by Tim Ellis
‘We could put that down to my beauty, my brains, my . . .’
‘And have you been over there to open it yet?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘You do know it’s evidence in . . . ?’
‘In what?’
‘An unidentified person case.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘I’m afraid there is. They even have a database called NamUS – the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System. Not only that, if Mona knew you’d found a key and not handed it over to the police . . . ’
‘She doesn’t have to know.’
‘It’s called tampering with evidence.’
‘I found the key – it’s mine.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Goodnight.’
‘No, wait.’
‘What?’
‘Will you come with me to Palatka?’
‘Not happy with getting yourself arrested, you want me to share a cell with you.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘I’m going to see Mona first . . .’
‘About what?’
‘About things relating to the case I’m working on. It’s not all about you, you know.’
‘Oh.’
‘After that – if you recall – we’re having lunch with Laura to discuss the John Doe and obtain a copy of the autopsy report. We could take a drive over to Palatka after that. Or, you could go on your own while I’m seeing Mona.’
‘No, I don’t want to go on my own.’
‘Meet me in Zero’s diner on the corner of Riberia Street – just down from the police station at eleven o’clock.’
‘And then we’ll drive over to see Laura about the John Doe?’
‘Yes. Can I go back to sleep now?’
‘How was your day?’
He ended the call.
Mabel was staring at him.
‘Don’t ask, Mabel.’ He turned over and went back to sleep.
***
‘Mmmm?’
‘I have a couple of addresses and a telephone number that I want you to check out.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Six o’clock.’
‘In the evening?’
‘Morning.’
‘You’re getting your own back, aren’t you?’
‘Do you think I’m that petty?’
‘Almost definitely.’
‘So, are you going to write them down?’
‘Take a photograph of the list and send it to me.’
‘Dinosaurs don’t do photographs.’
‘It’s easy . . .’
‘Get a pen and paper.’
‘You’re a . . .’
‘. . . Dinosaur?’
‘Exactly.’
He could hear her grunting as she sat up in bed.
‘Okay – go.’
He began reading the list of addresses.
When he reached the seventh address Rae said, ‘You said there were a couple. We passed a couple five addresses ago. Now we’re at several. How many more are there?’
‘Sixteen more.’
‘Sixteen! I should . . .’
‘. . . If you moan it’ll just take that much longer.’
She didn’t say anything.
He carried on reading the addresses, giving her the telephone number last of all. ‘There, that’s it.’
She ended the call.
Revenge was as sweet as honey.
Mabel gave him a look.
He responded with a guilty smile. ‘I know it was childish Mabel, but there it is.’
After clearing up the devastation in his kitchen, he took a shower, got dressed and went next door.
‘You’re up early,’ Sara said, when she opened the door.
He followed her back into the suite. ‘If you recall, I was always up early – the best time of the day. I used to stand and watch you and Misty sleeping.’
‘Why?’
‘I could never really get it into my head that I had two beautiful daughters. I used to think that maybe I’d dreamt it, and I came in each morning to make sure you were both real. Of course, that was before you began to run your mother and me ragged. I knew you were both real then all right.’
‘We weren’t that bad, were we?’
‘The worst teenagers in the world.’
A shocked smile erupted on her face. ‘I know you don’t mean that.’
‘It felt like it at the time.’
He sat at the table. Rochelle was strapped into a hotel-issue highchair trying to get baby food into her mouth. He picked up the sticky plastic spoon and began to feed her.
‘Thanks, dad. I hate mornings.’
‘Did what’s-his-name used to help with Rochelle?’
‘Yes. He was a good father . . . and a good husband for the most part.’ She began crying softly. ‘That’s what makes his betrayal so awful.’
‘Did you mean what you said last night about leaving him, staying here and going back to work?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just so angry at the moment.’
‘Well, don’t think I don’t want you here . . .’
‘But?’
‘But nothing. You’re my daughter. I’ve missed you and Misty. If you decide you want to come and live here – then that’s just fine by me. All you have to do is say the word and I’ll make it happen.’
She came and hugged him then. ‘Thanks, dad.’
‘I’m not your mother, but I can help in other ways.’ He gave her his mobile number. ‘Don’t make any rash decisions without discussing them with me first. And there’s always Misty – talk to her.’
‘Misty has her own . . .’
His brow furrowed. ‘Her own what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me, or I’ll give Misty a call and ask her myself.’
‘No, don’t do that, dad.’
‘Why not?’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’
‘If Misty’s in trouble, I do want to know.’
‘Curtis is still hitting her. I’ve told her to leave him, but she won’t.’
‘I spoke to her briefly last month – about the same time I called you – and she said everything was fine.’
‘Well, she’s not fine.’
His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘She should have told me.’
‘And what would you have done?’
‘You know what I’d have done.’
