by Debra Webb
“Sorry for the interruption, my secretary needed to confirm my order for lunch. So, what can I do to help?” He looks from me to Liv and back.
I go first. “Have you spoken with your client since his release from Riverbend?”
“I have, yes.” He braces his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers. “Of course our conversation is privileged.”
Liv throws the next punch. “Did he at any time mention feeling as if he was being watched or followed?”
“He did not. In fact, he insisted he was settling in well. I can tell you that he was planning to look for part-time employment to supplement his social security.”
“Have you heard from him since he disappeared?” I ask.
“I have not. If I had, I would have urged him to turn himself in so as not to waste tax payer dollars.”
How nice. The two-bit, ambulance-chasing lawyer is concerned about waste in government spending. I wish I had a nickel for every sign plastered around the city with his face and stupid logo on it. Not to mention the television and radio commercials. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The man has no class whatsoever beyond the paisley fabric he chose for these fancy chairs. Stella always loved paisley, said it was classic.
“Do you have any theories on what may have happened to him?” This from Liv.
“I believe a vigilante has taken him somewhere and murdered him. I don’t think we’ll ever hear from Joseph Fanning again unless his body is found.”
Funny he doesn’t sound torn up about it at all. I ask, “Are you speaking from firsthand knowledge about some aspect in his disappearance that we don’t know about or are you simply theorizing?”
“She asked for a theory.” He turns his hands up, his face smug. “I gave her what she asked for.”
When Liv doesn’t take her turn, I inquire, “Does Fanning have any friends or relatives who might be hiding him?”
“He has no family and certainly no friends.”
Liv doesn’t say a word. I stand. She does the same. “Well thank you, Mr. Cagle. I hope you’ll call us if you think of anything that might help us find your client.”
The attorney pushes up from his elegant chair and gives me a nod. “I certainly will. I am just as interested in finding my client as you.”
I keep the chuckle to myself. Yeah right.
We’re almost to the door when Liv turns around. “Mr. Cagle, did you hire on Mr. Fanning’s behalf a private psychiatrist to help him with transitioning back into society?”
The flinch is almost imperceptible, but I spot it.
“He mentioned wanting one,” Cagle says, “but I think he found one on his own.”
She tilts her head. “I’m sure you remember the therapist’s name.”
Cagle shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t.” He reaches for a file on his desk, a cue that he’s done answering questions. “I’ll call if I think of anything else.”
I follow Liv across the lobby. We stall at the door. The rain has stopped but two news vans are waiting outside right next to my Tahoe.
Son of a bitch. Cagle wasn’t ordering lunch. He was ordering publicity.
Detective Olivia Newhouse
“Detective Duncan!” a reporter shouts.
“Detective Duncan,” another fires, “is it true you’re treating Fanning’s case as a potential homicide?”
“Detective Duncan, just one comment, please!” the first one entreaties.
Both women rush forward, blocking our path to Walt’s Tahoe.
“No comment.” Walt grabs me by the arm and starts ushering me toward the passenger side as if I’m a victim or a witness and not a cop.
I pull away from him and storm through the line of vultures on my own. I will not allow being pregnant or confused or upset or whatever the hell else is wrong with me to rule my existence.
My partner ignores the shouts and opens the driver’s side door. The reporters crowd up to his door.
“You should give them something,” I say. “We both know they will make it up if you don’t. Or worse, take this deadbeat lawyer’s word for why we were here.”
“I hate this part,” he grumbles as he lowers his window. “Lowery,” he calls out to one of the reporters he knows fairly well. The brunette rushes forward, elbows past the blonde. “Like the chief said at the press conference earlier this week, we are treating this case like any other where foul play is potentially involved. We have nothing new to share. But we are hoping to have this case resolved very soon.”
He powers up the window, blocking out more urgent questions.
“Good job,” I say, eyes forward. “You sounded just like a politician, talking without actually saying anything.”
He chuckles. “I believe I’ve just been insulted.”
As the Tahoe reverses slowly out of the parking slot a body slams against my door. I jump. Walt hits the brakes.
The man whose face is plastered against my glass is another reporter. Don’t know where this one came from or why the hell he would ram the door. He shouts at me through the glass. “Detective Newhouse, is it true Joseph Fanning was one of your father’s patients?”
“Son of a bitch.”
I hear the words Walt mutters, feel the SUV moving once more, see the reporter’s mouth moving as he says more but I suddenly feel a million miles away. Somehow still looking on yet unable to participate in what’s happening around me.
As soon as Walt is clear of the reporters, he twists the steering wheel and guns the engine. We barrel out of the parking lot.
“He knew,” I say. The fucking lawyer knew my father went to see Fanning. “He told that reporter.”
It’s not until we hit a red light and Walt stops that he speaks. “Looks like we stirred a hornet’s nest. This is day four of our investigation. The chief mentioned both our names on day two. Why hasn’t the lawyer said anything before now?”
Good question. “What do you know about the warden?”
The light turns green and Walt removes his foot from the brake and hits the gas. “Nothing. But I’ll remedy that ASAP.”
