Come and Get Me

by August Norman

  “Ouch, my title even. Guess that means we’re not getting sushi tonight.”

  That was Jim’s joke. They’d met for “sushi” four times but had never actually gotten around to eating a meal together. The man had two kids, two ex-wives, and one of the most stressful occupations in America. Time was a commodity neither of them wasted.

  “Sorry, I’m in southern Indiana, and I’m not alone. You’re on speaker.”

  “You could have led with that.”

  “I know, but I like playing with you. Know anything about female remains found in Jackson County, Indiana, either yesterday or the day before?”

  “I do not.”

  “But I bet you could impress a girl if you wanted to.”

  “You know I could. Solo con mis manos.”

  “We’re two thousand miles apart. What can you do with that big brain of yours?”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  The connection ended. Caitlin caught the look of admiration on Lakshmi’s face.

  “That’s right,” Caitlin said. “I know an FBI agent.”

  “Sounds like you know him rather well.”

  Caitlin smiled. She wasn’t exactly a bombshell, but she’d attracted a fine range of intelligent men like Jim in her past. Had she used them for information, sex, and cocktails? Damned straight.

  “Talk to me about the local law enforcement,” she said. “I bet you know the name of every official who’s been involved in Angela’s disappearance.”

  “I do. It started with Bloomington PD. Detective—”

  Caitlin put her hand up again. “Not yet. My point is, there are multiple agencies involved, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Each with their own territory. Why would they tell us anything?”

  Lakshmi’s eyebrows went up. “Because we’re the press?”

  Caitlin lowered her window. High sixties out, a handful of clouds, nothing dark. “Not at this stage we’re not. We’re an annoyance they don’t have time to deal with. Do the people in Angela’s case like you?”

  “Like me?”

  “How much do you call them, Lakshmi? How often?”

  The girl shifted in her seat. “Probably too much.”

  “Who’s the lead detective, which agency?”

  “His name is Jerry Greenwood, Bloomington PD.”

  “Got the number?”

  Lakshmi got out her phone, tapped on the saved contact, started the dial.

  “Whoa—we’re not using your phone.”

  Caitlin dialed the digits into her own phone, moved the call to speaker, got an automated directory.

  “You’ve reached the Bloomington Police Department—”

  Lakshmi leaned over. “He’s twelve-fifty-five, but I get his voicemail every time.”

  Caitlin pushed zero and put a little country in her voice for the female receptionist. “Sorry to bother you, but this is Cheryl over at Bloomington Tire. I’ve got a cell phone here that I think belongs to Jerry Greenwood. Is he in the office?”

  “Hold, please.”

  A ringtone replaced the operator’s voice until a male answered, “Greenwood.”

  Caitlin hung up.

  Lakshmi’s jaw dropped. “Did you just prank-call a detective?”

  “Start the car. They didn’t find Angela Chapman.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “What have we learned?”

  The girl gave a little laugh. “That he dodges my calls.”

  “More than that. One, he’s on the clock, and two, he’s at his desk. You’re an aspiring journalist: How do I know he’s at his desk?”

  Lakshmi took a second before she smiled. “Because you told the receptionist you had his cell phone. She would have patched you through to his voicemail if he wasn’t in the office. Now we know he’s at work. So what?”

  “How many homicides, or even missing persons cases, does Bloomington have each year?”

  “Not many. Two, three at the most.”

  “If the lead detective gets a break on a two-year-old case with more national attention than he’s ever likely to have again, he’s not going to be sitting at his desk.”

  “How can you be so sure, Caitlin?”

  “Do you know the Picasso napkin story?”

  “The artist?”

  “Goes like this: Picasso’s at a garden party. A woman asks him to draw her portrait on a napkin, something she’ll gladly pay for. He takes the napkin, draws for thirty seconds, hands it back, says, ‘Five hundred francs.’ Outraged, the woman says, ‘Five hundred francs? You drew that in thirty seconds.’ Picasso says, ‘Yes, but it took me thirty years to be able to do that portrait in thirty seconds.’ ”

  “That’s a great story. Is it true?”

