silent, staring at Leon with impassive eyes. Leon left, slowly walking past the windows, hoping to gauge Sidarski’s—and more importantly, Rachel’s—mind-set.
Even as Rachel spoke to Sidarski, she stared at Leon. Glowering at him.
Chapter Fourteen
“Toby,” yelled the mullet. “You got a call. You’re supposed to take it at the foreman’s desk.”
Cody’s rubber glove split at the thumb when he snapped it off. He wiped his hands across his coveralls as he made his way to the desk, his apprehension growing.
Who the hell’d be calling him at work? He had no friends to speak of, and no one from his past knew where to find him, especially with his new name.
The phone’s hold button blinked at him, a crimson warning sign. Raising his voice over the monotonous roar of machinery, he said, “This is Toby.”
“Sorry, hello? You’ll have to speak up.”
“I said, ‘this is Toby!’ Who’s this?”
“Yes, hello, Mr. Grainger. This is Detective Brian Sidarski. Maybe you remember me from yesterday?”
“Yeah, I remember you.”
“Mr. Grainger, could you do me a favor and come see me at the police station later this evening, say around six?”
“What’s this about?” Cody propped his elbow onto the paint-covered desk, cupping a hand to his ear to ensure he heard the cop right.
“I’d just like to chat with you. Nothing more.”
“Am I under arrest or something?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” A long uncomfortable pause. Too long. “You may be able to help us with a case.”
“What if I can’t make it?”
“Then…I’ll send down a couple of uniformed policemen to escort you here. I hope to avoid such a scene. It really isn’t necessary. And I’m sure you don’t want that.”
“Yeah, whatever. So you won’t even tell me what this is about?”
“I’d, ah, rather not do it over the phone. I just want to talk to you.”
“Guess I ain’t got no choice. I’ll be there at six.”
“Thank you. You know where we’re located?”
“The Barton P.D.? No, but I know how to Google.” Cody hung up without saying goodbye. Shit. What do the cops want?
He worried it might be about the severed head again. Or maybe it was about Garber. But if it were, they wouldn’t contact Cody, no way. Right?
For a moment, he considered leaving work, going home, packing, and blowing town. Then again, no one forces Cody Spangler’s hand. And LMI wouldn’t leave him hanging in the wind since he was doing their goddamn work for them.
Cody went back to his press, working hard on an alibi for last night. Just in case.
* * *
As Leon sat in the Barton Police Department lobby, he straightened his pants cuffs for lack of anything better to do. The woman at the front desk reminded him of someone’s Bible-thumping aunt rather than a police officer. Whether she suffered from a nervous tic or her disapproving clucks were aimed his way he couldn’t discern, but every time she clicked her lips, Leon started. On occasion, she’d look up from shuffling papers and shoot Leon a dour look, one that screamed, I know what you’ve done.
Whenever the back door opened, Leon anticipated Sidarski calling him forth into his inner chambers. Instead, uniformed policemen shuffled by him, an endless pageant of blue. At first, he took comfort in their indifferent glances, nothing to worry about. As time crept along, though, he found himself wondering if they were trained to maintain stolid faces to keep perpetrators off-guard.
The coffee pot across the lobby hissed. A single black bubble burped to the top of the murky liquid. He poured himself a cup, saw how thick it looked, and tossed the cup into the trash bin. The woman cleared her throat and pointed toward a sign on the wall, 50 cents a cup.
“Sorry.” Finding no change in his pockets, he deposited a dollar bill by the coffee set-up. His smile went unnoticed as the woman busied herself licking her fingers and collating papers.
The interminable wait continued, felt like hours. When Leon checked his watch again, only minutes had ticked by since he’d last looked.
Obviously, Sidarski wanted to talk about Travis’s missing status. And what did happen to Travis? Travis wasn’t the sort to leave town of his own volition, not when he had something to prove b
y winning back Rachel. And he was financially secure. People just didn’t abandon such situations.
Leon tossed around various scenarios, each one darker and more troubling. No matter how many different ways he reasoned through it, he ended up with one inescapable conclusion—things didn’t look good for him. Maybe not so much for Travis, either.
