by Rebecca Rane
Miles was the sound engineer and editor for their podcast. Shoop and Kendra did the leg work and writing. Kendra voiced the stories. But the music, the editing of their interviews, and the laying down the underwriting billboards, that was all Miles.
“Wow, you really did get a lot,” Shoop said.
“By the time I get back, it’s going to be time for dinner with my dad, but I’m going to be in early tomorrow to start laying out episode one. Oh, and make a note, we need to interview Tim Wagy, Josh’s adopted dad. Josh is texting me his dad’s number.”
“Got it. Tell Big Don I said hi, and I’ll meet you here with coffee tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect. Have a good night.”
“You too, boss!”
Though Kendra was the boss, she viewed Shoop as her partner in the podcast. Shoop worked just as obsessively as Kendra did. She tracked down leads, corroborated facts, and in their last season, saved Kendra’s life with a pinpoint accurate throw of a hot cup of coffee.
Kendra was lucky they’d crossed paths at the television station. And luckier still that Kendra was able to land both of them at the public broadcasting station.
After a false start in the run-and-gun world of television news, Kendra had found her calling. Telling the stories of cold cases. She came alive in the archives of clues long since forgotten. She empathized with the families and friends of victims where vengeance and justice were denied.
This was what she was supposed to be doing. She knew that. But she worried that her short but highly successful track record with cold cases was giving Josh false hope that she was the right person to untangle his past. Was Art pushing them too fast into season three?
Kendra shook off her worry. She hoped that, thanks to the case files in her Jeep, they’d be okay.
There were a million things to do for the podcast, but it was time to shift gears for some family time.
Erie County was nearly two hours from Port Lawrence. Between her drive, her day with Howard Meriwether, and her drive back, she’d prefer to go straight home and crash on the couch.
But Big Don awaited for dinner. She suspected there would be a few times in the next few weeks that she’d need to put him off. Cold cases tended to devour her. Before this one did, at least she’d break bread with her dad.
Kendra pulled into Franzy’s for her weekly dinner with Big Don and her sister.
Franzy’s was owned and operated by Tony Franzy, or Son of Franzy. That was how he was known in her house.
Tony’s dad had died a few years back, and now the most popular old school steak house in Port Lawrence was his. Kendra related to what it was like to be the “son of”—or “daughter of,” in her case. Her mother was famous for being the first woman elected mayor of Port Lawrence, and her dad, well, he was Big Don.
Everyone knew Big Don, and almost everyone owed Big Don a favor or three. If her mother was joining them, Kendra would fuss with her hair or second guess her wardrobe choice of jeans, a blazer, and Chuck Taylor’s. But Big Don didn’t care what she wore or that her messy bun was more on the messy side than the bun side after a long day of work. He cared that she showed up for dinner and that she actually ate something.
She cared that he checked his blood sugar and ate a vegetable now and then. It was a constant war.
“How’s the celebrity podcaster doing?”
Tony looked as good as he smelled as he leaned to kiss Kendra’s cheek.
“I’m okay. Looks like business is good tonight,’ Kendra said.
Franzy’s was the oldest restaurant in Port Lawrence. Promotions, engagements, retirements, and special occasions were celebrated over the best steak in Northwest Ohio for over one-hundred-fifty years. You could order something else equally delicious from Tony’s now updated menu, but as Big Don said, why would you want to?
The special occasion this night was her regular dinner with her dad.
“Business is good. I thought I told you to text me when you were in the parking lot so I could walk you in.”
Under Tony’s management, Franzy’s had kept what was great about the traditional steakhouse, added to the menu, and was now expanding it to other locations. While he had a modern flair for marketing a restaurant, Kendra knew Tony had an old school idea of a woman walking by herself, anywhere.
He’d been one of the first old friends to call with alarm and admonitions after her recent run-in with a serial killing cop.
“Stop, you know that’s nuts,” Kendra said.
