Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  The bus had picked up growing numbers of passengers as they traveled through the outskirts. They wore coats in somber shades. Some wore hats. He waited until they had all stepped off before sweeping down the aisle, his eyes scanning the empty seats in the hope a hat or gloves had been left behind. He didn’t find anything he could use.

  Buses were lined up at an angle, front sections nestled under a canopy that did little to stop the cold wind and rain from stealing his body heat.

  He hustled into the bus station.

  It was an oddly shaped area with a concession stand and a line of ticket windows. Posters on the walls showed artificially glamorous images of the destinations serviced by the city’s transportation system.

  Rows of metal seats were filled with people looking off into the middle distance, all desperate not to make eye contact with fellow travelers.

  He consulted a giant Greyhound timetable with tiny print. He’d missed the bus to Dallas.

  In a corner were two payphone booths. One was empty, the phone made obsolete long ago by the irresistible force of technology. The other had a phone covered in stickers and graffiti. The handset dangled by its metal coated cord.

  He picked up the handset and cycled it on and off the cradle a couple of times until he heard a dial tone.

  Satisfied the phone would work, he headed for the concession area, and toured around the small tables, searching for paper and a pen. The smell of grease excited his stomach, but he shoved the thought to the back of his mind. He had no money for burgers or fries.

  A teenager in a yellow shirt and hat watched his every move. Hallman smiled at him and left. They didn’t have what he needed.

  The ticket windows sealed the staff away from customers. Even if someone back there had a pen, they were unlikely to lend it to him.

  An automated lottery ticket machine stood in one corner. An empty chain next to the blank tickets showed someone else before him had also needed a pen. He searched the floor around the machine and found a small pencil in the dust behind it.

  He took a lottery ticket form and returned to the payphone. He found enough change to make a call and dialed his brother’s cellphone.

  “Shane?” Thomas Hallman’s nasal voice was unmistakable because of the slight lisp he’d developed as a kid.

  “Yeah.”

  “You out?”

  “Just made it into the city. Bus station, like you said. You found me a place?”

  “Yeah. A Dollars & Cents store. The reference number’s 888 4798. Go north to Independence, turn right. It’s about a mile.”

  Hallman jotted down the reference number on his blank lottery ticket. “You couldn’t find anywhere closer?”

  “You haven’t been allowed to walk a mile in a straight line for the past five years, and you’re complaining?”

  Hallman sighed. “It’s cold.”

  “There’s a few shops nearby. I sent two hundred.”

  “Two hundred?”

  “Should get you a coat and a Greyhound ticket to Dallas.”

  Hallman shifted his weight. “You couldn’t make it a little more?”

  “Two hundred will get you a ticket and a hot meal. You’re getting out of Kansas, remember? It’s what we agreed.”

  Hallman breathed in and out. “I… I just need to do one or two things.”

  His brother’s voice hardened. “Not just no, but hell no. Everything bad that’s happened in your life has happened because of the people you mixed with in Kansas.”

  Hallman grinned to himself. If only Thomas knew the whole story. But he was useful right now, so Hallman let him think he was a Good Samaritan. Hallman intended to play the poor sap for all he could get.

  “’Kay brother, but the Dallas bus has already gone. I’ve got to stay over one night at least.”

  “Two hundred,” Thomas said firmly.

  “Three would make it easier. I haven’t slept in a decent bed for five years.”

  His brother gave a big sigh.

  Hallman waited. One thing a guy learns in prison is how to wait.

  Eventually, Thomas spoke. “Okay. Three hundred. A coat, a hot meal, a hotel, and the first bus to Dallas in the morning. No messing around. No booze, no drugs, no nothing.”

  Hallman smiled. “You’re a good one, brother. What would I do without you?”

  “Once you get to Dallas, I’m not going to give you the chance to find out. You’ll do everything I say, and I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

  “You got it, brother. See you tomorrow.”

  Hallman hung up. Three hundred wasn’t much. Not for his plan. But he’d manage. He always did.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday, November 27

  3:00 p.m.

  Denver, Colorado

  Jess received a call from Denver PD after lunch. As Carter suggested, they had apprehended a suspect in the carjacking and wanted her help with a lineup. They didn’t have to ask twice. She arrived at the low, modern building on Forty-Ninth Street early.

  The receptionist made a call to Detective Leon Treseder. Jess relaxed slightly because she knew him. Thirteen years earlier he had been a beat cop in a squad car when Peter was abducted. He’d been kind to her then when she needed it most. Occasionally since then, their paths crossed. He never failed to ask how she was and how the search for her son was going.

  A minute later he arrived.

  Treseder was a hulking figure, a six-foot linebacker with a buzz cut in a close-fitting suit. She braced herself for his handshake, and then recalled that he had a light-but-firm touch. “Nice to see you, Miss Kimball.”

  “We’ve known each other way too long for that, Leon. Call me Jess, please.”

  He grinned. “You got yourself in the headlines this time, Jess.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Walsh are grateful.”

  She shrugged to brush off the compliment.

  He paused a beat. “Any news?”

