“I talked to Ivan’s girlfriend, Rachel Connelly. Nice woman. She’s got money. Ivan was a photographer.” Spats waited for me to connect the dots. “Apparently, Eklund’s up-and-coming. He takes lots of nature photography; it was all over the house. He’s good, too.”
“And?”
I leaned forward, the chair sighing again, accentuating my next words. “He also takes portraits, graduation pictures, family photos, that kind of thing.”
Spats leaned forward as well. “And pictures of little kids?”
I nodded. “Supposedly he’s taken pictures of Logan Pickett as well.”
Spats rubbed his eyes. “Porn?”
“Not that the girlfriend knows, but I’m not willing to shut the door on that yet. Tara’s going to work on Eklund’s laptop soon. I told her to speed it up.” I tapped my desk for emphasis. “I want to know what this guy was doing.”
“Me too.”
“And get this. Gary Pickett has been spending a lot of time checking out militia groups on the internet.”
“Not usual, but not illegal.”
“True. I suspect he wanted to keep that hidden, and that’s why he didn’t want to surrender his laptop. He mentioned something in some emails about keeping ‘it’ a secret, and that no one needed to find out. I want to know what that secret is. I’m going to look into Gary some more.”
“Gary would’ve been better off saying what he had on the laptop and just giving it to you. Resisting only makes him look more suspicious.”
I nodded again. “What have you found out about Gary and that gun shop? I found out the owner’s name is John Merrick. We’ll need to have a talk with Merrick, but I want to go in prepped.”
“I’m working on it, Speelmahn.” He held up a finger. “I got a hold of Logan’s grandparents. Audra’s mother–Lucy–was pleasant enough, but got choked up when discussing Logan. She’d been holding out hope that he’d be found, of course. When Audra called and said Logan was dead, Lucy said it was the worst news imaginable. We talked for a while, and in the conversation, she mentioned that she didn’t like Gary.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, she was pretty forthcoming with that. She said she never understood why Audra married him, that he was nice at first, but he was verbally abusive to Audra, that he ordered her and the daughter around. Lucy didn’t outright say that Gary might’ve kidnapped and killed his son, but there was a trace of suspicion in her voice.”
“Bitter and angry at Gary? Looking for a scapegoat, someone to blame for her grandson’s death?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he did it.”
“Did she say anything about Audra having a drinking problem?”
“I asked about that in a few ways, and nope, at least as far as her mom knows, Audra doesn’t drink much at all. Lucy also said that the divorce was pretty contentious.”
“What about Gary’s parents?”
“I talked to his father, Ken. Of course he’s sad about Logan, and he didn’t understand why Audra hadn’t kept a better eye on Logan. Overall, Ken thought Audra was a good mother, and he was a bit sorry they’d divorced. He also agreed that it was a bad divorce, but he thought Gary should’ve gotten custody of Logan. He’s proud of Gary, says that he had a tough time when he got out of the Marines, but he’s really turned it around.”
“A different view of Gary, depending on who you talk to.”
“Yes.”
“Did he think either one has a drinking problem?”
“No. And I called the real estate client that Audra talked to on Saturday, and she said they’d had a nice talk.” Spats held up some papers on his desk. “Other than that, it doesn’t appear that Audra made any unusual calls lately. I’ve been looking over her internet searches, too, and I don’t see any red flags.”
Just then, Ernie ambled into the office. “I’ve got something,” he announced, then sank into his chair.
“Spill it,” Spats said.
“I’ve been following up on Audra Pickett’s neighbors, on some of the interviews that were taken right after Logan was kidnapped. To a person, they can’t believe something like this would happen in their neighborhood. And the ones who’ve heard about that man who killed himself are even more stunned. From their perspective, Audra was a good mom, and a bunch weren’t too fond of Gary. He complained about Audra a lot, said she wasn’t good with Logan, but none of the neighbors saw that.”
“Did any of them hear Audra and Gary fighting, or either one drinking too much?”
“One of the next-door neighbors sometimes heard fights, but no one knew anything about drinking problems.”
