Thread of Fear

by Jeff Shelby

  She smiled in greeting. “Can I get you anything?” she offered. “I can flag down the server.”

  I sat down across from her. “I'm fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She nodded and let the tea bag steep in the steaming mug. “I was surprised to hear from you last night. I really thought you were going to turn me down.”

  “I still may,” I said and she looked up at me. “That's what we need to talk about.”

  “Alright.” She waited.

  “Why did you wait a week to contact me?” I asked. “Did you contact anyone else?”

  She shook her head. “I haven't spoken to anyone, other than to ask a few friends if they'd seen Patrick.”

  “And the waiting? I can understand not wanting to call the police, but why did you wait to contact me? Or another investigator, for that matter.”

  She played with the tea bag, swirling it in the mug. “I don't know. I guess I just wasn't sure what to do. And... and I kept thinking he would just show up back at home. I decided I'd waited long enough.”

  I nodded. “Okay. And you have no idea why he left? No fights, no trouble, nothing like that?”

  She shook her head again. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

  I still wasn't sure that was the truth, but I wanted to get her on record as saying it.

  I folded my hands together. “Here are my conditions. They aren't negotiable. If you aren't comfortable with any of them, then we end this now.”

  Kathleen picked up the mug and sipped it, peering at me over the edge. “Okay.” Her voice was tentative.

  “First, you need to file a missing persons report on him with the Las Vegas police,” I said. “By tomorrow night at the latest.”

  A frown creased her forehead. “Why?”

  “Because I'm telling you to,” I said. “It needs to be on record that he's gone missing. No matter your feelings about the police, more eyes looking for Patrick will help.”

  She cupped the mugged tightly in her hands. “I'll file it tomorrow.”

  “Let me know when it's done,” I said. “Second condition. I'm not discussing your son's case.” Her eyes widened and I continued. “I'm sorry that Aaron is still missing and that I wasn't able to help, but my work there is done. I'll focus on Patrick but that's it.”

  She set the mug down and looked like she wanted to say something. If she had, I would've ended the conversation right there because I was serious. This wasn't going to be a revisit of Aaron's disappearance. This was going to be about finding her husband.

  But she swallowed whatever she had been going to say. “Agreed.”

  “Third,” I said. “And this is really more for me than you. I know I'll have to spend some time in Las Vegas and I will do that. But if I need to come back to San Diego, I will. With little or no notice. I'll come back to Vegas when and if I can.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “That hardly seems like a smart thing for me to agree to, Mr. Tyler. If I'm paying you to find my husband, I'd expect your full attention and if you were to run off in the middle of it—”

  “I agree,” I said. “It's not a smart thing to agree to. But those are my terms.”

  We sat there in silence for a few minutes. I wasn't sure if she expected me to change my offer or to say something else, but I was very good at silence. I was firm on my terms and they weren't going to change. She was going to have to make the next move.

  “Fine,” she finally said. Her jaw was clenched and her eyes flashed with irritation. “I agree to those terms. Provided you'll start immediately.”

  “I'll need some information,” I said. “Cell phone, credit card numbers, phone numbers of friends.”

  She reached down beneath her chair and retrieved a small leather purse. She unlatched it and pulled out a small spiral notebook and slid it across the table to me. “I've put it all in here.”

  I flipped it open. His cell phone number was there, along with his credit card numbers and a list of about fifteen names and phone numbers. In addition, she'd provided user names and passwords for the cell phone and credit cards so I could access the accounts. I had to admit it; I was impressed.

  “I remembered from before,” she said quickly when I looked up. She started to say something, then stopped, and I knew she'd been on the verge of mentioning Aaron. “I... I tried to be proactive.”

  I nodded. “This is a pretty good start. I'll let you know what else I need. When are you heading back?”

  She shrugged. “Probably this afternoon, now that you've agreed to help. We just probably need to arrange the financials.”

  I told her what my retainer was and, if this surprised her, she didn't show it. She wrote me a check, tore it out of the register with a flourish and slid it across the table to me. I folded it in half and slipped it into my pocket.

  She picked up her mug and sipped her tea and I wondered if it was still hot. “You seem like you want to say something,” she said. “And that you're holding back.”

  “Do I?”

  She nodded.

  She was correct.

  “People go missing usually for two reasons,” I told her. I drummed my fingers on the spiral notebook in front of me. “They run away or they're taken. Sometimes there's a freak accident or something like that it, but those are rare and solved pretty quickly. When someone disappears for an extended period of time, they're usually running and hiding from something or someone has taken them for some reason.” I paused, eyeing her, watching for a reaction. There was none. “Your husband has been gone for a week and he hasn't turned up, so for me, that sort of rules out the freak accident idea.”

  She toyed with the muffin on the plate, tugging at the paper wrapper. “So which do I think it is? Is that what you're asking me?”

  I hesitated, then nodded.

  She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. Her expression was impassive. “I don't know, Mr. Tyler. That's why I just hired you.”