The door opened again, banging into the wall with an authoritative thwack. Standing with one hand against the door, Sidarski clutched a coffee cup like a life preserver in his other hand. A manila folder looked perilously close to slipping from underneath his arm. Who knew what information might slip out of the folder? “Mr. Gribble? Hi. Sorry to keep you waiting. Thanks so much for coming down. Follow me, please.” Sidarski favored Leon with a small bow as he waved him in.
“Not a problem, Detective.” Leon stepped into the narrow corridor. On the right, several doors hosted rippled glass windows, impossible to see through. Dim lighting touched on tarnished plaques hanging on the walls. Judging by the architecture, Leon guessed the building had been constructed in the forties and hadn’t seen a facelift since. Of course, he had no point of reference, this being the first police station he’d set foot in. He hoped it’d be the last one, too.
“Straight ahead then turn right, Mr. Gribble.” Two men couldn’t possibly walk down the hallway side-by-side. Leon suspected Sidarski offered him the lead to disorient him, pushing him into uncharted territories. It worked. Leon’s collar suddenly felt two sizes too small, inhibiting his ability to swallow.
They entered an even darker hallway. A small, single lamp dangled from the ceiling, painting the walls with a dull cone of yellow. Leon passed a large window looking into a nearly empty room; Sidarski stopped. “Let’s go in here.” Sidarski navigated around Leon and opened the door. Once inside, Leon’s teeth clenched together when he heard the unmistakable click of a lock being secured. The snap of a mousetrap. “Have a seat.” Sidarski jutted a thumb toward a metal table bolted to the floor, four chairs surrounding it. Leon slipped into a chair. It didn’t budge when he tried to scoot it back. He felt pinned between the table and, of course, Sidarski.
“Detective, isn’t this room usually reserved for people under arrest? I mean, from what I’ve seen in movies?” Desperate fingerprints smudged a nearly wall-length mirror, obviously the other side of the hallway window. A phone with a short cord—not much longer than a pig’s tail—hung next to it, an antiquated camera attached to the wall above it. Florescent lights bathed the room with unnatural white illumination. One of the bulbs flickered off and on, sizzling like frying bacon. Leon shuddered from the frigid temperature, at least twenty degrees colder than the lobby. Trapped in a meat locker.
Sidarski stood next to Leon for a moment, his belly perched at Leon’s eye level, before sitting down. “Oh, sorry about the accommodations, Mr. Gribble. We’re a small station, and most of the offices are under renovation…finally. Anyway, this is really the only room available right now for an interview.”
“It looks like something out of an old film noir.”
“Oh, you like film noir?”
“I do. Usually this is the part of the film where the police bring out the rubber hoses and phone books.”
Sidarski released a small snort. “Well, this may look like something out of the fifties, Mr. Gribble, but I can assure you I’m a very modern detective. Don’t think there’s a single phone book in the station, let alone a rubber hose.”
“Reassuring.”
“As much as I enjoy the film noir of the forties and fifties, I have to say I think the true golden age of cinema was from the late sixties until about the mid-seventies. When all the walls were kicked down.”
“So, pretty much ending with the advent of disco? I guess I’m an old-fashioned cineaste, myself. Give me the forties any day.”
“Huh.” Sidarski’s slip of a smile vanished, never a good sign. “Ouch. Looks like quite a scuffle you had.” He gestured toward the bandage under Leon’s eye. The tip of Sidarski’s tongue dipped out and drew back in as if anticipating a bountiful feast.
“Well, you should see the other guy.”
“Believe me, Mr. Gribble…I’m looking for the other guy, but until he’s missing for forty-eight hours, my hands are tied. Can’t search his house, nothing.”
Leon forced a strained laugh. “Detective, I’m joking. I’m sure you know by now Travis Bergenstein beat me up last night.”
“So I’ve heard. Still, humor me. I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
“Look, Travis Bergenstein is not a good guy. He’s an abuser. He—”
“How do you know this?”
“His girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, Rachel Sturm. She told me he abused her, beat her. And she has bruises, cuts…wears scarves and long sleeves to cover them up.”
“Uh-huh. So she just told you this.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, continue.” Sidarski wiggled his shoulders against the chair as if settling in for a fireside story.
“There’s not too much to tell. Rachel’s afraid of him. He made threats—”
“What kind of threats?”
“He said she’d never be free of him. Said he’d get her. For God’s sakes, Detective, he choked her when she tried to break up with him!” Leon waited, hoping Travis’s animalistic behavior would dredge up compassion from the detective. Yet Sidarski remained a blank slate. “Rachel was scared. I suggested she get a restraining order.”
