by Beth Moore
“Well, until they do,” Cal continued to Frank, “replay that video feed as many times as it takes to catch any syllable in all that babbling that has any significance. Some of it has to mean something.” Cal listened for a moment, grimaced, and responded, “No, no blood. At least none yet, but we’re not done.” They talked a few more minutes, and right before Cal ended the call, he said, “Thanks, man. I know y’all are trying. Call me with absolutely anything you come up with, even if you’re not sure it has anything to do with the case.” He stuck the phone back in his shirt pocket, pulled aside the curtain in the living room, and stared out the window at the curb.
Cal addressed Bully and Sanchez. “We need to know if she has a car and the make and model. That’s priority one.”
“I can do that, boss,” Sanchez responded.
“And then I need a detail over at Mrs. Fontaine’s. She’s not going to like that it’s none of us, but I can’t spare you yet and I’m not sending Bully.” Cal saw Sanchez glance over at her partner. “Get a car over there and have the officers tell her that you’ll be there as soon as you can make it.”
“How much do they tell her?”
“Only what we know for certain. We’ve made an arrest of a suspect whose prints were on the pocketknife. According to the suspect, he had an accomplice, and the accomplice is still at large. Tell them it’s just an extra precaution. The officers can stay outside if she doesn’t want them in the house as long as they stay on that property.”
“They’re not to mention Miss Slater, I’m assuming.”
“Not in regard to the suspect or anything he implied. But they need to keep constant tabs on whether or not anyone is hearing from her or hearing anything about her. Also have them question each one again about where they think she might have gone. They might have thought of something since yesterday.” Cal hesitated for a moment. “The officers may as well go ahead and tell them that an airline ticket has not been purchased under her name since the time of her departure from Mrs. Fontaine’s two days ago. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t left the city, but it means that she didn’t likely fly. I also want all the residents at that house for the next twenty-four hours or until we release them. And, Sanchez?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Find out what’s holding up the detective. I needed Sparks over here fifteen minutes ago.”
Sanchez already had her phone to her ear.
Sparks walked through the door five minutes later pulling on nitrile gloves. Cal motioned him into the kitchen. “Start bagging here,” Cal instructed. “We might get lucky with one of those coffee cups.”
“Got it. Officer Sanchez mentioned a shirt.”
“Yep, it’s over there in that bag. It’s damp, like it’s been submerged, but it’ll turn up something.”
“Any visible sign that the resident was trying to rinse blood out of it?”
“You’ll know that better than me. I’ll let you do your job.” Cal glanced around the apartment to check the progress and caught both Bully and Sanchez glaring at him inquisitively.
Cal updated them matter-of-factly. “Frank confirmed that the blood on Crawley’s T-shirt isn’t his own.” Nobody had been convinced it was, since the man lacked sufficient injuries to explain it. Still, they would have welcomed the news of a bad nosebleed. Cal replayed bits and pieces of the interrogation from memory. “You two have been around long enough to know that we don’t have any evidence yet that the girl Crawley referenced in his last outburst is Miss Slater. Quite possibly, it’s not.”
“That’s right, Sarge,” Sanchez responded. Bully looked over at Sparks bagging the coffee cups for forensics.
“Due diligence is all,” Cal insisted, knowing Bully wouldn’t buy it, but it still needed to be said because it was true. They were all three jumping to conclusions based on a bad feeling, and a bad feeling could prove right . . . or shoot an entire investigation down a rabbit hole.
“You telling me, boss, that Crawley could not cough up one single description of the girl? Not hair color? Not height? I mean, he couldn’t have even held up his hand to estimate how tall she was so we might at least know if he was talking about a young woman or a child?”
Sanchez shook her head as if a chill had gone up her spine. “The only scenario more horrifying than what we’re fearing is if that blood belongs to a little girl.”
Bully dropped his head.
Sanchez rarely exhibited blatant sentimentality on the job. Female cops typically had to remain tough if they wanted the same respect the males got. This time, however, proved exceptional. She walked over to Bully, put her arm around his shoulder, and said, “It’s awful either way.”
Cal pulled out his cell phone to make sure he hadn’t missed a call or text from Frank or anyone else involved in the investigation. He made sure the ringer was turned all the way up and double-checked that the phone was getting decent reception in the building. He stuck it back in his pocket, aggravated that no one from the district had updated him. Even a No update yet would have been better than nothing. By this time Sanchez had let go of Bully, and Cal could think clearly enough to answer his questions.
“According to Frank, Crawley hasn’t said an intelligible word since we walked out the door. Said he was near catatonic. Psych was about to come in and do a face-to-face evaluation. Everybody knows what’s at stake.”
Bully shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, they do. If Crawley conveys the least clue, we’ll hear from them. Sanchez, any word on a car yet? You’re killing me.”
She turned the face of her phone toward him, showing a text on the screen. “Nothing matching her name yet. Most of the residents on the square get around on public transportation.” She continued sorting through a box of random papers and magazines Bully had pulled out from under Stella’s bed. Suddenly she threw her fist up with something in her grasp. “Look at this!”