“Has anyone heard a car that backfired around the time Logan disappeared, or when the night he was murdered?”
He shook his head. “Negative.”
I frowned. “Too bad. That’s probably a dead end.”
“Get to the good stuff,” Spats urged.
Ernie grunted. “Hold your horses.” He gave a small smile. “You’re not going to believe this. There’s another kid in the neighborhood who saw something the night that Logan was kidnapped.”
I sat up. “Who?”
“One of the neighbors told me about a Mrs. Frawley, who’s got a daughter, Bev, a teenager who’s developmentally delayed. Mrs. Frawley told the neighbor that her daughter had been talking about Logan.”
“Where do the Frawleys live?”
“Down the street from Audra.”
“You talked to Mrs. Frawley?”
“Sure.” Ernie shrugged. “Mrs. Frawley was a little hesitant to talk. She’s protective of her daughter. She says her daughter is scared, and she’s not sure it would be a good idea for us to talk to her. I pushed Mrs. Frawley a bit, and she said maybe later, that her daughter was at an appointment. We should go talk to Bev. Get her before she forgets anything.”
I stood up. “I’ll go talk to her.”
Ernie held up a hand. “I need to go. I’ve already got the mom warmed up. You’ll have a hard time if you go alone.”
“Fair enough.” I beckoned to him. “Let’s go.”
He sighed. “I just sat down.” He groaned dramatically as he heaved himself to his feet, then followed me out the door.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hello, Detective Moore,” a slender woman with brown hair said as she let us into her foyer. She held out her hand to me. “I’m Donna Frawley.”
I shook her hand and introduced myself.
“Mrs. Frawley,” Ernie said deferentially. “We’d like to speak to your daughter.”
“We’ll be as careful as possible,” I tacked on.
She hesitated. “Okay, but please don’t upset her. I heard that Ivan killed himself, but Bev doesn’t know.”
“We won’t say a word about that,” I assured her.
She finally relented. “Bev’s in the family room.”
Mrs. Frawley led us down the hall to a large room with a TV, couches, and a chair. Sitting in a large school desk–the kind that was a combo chair and desk–was a frail girl with blonde hair. She had a pencil in her hand, and she was writing on a big notepad, her brow furrowed with concentration. She looked up when we entered the room. She had the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen, and they couldn’t hide the fear at the strangers in her midst.
“It’s okay, Bev. These two people want to ask you a few questions.” That didn’t seem to allay Bev’s fear. She glanced away, the pencil still in her hand, the eraser end shaking.
Mrs. Frawley gestured for us to move into the room. I took a seat on the couch and let Ernie take the lead. A pleasant cinnamon odor drifted in from the kitchen, and I saw a rack of cookies on the counter.
“I didn’t do anything,” Bev said in a small voice, then repeated, “I didn’t do anything.” She used the pencil to push some crayons that sat near the notepad.
“It’s okay, honey. You’re not in any trouble. When we get finished, you can have a cookie.” Bev didn’t acknowledge that. Mrs. Frawley played nervously with her hair, then glanced
at me. “I was afraid this might happen,” she whispered. “She doesn’t need the disruptions. I try to keep her on a routine.”
Before I could say anything, Ernie moved carefully toward Bev, and I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to make his big frame seem smaller. While he was still a fair distance from the desk, he got down on one knee. He reached for a toy doll with red hair that was on the floor near the desk. Bev sucked in a breath, and Ernie let his hand fall to his side.
“That’s a neat doll,” he said, his voice calm. “Does she have a name?”
Mrs. Frawley and I kept quiet, and let Ernie talk to Bev.
She scrunched up her nose. “Alice.”
“May I hold her?”
Bev glanced at him, her chin tucked into her chest. Then she gave a small nod. She had to be fourteen or fifteen, and yet she was so childlike.
Ernie picked it up. “She’s got a pretty dress on,” he said as he turned the doll around in his hand. “What color is this?”
“That’s not a dress,” Bev corrected him. “That’s a skirt.”
