“Like who?”
I told him about Pete Henderson and Jacob Dunning and the Fourth Street Posse and “Run-Run.” I showed Roy the flier with Richard Ronnell’s photo.
“Sam knows how to take care of herself,” Roy said. “She’ll be fine. It’s just a question of finding her.”
“How do we do that?”
“We look.”
We swung back to German Village so I could pick up the rental. Then we split up and each drove around for a while. I went down Broad, past the science museum, past the old train depot converted to a firefighters union hall, past Spaghetti Warehouse, under the rail trestle and up to McDowell, where I spied my first two semiauthentic-looking homeless guys. I rolled down my window and asked if they knew Samantha or had seen her. One of them shook his head and the other one called me Woody and told me I sucked. I drove to Town, worked my way behind the science museum, crossed the river over the new bridge, then drove back up Front. As a bonus, no sign of Glen Murphy and the girlfriend at the Neil House Inn.
We called the search off at just past 8:00 and met at Tommy’s Diner in Franklinton, a few blocks up from Roy’s church.
“You calling the police?” Roy said.
“Not yet. I need more than the word of a can fairy shaken down by a heroin addict that a homeless woman might have seen something.”
“Such high standards now.”
“I try.”
“We’ll find her,” Roy said. “I know a lot of people out there.”
“Even if we do, what’s the point?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You said it yourself. She’s in and out. Not the most reliable witness.”
“It’s true she would muddy the waters, in this situation,” Roy said. “Her past and everything. But she’s more than you’ve got now.”
“I suppose. It felt promising when Willie told me about it. Now it’s seems like a dead end.”
“Dead ends can be useful.”
“How?”
“Keep you from going off a cliff,” Roy said. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”
40
There was nothing for it but to get on with the day. Roy was already late for a Wednesday medical clinic he ran at his church. I beeped at him as he turned off a few blocks east of Tommy’s, then did two more halfhearted loops of downtown with no success.
I was almost home when Karen Feinberg called.
“You certainly got people’s attention,” she said.
“Meaning?”
“I took another look at the police report on Kim McDowell. That and the autopsy.”
“Figured you might.”
“Turns out CPD’s crime scene techs found trace blood and hair on a corner of the coffee table in her living room.”
“OK. Except she was found on her bed.”
“Where she ended up. Maybe not where she started.”
“Go on.”
“They weren’t quite sure what to do with it at first. Idea being maybe she got hit in the living room, fell on the table, then he finished her off when she ran into the bedroom.”
“Sounds plausible.” George Huntington had ventured something along those lines.
“But not if she were awake for a while before she died. Like you said.”
“Point being?”
“What if her only injury came from hitting the coffee table?”
“I suppose. If she hit it hard enough.”
“What if she hit it hard enough because she was arguing with someone and got pushed or tripped?”
“Arguing with someone?”
“With a married boyfriend, for example.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“Not the word the prosecutor used when I brought it up.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Ball’s in their court. They may want to talk to you.”
“You tell them you heard it from me?”
“Not yet.”
“Thanks.”
“But I may have to. Or—”
“Or?”
“Or you could just tell them yourself.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“I’m going to make a couple more calls, look at a couple more things. But then we should talk about it.”
“All right.”
“Believe it or not, that’s not why I called.”
“Surprise me.”
“Thing is, Gabby’s parents came into town last night. Mr. and Mrs. Donatelli. A bit unexpectedly.”
“The ties that bind.”
“Or strangle. They’re having a heart-to-heart about our upcoming nuptials. She’s a little distracted at the moment.”
“I can imagine.”
“Probably not. But she told me to tell you something. Something about Dorothy Custer? What you asked her about.”
“About the movie option?”
“Something about the royalties.”
“There are no royalties.”
“I’m just passing her message on. She might have something for you tomorrow. If she survives today. Also?”
“Yes?”
“She wondered if you had his accident report.”
“Whose?”
“Frank Custer. From the crash.”
“No. Why?”
“She likes to cover all her bases. Like you. Just an idea.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll check it out. And tell her I said thanks.”
“If she or her parents are still alive by dinnertime, I’ll pass that on.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee, then took a couple minutes and faxed a request for Frank Custer’s accident report to the police records department. When I called to make sure it had arrived, the clerk said it should only be a few hours. I read a chapter of World War Z sitting at my kitchen table. Then another. Had more coffee. Fielded two calls from women worried their husbands were straying who were interested in engaging my services. I listened patiently, failing to mention that if they were worried they were probably right and didn’t need me to confirm the inevitable. Instead, thinking about my bank account, I explained my fee structure and what I could do for them. One signed up, the other was put off by the expense. If trying to prove the innocence of triple murderers didn’t pan out, at least I had another job to fall back on.
