by Mary Maxwell
“Hey, sunshine!” my mother said after the call connected. “What are you doing this evening?”
“We’re working on the invite list,” I told her. “We ran into a couple of names that aren’t familiar.”
“What are they?” she asked.
After I answered her question, my mother shouted at my father. “Do you know anyone named Arlo Spratt and Dexter Gill?”
I felt a knot of tension spring up in my stomach. Between the odd names, my mother’s spotty hearing and my father’s lack of patience for random questions while he was watching television, the innocent phone call had the potential to become a dangerous powder keg.
“Mom?” I said.
“Hold on, dear,” she said. “I’m waiting for your father to turn down the volume. He’s watching something about cars.”
“Well, before he turns it down,” I said. “I need to—”
“Yes, I’m talking to you!” she yelled. “Our daughter’s on the phone!”
I took a breath. “Mom?”
“Hold your horses, Katie! You know how he can be!”
“We all do,” I said. “And that’s why—”
“Is something wrong with your hearing?” she shouted at my father. “Please let me—“
A muffled, angry voice sounded in the background on the other end of the line.
“What does it matter which daughter?” she screamed. “Go in the bedroom and pickup the extension! Katie and Zack need our help with the guest list.”
“Seriously,” I said quickly. “I need to clarify the names before—”
“Well, you’re almost worse than your father, sunshine. Put a cork in it until he—”
“Mother!” I said, raising my voice. “The names are Arkin Pratt and Drexel Quill, not whatever you just told dad.”
The line went silent.
“Hello?” I said. “Did I lose you?”
I heard my father saying something about my sister in Denver. Then he asked my mother if she knew where he left the Tums after dinner.
“This is madness,” I whispered to Zack. “Maybe I should hang up and pretend that the call dropped.”
“What’s going on?” he asked. “It seems like a simple enough question, doesn’t it?”
I laughed. “You’ve talked to my parents before,” I said. “There’s no such thing as a simple question with those two.”
“I heard that,” my father said.
“Oh!” I gasped. “There you are!”
“Here I are,” he said with a chuckle. “What’s so important that it can’t wait until after Top Gear?”
“Do you know anyone named Arkin Pratt and Drexel Quill?”
“Your mother said it was Arlo Spratt and Dexter Gill,” he replied. “Which is it?”
I repeated the original names. Then I explained that they were on our master guest list, but Zack and I didn’t recognize them.
“Well, no wonder!” my father said. “Those are the maintenance guys here at our condo complex.”
I looked at Zack, hit the Mute button on the phone and said, “Life in the Twilight Zone. Go ahead and take them off.”
I hit the button again. My father was in the middle of a rant about a two-week cleanse that my mother insisted they both undertake the following week.
“…for better or worse,” he was saying, “and nobody ever mentioned that we’d end up discussing bowel movements and chronic constipation.”
“She loves you,” I said. “She wants you to be healthy.”
He huffed. “Well, I love her, too. But I don’t want to talk about poop.”
For the next few minutes, while Zack munched on pretzels and drank a beer, my father and I talked about guest lists, happy memories of their wedding day and his suggestions for honeymoon destinations.
“But you guys have to decide what’ll work best for you,” he said. “Just make sure your husband-to-be is aware that at some point the lovey-dovey fun fades and you’re left with stuff that isn’t all puppy dogs and rainbows. You have to deal with the hard facts of life and death.”
“And regularity,” I said, hoping to make him chuckle.
“Oh, brother,” he groaned. “Now I’ve got two of my favorite girls ganging up on me.”
CHAPTER 20
The next morning at eight, while Julia handled a steady stream of breakfast orders and Harper whirled through the dining room with a fresh pot of decaf, I slipped into the Sky High office to check messages left overnight. The first was a tipsy woman asking for Billy and then apologizing when she realized that she’d dialed the wrong number. The second message was from my mother, calling sometime around midnight to tell me that she loved me. And the third was from Tobias Armantrout. He’d called at five o’clock that morning to announce that he knew who had sold him the briefcase, but wasn’t comfortable leaving such potentially sensitive information in a voice message.
“How about sharing the name over the phone?” I asked a moment later when Tobias answered my call. “Or should I meet you at Vintage View this afternoon?”
His chuckle was warm and loud, more like a foghorn coming down the line.
“I can tell you now,” he replied. “I just don’t trust those tape recorders.”
“We got rid of the answering machine years ago,” I told him. “It’s all digital technology nowadays.”
“Trust that stuff even less,” Tobias grumbled. “You never know who might get your recording and use it for no good. There’s a lot of high-tech tomfoolery going on these days.”
“But not if we just have a friendly chat,” I said.
He muttered a few words, but they were lost in translation.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Never mind,” he griped. “I woke up crabby.”
“That happens,” I replied. “So should we get to the briefcase?”
“Arthur Kennedy,” Tobias said.
I laughed. “Well, that’s getting to it.”
“What do you want—a song and dance routine first?” he joked. “I was mighty relieved that I found a copy of the receipt that I gave Arthur Kennedy when he sold me the briefcase. Some of my older files have been damaged or lost over the years, but not that one.”
