Silent Witness

by Michael Norman

  The records search produced what Joiner had listed as a home address in Mesquite, Nevada, a small gaming town an hour north of Las Vegas. She’d listed her mother, Betty Joiner, at the Mesquite address, as the person to contact in case of an emergency. Joiner already held a bachelor’s degree in social work from the university and was currently enrolled in the Graduate School of Social Work in pursuit of a master’s degree. The local address was the same apartment near the university that had been broken into and trashed. I wondered what brought Joiner to Utah. I didn’t see a local connection.

  “Can you pull up her current class schedule and maybe the name of her academic advisor?”

  In seconds I had her class schedule—three grad courses, all in social work. “I can’t help you on the academic advisor. We don’t put that information into the records system. You’ll need to get that directly from somebody in social work.”

  “Fair enough. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Glad to do it. And remember, Sam, always protect your sources. You didn’t get those records from me.” With that admonishment he ushered me out the door.

  As I left the campus I drove past the social work building and into the adjacent parking lot where social work students would probably park. Kate had mentioned that Joiner drove an older Honda Civic. I found one with Nevada plates. It was registered to Joiner.

  I walked around the car being careful not to touch anything. I was sure that Kate would want a forensics team to process the car for prints. She might even opt to leave the car in the parking lot and establish surveillance on it. The car had been broken into and searched. The front passenger window had been smashed and glass was scattered all over the front seat and on the ground next to the door. The glove box was open, and the visors above the windshield were pulled down. Whoever broke in was looking for something, but what?

  ***

  Kincaid wasn’t the only person watching the Honda. Albert Bradshaw watched the gray Chevrolet Impala move slowly through the parking lot until it stopped a couple of stalls away from the Civic. The Impala had cop written all over it, and so did the guy who got out of it.

  Bradshaw slid lower into the bucket seat of the stolen Dodge Neon and removed the nine millimeter Glock from the waste band of his pants. He reached under a towel on the passenger side floor board and placed the short barreled shotgun on the seat next to him. The cop didn’t touch anything on the Honda but he looked it over carefully. When he finished, he looked around the parking lot, and for just an instant, Bradshaw was certain that their eyes locked. Bradshaw looked away and held his breath. In the next instant the guy was back in his car and talking on his police radio.

  Bradshaw choked down a growing sense of panic. Had the cop made him? He couldn’t afford to sit still and wait. What if the pig was on his radio calling for back up? He started the Neon and eased it out of the parking stall in the direction of the nearest exit. He drove slowly, watching through the rearview mirror to see if the Impala followed. Albert had made one decision: If the cop tried to follow him, the cop was a dead man. At first, the Impala didn’t move and Albert started to relax. When he looked a second time, the Impala was moving.

  ***

  Ever have that feeling that someone or something is watching you? That’s how I felt standing outside the Honda. I glanced around, and, at first, I didn’t see anything. Then, for just a second, my eyes locked on somebody who was looking in my direction. The guy was sitting alone in what looked like a late model Dodge or Plymouth Neon.

  I walked casually back to my car and reached for the radio. I’d decided to call for backup. I no sooner had the radio in-hand, when the white Neon began to move. It was too far for my middle-aged eyes to make out the plate number or to get much of a look at the driver.

  At first, the Neon moved slowly, but as soon as I began to follow, the driver punched it. He raced through the lot, narrowly missing a group of students who had just unloaded from a university bus and were scattering to their respective cars. By the time I dodged the pedestrian traffic, the Neon had opened a good sized lead. The driver burst through a red light on Foothill Boulevard, causing a big SUV to lock its brakes and spin sideways in the intersection. The Neon almost struck a city bus as it sped southbound on Foothill.

  Foothill Boulevard is a busy, four-lane road that runs through a neighborhood with a mix of residential and light business. Most of the retail stores are confined to strip malls. It quickly became apparent that my only hope of catching this guy was to drive him into other units that had been dispatched as backup. Within minutes, I had hooked up with two Salt Lake P.D. patrol cars and one from the sheriff’s department. Unfortunately, the mystery man had done a vanishing act.

  In no time, the area was crawling with cops. Kate showed, and so did her partner, Detective Vince Turner. It took almost a half hour before one of the patrol cars discovered the abandoned Neon on a residential street two blocks west of Foothill behind a large strip mall.

  I got to the Neon a couple of minutes ahead of Kate. This was definitely the vehicle I’d seen in the U parking lot. Up close, it looked like it had recently been repainted by one of those companies that advertises paint jobs on the cheap.

  The patrolman who found the Neon told me that the license plates were registered to a 2003 Ford Taurus belonging to a couple in Provo. The plates hadn’t been reported stolen. When I looked inside, I saw a sawed off shotgun lying on the passenger front seat. I suggested that he run the Neon’s VIN number through NCIC. The car came back stolen from a West Valley City shopping mall nearly a month ago.

  When Kate arrived, she immediately organized a thorough search of the area around where the car was discovered. As I stood visiting with Vince Turner, Kate came up beside me and gave my arm a squeeze. “I hope you realize that you cause a lot of work for my department,” she said, smiling.

