by John McMahon
John Adrian, the Golden Oaks day manager, was always wanting to talk outside. This was something I’d told Remy recently.
“You mind if I smoke while we chat?” he’d say, and let one of his employees take over the register.
At the time, I read this as nerves, which a lot of folks get when talking to a cop. But now I figure he might’ve been trying to get me away from the hatch that Remy and I had found behind the register. The hatch that led under the store, to whatever illegal activity was going on back then.
I thought of the powder that Remy and I found inside the empty boxes under the liquor store.
I’d never had it tested, but had transferred it to an evidence bag two days ago when I came home from the liquor store. The next time I headed into the precinct I had to figure a way to have Alvin Gerbin test it.
Staring at the short interview I’d done with the clerk, I thought about Christian Pelo on that first day. He had just begun working at the liquor store and told me he didn’t really fit in so far. That maybe the robbery was a sign to find something new to do.
Pelo was from southeast of Atlanta, and I wondered if he had left the area and gone home.
I went online and joined one of those research databases that P.I.’s use, finding one that took my credit card, but promised a free three-day trial. Within minutes I was perusing public records. Of course, we had tools like this at work, but they left a paper trail behind. A trail that someone like Lauten Hartley could follow.
I began by looking into all men named Pelo in the southeastern United States.
Was it possible that Christian was living in Georgia still? Or Florida or Alabama?
As I found the number of each man named Pelo, I wrote it down on my yellow legal pad. And when I found a woman named Pelo, I wrote it on my white legal pad. Maybe Christian Pelo was married now, and a phone or address was under his wife’s name.
Or maybe I was searching for a needle in a needle factory.
An hour later I had two pages filled in yellow, and one in white. I began calling. Yup, at this hour.
The truth is that sometimes it helps when doing this sort of cold-case work to call late at night. To wake people up at eleven p.m. as they climb into bed, unused to solicitors calling at that hour. You piss them off, sure. But you also get their attention.
“This is Detective Merle Berry,” I’d say. My standard way of doing business, in case anything went south. “I just have a quick question for Mr. Pelo.”
If there was any possibility of a lead, I’d circle the name, get what I could, and move on. If it proved to be nothing, I’d cross it out and one less possibility.
“He’s been gone, almost two years now,” a woman said. I’d only been half paying attention and scanned to my white pad. Saw the name Laura Pelo. An older voice.
“And this is Christian we’re talking about?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“This is your son or husband?”
“He was my son,” she said, a Latin accent coming clearer in her voice. “Is my son?”
A statement first. Then a question. Past tense. Then present.
“Do you know where he went?” I asked.
“We assume maybe he’s dead, but no one knows,” she said. “Who are you again?”
“My name is Paul,” I said, now using my real name. “I met a Christian Pelo at his job. He worked in a liquor store that got robbed.”
“The guy who drank the Coke,” she said. “Mason Falls.”
I sat up straighter. “Yeah,” I said. “Cherry Coke.”
“That was it,” she said. “Cherry Coke. I’ve never had it. Are you a police officer?” she asked.
“I am,” I said. “And I tried to follow up with Christian, but he disappeared. I was concerned, way back then, that something had happened to him.”
“I spoke with my son the day after that robbery,” she said. “At first he was scared to death. But then he won the lottery.”
“The Georgia Lottery?”
“No, not the real one,” she said. “He just called it that. Because his boss was going to give him a thousand dollars as breaking-off money.”
“What do you mean, ‘breaking-off’?” I asked.
“It’s called something else,” she said. “Money to never work someplace again.”
“Severance, you mean?”
“Yes, severance.”
Except that two years ago John Adrian told me Christian no-showed for work. He called it job abandonment. There was no severance paid. In fact, since Pelo disappeared his first week on the job, he had never even received his first paycheck.
“He was happy about it,” the mother said. “Because he didn’t want to go back after that robbery.”
“So they paid him off?” I asked.
“He was gonna meet them somewhere. Then we never heard from him again. We went to where he was staying, but it wasn’t his place. He was sleeping on a friend’s couch. His friend said he’d been talking about leaving town all week. Finally he did.”
“Do you remember the guy’s name he was meeting with?” I asked.
“He had two names,” she said. “Two first names. But I don’t remember what they were.”
“Was it John?” I asked. “John Adrian?”
“Yeah,” the mom said. “Yeah, that was it.”
And there it was, I thought. Sitting back.
Evidence that the feeling I’d had almost two years ago at the liquor store was justified. Adrian had lied to me.
“And how about where the meeting was?” I asked the mom.
“I think he said it was at his boss’s house,” she said.
“John Adrian’s place?”
“Yeah.”
I thanked the woman and hung up. Sat there, with Purvis asleep against my foot again.
I needed to find out where John Adrian lived two years ago. If the liquor store was hot after the robbery, it would’ve been wise for Adrian to take the meeting with Christian Pelo off-site.