“That’s great news,” I said. “It really should help with the investigation. Do you by any chance have a phone number or home address for Mr. Kennedy?”
“Forest Lawn Cemetery,” Tobias said. “The poor guy passed away a few weeks after I bought the briefcase from him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Yeah, I was sorry to see him go,” Tobias said with a weary sigh. “Art was one of the good guys. I can still remember the day he came to the shop to unload a bunch of things from his attic. We must’ve spent four hours going through everything because Art told me little stories about most of the things that I bought. I especially remember the briefcase. Art found it in his attic, but had no idea how it got up there.”
“And it was padlocked when he brought it in?”
Tobias smirked. “Like I’d put a lock on it?”
“I’m just interested in as much detail as possible,” I said.
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to give you,” he replied. “When Art found the briefcase in his attic, it was the first time he’d laid eyes on the thing. He had no idea who put a padlock on his briefcase or why it was in his house in the first place. But he’d just received the diagnosis that his cancer was terminal and wanted to start getting rid of all the things he’d never need again.”
“Are any of his relatives still in town?” I asked.
“No,” Tobias said. “Art’s wife died during childbirth around thirty years ago. The baby was lost, too. Such a terrible tragedy. The poor man was never the same, as you can imagine.”
“Anyone else in the family?” I asked.
“His sister-in-law lived on Madison Street near the grade school,” Tobias said. “But she moved to Aurora a couple of years back when Art’s brother died.”
“They had a son,” he said. “But he went up north ages ago.”
“Northern Colorado?”
“A little further north and a bit to the east,” Tobias said. “He went up to Wisconsin for school.”
“Do you remember what year?” I asked.
“Same as the kidnappings,” answered Tobias. “He graduated from high school with the Hale girl and Caroline Whitman.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“Justin Kennedy,” he replied. “But everybody called him Little Art because he idolized his uncle so much. He and Arthur were very close when the boy was growing up.”
The revelation about the nephew of the briefcase’s original owner sent my mind into overdrive. As Tobias shared a few more heartwarming details about Little Art and his uncle, I quickly connected a few of the dots that we’d assembled thus far in the case.
The briefcase that Tobias sold to Maureen Vinton had been owned by a man named Arthur Kennedy.
Arthur Kennedy’s nephew was a classmate of Evie Hale and Caroline Whitman.
Justin Kennedy moved from Crescent Creek to Wisconsin in the aftermath of Evie’s kidnapping and Caroline’s disappearance.
And the post cards that Caroline’s parents received after her disappearance were mailed in Madison, Wisconsin.
The next most obvious question was simple: Where was Justin Kennedy now?
CHAPTER 21
“Slow down,” Dina said when I called her a few minutes later. “This is a terrible connection, and you’re talking too fast. Is Arthur the father or the son?”
“Justin’s the son,” I answered. “He was in school with Evie Hale and Caroline Whitman.”
I heard the keys of her computer clatter in the background.
“You mentioned something about where he went to college,” she said. “Can you repeat that part?”
“University of Wisconsin,” I said. “It’s in Madison, but that’s all I know. If you’d like, I can dig into it online to see what he studied and how he performed academically.”
“Sounds great,” she said. “Do you remember when Tobias bought the briefcase from Arthur Kennedy?”
“In November 2009,” I said.
“Okay, thanks,” she replied. “Do you remember what street Kennedy lived on?”
“Not off the top of my head,” I said. “But that’s a moot point; he died a few weeks after selling the briefcase.”
“Was he still married at the time?”
“He was a widower,” I said. “He lost his wife and second baby during childbirth.”
Dina stopped typing. I waited for a moment to see if she was reacting to the news or pausing to read whatever was on her computer screen.
“That’s really sad, Katie. Did your parents know Art Kennedy? They’re about the same age, right?”
“Close enough,” I said. “I sent my mother a text right before I called you, but she hasn’t responded yet.”
“Let me know if she gives you anything useful,” Dina said.
“Of course,” I replied. “In the meantime, I also thought that I might—”
“Bingo!” Dina blurted. “We’ve got him.”
Although I guessed that she was referring to Justin Kennedy, I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant until a moment later when she announced that we had tentatively identified our John Doe.
“I think that at least one of our mysteries has been solved,” she announced. “I’m pretty sure that the body found out on Mariposa Road was Art Kennedy’s son.”
“Did you just get the results of the facial recognition?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Based on what you just told me, I searched for someone with that first and last name who enrolled at the University of Wisconsin in 2009. The results of that inquiry gave us his middle name. Then I entered Justin Alexander Kennedy into the Wisconsin DMV database and got a hit. I’m looking at his most recent driver’s license photo right now. He’s our John Doe.”
“One-hundred percent?” I said.
“Looks like it to me,” Dina replied. “We’ll obviously do a DNA test as soon as possible to confirm his identity, but the man on the license is a dead ringer for the victim killed near Cortez Trail.”