  She offered a flat smile. “You mean about Peter? No.”

  “Stephenson still on the case for you?”

  She nodded. “I’m glad to say he is.”

  Brentwood Stephenson was the private investigator Jess had hired to lead the search for Peter eight years ago.

  They’d connected well from their very first meeting. He was a genuine southern gentleman, educated, refined, and courteous. He managed to pull off this feat without sounding patronizing or like he was mired in the past.

  That wasn’t why Jess had hired him, though she did appreciate his manners. With thirty years in the Dallas PD, there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen, and he knew how to pace himself on long cases. His phone calls were always measured affairs. Even when he had a tantalizing possibility to report, he was careful to frame it against the background of the search for Peter that had lasted well more than a decade.

  “He’s a good man,” Treseder said. “You heard he found the guy they called the camping killer from his bank records?”

  Jess nodded. “After twenty years. Pretty impressive.”

  “Good detective. Nobody better for your situation, in my view.”

  Stephenson was a good investigator. Every few months he reviewed every person who had any connection to the case. He watched for disappearances, unexplained wealth, and of course, criminal convictions. He chased down every lead, even though they’d all gone nowhere.

  One day all that work would pay off. She hoped.

  Treseder got back to the lineup. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go.”

  He led her through to a dimly lit viewing room. Dark drapes covered the window into the identification room.

  “I’m guessing you know the drill, but I need to give you the full instructions.” He pointed to a tape recorder. “Everything you say is recorded. It may be used in a trial.” After that, he ran through a list of dos and don’ts.

  When Jess confirmed she understood, he left the room to organize the parade of potential suspects. />
  Treseder’s comment about her being in the headlines was a useful reminder to let Stephenson know what had happened today. She was in the headlines, which always brought attention to her search for Peter. A moment after she sent him a summary of events, he sent back a note thanking her for the update and to say she should be cautious about the possibility of hoaxes and scams, as usual.

  Detective Treseder returned. “This is a double-blind test, meaning I don’t know the identity of the suspect. So it’s all up to you.”

  She nodded, and he opened the drapes.

  Jess peered through the glass. The identification room was brightly lit, the contrast in lighting between the rooms made her invisible to the seven men seated in the lineup on the other side.

  Jess frowned. “Are they going to stand?”

  Treseder shook his head. “Seated reduces differences in height. Sorry. Standard practice here. But if there is one you feel particular about, we can ask him to stand.”

  Jess passed her gaze across the figures. All seven had blond hair that covered their ears and, in some cases, reached their shoulders. One man’s hair draped down his back. Jess ruled him out, the man she had seen had long hair, but not that long.

  One man had a large nose that she felt she would have noticed, so she ruled him out, too.

  The remaining five had different facial features, but in the few moments she had glimpsed Mr. Walsh’s attacker, she had barely seen the man’s face.

  Five possibilities. She wouldn’t guess. Lawyers had told her there would be no negative evidentiary impact if she failed to make a choice. But if she misidentified an innocent person, that could be used effectively in the suspect’s defense.

  She cast her mind back to the intersection where the man got out of the Toyota. She saw the blond hair first, and all five of these men had blond hair. He was thin, and they were all thin.

  “Could I see them walk?” she said.

  Treseder pursed his lips. “It’s not standard. We’d have to lead them out and let them walk one at a time. Do you have one you’re considering?”

  Jess looked at the seven men and shook her head. She glimpsed a tattoo and inched closer to the glass. “Can I see the backs of their necks?”

  Treseder keyed a switch and spoke into a microphone. The men turned around. Three of them had tattoos.

  Three.

  “Ask them to show me their hands, please.”

  He asked. The same three guys also had tattoos on their hands.

  She studied each man, imagined him climbing out of a car, swinging a punch. She did it again and again. Each of the three, again and again.

  “Anything?” Treseder asked.

  She shook her head as she looked through the glass one last time. “I can’t say for sure. The man had tattoos. One on his neck. More on his hands. But between the three with tattoos… I can’t say.”

  She turned her gaze to Treseder. His face was impassive, as it should have been, but it pained her that she couldn’t identify the suspect.

  She breathed a long sigh. “Maybe something will come to me later.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Monday, November 27

  4:00 p.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Hallman arrived at the Dollars & Cents store shivering and soaked. Despite the cold, he walked the block either side twice before going in. The area wasn’t the best, but he didn’t see anyone hanging around on corners or in doorways. There was no point in picking up his money only to get mugged as he returned to the street.

  The temperature inside the store was little better than outside. There were a few uncomfortable plastic chairs and a counter at the back. The counter was shielded by thick glass and wire mesh. A small hatch allowed money to be passed back and forth. A microphone and speaker hung over the gap at the top.

  Behind the glass, a man in a red coat watched him idly. A name tag stitched into his coat identified him as Frank, which could have been his first name or his last.

  “I’ve come to collect some money,” Hallman said.

  Frank sneered. “Wow. There’s a surprise.”

  After five years in prison, the sarcasm rolled off Hallman’s back. “I have the number.”