The adrenaline was pumping, and it was one-thirty a.m. And I wasn’t gonna find that info slogging through names like a P.I.
I needed the tools we had at work. I threw on my jacket and grabbed my keys. Headed to the precinct.
41
I pushed open the door to the lobby, and Hope Duffy at the front glanced up from her computer.
Hope had been a hard-ass cop on patrol for nearabout a decade until she went over a wall too hard and screwed up her leg. Since that day, she’s run the intake desk up front, and works late and early shifts.
“If it ain’t the big hero,” she said. Hope used a hand to pull a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Or is it Loverboy Hero?”
I glanced at her. Hope had earned the right to talk smack from her time in the field. I just didn’t always understand her.
“That woman stopped by again,” she said by way of explanation. “The same gal who asked you out in front of me.”
Meaning Kelly Borland, the teacher.
“When?” I asked.
“Six p.m. maybe,” she said. “She asked about you.”
This was before Kelly had texted me, so I’d already responded. I grunted in acknowledgment.
“What are you doing here?” Hope asked. “I heard what happened in Atlanta.”
“Yeah,” I said. “My sleep schedule’s a mess.”
I eyed Hope’s terminal. I needed to look up John Adrian’s info, but didn’t want to do it with my own log-in.
“I went home and crashed,” I said. “Just got up and realized I needed to finish some paperwork.”
“Well, you’re in the right place for paperwork.”
I plopped into one of the big chairs across from Hope. Our lobby, like the rest of the building, had been remodeled in the last year. The idea was to make it more
welcoming for folks walking into a police department for the first time. This included furniture that was actually comfortable, like the chair I was in.
I glanced at the sign about tomorrow’s police fundraiser. An old picture of me was plastered front and center across the foam board.
If I hadn’t come in here, I probably wouldn’t have even remembered I was set to accept an award for my role in the school shooting.
“How’s your son?” I asked. Hope had a boy who was a local star in football. A two-way player, receiver and safety. An eighth grader.
“Good,” she said. “They’re getting ready for the Best of the Best State Championships. It’s over winter break at Georgia State.”
“Wow,” I said. “At fourteen? They play at the old Turner Field?”
“You should see the size of some of these fourteen-year-olds,” Hope said. “Damn near three hundred pounds and six foot in junior high.”
“You got recent pictures of Daniel?” I asked.
“In my pocketbook.” She shrugged. “Back in my locker.”
“Let’s see ’em,” I said. “I’ll cover the front.”
Hope got up and stretched her bad leg. “Take your time,” I said, and sat down in her chair.
As soon as she rounded the corner, I punched in John Adrian’s info.
There were six Adrians listed in Georgia, and three of them were in zip codes that placed the men within an hour of Mason Falls.
I pulled up the DMV photo of each one, quickly narrowing to the man I remembered from two Decembers ago.
John Vincent Adrian was five foot eight and white. Thirty-one, with black hair. An address listed him in Glubb County, south of Mason Falls, but his driver’s license was expired.
I selected Adrian’s DMV and criminal records and picked a printer upstairs. Hit Enter to print all current and past addresses.
The truth was that Adrian didn’t have much of a criminal record when I interviewed him back in December of ’17. So if I wanted to dig for dirt, I’d have to start as I would on any cold case. By gathering background info and a lot of it.
Knowing I was still under Hope’s I.D., I did a quick search on Lauten Hartley too. What the hell, right? I sent a list of his previous addresses to the printer. Information on some ticket Hartley had gotten in 2016. Even an altercation with a cop back in 2004.
I heard a noise in the stairwell and closed all the windows on the computer.
Hope swung open the door, her head turned down toward her cell.
She handed me the phone, and I got out of her chair.
“Oh, he’s bigger than when I saw him last,” I said, staring at the photo of her son, Daniel.
“Five foot nine,” she said. “Gonna be taller than me before he starts high school.”
“And how’s he playing?” I asked.
She took the phone and swiped left through her photos. There was a video of the team, breaking through a paper banner and rushing onto the field. The camera followed Daniel and zoomed in before cutting out.
“Six receptions,” she said. “And one pick six. Some guy from a Catholic high school in Atlanta talked to us in the parking lot. Asked us if we were tied to a high school in Mason Falls or would we consider commuting.”
“That’s a helluva commute,” I said. “Have you been on those highways headed south at seven in the morning?”
Hope and I chatted a minute more before I told her I had to get to work.
Upstairs, I swung by the printer and grabbed the pile of paper.
I got settled at my desk and sorted the stack, starting first with the information on John Adrian.
In 2017, Adrian’s Ram 1500 was registered at 124 Penescue #1 in Mason Falls. If the meeting with Christian Pelo to get his severance had been at Adrian’s place, my starting point would be to visit his old stomping grounds. Knock on some doors and talk to neighbors.
Two a.m. was too early to start looking for background on Adrian in person, so I searched county records online. Found the database and punched in the address at 124 Penescue.