The ache in my brain is still distant but the black dots hanging around my vision warn that I may not be able to ward off the inevitable for long. I need to do everything I can before then.
“Take me to my car. I’ll go out to the farm and start looking for any hidden files.” Even as I say the words I do not believe any of this is possible. My father would never have kept a secret like this from me. Never. He was not that kind of man. Yet, how else can what we’ve learned be explained? “You talk to the warden again and keep me informed.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Walt shakes his head. “You need to take this slow and easy, Liv. I’m really worried about how these revelations are affecting you.”
This is the one thing I did not want: to be treated as if I’m incapable or weak. “I’ll be at home, Walt. At the farm. I have the best security system on the market and it’s where I feel the most relaxed these days.”
When he still hesitates, I say, “We need to head this off before it becomes headlines. The chief will take me off the case.” I don’t have to say how this thing going public would seriously jack up my stress level.
“Point taken. We’ll do this your way, but you’re taking some food with you.”
By the time I’m in my Subaru I have a six-pack of bottled water, a bag of crackers, individual cheese sticks, apples and grapes. Walt ordered me to eat while I work and to drink plenty of water. Just outside Nashville I ran through another rain shower but it had passed by the time I reached Franklin.
As I maneuver along the driveway that extends deep into the woods before hitting the clearing that is the family farm, one of the bags falls out of the seat and bottles of water roll around in the floorboard. I can’t help but smile. Walt really does want to take care of me whether I like it or not. He cares about me. I think it’s safe to say he loves me like a daughter. He really has been there for me, before and since my dad died.
David is right about one thing: Walt is more than a partner. He’s family.
I wish David could understand our relationship. This abrupt jealousy is so uncharacteristic. Despite his hurtful words this morning, I sent him a text explaining where I’d be for a few hours. I even double-checked my calendar to make sure the two of us had nothing planned. Of course, I didn’t tell him what I would be looking for at the farm. I told him I was going to pack a few more boxes.
I am certain neither he nor his family would want to hear that there is a chance my father was treating a patient named Joseph Fanning. I don’t want to hear it myself. Still refuse to believe it.
But I’m not a fool. He did visit the prison. He did pass himself off as Fanning’s therapist. I also understand my father may have done those things as a way to cover his real reason for visiting the scumbag. He may have done those things to help his patient, Mario Sanchez. There is no other explanation.
A face-to-face interview with Sanchez is growing more and more important. With only a couple other names on the list of victims besides Sanchez, his is becoming increasingly more relevant. After Walt checks in with the warden, he will interview the next person on our list before he calls it a day. I feel guilty about not going with him but I need to do this. He agreed. Like me, he understands on some level that neither of us can explain that time is running out. Something bad is coming.
I emerge from the trees and my gaze sweeps across the open pastures where horses once grazed and trotted. I love this place. I absolutely cannot sell it. David will just have to deal with the idea.
The big horse barn sits a good distance from the house. It, too, is beautiful. Classic. From the outside, one would think the house is the typical farmhouse. Two stories. Wrap around porch on the first level. Salvaged brick foundation and classic white siding with wood storm shutters that actually work painted in a deep black. Topped with a metal roof, the house was built about fifty years ago but the architect went to great lengths to ensure it looked as if it had sat on this hillside overlooking the green pastures for centuries.
Inside is a different story. The house has plenty of original features like wide plank flooring and a massive stone fireplace that looks like something from the eighteenth century, but in the center of the house the ceilings soar to the roofline. The second floor hallway circles around this area, the railing open to the central living space below. Four bedrooms, each with an en suite bath, wreathe the upper floor. On the main level the centerpiece of the floor plan is the vast open space that includes the living room, kitchen and dining areas. On one end of the first floor is a massive library and workout room while my parents’ bedroom suite and my father’s office are on the other end.
It’s almost four when I park in front of the house and get out. The peace and quiet envelops me. There’s a chill in the air but according to the news this cold spell is almost behind us. By tomorrow we should be back into average temperatures for May. Thunderstorms are supposed to usher in the warmer temps. I grab the bag of snacks, gather the bottles of water and head for the front door.
Inside I lock the door and reset the security system. I’ve never been afraid here but the last thing I want is some reporter walking in while I’m digging around in old files. Though I haven’t experienced a reporter invasion, Walt has. He told me about one joining he and his wife in the backyard on a Sunday afternoon. Walt was grilling steaks. His wife was setting the table on the patio and all of a sudden a reporter from Nashville’s biggest newspaper strolls around the end of the house and shouts a hello as if he’d been invited to lunch.
On top of not wanting a reporter to bully into my house, Fanning is still missing. If he had some relationship with my father, he could show up here. As much as I consider him the scum of the earth and not worth the cost of a bullet to his head to stop him, I don’t want to have to deal with an Internal Affairs investigation about my father’s potential involvement with the man and me shooting him.