  “Well, at least for the crime lab guys,” I said.

  “I’ve got a team responding here right now, and when they’re finished, they’ll head over to the U and process Joiner’s car. In the meantime, the University of Utah Police agreed to have somebody watch her car until we can get back there. You think we ought to tow the Honda or leave it out as bait?”

  “That depends on whether you want to commit the time and resources to put the car under surveillance. Whoever I just ran off sure as hell won’t be back.”

  “If I was a betting woman, and I’m not, I’d give you odds that the prints we’re going to find on this car and on Joiner’s will match somebody from the Bradshaw family.”

  “I suspect you’re right. They might have taken the time to wipe down Joiner’s car after breaking in, but not this guy. You can bet that he bailed out of here in a hurry.”

  A search of the area failed to turn up a suspect. It didn’t help that I couldn’t provide much of a description. All I could say for sure was that the guy was a white, male, with dark hair, and probably under forty. Not much to go on.

  With some personnel from my unit, Kate and I agreed to place Joiner’s Honda under surveillance for the next several nights. It was a gamble, and one that might prove a waste of time. If it was someone from the Bradshaw family I had just encountered, he wouldn’t return. On the other hand, maybe Robin Joiner would.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was after seven when Kate and I got home. Baxter Shaw’s Lincoln Town Car was parked in the driveway. Aunt June had invited Baxter for dinner, and Kate and I were late as usual.

  We found them in the great room sipping a glass of Merlot in front of a roaring fire. Fall in Utah is my favorite time of year. At seven thousand feet above sea level, the nights, while chilly, are more than offset by warm daytime temperatures, and the autumn colors are spectacular especially the aspens that change from green to bright golden hues. The magnificent colors are, of course, a harbinger of the cold, snowy months to follow.

  It was too early to tell if their relationship had legs. They were taking things slow and easy, p
robably a generational thing. I thought they made a cute couple. Every time I mentioned that to Aunt June, she turned a shade of crimson and tried to kick me in the shins.

  Kate leaned over the couch and gave Baxter a peck on the cheek. “Sorry we’re late. I hope you went ahead and ate.”

  “We figured you might be late. It’s hardly the first time. Baxter and I decided to enjoy our wine and wait for you kids,” said Aunt June.

  “If we could just get the bad guys to cooperate, we’d be home every night by five,” I countered.

  “I’m not going to hold my breath on that one,” said Aunt June. “We went ahead and fed Sara. She was starving. I tell you that girl has a hollow leg.”

  I could tell they were enjoying the wine. The bottle was almost empty and Aunt June was acting giddy. Baxter was being his polite, reserved, southern self. We settled in the dining room to a good old-fashioned dinner of Aunt June’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, a pear salad, and green beans. We Kincaids come from a long line of basic meat and potatoes eaters—no fancy continental cuisine or French soufflé, thank you very much. I did have to admit that since Kate and I began seeing each other, she’d pushed my culinary boundaries to new levels.

  Kate opened a second bottle of Merlot for the wine drinkers, and I grabbed a cold Corona from the refrigerator. Before long I could tell that the second bottle of wine was well on its way to extinction. “Kate,” I said, “you should be ashamed of yourself—contributing to the delinquency of seniors like this.” That brought a smile from Kate and a giggle from Aunt June.

  Baxter grunted. “Perhaps someone should remind this young man to drink his beer and mind his own business.” More tittering from Aunt June.

  Sara joined us for dessert. I swear the kid can smell dessert a mile away. She has her Dad’s sweet tooth. It was rewarded with hot French apple pie topped with, what else, French vanilla ice cream.

  After dinner, Kate and I cleaned up while Aunt June and Baxter retired to the great room to cap the evening with a glass of port. I cleared the table while Kate rinsed and loaded the dishwasher. When I brought the last load of dishes into the kitchen, Kate was standing with her back to me rinsing the sink. I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist burying my face in the side of her neck. As I kissed her neck and cheek, she straightened and leaned back against me resting the back of her head on my shoulder. My hands caressed her breasts. She sighed. “I need a hug,” I whispered.

  “Oh, yeah. Judging from that thing that’s poking me, I’d say that you need a little more than a hug.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  She turned, put her arms around my neck, and we began a deep, slow kiss, one that might have lasted for a long time had Sara not popped into the kitchen at that exact moment. “Daddy, you’re kissing,” she teased.

  “And you’re nosy,” I said. “What do you need, baby?”

  “Would you help me with my home-work?” I spent the next few minutes helping Sara with her math assignment. It wasn’t going to be long before my limited math literacy would render me useless in helping her—math tutor here we come. Tonight Sara settled into bed, without a fuss, and fell asleep quickly.

  Kate had joined Baxter and Aunt June in the great room. The discussion quickly turned to my impending child custody hearing in Atlanta.

  Baxter said, “Sam, your Aunt June was telling me earlier today about the problem with Sara. While I don’t want to pry into your affairs, I think I can help you with this.”

  “Any help would be greatly appreciated,” I replied.

  “Before I moved to Utah, I had business interests all over the southeast including Georgia. When I heard about your problem, I took the liberty of calling the law firm in Atlanta that handled my business affairs.” He paused and reached into the pocket of his sports coat and produced a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it.