I was debating whether to start looking for Samantha again or figure out the best strategy for approaching the cops about my Kim McDowell theory when Suzanne called.
“This is way off the record,” she said.
“Can reporters do that?”
“Shut up and listen. That message from Aaron? I did some checking around. Called in more than one favor.”
“Thank you.”
“Talked to a guy on a county drug task force. Who knew a guy. Who said Dunning’s name had come up in connection with a heroin possession arrest near campus.”
“When was this?”
“Couple weeks before the fire.”
“Anything to it?”
“Nothing to go on air with. But it confirms Dunning was into more than pot.”
I thought about this. It was good news, and yet, in a way, not good news.
“What are you going to do with it?” I said.
“At the moment, nothing. But I’m keeping a file.”
“You need anything else? From me?”
“The exclusive, remember?”
“And you remember what I told you? Like, what’s to keep this McGruff the Crime Dog source of yours from blabbing?”
“Good manners. Give it a try sometime.”
“Good manners don’t solve cases.”
“They just keep relationships going. Don’t burn me, all right?”
I let the dig slide. I thought about Glen Murphy and the Neil House Inn. I thanked her for calling. I started to say something and realized she’d hung up.
41
An hour later I was at police headquarters, paying for my copy of Frank Custer
’s report. I stood in the second-floor lobby while I read the results. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until I read it a second time and looked at the officer’s conclusions. Custer had run a red light going fifty-four in a thirty-five-mph zone. Met up with a dump truck with injurious results. Very injurious. That seemed mighty fast, which got me wondering about his driving record. A question that would have to wait, however. It was time to get back to Samantha.
I began circling downtown again. Civic Center Drive. Front Street. Over to Spring, then Souder. Back Long Street. Back and forth on Broad. Up and down the north-south streets in the Bottoms, the city’s oldest neighborhood, just west of downtown. Past the Florentine restaurant, starting to pull in the dinner crowd and looking pretty inviting at this point. Resisting temptation and back down Broad. Around COSI. Rinse. Repeat.
It was on my fourth version of this circuit, headed north on Front, not even paying attention, that I saw them. Murphy and the girlfriend. Leaving the hotel. Maybe it was my mood, and maybe it was the thaw I was feeling from Suzanne. Either way, before I really knew what I was doing I pulled a U-turn two blocks down, turned around. and started to follow the SUV.
I tracked him across downtown as he took Broad over to Fourth, careful to stay not behind him but in the lane to the left in case he decided to run any long yellows. After a couple of minutes we drove north on Fourth, up the bridge over the railroad tracks, past Abbott Labs on the right and the old Smith’s Hardware building on the left, then up and around and onto the interstate.
Afternoon commuter traffic was headed out of downtown and the going was slow, which made it both harder for me to lose him and easier for him to make me if I wasn’t careful. We ground to a crawl at the turn by the Ohio Historical Society, then picked up momentum past the soccer stadium. Almost clear sailing by the time Murphy took the Morse Road exit and headed west. I followed him past the Ohio School for the Blind on the right, then onto a street to the left, and then another left.
Our cars were the only ones moving on the street. I drifted back. A minute later I braked, then parked when I saw him pull over. After a minute both doors of his car opened, and they each got out. I watched as Murphy walked her to the door of a small, green house, stood while she unlocked and opened it, gave her a hug, and then, looking inside once as if to catch a last glimpse, walked back to his car. That’s when I opened the door of my rental, climbed out, and walked up the street. He glanced at me without recognition, then looked again.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“Suzanne know about this?”
“Know about what?”
I nodded at the house.
“About her.”
“Her?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you follow me here?”
“Answer the question.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, and Suzanne, and whoever that is.” I nodded again at the house.
“For Chrissake,” Murphy said.
“I’m waiting.”
He looked ready to say something else, when the door to the house opened and the woman reappeared.
“Glen?” she said. “Everything OK?”
He waved at her. A moment later, a young man in jeans and a blue T-shirt appeared at the door behind her, slight, with disheveled hair as if he’d just gotten up.
“What’s going on?” the young man said.
I looked at Murphy. “Who’s that?” I said.
Murphy glared at the boy, then at me. He pushed his hands through his hair.
“That, you genius, is my nephew.”
“Nephew?”
“What you call the son of your sister.”
“Neil House Inn,” I said, weakly. “You and her.”
Murphy brushed his hand through his hair again. He looked much older than his few years beyond forty.
“How would my kids put it?” he said. “Hashtag, worst private detective ever?”
I said nothing.
“Jen works at the hotel,” he said.
“She works there.”