Mrs. Frawley covered her mouth with her hand and murmured to me, “I taught her the difference between a skirt and a dress.”
If Ernie heard her, he didn’t act like it. He nodded thoughtfully at Bev. “Now that you mention it, you’re right about that. It’s a skirt, and I see that she has a pretty flowered shirt.”
“You can comb her hair too.”
“Can you show me?”
Ernie held out the doll. Bev hesitated, then set her pencil down and took the doll. “You take it like this, and you do this,” she said as she picked up a small plastic comb from the floor and ran it through the doll’s hair. “See, now she’s got pretty hair, like mine.” Mrs. Frawley smiled again.
Ernie rubbed his chin. “You did a great job. She’s beautiful. Do you have other dolls?”
She nodded shyly. “I have two others.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he said. “I have a daughter who likes these kinds of dolls.”
That got Bev’s attention. She tipped her head shyly and blinked at him. “You like dolls?” she asked.
Ernie nodded as he sat down cross-legged on the floor, closer to her. “I know a lot about dolls. I know that you can dress them, and wash and comb their hair. I know some of them cry, and you can give some of them milk with a bottle.”
“You can do this with them,” Bev reached out for the doll and Ernie handed it to her. “See, you can take a hat and put it on her head.”
Ernie looked as if he’d never seen that. “That is really neat. Hey, may I take your picture with that? I want to show my daughter.”
Mrs. Frawley hesitated, and I put a hand out to stop her. I mouthed for her to wait a moment, then whispered, “He’s just trying to make her feel more comfortable.”
Ernie was on a roll. I didn’t know he was this good with kids, all his gruffness gone. Bev glanced at her mother.
“It’s okay,” Mrs. Frawley said, then gave me a look that said Ernie had better know what he was doing.
Ernie pulled out his cell phone, focused on her, and leaned back. “Hold the doll up and give me a good smile.”
She did as instructed and threw him a big crooked smile. Ernie pretended as if he had snapped her picture, but I could tell he didn’t actually take it. So did Mrs. Frawley, and she visibly relaxed.
“He takes my picture too.” Bev said.
“Who does?” Ernie kept his voice casual, an even tone.
“That man down the street. Ivan. He’s my friend.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Frawley quickly explained. “Ivan Eklund. He took portraits of the kids at the school, and I hired him to do some of our family.”
“Oh yeah?” Ernie smiled at Bev. “He took your picture?”
She pointed to the fireplace mantel, with a framed photo of her sitting on the front porch. “He took that.”
He craned his neck to see. “May I take a closer look at it?”
Bev nodded, pleased that he wanted to. He got up with more agility than I’d seen in him in a while. He hefted up his pants and picked up the photo.
“This is really nice. You’ve got a beautiful smile.”
Bev gave him another crooked smile, just like in the photo. “Thanks,” she said shyly. “My friend Ivan took that. He takes lots of pictures of me.”
“Not that many,” Mrs. Frawley blurted out before I could stop her. I didn’t want her to interrupt Bev’s flow.
Bev shook her head at her mother. “Ivan takes lots of pictures of me,” her voice was emphatic. “He takes pictures of the other kids in the neighborhood too.”
“Oh,” Ernie said, his tone still level. I glared at Mrs. Frawley so that she would remain quiet. Her eyes were wide in surprise, but she seemed to get that we needed information from her daughter. He put the picture back and moved toward the desk. “Who else besides you?” he asked.
She concentrated hard. “I know that boy Terrell, and Logan. And some other kids, but I don’t know their names. They’re mean to me. Except not Logan and Terrell. They’re nice to me.”
Mrs. Frawley wiped at her eyes, but kept quiet.
“When did you see Logan?” Ernie was still casual, his tone warm and inviting.
“The other day. The night sponge was on TV.”
“SpongeBob Squarepants,” Mrs. Frawley whispered.
Ernie must’ve heard that. “Were you outside that afternoon?” he asked Bev.
She nodded. “I was sitting on the front porch.” She glanced at her mom. “It was okay, right?”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Frawley said. “You asked me if it was okay, and I said yes.”