  “Who knows—did you miss the point?”

  Lakshmi reached for the car’s ignition but stopped when Caitlin’s phone rang. “Is it Greenwood?”

  Caitlin answered; let Martinez show off.

  “Your lady in the woods appears to be one Frances Danforth, buried in nineteen fifty-five. Hunters digging a latrine brought her up. Impressed?”

  “Very,” Caitlin said. “That’s the kind of skill that got you promoted to anti-terrorism.”

  Martinez paused for enough time for her to validate her guess.

  “Let me know when you’re back in town, hermosita. I’ll neither confirm nor deny your inference in person.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  She hung up, pointed to the road.

  “Back to school, Anjale.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  THE NEED TO return Lakshmi to her car gave Caitlin a polite out but also left her facing an inconvenient truth. With access to a rental, she could easily drive down to Tapp Road. It was fifteen minutes to one, and her only appointment was dinner with Mary and her husband; she had plenty of time.

  She parked at a curb, pulled up a map on her phone. Four miles south. Only two turns. She put a signal on, waited for traffic, watched the green arrow blink. Traffic thinned, then disappeared altogether, but Caitlin’s rental didn’t move an inch.

  She closed her eyes, exhaled.

  Troy Woods won’t be there. The building might not even be there anymore.

  She opened her eyes, unbuckled her seatbelt, took another deep breath.

  Her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number but answered like she’d won a contest. “This is Caitlin Bergman. Thank you for calling.”

  The unfamiliar male voice gave a slight chuckle. “Did you just thank me for calling?”

  She flipped her turn signal off. “Sure did. Who is this, by the way?”

  “Detective Jerry Greenwood from the Bloomington Police Department, returning your call.”

  That made it Caitlin’s turn to chuckle. “Good afternoon, Detective.”

  “Couldn’t help but wonder why a Los Angeles–based reporter would be in Bloomington and looking for me on a Saturday.”

  “Sorry about that—dialed a wrong number.”

  “’Course,” the man said, nothing but charm in his voice. “Since you’ve got me, anything you want to talk about?”

  Caitlin tapped on the steering wheel. By five short minutes, poor Lakshmi had missed a chance to grill the detective who sent every one of her calls to voicemail. Couldn’t hurt to meet the man, maybe feed the girl some insider info before leaving town. Plus, Caitlin needed to do something about the pool of acid attacking her stomach, or she’d never make the drive south without barfing in her rental car.

  “I was about to grab a bite to eat, Detective, and cops always know the best places. Have a recommendation?”

  Greenwood took a second. “Lennie’s on Tenth. Gourmet pizza and microbrews.”

  Caitlin smiled. “Interesting choice. I used to wait tables there.”

  “What’s that word,” he asked, “Serendipity? I figured a big city reporter had called through the switchboard to see if I was in the office and assumed the next step would be a surprise int
erview; thought I’d call you back and beat you to the punch before I ducked out for a salad. Care to grab lunch with a man you met from a wrong number?”

  * * *

  Detective Jerry Greenwood scanned the room for less than two seconds before approaching Caitlin’s table with a smile. From the slight gray in the temples of his otherwise full head of short brown hair, Caitlin guessed the tall, decent-looking man was in his early forties. She saw a cell phone holstered on the belt of his slacks, but no badge or gun.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” he said, taking a chair. “I hate eating alone. How long are you in town?”

  “Short trip,” she said. “I leave tomorrow afternoon.”

  A waitress stopped by. Caitlin ordered a beer and a sandwich. Greenwood went for an Arnold Palmer and a teriyaki chicken salad.

  “No pizza, Miss Bergman?”

  Caitlin shook her head. “Late night only. What’s your excuse?”

  “Spend a lot of time on the phone at my desk. Not a great way to work off dough.”

  Caitlin didn’t see any spare dough on the man.

  He reached for a water in front of him. “About that wrong number.”

  “Meaning you didn’t leave a cell phone at a tire store?”

  “Not lately, though wouldn’t have put it past me two years back.”