‘Which is why she didn’t tell you. A dead husband and a father on trial for murder would not have improved her situation.’
‘You think I’m the type of father to stand idly by while his daughter gets beaten senseless by a lowlife?’
‘We know you’re not, that’s why you weren’t told. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’
‘Oh, so protecting my children is stupid, is it?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ll promise to think about what I’m going to do.’
‘I wished I’d never told you.’
‘But you did, and you can’t un-tell me now. Anyway, it won’t be today, today I have things to do, and I pray to God that the slimeball doesn’t kill my daughter before I can get to her.’
‘Oh, dad!’
‘I have to go now. You focus on what you’re going to do with your own life, and leave Curtis Polk to me. I promise I personally won’t kill him. Although that’ll turn me into a liar, because I’d previously promised him I would kill him if he ever touched Misty again.’
‘Paying someone else to do it is just as bad.’
He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Have a good day, and don’t be afraid to call me if you need to.’
‘I won’t. Are you going to kiss Rochelle as well?’
‘Maybe when we get to know each other a little better.’
***
‘How’s your head?’
‘Just because you used to work here, doesn’t mean that you can stroll in anytime you feel like it, yo
u know. There are rules – you know that as well as anybody. Not only that, you now work for the competition.’
‘It’s lovely to see you as well.’
‘I feel like shit. Is that wine you were plying me with last night legal?’
He sat down in the chair reserved for perps. ‘That was the good stuff. You ought to be glad I didn’t get the bottles I found at the bottom of the bargain bin out.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘I have a few suggestions.’
‘This is where you ask me to break the law, and I tell you to go to hell, isn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t have to end like that, Mona.’
‘No, it could end with me on the FBI’s most wanted list.’
‘As I said, they’re tiny favours. In fact, they’re hardly favours at all. You’d be doing yourself, the department and the citizens of St Augustine a favour by giving me what I want. Think of me as an unpaid employee.’
‘You should have been a hustler. Well, what do you want?’
‘A copy of the John Doe file.’
‘For Rae?’
‘We’re working together. And don’t forget she gave you a lift home last night.’
‘Okay. What else?’
‘The Missing Person Report for John Harrison.’
‘You’re wasting your time with that one.’
‘It pays the bills, and I have a hunch.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Any idea where Johnny Betcher is at the moment?’
‘No.’
‘And can you run the name – Joseph Fowler – through the CIC database and let me have what comes back?’
‘In connection with?’
‘The missing children.’
‘I thought you’d finished with that case?’
‘No. There are still some unanswered questions about the deaths of Deacon Raeburn and Ben Ratchett . . .’
‘You saw the report – the deaths weren’t considered in any way suspicious. They were both killed during a mass brawl in the lock-up.’
‘Why those two?’
‘Another prisoner was killed as well. The deaths were just one of those things.’
‘Too much of a coincidence. It’s my opinion that they were killed to stop them talking.’
‘You’re being paranoid.’
‘Maybe . . . And then, of course, there’s still seventeen missing children who need to be accounted for.’
‘I’ll run the name, but I think you’re wasting your time.’
‘Now that I’m retired, I have lots of time to waste.’
‘Come back in an hour.’
‘Thanks, Mona. You’re the best.’
‘The best what?’
‘The best friend a guy ever had.’
‘The best fool for listening to you, you mean?’
‘You’re nobody’s fool, Mona Connelly.’
He drove over to West Castillo Drive to speak to the Assistant Manager – Fred Byrne – at the Harbor Bank, and was shown into a bright office with a marble floor and tall ceiling.
‘Mrs Harrison called me,’ the bald-headed Mr Byrne said. He wore small round glasses, sported a grey moustache in a grey sallow face and his jowls had begun to sag.
‘Good,’ Tom said. ‘Shall we get right to it then?’
‘I’m sure Roger . . .’
‘Look Mr Byrne, let’s not beat about the bush. You’re not sure of anything. All you know is that Roger Harrison booked two weeks’ vacation time. Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Well, no . . .’
‘Has he called or sent you a postcard?’
‘No.’
‘Did he discuss his plans with you before he left?’
‘No.’
‘Now, he could very well be on vacation somewhere hot and sticky, but I have grave doubts about that. And if he’s not lying by a sun-kissed pool knocking back the Buds with a half-naked woman beside him, then the question is: “Where the hell is he?”
‘Mr Harrison would never . . .’
‘I’m sure you get my drift, Mr Byrne. Now, I’ve been employed by Mrs Harrison to find her husband, but here’s something to think about – If Roger Harrison were to find himself in the bank at midnight, what would he have access to?’
‘Well . . .’
‘The vault?’
‘No, it’s on a time lock.’
‘Do you have safety deposit boxes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could he access them?’
‘Yes. In fact, the only thing he wouldn’t have access to is the vault.’
‘Are you sure? What if someone were trapped inside?’