Bev looked back at Ernie. “My mom said it was okay,” she repeated. “Logan ran from Terrell’s house down the street.”
“Did you see Logan go to his house?”
“No, but I saw Ivan.”
I felt myself tense, but Ernie kept at the questioning in his easy manner.
“Where was he?”
Bev glanced toward the hallway, as if she were looking out front. “He was sitting in his car.” Again she pointed, as if she were outside. “He was at the corner. I saw him for a minute. Then I came inside.”
“Where did Logan go?”
“I don’t know.”
“What kind of car was it?” Then Ernie realized she probably wouldn’t know that. “What color was it?”
“Blue. It’s a pretty color.”
“Blue, like this?” He picked up a dark blue crayon from her desk.
She shook her head. “Like that.” She pointed to an abstract painting on the wall that had lighter blue streaks in it.
I wondered if Terrell had seen the same blue car. I knew he’d described a loud bang that could’ve been a car backfiring. Could it have been Ivan’s?
Ernie seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Did the car make a sound, like a loud bang?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear the car. I just saw Ivan at the corner. He was taking pictures of the boys. He likes to take pictures of us kids.” She pointed at the mantel again. “He took that picture of me.”
Ernie nodded. He got down on his knee. “You don’t remember anything else about Ivan’s car?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’ve never been in Ivan’s car. Mommy told me never to get in anyone’s car, even if I know them.”
He nodded encouragingly. “That’s good. You want to be safe. Did you ever feel scared around Ivan?”
“No, he’s my friend. He takes my picture.”
Ernie glanced at me. I sensed what he did. We were losing Bev. We’d probably gotten all we were going to from her.
“Ivan was friends with the other kids, right?” he went on. Bev stared at him. “Did Ivan play with the kids?” He danced carefully around the issue.
“I don’t know. I saw him take pictures.”
“Did you talk to Terrell or Logan about Ivan?”
She drug her foot along the carpet caref
ully. “I don’t think so. He took pictures, that’s all.” She pursed her lips. “I have to finish my work.” She picked up her pencil again and began drawing on the notepad.
“Thank you so much for talking to me,” Ernie said. He smiled as warmly as possible and stood up. Bev concentrated on the paper.
“That’s right, honey, you finish your drawing,” Mrs. Frawley said. “I’m going to talk to these people, okay? Then you can have a cookie.”
Mrs. Frawley gestured, and we followed her into the hallway, where she could still watch her daughter and talk to us.
“Have you heard of Ivan taking pictures of the kids from afar like that?” I asked in a low voice.
She shook her head. “Ivan takes portraits. You saw the one of Bev. That’s all I’m aware of, and I don’t recall any of the neighbors saying that he did anything else, either. It’s news to me that he might’ve been watching the kids.” She shuddered. “Was he a pedophile?” She glanced at her daughter. “Oh my gosh.”
“We don’t know that yet,” I said. “He doesn’t have any record.” It probably wouldn’t help to say that. I knew the rumor of Eklund being a pedophile would spread through the neighborhood like wildfire.
“Did Ivan kill Logan?” Mrs. Frawley asked.
“We don’t have any evidence of that,” I replied.
“I can’t believe it,” Mrs. Frawley said. “Ivan was the nicest man. He was kind to my daughter, and from what I hear, to the other kids too.”
Of course, I thought but didn’t say. That’s how you reel the kids in.
We thanked Mrs. Frawley for her time, and Ernie and I headed outside.
Chapter Fourteen
“Follow up with Oakley on his investigation,” I said to Ernie as we walked to our cars. “I want to see Eklund’s phone records. We need to track down who he was talking to, and I want to know more about him in general, what the neighbors thought of him, what he was like. Oakley should have a report.”
“All right.” He jerked a thumb toward the Frawley house. “What’d you think?”
I opened my car door, then pushed stray hair out of my face. “Eklund drove a blue car.”
“That’s what went through my mind when Bev said she saw a blue car.”
Deadly Connections Page 9