“Right, that’s not what I see on the news. Crossing paths with criminals on the daily,” Tony said.
“I’m fine, though finding a spot out there was a challenge, I do have to admit.”
“Yeah, it’s getting to be every night is the busy night. I’m buying the building next door to expand the restaurant and parking.”
“And you have time to worry about me? I’m honored.”
“You know you’re always number one on my list,” Tony said. He had a dazzling smile and a wink for her. She blushed, the bane of her Irish heritage. Everyone could see her turn red.
They’d dated briefly in high school, and Kendra had to admit, there was still a little spark. At least on her end. But the idea of dating Tony, and then her screwing it up, like she was sure to do, with work, or her family, or something, made her wary. Tony was a longtime friend. That was worth more to her than getting hot or heavy with the most eligible bachelor in Port Lawrence.
“But there is a list, that’s the thing,” Kendra teased Tony. He was a player and a flirt, which was another big reason that friends was the best zone for the two of them. Although, also in Tony’s favor, he doted on her dad.
Big Don had been best friends with Tony’s now deceased dad. And Tony was the son Big Don never had.
“I did say you’re number one,” Tony said. He put out his arm for Kendra.
“Lead the way.”
Kendra could have found her way on her own. She’d made the walk every week since she got out of college and started her career. A standing date with Big Don was etched in stone on her calendar. But it was nice to be on Tony’s arm, even for the quick walk to the table.
“Gilly’s already here,” Tony said.
Gillian Dillon was a newly minted officer on the Port Lawrence Police force. If Gillian and Kendra were in town, her dad expected them both to make it to dinner.
“Hey, sis,” Gillian said and stood up to hug Kendra. Where Kendra was short and Irish, Gillian was tall, blonde, and slightly Viking. Stephanie’s genes had won the battle for supremacy in Gillian. In Kendra, on the contrary, the Irish ancestry won the day, and vanquished whatever height she might have had.
Big Don reached out his hand but couldn’t easily stand up.
“I’ve got the usual going already,” Tony told them.
Her dad was steak and potatoes all the way. The sisters liked to mix things up and let Tony surprise them.
“Thanks, I’m probably going to need a box,” Gillian told him.
“What’s up?” Kendra asked.
“The missing boy case has your sister in knots, as you might imagine,” Big Don said and patted Gillian’s hand. She’d missed a few of their dinners the last few months, thanks to training in D.C. for her new role at the department.
“All hands on deck? But isn’t Lucky way out of your city jurisdiction?” Kendra asked her sister.
“They’re forming a regional agency task force. I’m heading up our Port Lawrence crew,” Gillian said.
Kendra looked at her baby sister. And saw the worry in her green eyes.
“I’ve been sort of out of the loop today with current events. Anything new? I thought it was a lost kid?”
Kendra had seen the morning news reports, but her work had taken her to the past, where she’d stayed and would stay for a while if she was going to pull off another successful season for The Cold Trail.
“No, nothing, vanished into thin air,” Gillian said. “They thought runaway or wandered away, bu
t just in case it’s not that, that’s where we come in to help. Lucky doesn’t have jack squat in terms of law enforcement.”
“How are the parents?” Big Don would understand exactly what they were going through.
“That’s the problem here. They’re non-existent, more or less. This kid had a rough home life. Was sort of taking care of himself. Dad is in prison, and Mom is in another state. It eliminates one uncomfortable conversation at least.”
“How so?” Kendra asked.
Kendra looked at her sister as she chose her words. Their family didn’t talk about their own history of trauma.
But the fact was both Kendra and Gillian had made it their missions in their adult lives to fight against the kind of hell they’d lived when Kendra was abducted.
Gillian looked at Big Don, and he nodded. From the moment Kendra had escaped, the protection had shifted from her to her parents. It was understood that they’d been through something worse than she had. They’d been through the uncertainty. Big Don gave Gillian permission to go “there”—the “there” the Dillon Clan avoided. Gillian explained her comment.