Sidarski snatched out his notebook and began writing. “Will Ms. Sturm corroborate this, Mr. Gribble?”
“I’m sure she will.” At least, Leon thought she would. After Sidarski’s earlier visit, she’d refused to talk to him the rest of the day. “Rachel was hesitant. Many abuse victims are. Sometimes they refuse to act against their offender for various reasons—fear, shame, or a misplaced sense of loyalty and love.”
“You seem to know a lot about abuse.”
“Psychology was an understudy of mine at school, Detective.”
“What school?”
“Harvard.”
“Mm-hm. Tell me, Mr. Gribble, in your opinion…what reason did Ms. Sturm have for choosing not to act against Mr. Bergenstein?”
Without hesitation, Leon blurted out, “Fear.”
“You seem awfully sure.”
“I am. Last night, I stupidly thought I could talk to Travis on Rachel’s behalf. I thought I could reason with him. Ask him nicely to leave her alone.”
“Yeah? How’d that work out for you?”
“Believe me, I didn’t want a fight. He hit me, beat me, kicked me until I was on the ground, and continued to go at it. Travis’s buddies almost joined in. Talk to Travis’s co-workers. I didn’t touch him!”
“I already have. A couple of them verify what you’re saying. Others? Not so much.” He juggled his hands in the air as if weighing conflicting evidence.
“What…what’d they say?”
“They said you’re sleeping with Travis’s girlfriend…excuse me, ‘ex-girlfriend’…and you went there looking for a fight.”
“That’s not true.”
“Which part isn’t true?”
“I…what?”
“Which part isn’t true? You going there for a fight? Or you’re sleeping with Ms. Sturm?” A smirk crossed Sidarski’s face.
“Detective…” Leon floundered for time, unsure as how to answer the question. “I did not go there to fight. Just to talk.”
“What about their other allegation?”
“When I confronted Travis last night, I wasn’t sleeping with Rachel.”
“Okay, fine. What happened next?”
“I picked myself up off the ground and went to see Rachel. To tell—”
“To sleep with her?”
“No! I went there to tell her what happened.”
“And then you slept with her.” Sidarski leaned forward, nearly conspiratorially. “No judgments are being made here. I’m simply after the truth.”
�
�Yes…I slept with her last night, but…it’s not why I went there. And it was the first and only time.” Leon rubbed his temples, hoping to relieve the pressure building in his head.
“Fine. Ms. Sturm verified your story.” He tossed the manila folder on the table in front of him. “So…you have an alibi.”
“I didn’t know I needed an alibi. Should I call a lawyer?”
“Hm. Maybe you can call Travis Bergenstein to represent you. Good lawyers are so hard to find.” Sidarski flashed a grin. “However, no, a lawyer’s not necessary. Yet. I’ll let you know when it’s time for a lawyer.”
Leon said nothing, afraid to say anything.
Sidarski opened the folder, plucked out three photographs and placed them on the table. He tapped the edges until they aligned into a perfect, anally-retentive row. When Leon looked at them, his throat went dry. He tipped his chin to his chest, hiding his swallow. Sidarski pointed at Travis’s photo. “We both know who this is.” He moved onto the next. “Rebecca Sturgeon. Pretty woman. At least she once was. Do you recognize her, Mr. Gribble?”
“Yes, she’s the woman whose head was found in the Missouri River. I saw it on the news.”
“Yes, the news.” Sidarski sneered as if the practice of journalism had no place in his world. “Did you know her?”
“No. Never met her.”
“Uh-huh.” Sidarski rapped his knuckles on the third photograph without lifting his gaze from Leon. “And this one? Do you know who he is?”
“No. Should I?”
“This is John Smeltzer, the missing stockbroker. Now does he sound familiar?”
Leon inhaled then let out a breath of recognition. “Okay, yeah. I thought I recognized the name. He’s the man you asked me about earlier. You received a phone call claiming I drank with him the night of his disappearance.”
“That’s right.”
“And no, I’ve never met him. Never heard of him until your visit.”
“And what do these three people have in common, Mr. Gribble?”
Other than their murders are making my life a living hell? “They’re all missing…or dead.”
Secret Society Page 17