  SIX

  I spent the afternoon parked at the kitchen table, working through the names on the list Kathleen Dennison had given me. There were no identifying markers to go with the names, nothing that indicated if they were colleagues or friends or relatives. I called them all and, surprisingly, got most of them on the phone. I asked the same questions over and over.

  Do you know where Patrick Dennison is? When was the last time you spoke to him? Did he mention going away at all? What was he like when you last spoke to him? Do you know anything that might've been troubling him? Anything at all you can think of that might help me?

  I made detailed notes of all of the answers even when the answer was a “No” or “I don't know.” And I discovered that the names on the list were a mash-up of people: some co-workers of Patrick's, a couple of golf buddies, a guy he sometimes played poker with, a woman who manned the reception area at the gym. I would've preferred to do the interviewing in person where I could gauge reaction to my questions, but I wasn't willing to head to Vegas just to do the preliminaries. I imagined Kathleen had already spoken to most if not all of the people on the list and it was more a matter of doing due diligence than thinking I was going to get anything from the conversations.

  When the phone calls were done, I logged into Dennison's cell phone account and his credit card accounts. There was no activity on any of them from the date he'd disappeared going forward. I'd expected as much. I looked through the records, going back thirty days before he'd gone missing. I didn't see any purchases out of the ordinary and the three random numbers in the log were easy to identify. A Chinese take-out restaurant, a dry cleaners, and a doctor's office. I went back thirty more days and still didn't see anything unusual. All the phone numbers were in his contact list and his card only showed regular purchases: gas, restaurants, a recurring gym membership.

  I made a quick sandwich, turkey slapped between two pieces of bread, and stared at my notes in front of me. I didn't like making guesses. I liked working with facts. Known things. But it was my experience that wh
en phones and credit cards went dead, it was never a good thing. If people voluntarily took off, there was usually some sort of trail, even if they were being careful. A phone call to an odd number. A single charge on a card. Something that showed they were okay and that they were on the move. But when things just went quiet, as if they'd vanished, it was almost never a good thing. Your average person just didn't know how to erase their trail.

  So my thinking was that Patrick Dennison was either dead or not your average person.

  I was thinking about why Patrick Dennison might not be your average person when my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, thinking it might be Lauren. It wasn't. I saw the name and number on the screen, hesitated, then set it down on the table, letting it ring.

  I stared at the half-eaten sandwich in front of me. A small block of ice formed in my gut and I waited for the phone to stop buzzing. I didn't need more complications.

  The buzzing stopped and I waited. The caller hadn't left a voicemail.

  Thirty seconds later, it rang again. Same name and number.

  I took a deep breath, picked it up off the table and tapped the screen. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Tyler,” John Anchor said. His voice was smooth, cordial. “How are you?”

  He didn't identify himself. He didn't need to. “I'm alright. Yourself?”

  “I'm alright, as well,” he said. There was a slight pause. “I'm in San Diego. I'd like to meet with you this afternoon. If your schedule allows, of course.”

  It was almost funny, hearing him ask if my schedule allowed. John Anchor wasn't asking me if I could meet with him. He was telling me.

  “Sure,” I said. “Time and place?”

  He named both.

  I took another breath and exhaled. “I'll be there.”

  “I look forward to seeing you,” Anchor said, then hung up.

  I set the phone down on the table and stared at it for a moment. It wasn't going away. Anchor wasn't going away.

  I thought about his parting remark. I was the opposite of him.

  Because I was not looking forward to seeing John Anchor at all.

  SEVEN

  Anchor was sitting at a table in the back of a small taco shop in North Park. His short hair was perfectly combed, parted to the side. His black horn-rimmed glasses looked brand new. He had on a crisp blue shirt beneath a navy sport coat, gray slacks with creases like razor blades running down the middle and black dress shoes I could see my reflection in. If I hadn't known better, I would've mistaken him for a banker or a lawyer.

  But I knew better.

  He'd been instrumental in helping me find Elizabeth. I'd first called in a favor that he'd promised after I helped his boss find his son in Minneapolis. He'd come through. Then I'd needed another one when I was close to tracking down Elizabeth. He hadn't owed me one, though, and while he was willing to help, he made it known that I'd owe him. I knew that and I asked for his help anyway, which helped bring Elizabeth home.

  He'd helped me twice, but that didn't make him a good guy. Far from it. The man he'd worked with, Peter Codaselli, ran much of the organized crime in Minnesota. But it was Anchor that got things done.

  One way or another.

  He tucked a paper napkin into his shirt at the neck, saw me and raised a hand in greeting.

  I nodded and walked over to the small table he was occupying. Only one other table was occupied, a guy wearing construction boots and dirty jeans, devouring a massive burrito. He made eye contact with me as I passed his table, offering me a slight nod in greeting. I didn't nod back.

  Anchor held out his hand. “Mr. Tyler. A pleasure to see you.”

  We shook hands and I sat down in the chair across from him. There were two hard shell tacos in a paper boat in front of him along with a fountain drink.

  “Lunch is on me if you'd like anything,” he said, glancing at the menu above the cashier. “I'm told they make tremendous tacos.”

  “They do,” I said. “I'm okay, though. Thanks.”

