All The Hidden Pieces

by Jillian Thomadsen

  “Which deal was that? Did it close?” Weaver asked.

  “Yes, it closed a few months later. Riverfront Harbor Pavilions…sound familiar?”

  Weaver thought for a few moments but then shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It’s right on the River, up in St. Louis. It was acres and acres of empty land until the Brock family sold to Carter Development. The payoff for that deal was six million dollars.”

  “Six million dollars, Jesus! I’m in the wrong line of work!” Weaver said. “So it sounds like the Brock family has been doing pretty well.”

  Hobbs nodded. “It would seem so.” She had been to the Riverfront Harbor Pavilions a few times. Three large two-story brick-and-glass structures, they housed shops and restaurants right on the banks of the Mississippi River. Sightseeing boats docked and departed from the bottom level, mostly teeming with tourists. The St. Louis Arch loomed over the structures, offering a comprehensive view of its steel panels. Hobbs could understand the basis for a hefty payout for that land.

  “You think Greta saw any of that money?” Weaver asked.

  “That’s the funny thing. I don’t think so,” Hobbs said. “She stayed in the same house in the same solidly middle class neighborhood. It doesn’t seem like her expenses ramped up at any point. And that deal was right around the same time as the divorce, but technically after the divorce was finalized. It’s possible she didn’t see any of that money. I wonder if she even knew about it.”

  “What about after the Riverfront deal?” Weaver asked. “Any other deals?”

  Adams shook his head. “Nothing. That’s the last these guys ever dealt with Griffin or Greta.”

  Weaver was pensive for a moment. “You trust these guys?” he asked. “You get the sense they’re hiding anything?”

  “I mean, I only spoke to them over the phone,” Adams said. “I didn’t get to see their faces. But they seem legitimate to me.”

  “Any relationship with Steven Vance?” Weaver continued. “Vance is in real estate too; maybe they overlapped on a project. Have you found anything that links them to him?”

  “Nothing,” Hobbs responded. “Vance does exclusively night clubs and hotels, all in this area. Carter does mixed-use commercial space – mostly high-end malls and condos. And the Carter Company is primarily in Chicago and the northern Chicago suburbs. They claimed the two deals with Griffin Brock were the only deals they’ve done south of Bloomington, Illinois.”

  “So what we’ve got here is a dead lead,” Weaver said, and smacked the top of his desk with enough force to knock a few papers onto the floor.

  Hobbs understood his frustration. She had spent so much mental energy on this traffic file – convinced that once it could be located, it would be a Holy Grail of information. Through all the doubts and uncertainties Hobbs had about their two leading men under suspicion – Griffin Brock and Steven Vance – she held this traffic file in the back of her mind, convinced it would implicate one or both of the men. The file would provide a footpath through the dead underbrush of worthless leads towards the actual perpetrators and possibly the family itself. She had been certain.

  But the traffic file didn’t yield any of its imagined promise. The file was itself another dead lead – implicating no one except possibly a Vetta Park police detective whom she’d known and trusted for years.

  ***

  Detective Martinez finally showed up at four-thirty. He looked disheveled – clothes wrinkled, eyes swollen, hair dark in a scruffy heap. While serving himself a cup of coffee in the snack room, he caught sight of Rochelle and explained that he’d been up all night, peeling vomit off the walls of his son’s room.

  Adams walked over to Hobbs. “Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

  “I want to do this myself,” Hobbs said. She could see that Adams was prepared to disagree but then he caught himself. He had taken a breath but then he closed his mouth. Instead of speaking, he pressed his lips together, nodded and walked back to his desk. She was on her own.

  Hobbs walked into the snack room and fixed her own cup of coffee. While she waited for the machine to spit out the hot liquid, Rochelle sauntered off and Martinez eagerly regaled her with stories of sick children. He seemed more chirpy than usual, and Hobbs couldn’t tell if this was by design or a side effect of sleep deprivation.