“We didn’t have to look at whether the parents did it. The truth is, we normally have to look at the immediate family first. We have to ask ourselves if we believe the mother and father. Did they hurt their child? Are they covering up for something? In this Brylon Coleman case, both have alibis. The father is incarcerated, the mom out of town. There appears to be neglect, that’s certain, but nothing violent. If we find him harmed or worse, maybe we’re talking negligence on the mom’s part. But it’s early, still.”
“Gotcha,” Kendra said.
“It’s just like when a wife or a girlfriend disappears. Authorities have to look at the husband or boyfriend first. Thanks to O.J. or Scott Peterson and the like.”
Kendra could envision the questions her parents might have faced when she was abducted. The accusations that were spoken and unspoken that came their way.
“So, you’ve looked at the parents.” Kendra realized the questioning of a victim was bad enough, but to do it with an eye toward the victim, being the monster, was even worse.
“Child abuse and child murder are the lowest of crimes, the evilest of violence,” Gillian said. “A parent who would do such a thing, the closest to the devil on earth. There are no good options. You’re either dealing with the devil, or you are dealing with someone going through hell.”
“Or both,” Kendra said.
“Yes, or both.”
Gillian Dillon had learned a lot in her short time as a beat cop and even more since she’d been back from her FBI training. But learning from a lecture or a PowerPoint didn’t put the haunted look in her eye. Doing and seeing did.
Gillian was seeing in raw form what Kendra only had to see from a cold distance of decades. Kendra put out a hand to her sister and squeezed it.
“The boy, Brylon? He’s got the best people trying to find him.”
Gillian smiled at Kendra. Gillian was adept at talking to victims. Her psychology degree, her personal background in what such cases are like for families, and her natural empathy, made her perfect for the job. Her blonde hair and sweet face also made people feel safe in her presence. She was a Barbie on the outside and an avenging angel on the inside. Brylon Coleman was lucky in that regard.
“So, what’s next for your case, Gilly?”
“Just canvassing. It’s just looking for someone who saw something. Tomorrow I think I’m instructing volunteer searchers.” Gillian raked a hand through her hair and shrugged.
Kendra’s hair was auburn like their mother’s. Her height was not like their mother’s. Kendra was short. She did her best to sit straight up and stand like a ballerina, her mother’s nagging never quite leaving her consciousness. But in the end, she was short. Gillian’s height fulfilled the promise of their mother’s long and lean DNA.
“The crusader sisters. Isn’t one of you feeling even the slightest tick of a biological clock? I’d be a damn good grandpa.”
Big Don’s hints were no longer hints. They were slabs of concrete dropped from the tops of buildings.
“After what I’ve seen lately, having a kid seems, uh, downright cruel,” Gillian said.
“I tried the marriage thing, as you witnessed,” Kendra reminded her dad.
“Fine, fine, I’ll leave my fortune to the union hall, your loss,” Big Don said, and as he did, their meals arrived.
“What’s the thinking on the boy?” Kendra asked her sister as she ate fast, knowing most would go in the to-go bag.
“Wrong place at the wrong time? There’s also a possibility he’s just lost,” Gillian said.
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’s on the spectrum. He could have wandered away, and then, well, who knows?”
“Awful,” Big Don said. “Let’s change the subject. What frozen file are you trying to thaw this week?”
Kendra hesitated; her job would not lighten the mood of the table.
“The disappearance of Ethan Peltz.”
Both her sister and her dad whistled in the exact same way.
“Up next, Jimmy Hoffa,” Gillian said, and her dad shook his head as he chuckled.
“Well, this one might not be as cold as the rest of them,” Kendra said.
“Yeah, what do you have?” Gillian asked curiously.
“A young man claiming that he’s Peltz, and a retired sheriff who’s willing to help me, not murder me.”
It came out of her mouth before she realized.
Her dad dropped his steak knife.