  He nodded at his food. “Do you mind?”

  I shook my head. “Please. Go ahead.”

  He took a bite from one of the tacos and a swallow from the soda. He nodded approvingly. “Excellent.”

  I didn't say anything.

  He picked up the taco again. “Your daughter is well?”

  “Yes. She's doing well.”

  “That is excellent to hear. Mrs. Tyler?”

  “Good, too.”

  He nodded and took another bite. If you could describe someone eating a taco as efficient, that's how Anchor did it. Sharp bites, nothing spilled, no loose pieces.

  He set the taco down in the boat and wiped his hands on a napkin next to it. “I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I assume you understand why I called?”

  “I can make a guess.”

  He took a drink from the soda, set it down, wiped his hands again and settled back into his chair. “I'm in need of your assistance.”

  I nodded.

  “You're a professional, Mr. Tyler, but I'll ask anyway so there's no misunderstanding,” he said, peering at me over the tops of his glasses. “I was able to assist with your daughter, which I was happy to do. I'm glad she's back home and doing well.” He paused. “But I mentioned that if I helped—”

  “That it would be necessary to return the favor,” I said. “I recall and I understand.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. As I said, I'm in need of your assistance because of your skill set. I need you to locate someone for me.”

  My stomach knotted. “Alright.”

  “An associate of ours has gone missing,” Anchor explained, crossing his legs. “There is also money involved, but I'm less concerned about the money than I am in finding him.”

  “Is this local?” I asked. “Meaning here in San Diego?”

  Anchor shook his head. “No.”

  I looked away from him, the knot tightening in my gut. I'd already strained things with Lauren by telling her I was going to have to spend some time in Vegas. I didn't want to tell her that I was going to have to go somewhere else, too.

  I shifted my gaze back to Anchor. “Lauren is pregnant.”

  Anchor raised an eyebrow, a glimmer of a smile flashing across his mouth. “Congratulations. Please tell Mrs. Tyler I'm happy for you both.”

  “I will,” I said, nodding. “But as you can imagine, there's a lot going on with a baby on the way.”

  “I can, indeed, imagine.”

  “So it's not the greatest time for me to be gone,” I said.

  “I can, indeed, imagine that, as well.”

  We sat there in silence for a few moments, staring at one another.

  “Is there a reason you're telling me this, Mr. Tyler?” Anchor finally asked. “You said you understood the terms of our prior arrangement.”

  I looked away from him again, toward the front of the shop. I should've known that it wouldn't matter to him. It was easy to think of Anchor as a good guy because he'd helped me get back the one thing I'd most wanted in my life. But I knew he wasn't, no matter how erudite or helpful he was. John Anchor was a bad guy. We'd made a deal and I knew I'd need to repay his favor in kind whenever he came asking.

  Now, he was asking.

  “No reason.” I finally said. “My error. You need me to locate someone.”

  He stared at me for a moment, his eyes hard, serious, maybe curious.

  I stared back.

  Finally, he blinked. “As I said. This is a former associate of ours. He's worked with us for a number of years in several different roles. I don't think he in any way poses a threat to you. He's not that kind of associate.”

  “He's been gone awhile?”

  Anchor shook his head. “No, not long. Maybe a week, give or take a day. Don't know the exact time, but somewhere in that window, I believe.”

  “And you said he has money? That belongs to you
?”

  Anchor nodded. “He does. Not the first time we've had that issue with him, but as I said, the money is less a concern for us at this point.”

  “So he's done it before?”

  “The theft, yes,” Anchor said. “The disappearing, no.”

  “That seems odd,” I said. “That the theft was a recurring issue. I would've thought that would've been dealt with swiftly the first time it happened. If you don't mind me saying.”

  “I don't. But there were some extenuating circumstances the first time and it was a number of years ago,” Anchor said. He took another small bite of his taco, chewed and swallowed. “We dealt with the initial occurrence in a way that was fair and I made the determination that he would stay on with us.”

  I found all of that very interesting. Anchor and his people weren't the kind to offer second chances and the fact that Anchor himself took responsibility for letting him stay felt unusual to me. I knew that there had to be more to the story, but I figured we'd get around to that when it was necessary for me to know more.

  “We kept an eye on him,” Anchor said. “We believed that he was settled back into his position and that things were going well. But there were some indicators that he wasn't happy and that he might've been...less than satisfied with his position.” He picked up the last bit of taco. “So it's not a complete surprise that he has gone wherever he's gone.”

  “And you said that the money isn't as much of a concern to you?”

  Anchor polished off the taco, then wiped at his mouth with the napkin from the table. There wasn't a drop lost, not a single speck of grease on his fingers. He washed the food down with more soda.

  Efficient.

  “If the money is recovered, that would be fine,” Anchor said. “But I'm more interested in finding him.”

  Which meant the money wasn't so significant that it overrode punishing the guy that took it.

  “Alright,” I said. “And I assume you'd like me to start looking for him right away?”

  Anchor adjusted his glasses and something flitted through his eyes that I couldn't read. Something that fed my unease. “Yes. But, technically, you already have.”