I put the snacks away, grabbing myself a stick of cheese and a bottle of water before I head to my father’s office. I sit in his chair and consider his desk. Might as well start at the top and work my way down. Putting aside my disbelief and dragging my objectivity back to front and center, I start with his calendar notebook for this year. Since he died on February 6, there’s not a whole lot to look at. I find the dates the warden mentioned. All are marked with JF.
I shake my head. “What in the world were you doing, Dad?”
I round up an organizing bin, one of the stainless steel ones lining the shelves in the credenza behind his desk, and place the calendar there. Whatever I find that is relevant in some way to the investigation I’ll put in the bin for Walt and me to dissect. Part of me feels guilty for looking through my father’s things with the intent of finding evidence. But that’s not exactly what I’m doing. My goal is to find no evidence. I need to discover that this was some sort of step taken in support of Sanchez. My father doing what he always did, being the man who saves the day.
There are no other notes on his desk. I open his laptop and scroll through the files there. My father wasn’t big on electronic files. He preferred the old fashioned way so most of his files are paper. I peruse his contacts list, his sent and received emails. Nothing jumps out at me. No exchanges between him, the warden, the lowlife attorney or any other representative of Joseph Fanning.
I close the laptop and move on to the desk drawers. I find a bag of my father’s favorite snack—Reese’s candy. I open one and pop it in my mouth. The combination of chocolate and peanut butter is instantly soothing. A smile touches my lips as I think of all the times as a kid that I came into his office and shared a Reese’s with him.
My continued search reveals no notes or business cards or anything else in the drawers that suggest collusion with the enemy in this case. I stand, stretch my back after being hunkered over the desk for so long. I stare at the row of steel five-drawer filing cabinets—the kind that are supposed to withstand the typical house fire for an extended period of time. I’ve fingered through the rows of file folders already. Didn’t spot a single name on our list.
No matter, I walk over to the cabinets and open the top drawer on cabinet number one. Another look can’t hurt. I begin with the first name on the list and go through it once more. Drawer after drawer, I drag it open and search. Nothing. Not a single one of Fanning’s victims from before he went to prison. I double check for Sanchez, even check the files on either side of where Sanchez would be. Nada.
This makes no sense.
I scour the credenza and the rows of bookshelves and find the same. Not one thing. Then I go to my parents’ bedroom.
“This is a true low point, Liv.”
Guilt piling higher and higher on my shoulders, I search my parents’ things. I go through all my father’s clothes, check pockets, look under stacks of neatly folded clothes. I find a few coins and a gum wrapper but nothing else.
Finally I collapse on the carpeted floor of the massive walk in closet. I close my eyes and inhale the scent of my father. My mother’s scent faded years ago. Unless I open one of the boxes with her favorite scarves folded neatly inside, then I can smell her perfume.
I miss them both so much.
That distant ache is building. I haven’t seen the dots in the last hour or so but I fear they’re coming. I need to finish before the headache hits. There is only one other place my father might hide files. Searching his bedroom for clues of a meeting with Fanning, the warden or the lawyer was a logical step. He might have left a card in a jacket pocket, or perhaps even a sticky note. But my father would never, ever hide files any place someone else might have easy access. Like his bedroom or the library.
No way. Any patient files would be under lock and key, which leads me to the only other place where he kept any sort of files. I walk down the hall from my parents’ bedroom toward his office. I enter the laundry room across the hall from his office. The laundry room is quite large. There’s a door to the portico
that leads out to the detached garage and there’s another door, this one hidden behind a tall cabinet. I open the double cabinet doors and step into the empty space. Before me is the steel door and keypad that lead to the panic room. I enter the code and the steel door slides away. It doesn’t open out or into the room but disappears into a slot in the wall.
The panic room has its own heating and cooling system. A fresh air input of some sort. A small two-piece bathroom. The main part of the room is ten by twelve. The small bathroom and an equally small storage room stand side by side at the farthest end. There’s a set of pull-down beds against one wall. The lower one works as a sofa as well as a bed. On the wall above it is a second pull down twin size bed that serves as an upper bunk. There’s a small table surrounded by four narrow chairs. A refrigerator and a television. The electricity in the room is powered by thermal and solar energy. If the grid goes down, this room will operate.
Another filing cabinet stands in the storage room. This one doesn’t have the typical lock. It’s biometric. I place my thumb there and listen to the locks release. Inside are the most private files of the Newhouse family. The deed to the property is here. My parents’ last will and testament was stored here until I retrieved it for settling the estate. Birth certificates, social security cards, passports and a handful of files related to upgrades and maintenance to the property. The six most recent tax year files. All of this I find in the top drawer.
I pull open the bottom drawer, there are only two. Inside, I find another row of files. I lower onto the floor, folding my legs into a comfortable sitting position and pull out the first file from the bottom drawer. The folder is marked only as “The Child.” There is no name, just a long history of abuse and neglect about a small girl. The words, written by my father, are disturbing. I shudder and reach for the next file. As I read the name on the tab those damned black dots appear in my line of vision. My pulse trips with disbelief. I toss the file aside and move to the next one, the pain in my skull ramps up, rising to a crescendo.