  “Angela Chapman?”

  Greenwood’s dark eyebrows went up. “No, another reason entirely. To tell the truth, Miss Bergman. I’ve been expecting your call for years.”

  Before Caitlin could parrot his years, the waitress returned with the necessary liquids. Greenwood laced his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for her departure.

  “You wouldn’t remember me,” he started. “I grew up here, went to Bloomington South, came back after the police academy. Even knew Troy Woods—well, his family. Older sister dated my brother in high school.”

  Caitlin reached for her beer but barely processed the taste. Jerry Greenwood commanded her full attention.

  “I was a twenty-three-year-old patrol officer when Woods attacked you. My girlfriend at the time was Melissa Hartman. Later became my wife.”

  Caitlin didn’t remember Melissa, but the last name got her on her feet. “Your father-in-law is Connor Hartman?”

  Greenwood rose to meet her, a hand out. “I married Melissa. Chief Hartman came with her. Not something I’m particularly proud of.”

  “So when I called—”

  “You made a big impression at your graduation.”

  “When I said I was here to ‘finish that story,’ ” she said, nodding. Connor Hartman, a real son-of-a-bitch, had controlled the Bloomington Police Department in the spring of her senior year, and here was his son-in-law, worried about the implications of three simple words. Apparently two decades changed nothing. A voice inside said, Run.

  Caitlin made a beeline for the door, heard Greenwood behind her.

  “What about your lunch?”

  “Get it to go—shove it up your ass.”

  He followed her outside. “Miss Bergman, wait. You stay; I’ll pay for lunch and leave—least I can do.”

  She spun in the middle of the parking lot. “Your department did the least they could do twenty years ago.”

  Greenwood’s confusion looked genuine. “Hey, you called me. I thought you wanted to talk about this.”

  Caitlin took two steps backward, bumped into her rental, her inside voice telling her to run once again, in primal, survivalist pleading, not caring that rational-adult-boss-bitch-reporter Caitlin Bergman had interviewed sleazy politicians and cartel hit men, even faced down men with guns, all without breaking a sweat.

  “Wow.” She slapped her hand on the hood, took a breath, centered herself like a professional. “Connor Hartman’s son-in-law was the last person I expected to meet today.”

  “By marriage only, Miss Bergman. Like I said, I fell in love with the daughter, not the man. When you called, I assumed—”

  A pizza delivery car paused in the lane between them. Greenwood stepped back onto the sidewalk, let the driver pass. “Wait, did you call about Angela Chapman?”

  Caitlin crossed her arms. “What if I did? Would you have called me back?”

  Greenwood walked through the lane, stopped at the passenger side of Caitlin’s car. “You kidding? An award-winning journalist wants to look into a two-year-old disappearance that’s stumped my entire department, the state police, and the FBI? Why would that bother me?”

  “I can’t tell if this is sarcasm, Detective, but I’ve known some police officers who keep their investigations private.”

  “I’m not saying I wouldn’t normally do just that, but that girl’s family could use help from someone like you.”

  Caitlin shifted her hips. “I’m not officially working on the story.”

  “Just curious?”

  “A student asked for advice.”

  “Bet I can guess which.”

  Greenwood pulled twenty dollars and a business card from his wallet, left them on the hood. “Let me say this. I’ll be glad to help any way I can, whether your story is set in the past or the present.”

  Caitlin watched the detective walk away, then went back inside and asked the waitress for a to-go box, even though her appetite wouldn’t come back anytime soon. No way she was driving down to Tapp Road now. She retreated to her hotel room, smoked the last of Scott Canton’s pot, and passed out.

  * * *

  At seven PM, she found Mary near the back of a Chinese place with a slightly plump but good-looking man of the same age with his own full head of red hair.

  He got up from the table. “The great Caitie.”

  Caitlin put out her hand, but he pulled her near. No real surprise, Lubbers had found herself a hugger.

  “Ease up, Aaron,” Mary said. “Caitlin’s not as touchy-feely as we are.”

  Aaron Gaffney squeezed harder. “Never too late to start.”