Cal stepped over and grabbed it. It was a snapshot with a close-up of Stella’s face on it and seemed recent enough to work. “You know for sure that’s her?”
“Absolutely!”
“How?”
“After Bully and I were here before, I started keeping an eye out for her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were suspicious of her?”
“It was more of a personal thing. It never occurred to me that Jillian could be in any physical danger. It was a psychological thing to me. No, that’s not true. It was a spiritual thing. I wanted to—well, I don’t know any other way to say it except how they’d say it at my church. I wanted to test the spirit. I wanted to get close enough to Stella to see if she was predatory. If she felt, you know, evil.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you believe in that kind of stuff, Sarge?”
“What? In evil? Are you kidding me?”
“I mean, do you believe there are forces out there? A war between good and evil beyond what human eyes can see? Between light and darkness, I mean. That kind of thing.”
“Spit it out, Sanchez. I want that woman in custody by midnight and I want Jillian Slater ruled out as a victim of any violence whatsoever within the half hour. What are you trying to say?”
“I guess I’m trying to ask if you believe there is a God and a devil.”
Cal’s eyes shifted over to the mural on the wall behind the table. “What does that have to do with this case?”
“Something really dark is going on here. I’ve never said a word on the job about any of this, have I, Bully?”
“No, ma’am, you sure haven’t.”
“And I won’t,” Sanchez pledged to Cal. “All I’ve done is pray about it, but I’ve done that a lot.”
“Tell me this,” Cal requested. “Did Stella know you were on her tail?”
“No, I can’t imagine she did. I was careful, and believe me, you couldn’t have picked me out in a lineup. I wasn’t in uniform. I never inquired about her by name, but I hung around the square a couple of nights and engaged in a few casual
conversations about who could read cards around here.”
“Sanchez knows her cards, Sarge,” Bully interjected. “Her aunt was all into it and taught it to her.”
“Yeah, I know enough of the lingo to get people talking. Teased a couple of merchants that I was thinking about setting up shop around there. Stella’s name came up in no time. They’re territorial, you know. I was told where she camped. I got a very good look at her soon after that.”
That was enough for Cal. He stared at the snapshot again, handed it back to Sanchez, and said, “Send it.” Within no time at all, that picture was distributed electronically to officers all over town. Cal instantly sent a message to Frank to watch for it, print it out, and have it shown to Crawley. Twenty-five minutes later Cal received a call from him confirming that the picture elicited a strong enough reaction to assume for now that the woman in the picture was Crawley’s Miss Stella.
“I don’t know if it would stand up in court, but it’s enough to establish her as our best lead,” Frank said. He also told Cal that Psych cried foul at first and insisted that Crawley be shown an assortment of women’s pictures. They ultimately agreed that his strongest response seemed to be centered on this one. The best news was that they’d snuck a picture from Jillian’s California driver’s license into the mix and couldn’t conclude that he recognized her.
When Cal responded to Frank with a measure of relief, Frank lowered his voice. “I’ll be honest with you, buddy. That dude was so thrown by the one woman’s picture, I’m not sure he ever really focused on the rest of them. His mind snapped. I don’t think there’s much doubting that. When it happened exactly, who’s to say?”
“Well, surely somebody can!” Cal responded.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s hung around this part of the city for years, Frank. Been here all his life based on everything we’ve gathered. Get the officers dispatched on the square to ask around about him and find out if his big display today at Decatur and St. Peter was a surprise.”
“I’m on it. I’ll do it myself. It’s all I can think about anyway.”
Cal thanked him, ended the call, and shouted for Sanchez.
“Here, Sarge!” She peeked her head around the bedroom closet door, where she’d dismantled every garment and pair of shoes in it.
“Good job on the picture. Well, on the whole afternoon. We’ve got undercover personnel watching for her in the area and in a café at the corner in case she tries to come home. Heard anything from the detail we sent over to Mrs. Fontaine’s?”
“Oh yeah. You were right. They were not greeted warmly.”
“Fine by me. People need protecting in a situation like this whether they want it or not. Was she steaming?”
“Who, Mrs. Fontaine?” Sanchez asked.
Cal nodded.
“No, they said she went straight to her room and shut the door, and they haven’t seen her since. It was Mrs. Atwater that nearly fried them up like a chicken. She’s already called me twice.”
“What did she say?”
“I’ll let you hear it for yourself.” Sanchez brought up the screen for her voice mails and pushed Play.
“This is Adella Jane Atwater, wife of Emmett Isaiah Atwater III, and I happen to be the manager of Mrs. Olivia Fontaine’s historic residence, which—hear me clearly—is nothing less than a landmark in this city and has been turned tee-totally upside down with every officer in the entire NOPD except the very ones we actually know. The exact same ones, I might add, who promised to keep us informed on every development involving our missing resident who has all but fallen off the face of the earth but why in tarnation would we expect answers regarding an actual human when we cannot even get to the bare bottom of a baby rattle? Perhaps the competency discharged to this residence might best be judged by the fact—”
“That’s enough.” Cal rubbed his forehead. “How long does she go on?”
“There’s another minute and a half of that one and a second message similar to it, except with more adjectives. Frank forwarded me a text from one of the officers over there. Would you like to see it?” Sanchez held out her phone.