“A dead ringer?” I said, squelching a laugh. “Was that intentional?”
Dina sighed. “Oh, hell. I’m sorry, Katie. That was terrible. I meant no disrespect to Mr. Kennedy.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m just glad that we’re making some progress with the case.”
CHAPTER 22
Chuck McBride walked into Dina’s office at CCPD Headquarters late that afternoon with a Taco Tico bag and a can of Diet Coke.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said by way of introduction. “I got the oil changed on my truck this morning and didn’t have time to eat before that because Mrs. McBride forgot to set the alarm last night.”
Dina smiled. “That’s one benefit of retirement. You can oversleep without guilt.”
The retired detective laughed. “You’re preaching to the choir, Dina.”
“Well, you deserve all the perks you can get,” she said. “You gave Crescent Creek decades of service. You’ve earned oversleeping, shuffling around all day in your PJs and whatever else you choose to do.”
He nodded and turned to face me.
Although McBride retired before I moved back from Chicago, I still remembered his celebrated years as the lone detective with the Crescent Creek Police. Besides seeing the tall, muscular man around town, he was also a frequent customer at Sky High when my parents ran the business. The appearances were few and far between now that he and his wife had moved to a piece of property down near Florissant.
“You must be Kate Reed,” McBride said, walking over to shake my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said. “Thanks for driving up today.”
He put down the bag of fast food and pulled out a chair. Then he asked if Dina or I wanted a taco.
“Got plenty,” he said.
“I’ll pass,” Dina told him. “Spicy food and I aren’t getting along very well these days.”
McBride arched one brow. “Pity,” he said. “That leaves more for me and Kate.”
“I actually had something before I got here,” I said.
“Piece of your grandmother’s pie?” McBride asked. “I used to love the chocolate cream! I remember one time when I put away three slices after a full lunch.”
Dina laughed. “And you never gained any weight,” she said. “I’m envious of that ability.”
The retired detective shrugged. “It’s not exactly a meaningful skill,” he said. “Both of my parents were skinny as twigs. Must be the genes.”
“Lucky duck,” said Dina.
McBride shrugged before pulling one of the tacos from the bag, removing the protective sheet of waxed paper and then devouring it in four large bites.
“Jeez, Chuck!” Dina said. “Hungry much?”
After he gulped down the last bite, McBride drank some Diet Coke and then repeated the story about oversleeping and changing the oil in his truck.
“I’m just giving you grief,” she said. “Because I love you.”
“And because you can,” he grumbled. “But I don’t mind. I’m among friends, so I know you’ll overlook my lack of social graces.”
“Your lack of?” Dina shot him a look. “That would suggest that you ever had any in the first place.”
McBride picked up a napkin and carefully dabbed at his mouth.
“There,” he said. “Is that better? I’m demonstrating proper etiquette. You’re supposed to blot or pat your lips, not wipe them. And you’re supposed to do it a lot.”
Dina frowned. “Where’d that come from?”
“Our granddaughter,” McBride said. “She’s studying that stuff in school. She recites it constantly, so I’ve picked up a pointer or two.”
“Once again,” Dina said, “lucky duck.
”
He chuckled. “No doubt,” he said. “Now how about you fill me in one what’s going on with the Hale and Whitman cases? When we talked yesterday, you said some new evidence had turned up?”
“That’s right,” Dina said, opening the pale blue file folder on the table. “We’re still trying to understand how the things that just came to light fit together with your work from ten years ago.”
She opened the folder, removed a stack of photographs and began arranging the pictures on the table so they faced McBride. The first few showed various angles of the old leather briefcase. The remaining images documented the items recovered from inside the briefcase: the roll of gray duct tape, The Crescent Creek Gazette from July 23, 2009, the turquoise ring wrapped in a Van Halen tour T-shirt, the ransom note, the anonymous murder confession and the stainless steel hunting knife with a wood handle.
“Where did these things turn up?” asked McBride.
“A thrift shop here in town,” Dina answered. “When the shop’s owner bought the briefcase six years ago, it was locked and there was no key. It was eventually hidden away in the back of the shop behind a mountain of similarly unwanted merchandise. That’s where it stayed until a few days ago when someone decided it was irresistible. The new owner removed the lock to see if anything valuable might be inside.”
McBride grunted. “Bet she was mighty disappointed by what she found.”
“It’s not gold and diamonds,” I said. “But it could be very valuable to Caroline Whitman’s family.”
Dina picked up the photograph of the ransom note. She slipped it across the table so McBride could get a better look.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “This handwriting is identical to the ransom note sent to Caroline’s father. I have a copy of it in my things at home. None of the original evidence, of course. Just copies that I made when I retired.”
“I didn’t see the Whitman ransom note in the file,” Dina said. “Do you know what happened to it?”
McBride smiled. “Up in smoke,” he said. “I was meeting with Caroline’s mother and father about three or four days after they paid the ransom. Her mother was pretty agitated that day. When I stepped out to take a call, Mrs. Whitman picked up the ransom note, took it out of the evidence envelope and set fire to it with her cigarette lighter.”