He nodded. “Hostess in the restaurant. I was giving her a ride home just now.”
“A hostess.”
“What I said, Sherlock.”
“I saw you there before. Dropping her off. Going inside.”
“Let’s see,” he said. “Maybe that was the time I was begging her manager not to fire her because of how much time she’d missed. Or the time I dropped her off because Wayne had stolen her car. Or pawned the wheels. I lose track.”
“Wayne,” I said.
“Her son.” He looked toward the living room.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s a recovering heroin addict,” Murphy said. “Recovering in quotation marks most days.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re exactly how Suzanne described,” Murphy went on. “A half-assed Maxwell Smart who thinks he’s Spenser for Hire.” He laughed. “She was right. She had you nailed.”
“Suzanne said that?”
“Verbatim.”
“Maybe I misinterpreted things.”
“Misinterpreted? You got the whole fucking thing wrong. Hate to be the gal who hires you to check up on her husband for real. He and his girlfriend are gonna be lying on the beach in St. Croix before you figure out what kind of car he drives.”
“I was worried about Suzanne,” I said. “I know I didn’t do her any favors at Lindey’s. I didn’t want her hurt any further.”
“You. Worried about Suzanne.”
“That’s right.”
“She know you’ve been following me?”
“No.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“One ray of hope,” he said.
“How about her?” I said. “Does she know . . . ?”
“Does she know about Wayne?” Murphy said. “Told her on our first date. ‘Love that series you’re doing about the heroin epidemic. Speaking of which, small world!’”
“Just a question.”
“A dumbassed question,” he said. “No, Suzanne doesn’t know. Not yet. If you want to know, I was building up the courage to tell her when you showed up that night, thank you very much.”
“Not the best move I ever made.”
“You think?” he said. “So tell me this. How long were you driving up and down Front Street today looking for me?”
“I just happened to be driving past.”
“Bullshit.”
I explained what I’d been up to, without naming Samantha Parks.
“You really think Aaron Custer’s innocent?” His voice incredulous.
“Some things aren’t adding up,” I said.
“Like what?”
I told him. It’s not like he was going to spill the beans to anyone. And I was feeling a need to make amends.
“I’ll say this,” he said when I’d finished. “A lot of the companies that are fracking are getting hosed, PR-wise. Guys like this Gridley are painting with a really broad brush. Half of what he says is crap.”
“But?”
“But anything negative you’ve heard about Appletree is probably true.”
“That reminds me.” I reached into the left-hand pocket of my sport coat. I pulled out the copy of the log and handed it to him. “Any idea what this is?”
He studied it for less than a minute. “This is from Knox No. 5,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Very interesting,” he said. “I didn’t realize they’d run one of these.”
“One of what?” I said.
“An MReX log.”
“MReX?”
“Magnetic resonance,” he said impatiently. “It measures permeability in a rock formation.”
“Permeability?”
“Listen,” Murphy said. “I’m a little busy at the moment. And you’ll forgive me if I’m not inclined to pass the time of day with douc
hebags who follow me and my sister around town for no reason.”
“OK,” I said. “I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“What I did was stupid. Very stupid.”
“It was more than that,” Murphy said. “It’s borderline stalking.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed on that point but wasn’t going to argue. I said, “You’re free to call me all the names you want. They’re probably all accurate. And deserved, like I said. But.”
“But what?”
“But as long as we’re agreed that I’m the world’s worst detective and a douchebag and an asshole and probably not headed for your company Christmas party this year, I’d appreciate your help.”
“My help? With what?”
I nodded at the log. “With this drilling stuff. What you’re telling me is useful. It could help me put this case to bed, one way or the other.”
“And why should I care?”
“You shouldn’t, when it comes to me. But if Aaron Custer is innocent, that’s something. And if he is innocent, and I figure it out, the first person I’m going to tell is Suzanne.”
“Right.”
“I promise. I mean it.”
“Sure you do,” he said. “And even if you’re telling the truth, which I doubt, what do I care if you tell Suzanne anything?”
“You care,” I said, “because if I tell Suzanne, she gets the scoop. A big one. And when Suzanne gets scoops, she’s happy. Very happy. And I know that because, like it or not, she was my girlfriend too, once upon a time.”
Murphy didn’t say anything for a minute. He looked at his sister’s house, then at his car, then at the log, then at me.
“OK,” he said, finally. “You douchebag stalker asshole. What do you need to know?”
“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “You said something about permeability.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Ability of fluids to flow through rock,” Murphy said. “Key to fracking.”
“And this shows that? The permeability?”
He ran his finger over the middle portion of the page. “See this splotch here? It’s a zone of low permeability.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Whatever you want. That’s what it shows.”
Slow Burn Page 18