  “Let’s go into a room and have a chat,” Hobbs said, once the coffee was in her mug and his story had ended.

  If Martinez suspected that something was off, he didn’t show it. He followed Hobbs into the main conference room and sat down next to her. It was a larger, more spacious room than the one she had used to speak with Adams. The room had windows and curtains and was decorated with sketches from Vetta Park schoolchildren.

  It was only once they were sitting beside each other – Martinez sipping his brew, Hobbs trying to formulate the right string of words – that he grew impatient. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  Hobbs waited another few seconds before responding. When she spoke, her words were carefully constructed, her pacing slower than usual.

  “Do you remember the mysterious missing traffic file – the one in which Greta changed her mind? The file I swore existed even though no one could find it?” Hobbs stared at Martinez as she spoke – waiting for his conduct to change, for him to become startled or argumentative. Instead, he was unmoved.

  “Yeah, of course I remember,” he said. “Did you find it?”

  Hobbs stared at her partner, speechless. She looked in his eyes, studied his face. There was no palpable difference in his demeanor – no eye twitch or beads of sweat. She wasn’t sure what to make of his lack of a response. Could he have been framed?

  “What’s this about, Roberta?” Martinez asked.

  “Ray, we found the traffic file…at the bottom of your desk!” she said.

  He puffed audibly and put his hand over his mouth. “Oh shit!” he said. At last, the light bulb had gone off, the understanding of the situation’s significance.

  Hobbs was also slightly relieved that he wasn’t going to point the finger back at Adams or claim to have been set up. It was clear by his reaction that the culpability of the missing file lay with him.

  “What the hell happened?” Hobbs asked him.

  Martinez still had his hand over his mouth. He ran the other hand over his hair, and once a few seconds had passed, he crossed both hands in front of him and stared down at them. “What were you doing in my desk?” Martinez asked.

  “Answer my question first,” Hobbs instructed. “And then I’ll answer yours.”

  The problem was, she realized, they were both detectives and decent interrogators. They knew how to set a mood, how to scare a witness, how to capitalize on weaknesses. Martinez had always been her partner in interrogations and now they were pitted against each other, like two experts in a chess game – grand master against grand master. She wasn’t sure whether she’d made the right choice keeping Adams out of it. He was young and had a much more aggressive style – a manner she didn’t feel like putting up with. But at least Adams’ presence would have put more numbers in her corner and made the questioning feel less symmetric.

  Martinez eventually answered. “Roberta, what happened is that I had the file in there and I completely forgot about it,” he said. “It must have been in there for years. If I had any recollection about it, I would have brought it out sooner, I swear to you.”

  “You admit putting the file in your desk?” Hobbs asked.

  “Yeah. Years ago.”

  “The fact that it was years ago doesn’t make it any better, Ray!” Hobbs said. “We have systems in place. What was the file doing in your desk in the first place?”

  “What were you doing in my desk in the first place?” Martinez countered. “You said you’d answer my question if I answered yours. Were you digging around in my desk?”

  “Yes I was,” she lied.

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Hobbs’ mind raced. She
wanted to lob a softball excuse – I was looking for a lost pencil – but she knew Martinez too well. He would see right through anything that wasn’t the truth. Even though it was Adams’s truth and not hers – it was the only reason she could give.

  “I figured someone was probably hiding the file,” Hobbs said. “I remember very clearly taking down the information, even though it was over ten years ago. If the file wasn’t in the basement, I figured it was in someone’s desk…and I started with yours.”

  “Why’d you start with mine?”

  “Physical proximity,” she answered. “It was the closest desk to mine. Believe me, I was completely shocked when I found it.”

  “Did you tell the Captain?” Martinez asked.

  “My question next, Detective,” she said. “What was the file doing in your desk in the first place?”