‘They would have to stay in there until the time the door was scheduled to open. There’s enough air for twenty-four hours.’
‘You couldn’t phone the people who made the time lock and ask them to open the door ahead of schedule?’
‘No.’
‘Is there any cash that isn’t inside the vault?’
‘No.’
‘What about the computer system?’
‘Yes, he would have full access to the computer system as he normally does as the manager.’
‘So, he could move money out of people’s accounts and into another account?’
‘He wouldn’t . . .’
‘He might not have any choice, Mr Byrne. I don’t think he’s on vacation. He has no passport, clothes or any other luggage with him, and his briefcase and keys are missing.’
‘I see. You think that someone might force him to . . . ?’
‘It’s a possibility, but it doesn’t explain why it hasn’t already happened. He went missing sometime during the early hours of Friday October 5, which would suggest that any attempt at a bank robbery would have taken place over the weekend, but it didn’t . . . did it?’
‘Do you think I’d be standing here talking to you if it had, Mr Gabriel?’
‘I assume not, but my suggestion is that you should disable Mr Harrison’s password onto the computer system, and his access into any sensitive areas of the bank.’
‘Do you realise what you’re suggesting?’
‘No, I have no idea about the security of a bank. Do you employ someone who is responsible for security matters?’
‘Yes, Philip Chen. He’s our security consultant.’
‘Then, you might want to ask him to consider a worst-case scenario and act accordingly. Also, he should investigate any underground access into the bank, or to its computer and other systems.’
‘Surely that’s not necessary?’
‘Only you can decide what’s necessary, Mr Byrne. You’re the Bank Manager during Mr Harrison’s absence. If I were you, I wouldn’t want the bank robbed during my watch. And if it was, I’d want my superiors to know that I did everything within my power to prevent it from happening.’
‘Of course, you’re right. Except that Mr Chen is away all week at a security conference in Dallas.’
‘I’d say that was one coincidence too many, Mr Byrne. My recommendation is that you find someone else to cover for him as soon as you can.’
He nodded, leaned forward, pressed a button on the intercom system and spoke to his secretary. ‘Ann?’
‘Yes, Mr Byrne?’
‘Please obtain a list of bank security consultants and bring it in.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘Now, can we focus on the Harrison’s bank account – I haven’t got much time.’
‘Yes. What do you want to know?’
‘I’d like a hard copy of their last three months’ statements.’
He accessed the Harrison account on his computer, sent the request to the printer and handed it to Tom. ‘Anything else?’
He folded the statements up and slipped them into the pocket of his cargo shorts. ‘Do the Harrisons have any other accounts?’
‘No, not with this bank.’
‘With any other bank?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
&nbs
p; ‘Do they have a safe deposit box?’
He hesitated.
‘Mrs Harrison gave me full access, Mr Byrne.’
‘Yes, but the box is in Roger’s name.’
‘And Mrs Harrison knows nothing about it?’
He shrugged. ‘Roger doesn’t discuss his private life with me.’
‘I’d like to see what’s in that box, Mr Byrne.’
‘I don’t . . .’
‘If it contains nothing relevant to his disappearance, I promise to expunge what I see from my memory.’
‘And you won’t tell Mrs Harrison that he has the box?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll hold you to your word, Mr Gabriel.’
Fred Byrne showed him down to the room that contained the safe deposit boxes, and unlocked number 237.
Tom thought that the double-bit key he’d found under the bottom drawer of Roger’s bedside chest might open the safe deposit box, but the keys were totally different.
Mr Byrne put the box on a table and said, ‘I’ll wait outside.’
‘You don’t want to see what’s inside the box?’
‘I’d lose my job if I looked in that box.’
‘Of course.’ He waited until Mr Byrne had left the room and then opened the safe deposit box. Scooping everything out, he spread the contents on the table. There were seven photographs dated May 2001 of a younger, naked and extremely attractive Barbara Harrison having sex with a dark-haired man. Roger must have employed a private detective to follow his wife. It was thirteen years ago. Was it relevant now? He didn’t think so, and put the photographs back in the box.
There were ten baseball cards wrapped loosely in a rubber band:
Honus Wagner (1909)
Nap Lajoie (1933)
Mickey Mantle (1952)
Joe Jackson (1914)
Ty Cobb (1914)
Babe Ruth (1933)
Leroy ‘Satchel’ Paige (1949)
Joe DiMaggio (1938)
Willie Mays (1951)
Ted Williams (1954)
He didn’t know much about the value of rare baseball cards, but he estimated that he was holding in his hand upwards of a million dollars. Roger Harrison certainly knew how to invest his money, he thought. With reluctance, he put the baseball cards back in the box.
Next, was an old envelope. He opened it and took the yellowing piece of paper out. It was dated October 29, 1929 – Black Tuesday.