  Frank grunted and pushed a clipboard through the hatch. A pen and a small form were clipped to the board. “Fill it in.”

  “Wow. There’s a surprise.” Hallman mocked as he picked up the pen.

  Frank said nothing.

  The form was simple. Boxes for sender’s name, recipient’s name, and the reference number. Hallman had memorized the reference number. He pushed the completed form through the hatch after a few moments.

  Frank typed on a computer keyboard and stamped the form. He laid out ten twenties on the counter. “Count them.”

  “Should be three hundred.”

  Frank glanced at his computer screen. “Nope. Two hundred.”

  “I talked to my brother. He changed it to three hundred.”

  Frank worked the keyboard a moment and shook his head. “Two hundred.”

  Damn Thomas. Never could do anything right the first time.

  He printed out a receipt and pushed it through the hatch. “The computer doesn’t lie.”

  Hallman inspected the receipt. His brother had apparently transferred two hundred earlier in the day.

  “He only agreed to change it an hour ago.”

  Frank shook his head. “He hasn’t changed it.”

  “He told me—”

  “Don’t matter what he said. He didn’t change it.”

  Hallman scowled. “Maybe the change hasn’t come through your system yet.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So how will I know when it has?”

  “When you come back and ask.” Frank gestured to the short stack of twenties lined up behind the glass. “Count them.”

  “Ten.”

  “Bingo.” Frank assembled the bills into a pile, placed them in an envelope, and sealed it. He pushed it through the hatch. “Don’t spend it all at once.”

  Hallman wanted to punch the guy in the face, but the barrier between them made that impossible. So he stuffed the envelope in his jeans pocket and left.

  Two blocks south he found a thrift shop. He combed the rails for the cheapest coat that looked water resistant. He found a black one with a hood. He skipped the gloves. He could keep his hands in his pockets for warmth. But he grabbed a dark blue fleece hat that he could extend below his nose. He’d make two holes, and he’d have a mask.

  The coat and hat were twenty-three dollars including tax. He took the change in coins and left.

  Hallman continued walking south in the cold rain. He kept off the main roads and zigzagged between blocks and streets. He remembered the area pretty well after five years away. He only doubled back once. But he didn’t like being out in the open where he might be noticed and recognized or remembered. He knew too many people in this city. He wanted his whereabouts untraceable.

  But he needed to see Max Spinney.

  Max could talk to anyone. He had a natural way of bonding with people that led him to a life of conning. People trusted him. He’d abused that trust for profit. Until he got caught.

  He’d served his time. Four years, with time off for good behavior. After he was released from prison, he took up permanent residence on one end of the bar at the Blue Roof Tavern.

  Hallman saw the sloppy drunk as soon as he stepped through the front door. Max smiled. Hallman waved and grinned back.

  Max had gained a few pounds. His thin nylon jacket stretched around his middle over a T-shirt with a faded picture of a beach on the front. His clothes hadn’t been washed in a while. Neither had Max.

  “Shane Hallman, as I live and breathe.” Max gestured to the stool beside him. “Take a seat.”

  Hallman sat down. “Buy you a drink?”

  Max hefted an empty glass. “You need to ask?”

  The barman sauntered over. Max ordered a vodka over ice, Hallman requested tonic water.r />
  The barman left without comment.

  “You on the wagon or something?” Max said.

  Hallman laughed. “No choice. Five years at Humboldt.”

  “Right. They let you out finally.”

  “I did my time. All of it.”

  Max nodded. “That’s good. No parole. None of that halfway house crap.”

  “I’d have coped with any crap to get out earlier.”

  “You say that now.” Max arched his eyebrows knowingly.

  The bartender returned with the drinks. Hallman peeled a twenty from the cash his brother sent, and carefully counted his change.

  He waited until the barman left. “I need to find a guy.”

  Max chugged a half inch of his vodka. “Who?”

  “Earle Gotting.”

  Max frowned. “Why?”

  “We were inside together.”

  “Together?”

  “Same wing at Humboldt.”

  Max nodded. “Yeah. Right. He got out a year ago.”

  “Six months.”

  Max downed another inch of his drink. “Really? Hard to keep track of time.”

  Hallman understood Max was testing him. Max wouldn’t hook him up unless he was sure there’d be no blowback. Max had always been deeply suspicious of ulterior motives. Given his own talents as a con artist, suspicion was probably a defense mechanism.

  Max shrugged. “Haven’t seen Gotting in a while. I’ll put the word out. See if I can find him.”

  “Losing your touch, Max? You used to know everyone.”

  Max finished his vodka.

  Hallman gestured to the empty glass on the bar. “Another?”

  Max nodded. “Double would be good.”

  The bartender stared at him expectantly. Hallman nodded. The bartender poured another vodka. A larger glass this time. He placed it in front of Max and left.

  Max spoke without looking at Hallman. “Gotting drinks at Ged’s Place. A sorry little bar in a strip mall on Compton, down in Burlington.”

  Hallman didn’t know Ged’s Place, but he knew Burlington. A rough area in the south-east corner of the city. He’d watched a man get beaten to death there once.