“No, ma’am, I would not. You call her back yet?”
“No, sir.” Sanchez winced. “She’ll drag every piece of information out of me that I’ve ever known, suspected, or feared about Jillian Slater.”
“Yeah, I know. I better call her back myself.”
“Boss, wait a second.” It was Bully.
“What is it?” Cal glanced down the A’s in his contacts on his phone.
“We’re getting close to being done here. I’ve only got one more drawer to go through and I bet Sanchez would cover that for me. I’m going crazy here and I’m not doing any good anyway. Let me go to Saint Sans. I’m the one that’s been over there the most. The officers who are there can keep an eye on the house from the outside and I’ll hang out with the residents. I’ll pick up some food and take it over there so they’ll have some supper. And I’ll just sit with them. I don’t care if it’s all night. Let me do it.”
“Billy La Bauve, I’m telling you that if you shed one tear over there, I swear I’ll—”
“I won’t!” Bully put his hat on, bolted out the apartment door, and started down the stairs.
Cal followed him as far as the door. “And don’t bring up what Crawley said. Or what was on his shirt. Don’t mention anything that vaguely rhymes with blood!”
“I won’t!”
“And call them and tell them you’re on your way before Mrs. Atwater leaves another voice mail.”
Bully had disappeared from the stairwell before Cal could get that last command out of his mouth. From somewhere outside, Cal heard the words “I will!”
CHAPTER 42
“WHERE IS SHE?” Cal shouted, pounding on the door of the psychiatric unit where Crawley had been transferred for assessment. Cal had been in a fury from the moment forensics confirmed that the blood on the man’s T-shirt was Jillian’s. He’d held on to the reasonable notion that the blood could have been anybody’s, including Stella’s. Over the last few months he’d made an effort to be less committed to the conviction that everything worked out for the worst. With one piece of information, the mentality fell back on him like a pitch-black hood over his head.
Frank grabbed Cal from behind and pulled him away from the door. “You’re going to end up getting yourself cuffed—or at the least, thrown off this case. You better calm yourself down or nobody’s going to cooperate with us here. What’s wrong with you, man?”
Cal elbowed him forcefully and beat on the door again. “It’s been three days! Where is she?”
A security guard appeared in the hall with two police officers. Personnel on the other side of the locked door were scrambling, some on their phones summoning help and others ducking for cover into the hospital rooms of patients. It wasn’t every day that a security threat came from an armed police officer.
“Where’d you leave her, you—?”
When the security guard and the officers picked up the pace and started running their direction, Frank went for Cal’s ankles and pulled his feet out from under him, sending him facedown to the floor.
“We’re good here, fellas!” Frank called down the hall, his full weight pinning Cal to the linoleum.
“Looks like you are!” one of the policemen responded sarcastically. “What’s the problem here?” As he walked closer, he bent over and looked at Cal. “Sergeant DaCosta?”
Frank leaned over Cal and spoke right into his ear. “You gonna settle down or are you gonna make me call the captain?”
“Let me up,” Cal growled.
By the time Cal made it to his feet, several hospital administrators had walked onto the scene demanding an explanation. The police officer who’d recognized Cal spoke up first. “Nothing but a misunderstanding here. Looks to me like these officers aren’t getting the cooperation they need for an active investigation. I’ll let you explain, Sergeant DaCosta.”
&
nbsp; Cal’s voice boomed through the corridor. “There’s a man in there who holds a piece of information somebody’s life depends on. His name is William Crawley. We need access to him. Every second we stand in this godforsaken hall increases the odds against finding the woman alive. Let us in now.”
The chief of staff studied the screen of his phone and responded, “It is my understanding, Officer, that he was admitted in a highly agitated but incoherent state and is presently under sedation so that further tests can be administered without harm to him or to medical personnel caring for him. We appreciate the difficulty of the situation, but he is incapable of answering questions.”
Cal was on the verge of exploding. “This blood is on your hands.”
“No, sir,” the administrator replied, “this patient is on our hands. He is under guard by one of your own, and the moment he has been assessed and deemed to be in a proper condition for questioning, we will let—”
“You will let me at him first.” The woman seemed to materialize out of thin air. “I have been appointed by the court to represent Mr. Crawley. Here is my card, Officer.”
Frank placed his left hand on Cal’s chest and reached out with his right hand to take the card from the attorney. Texts came in simultaneously on Frank’s and Cal’s phones followed by calls. Cal unlocked his glare from the face of the chief of staff and glanced at the caller ID. It was Sanchez.
“Talk,” Cal spoke into the receiver.
“Sarge, we have the make and model of the car.”
“Plates?”
“Yes. It was registered under a different last name but same first name, Stella. A neighbor confirmed it’s the vehicle he’s seen her drive.”
“Distributed?” Cal had no intention of wasting time with unnecessary words.
“Done. If the text came through, you should already have it.”
Cal glanced at the screen of his phone. Frank followed suit, having an almost-identical conversation on his phone with another officer in the unit.
“Call me with anything else,” Cal responded, turning back toward the administrators, officers, and lawyer congregated outside the locked doors of the psychiatric ward.