  Martinez gritted his teeth and looked around. The main door had a rectangle of clear glass, and people were bustling just outside. The ring of telephones and rustle of people created a consistent murmur of noise. But no one appeared to be focused on them.

  Martinez sat back and ran his fingers along his chin. “There used to be a private detective in St. Louis named Colt Bundy. He sometimes requested information. I think I must have pulled the file about eight or nine years ago and I forgot to put it back. I forgot all about it until just now.”

  “Used to? Are you still…?”

  Martinez anticipated the end of the question and shook his head. “I haven’t talked to Bundy in a few years. I don’t know if he’s still in business or moved on to someone else in the PD or what. We ended our arrangement.”

  “Your arrangement? You must have been getting paid a pretty decent amount to put our cases at risk like this.”

  “It was a stupid thing I did years ago and I regret it,” Martinez said. “But that doesn’t mean…”

  Hobbs held up her hand and shook her head. She didn’t want to hear any excuses or justifications. She was fighting off a sickly feeling – bile creeping across her throat, or maybe it was anger. She knew that officers sometimes ran ex-lovers or former bosses through their databases. But this was something different – an arrangement, meaning secret meetings and money exchanges. It changed her view of her partner. Now he was dishonest, compromised – even if he had nothing to do with this case.

  “I haven’t told the captain yet,” Hobbs said weakly, answering a question he may not have remembered he asked.

  “Oh good. Thank you, thank you,” Martinez gushed.

  “But that doesn’t mean I won’t,” Hobbs clarified. “Let’s wait and see if this Colt Bundy person checks out.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  And then they were quiet, while Hobbs again searched her mind for the right words to a question. It was embarrassing to even have to ask it, but she knew she would regret it if she let the moment pass.

  “Ray…” Hobbs began. “Did you have anything to do with the Carpenter family’s disappearance?”

  “No, god, no,” Martinez answered. “Lord as my witness, on the lives of my kids, I had nothing to do with their disappearance. Are you kidding me Roberta? This is all because of an oversight, something I forgot about. My heart goes out to that family. If I knew where they were, I would say something.”

  Hobbs nodded. She had nothing more to say to Martinez. “Okay. Let’s go back then.” They both stood up and made their way back to the cattle pen. Hobbs thought about Martinez’s words – both his confession and his avowal of his own innocence regarding the missing family. The funny thing was, even though she no longer trusted him…she still believed him.

  ***

  It was late when Hobbs finally left the station that evening and she felt like she could use a drink. Since the break-up with Adams, she had fallen into her pre-boyfriend habits, which included a late night drink at the dive bar a few blocks away.

  The Red Lion was claustrophobic and dark, and stank of stale air and cigarettes, even though indoor smoking had been banned there for years. Hobbs loved the anonymity of the place – that she could show up by herself, sit at the bar for thirty minutes drinking Scotch and no one would say a word to her. It was the kind of bar for introverts like her – where people could be alone in the company of dozens of others. Shortly after their first hook-up, Adams had suggested accompanying her to the Red Lion.

  At the time, she shrugged aside the suggestion. The Red Lion was for singletons, not couples, and she felt an ownership towards it like it was her own private discovery. The rest of the police station hadn’t yet encountered the bar – or maybe they’d already discovered it and moved on – and that suited her perfectly.

  But on that particular night, as soon as Hobbs sat down on her wobbly black bar stool, she saw Adams out of the corner of her eye. It wasn’t hard to identify Adams by the top of his head. He had spiky brown hair and a thick, muscular neck that reminded her of an Olympic shot putter. She only doubted herself when she saw a manicured hand reach across the back of his neck and squeeze his shoulder. Surely, she had the wrong guy.

  But as soon as she saw him, he turned around and locked eyes with her. It was in fact Adams, and the manicured hand belonged to a woman by his side – a woman he was leaning up against.

  The woman looked no older than twenty-five. She had a cropped t-shirt on that exposed her belly button, and tight white jeans. Her hair was long, straw-colored.