  “Go on,” I said.

  He handed me the slip of paper. “My old law firm put me in touch with this lady. They assured me that her reputation as a family law attorney in the Atlanta area is second to none. In fact, and pardon my language, they described Ms. Kittridge as a real ball-buster. She called me back late this afternoon and we had a delightful conversation. I think you should call her.”

  I thanked Baxter and promised to call Allison Kittridge the next day. “And don’t forget to call Jim Reilly tomorrow, too. He’s expecting your call,” said Kate.

  It was getting late and everybody was tired. We offered Baxter the guest bedroom but he declined. After he left, Aunt June bid us good night and toddled down the hall to her bedroom.

  I checked on Sara and then Kate and I retired to my bedroom. We made love for a long time and then fell asleep tangled in each others arms. I woke early. It was a little after five. Kate was gone. She left a note on her pillow thanking me for a nice evening and promising to catch up later in the day. Until now, we had been cautious about sleep-overs. While Kate and Sara had grown close, I wasn’t sure whether Sara was ready to find a woman in bed with her dad.

  I got up quietly, dressed, left a note for Aunt June on the kitchen chalkboard, and headed to my office at the prison. Since the new executive director had arrived, I’d been spending less and less time in my office at department headquarters and more time in my office at the prison. I’m not sure why—out of sight, out of mind perhaps.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As soon as I arrived at the office, I called Patti in. “I want you to dig around and find anything you can about Walter Bradshaw’s lawyer. The guy’s name is Gordon Dixon. And while you’re at it, also run the name Joan Dixon.” I gave her the LLC information I’d received the previous day at the Secretary of State’s office.

  “What kind of information are you looking for?”

  “I’m fishing. Anything you can find. Why don’t you start by doing a Google search? Then run them through the public record sites. See if they own property in Utah.”

  “I’ll get right on it. You want me to run them through NCIC and UBCI?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “By the way, what did you find out about Robin Joiner?” I asked.

  “It’s exactly what you suspected. None of the newspapers knew about her, same for the television stations.”

  “You mean they didn’t even know that she was a witness,” I said, sounding incredulous.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. None of them talked to her because they didn’t know anything about her. I pulled as many newspaper articles as I could find, and Robin Joiner isn’t mentioned anywhere. That’s not true of Arnold Ginsberg. He was interviewed on television and his name was mentioned by nearly every print source—something of an instant media celebrity, I’d say.”

  That gave me pause for reflection. If Joiner wasn’t on the radar screen of any media sources, why would Walter Bradshaw have described her as “that beautiful, young woman.” How would he have known?

  I gave Patti a copy of the information I’d received from Dr. Richard Bond at the university the previous day. “The mother’s name is Betty Joiner. See if you can find a home phone number for her. And then run a criminal history check on Robin. Assuming she grew up in Nevada, there could be a juvenile history. I know the juvie record might be hard to get, but see what you can do. If necessary, I’ll call a friend in the Nevada Department of Corrections who can help us.”

  ***

  Robin Joiner woke early, feeling decidedly anxious. This had been her second night in the motel and it no longer felt safe. She knew it was time to move before somebody figured out where she was.

  She dialed the number again, and for the umpteenth time, she got no answer. She had been trying to reach Tracy Sanders, a member of her study group at school, and her closest friend. But Tracy wasn’t answering, and she was hesitant to leave a message. Tracy had a boyfriend and often spent nights at his house, but she didn’t have that number. She’d even called the Outback Steakhouse where Tracy wor
ked as a hostess, only to discover that she wasn’t scheduled to work that night.

  Her next best option was to call another member of the study group. His name was Michael Baker. Michael clearly had the hots for her. He would help her, she was sure of it. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the same feelings for him. And she didn’t understand why. He was cute, smart, and a really nice guy. Maybe that was the problem. Sadly, she had never been attracted to nice guys who treated her well. Instead, she had always been attracted to the bad boys, several of whom had left her with bruises to prove it.

  Baker answered on the second ring. “Michael, this is Robin. I’m in trouble, and I need your help.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Anything, Rob, what do you need?”

  “I need you to do me a big favor and not ask me any questions about it.”

  He paused. “Okay. What’s the favor?”

  “I need you to pick up my car in the U parking lot, and then meet me someplace so that I can get it from you.”

  “What about the key?”

  “You’ll find a spare in one of those magnetic key holders above the driver’s side front tire. How soon do you think you can get it for me?”

  “How about right now?” he said. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

  “You’re really sweet. Why don’t I call your cell, in say, two hours? That should give you time to pick it up, and then we can arrange a place to meet.”

  “Sounds kind of mysterious to me. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay. I’ll call you in two hours.”

  ***

  A few minutes after nine, I was headed back to the University of Utah. If we were going to find Robin Joiner, one approach was to contact teachers and as many of her student friends as possible. I started at the Graduate School of Social Work. Joiner’s class schedule showed three social work courses, two of them taught by the same professor. I found Dr. Joyce Barrows working on her computer in an office filled with enough clutter to make my clutter insignificant by comparison.