  “Honey, please.”

  On his release, Caitlin took a chair. “Never apologize for your creepy, touchy-feely love.”

  Aaron sat, nuzzled his wife. “I know we don’t have long, but tell me every horrible thing you know about Mary.”

  Lubbers hit his arm. “I’ve told you everything I’ve ever done.”

  Caitlin looked at her friend’s happy eyes and her friend’s husband’s happy eyes, and wondered if her own eyes had ever looked that happy. She knew the answer in the instant. Not since college. She found a smile.

  “What have we got—a night? I might have to leave out Panama City.”

  Mary laughed. “Don’t you dare. I’ve been told there’s a monument in a Florida bathroom devoted to me. Well, at least to my boobs.”

  Caitlin started the tales and forgot all about the body in the field, the police chief’s son-in-law, and the missing student.

  CHAPTER

  8

  BY ELEVEN THIRTY, Aaron had them back at Caitlin’s hotel.

  “This is stupid.” Mary threw her arms around Caitlin’s shoulders. “I haven’t seen you in twenty years. We should drink more.”

  Aaron had avoided intoxication. “Babe, you know I’ve got golf tomorrow, right?”

  “Boo,” she said. “You’re no fun, Gaffney.”

  Caitlin surprised herself. “My room’s got two beds. Sleepover, Lubbers?”

  They released Aaron, bought another bottle of wine, and stumbled back to Caitlin’s room.

  Mary fiddled with a liquor store corkscrew. “What time’s your flight?”

  “Noon.” Caitlin unwrapped a pair of plastic cups. “Figure I’ll leave by nine.”

  “You’re not making that.”

  “I don’t really want to.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “I have a signing this week.”

  Mary poured them each a cup. “No, you don’t.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No,” Mary said, not quite as a challenge, but Caitlin knew she’d been caught. “I talked to your publicist. You’ve got not
hing for weeks. Plus, you told me you’re between contracts, right?”

  Caitlin nodded, took a sip. Her editor at the paper had given her a three-month window for book publicity. She could still pitch stories, but he wouldn’t assign anything until she returned to full time. Between her savings and the recent film rights sale of Fallen Angels, she could afford time away.

  “What about your rape thing?”

  “What about it?”

  “Caitie, you made a damn speech, freaked out the chancellor and everything. You’re here to ‘finish that story’—remember? Are you saying you wrapped that up?”

  “Not exactly.” Caitlin doubted getting high and passing out in her hotel room counted as closure. “First off, calling what I said at the Q&A a speech is a tad generous. Words just came out in the moment. I never had an actual plan. I thought I’d come for the diploma, hang with you, sell some books, and if there was time, maybe go back to the place it happened and tell the rocks to screw themselves, maybe journal about the whole thing, but that didn’t happen.”

  “You should stay until it does, Caitie.”

  Caitlin looked up at her old friend, saw the same expression of trust she’d counted on years ago. “Sure. I’ll just drop a few grand on soul-searching. Not sure how much you know about publishing, but books don’t exactly bring in lottery money.”

  “I’ve got a place you can stay for free, as long as you want.”

  “I’m not going to impose on you and Aaron, Lubbers.”

  “Think I want your single ass in my sex palace? You can’t handle the noises I make. I’ve got a house south of campus—my place before Aaron and I shacked up.”

  “You kept it?”

  “Hyphenated my name, kept my one-bedroom cottage. My marriage is great, but a little extra space never hurts.”

  Caitlin knew she could take her diploma back to LA in the morning, lose herself in some new assignment, even meet up with Jim Martinez for some sushi—all without ever having to feel as out of control as she had at lunch with Detective Greenwood—or as nervous as she’d been watching a turn signal blink. She could go back, run away … again.

  She swirled the last inch of wine in the hotel’s plastic cup, reminded of her father’s favorite saying, something he claimed came from a pack of gum. He’d mumble his silly mantra every time he had to choose between doing something the easy way or the right way. Under a set of jack stands or a leaky sink, with a roll of duct tape in hand, she’d hear his nickel philosophy.