  Hobbs felt like she was looking into a prism at someone else’s life – the image of her ex-boyfriend and another girl refracting the light at odd angles, the way they moved next to and against each other a blurry, distorted display.

  The bartender walked over but Hobbs shot out of her seat before he could say anything. She pushed her way through the crowd and into the outdoors. The whole time she could hear Adams’ voice behind her. “Hey Roberta!” he called out. “Roberta!”

  The problem with Vetta Park at nine p.m. was the absence of ready cabs, cruising down Centennial Avenue with their lights ignited, waiting to pick up bar stragglers. Instead, the roads were mostly empty – save for a few speeding motorists – and it gave Adams time to catch up with her.

  “Roberta, wait, just wait,” he said once he’d reached her. “I actually came here thinking that I might run into you. I wanted to talk outside of work and I didn’t want to…I mean I didn’t know how…”

  Hobbs was surprised to see that Adams actually looked nervous. His face was red-blotted – a stain that stretched north from his neck and into his cheeks. He seemed to be searching for the words that would keep her from walking away, and he delivered them in a hurried cadence.

  “…I didn’t arrange to meet Madison here. She went to my college. We took some pictures on her phone and that’s it.”

  Then it was silent between them for a moment. Hobbs had been dreaming of this time together with Adams since the break-up. A time to talk about what had happened away from work or either of their homes. This cracked sidewalk just outside of a noisy bar on a sleepy September evening seemed like the perfect non-subjective venue.

  There was so much that Hobbs wanted to say to Adams. In fact, she thought that if she started to open up, a chain of emotions might be vomited up – declarations and sentiments, heartrending narratives of her time without him.

  It was better to be bottled up – better for their work relationship, better considering the huge age difference between them, better in the long run anyway. And so, Hobbs took a few steps back, flashed a carefully crafted smile, and broke her own heart.

  “It’s fine, Dean. You and I were just having fun anyway. It was never serious. Go back in there and have a great time with Madison. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

  Without waiting for his reaction, Hobbs turned around and walked back to the station alone.

  ***

  September 29, a Friday, Hobbs ducked out at lunch and drove to the St. Louis Investigations office downtown St. Louis. She didn’t tell Weaver where she was going or who she would be speaking with. A
t this point, any mention of Colt Bundy would lead to Detective Martinez, and then to his inevitable firing. If Bundy checked out, Hobbs figured, there would be no need to mention him to Weaver at all.

  Hobbs arrived at the tall glass building, rode the elevator to the tenth floor and surprised Colt Bundy in his office.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Hobbs,” she said, with a quick flash of her badge. “Are you Colt Bundy?”

  Colt stood up and met her in the doorway of his office. Hobbs was surprised by how diminutive he was – squat legs on a muscular frame, almost artificially tan skin and dark hair. He had a wide, genuine smile though, and after nodding yes and shaking her hand, he led her to a seat on his couch.

  “Is there some kind of trouble?” he asked.

  “No, no trouble,” Hobbs said. “I just want to talk to you about Greta Carpenter. Do you know who she is?”

  Colt nodded. “Ah yes, I remember her. She was Greta Brock when I knew her. I read that she and the whole family have gone missing, right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Are you close to finding her?” Colt asked.

  “Let’s leave the questioning to me, okay?” Hobbs said. She wanted her voice to remain neutral, indifferent, the archetype of the in-charge detective. But there was a voice in the back of her head at all times reminding her that twenty-three days since the last sighting of the family and the Vetta Park Detectives were no closer to locating them than on day one.

  Colt seemed to have sensed her anxiety because he opened up and told the story without any prompting and from memory. Greta had come to see him, back in 2009, looking for leverage in a losing divorce case. He had given her names of Ferrari drivers in a car accident from 2005. Colt stood up and swayed across his office. He opened up a mini-refrigerator, took out a bottle of water and pointed it at Hobbs.