The building was an apartment complex. Multi-family housing that looked to have nine or ten units. But I shifted in my seat as I saw the owner of the building where Adrian had lived.
FJF Investments.
Hartley’s partnership.
And not just that. Specifically the same joint venture that owned the Golden Oaks.
“Son of a bitch,” I said aloud.
Hartley’s partnership hadn’t just employed John Adrian in 2017. They’d given him housing.
I looked back at the other addresses I had on John Adrian, seeing that he no longer lived at 124 Penescue. He’d relocated south of here into Glubb County.
I logged in to my own account and checked who currently resided at the address on Penescue where Adrian had once lived. A woman named Maria Evans lived there now, although she was also listed as living in #3 at the same address in earlier years.
I sat back. Out my office window, the sky was an inky black, the trees outside barely an outline. I grabbed the rest of the papers and got up. Walked to Alvin Gerbin’s desk and left him that evidence bag with the powder that came from under the Golden Oaks. I placed it under his keyboard with a note that read, Off the record favor . . . what is this?—P.T.
Then I plotted the address on Penescue into my phone.
The apartment was ten minutes from the numbered streets in an area called North Heights that had been getting nicer through gentrification.
I had a feeling something was on the horizon. The next clue. The next lead. It was out there, waiting for me. All I had to do was grab it.
42
I woke to the sound of a moped buzzing past my truck’s window. It was eight-twenty a.m., and I remembered putting my seat back and grabbing some z’s in my Silverado around two a.m.
I rubbed at my face and sat up. Adjusted my seat.
The moped that woke me was a baby blue Italian number. That brand with the curving backside. It sped past me and past the address at 124 Penescue that I was sitting on.
I thought about coffee. Black. Extra sugar. I was about to put my keys in the ignition when a red Dodge Charger pulled up in front of the address. Same model as Marvin’s, but four decades later.
A teenager got out. He wore skinny jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and had one of those winter caps on that looked more like fashion than function.
He walked cautiously up the stairs. Leaned in to ring the bell and then thought better of it. Knocked instead.
The door opened, and a woman stood there in one of those silk-type Japanese robes. It was yellow with purple hyacinths on it, and she glared at the kid. Asked him something. I couldn’t hear them from across the street, but the kid grabbed at his wallet. Pulled it out and handed her a single something.
His identification?
She shut the door, and the kid turned, but didn’t leave. His eyes raked the street, and I grabbed binoculars from my glove box.
The door opened again, and I held the binocs to my face, scanning the front porch.
If the woman was Maria Evans, she was late fifties with olive skin and unkempt brownish-gray hair. A small sign stuck into the dirt outside her door read Manager.
The woman made what looked like small talk with the kid, who just nodded. Then she pulled a number ten envelope from the pocket of her kimono. The kid looked inside.
His head started bobbing, and he grabbed something from his pocket. Handed it to her.
My eyes moved to the woman then, who counted a wad of cash. Fives and tens. Maybe a hundred bucks in total.
There was no paperwork exchanged, so it didn’t feel like how you’d take an apartment deposit.
Opioids? The epidemic had been declining, but wasn’t over. Then again, you didn’t see drugs being delivered in business envelopes.
; I reminded myself that I had to be careful here. The fact that the Golden Oaks had been demolished meant that Hartley knew Remy and I had been down there. I couldn’t have Hartley find out that I came here next.
The kid walked down the steps to the muscle car. He fired up the Charger, and I did the same with my truck, letting him pass me before I turned the corner and began following him.
Two blocks down, I grabbed the portable siren from my glove box. I tossed it onto my dash and flicked it on, hitting an air horn that I’d installed when I bought the truck.
The kid slowed and pulled over.
I walked along his driver’s side, real slow like, sweating him.
As I came by his window, I held my badge out. Told the kid to keep both hands on the steering wheel.
“Was I speeding?” The kid looked up, a chin pocked with acne.
Closer now, I could see he was seventeen at most. Lanky arms that took up space, but were skinny. Wavy blond hair poking out of his ski cap. Freckles. The envelope was lying on the passenger seat three feet to his right.
“What’s in the envelope?” I asked.
“Just, uh—some mail.”
“Mail you got from that woman in the kimono back there?”
The kid’s face fell, and his hands relaxed off the wheel.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I backed up a step, my hand to my waist, where I was packing. “Keep your hands on the wheel, bud.”
“What is this—some setup?” the kid asked.
“You’re gonna wanna take your right hand,” I said. “Reach directly across—and hand me the envelope. Then put your hand back on the wheel.”
I needed to know what kind of shit this woman was peddling. Specifically, so I could use it against her. To get her talking about what she might know of John Adrian.
The kid did as he was told, but all that I saw inside was a driver’s license.
I glanced at the date of birth. Which showed him to be twenty-one as of last month. “Let me see your real I.D.”