“If I ever see that man again, I’m going to shove this steak knife so far up his—”
Big Don was not in a position to stand for more than a minute. His diabetes had already claimed one foot. But he gripped the knife like he was a man thirty years younger and one that could make good on a threat to gut someone.
“He's going to die in prison. Sorry I mentioned it, calm down.”
Her dad shook his head again. His daughters were causing a spike in his blood pressure, as usual.
“Sounds like you’re on your way with it then. Hey, sorry, I do need to get going.” Gillian had packed up most of her dinner. “Good to see you. Hang in there, sis.” Gillian hugged Kendra and kissed their dad on the cheek.
“Can you see him to his appointment?” Gillian asked her.
“Next Monday? Yep,” Kendra answered.
Their dad was of the opinion that if he ignored his medical conditions, they’d go away. Their mother wasn’t the drive-you-to-appointments type, plus she lived two hours away in the state capital, most of the time, which rendered her useless when it came to nagging Big Don into preventative care.
Between Gillian, Kendra, and the loyal rank and file, they’d keep Big Don healthy-ish, whether he liked it or not.
Kendra and Big Don finished their meals. They managed to avoid any more discussion of work or the worst of their past. Big Don received a few friends at his table, a ritual he loved. In the back of her mind, Kendra thought about what her sister said. Talking to Margie Peltz was going to be tough but crucial.
Chapter 11
Kendra and Shoop looked at the whiteboard. Shoop wrote, Kendra puzzled it out in her mind. This was different from seasons one and two. They had the answer.
Josh, if he was Ethan, solved the mystery. He was alive. He was in Port Lawrence. Somehow, he’d been raised by another family.
If he was Ethan, that fact gave rise to a million more questions that they’d have to answer.
Kendra read the board:
Episode One – The Disappearance of Ethan Peltz. Media report lays out initial facts.
Episode Two – BIG IF Margie Peltz interview
Episode Three – I Am Ethan Peltz. Interview with Josh.
“This is enough to start,” Shoop said. She’d been thrilled by the boxes of evidence that Meriwether had provided. “Way more than we had when we started our first two seasons.”
“Still, we committed
so fast to this.” Kendra was always worried that they’d promised too much to Art, and that he’d promised too much to their deep pocket underwriter, J.D. Atwell.
“You have the script for episode one. Miles is ready,” Shoop reassured Kendra. Kendra had crafted it the night before, after dinner with her dad. “I think we got this,” Shoop encouraged.
“I hope so.”
Kendra and Shoop had decided, at Kendra’s suggestion, to mention her own case, in the beginning. Off the top. She needed to get it out of the way. It would be the elephant in the room if she didn’t. So, despite Kendra’s strong desire to be private about her past, she included it for episode one of season three of The Cold Trail.
They were ready to start, despite Kendra’s misgivings.
Shoop sat with Miles at the audio board, behind the soundproof glass. Shoop nodded in a show of support.
Kendra put the headphones on and sat on the stool in the center of the booth. She adjusted the microphone and leaned in close to the microphone shield, designed to soften the popping sound of a “p” or a “t.”
She spoke, in the same voice she was about to use to record the episode, so Miles could be sure the audio levels were set.
“This is Kendra. We’re about to tape the first episode of the new season, and this is my level check.”
Miles gave her a thumbs up. Kendra took a breath and began:
Before we begin, before I tell you what happened and what we’re trying to uncover with this season of The Cold Trail, I need to tell you what happened to me.
I don’t talk about it much. I don’t dwell on it. And I try not to let it get in the way of telling other crime victims' stories. I want the focus to be on their experiences. My goal is always to find a lead in a cold case that may bring answers, closure, and justice, if we're lucky.
But something did happen to me, and maybe, partly, it is why I want to tell these stories.
When I was a little kid, I was walking home from school one day, and I was grabbed. Kidnapped. Taken away by a stranger.
This stranger held me captive for several days. I would only learn later it was four days. The stranger wore a mask, and I never saw his face.
