by Laurel Dewey
“Yes.” This time, the answer was pronounced and almost defiant for someone as mealy-mouthed as Carol Van Gorden.
“I can’t blame him. I’m the same way, Carol. I don’t like surprises,” Jane mused as she ran her fingers across a ten-inchlong silver cigarette case. Again, the case seemed out of place to Jane in this Colorado-inspired home design. On top of the silver case, was a wildly engraved V with enough flourishes and twirls that it barely resembled the letter.
Carol saw Jane looking at the cigarette case. She reached across the desk and moved it closer to her. “Oh, that’s embarrassing!” Carol declared. “Cigarette smoking is so disgusting! I never thought he should keep it out like this. He doesn’t smoke. Nor do I.” She swept up the case, holding it tightly to her body. “It gives the wrong impression, you know, a cigarette case on display. Nasty, nasty habit.”
Jane couldn’t care less what anybody had on display in their private home, so long as it wasn’t a meth lab or child porn. And she sure as hell didn’t care if anybody smoked. In fact, the idea of a cigarette was sounding pretty damn good right now. But the way Carol held that case against her body bothered Jane. Was this woman so worried about appearances that she thought it was necessary to make such a fanfare? Or was there something in the case she didn’t want Jane to see? “My dad had a silver cigarette case just like that on his desk,” Jane said, lying through her teeth. Her father wouldn’t have been caught dead with something that showy. “But he kept photos of my brother and I in it.” That was one helluva of another lie. Jane’s dad never cared a bit to carry or display a single photo of his kids. “What does your husband keep in the case?”
Carol looked faint. She wet her lips several times and rested one hand on the leather chair for support. “Odds and ends,” she said, her voice barely breaching the level of a whisper.
“Can I see what’s inside, Carol?” Jane asked, matching Carol’s soft tone.
Apoplectic. That’s how Carol appeared as she set the case on the glass top and pushed it toward Jane. Jane leaned forward, picked it up and opened the top. Inside, there were a multicolored variety of paperclips and thumbtacks. Jane moved her fingernail underneath the wooden bottom piece of the box, in search of anything that might be hidden there. But it was sealed tightly. She looked at Carol, who had a nervous smile across her face.
“Silly, isn’t it?” Carol offered. “To keep office supplies in something like that.”
Jane closed the lid and brushed her fingers across the engraving on top of the V. “Shouldn’t this be V.G.?”
“I’m sorry?” Carol asked, seemingly not hearing the question.
“Van Gorden?”
Carol shrugged her shoulders. Her face froze in a forced grin that made her look like something between a lunatic and a prisoner facing a firing squad. “I don’t know. It’s from Bailey’s side of the family.”
“Well,” Jane said, carefully setting it back on the desktop, “it’s a beauty!” Jane looked at Carol. “Just like that chair.”
Carol looked down at the desk chair. A look came over her face that Jane couldn’t identify. It was as though the woman was slipping out of her body momentarily. “It belonged to Bailey’s father,” she said in a distant voice.
“His dad wasn’t a doctor, was he?”
“Excuse me?” Carol looked at Jane with distant eyes.
“It’s not a doctor’s chair. The sides and the armrest are pretty beat up. It wasn’t a chair he cared about showing off.”
Carol looked back at the chair, totally dazed. “Yes. You’re right. You really do have a knack for detail, don’t you? That must come in handy with your line of work.” She looked off to the side, utterly lost. The sound of the phone ringing broke the awkward silence. Carol jumped, bringing herself back into her delicate body. It rang a second time before she picked it up. “Hello.” She waited a few seconds. “Hello?” She hung up. “Wrong number I guess.”
Jane recalled that when they first visited the Van Gordens, the phone was ringing when Carol opened the door. Later, when Bailey arrived at the door and Carol asked about the phone call, he said it ‘rang twice’ and was a wrong number. “I know I already asked you this, but you’re not being bugged by media calls, are you?”
“No, thank goodness.”
“Does the phone ring two times a lot and then nobody’s there?”
“It’s happened before.”
“Just recently?”
“Recent in what way?”
“Since Jake’s disappearance,” Jane stressed.
“No, it was happening before that.” Jane started around the desk. Carol stiffened. “What is it?!” she exclaimed, backing up a few steps toward the corner of the room.
Jane put a reassuring hand on her arm. The woman was completely overreacting to Jane’s movement. “It’s okay, Carol. I just want to check the caller ID, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine,” she said, but she shook her head.
It was one of the most common tells in body language; answering a question in the affirmative but letting your body demonstrate your real feelings. Jane had nailed countless perps by noting that giveaway. “You’re sure it’s okay if I check?” Jane asked again, wanting to see if she produced the same reaction.
“Yes, of course,” Carol uttered, repeating the same damn shake of the head.
Jane hit the backward arrow on the Caller ID box, displaying the last number called. “Unavailable,” she said out loud. “That’s convenient.” She turned to Carol. “Ever notice when this has happened before if it always comes up as unavailable…or is there a number?”
“I honestly have never checked it out.”
Well, finally, Jane thought. A completely honest statement in one full breath from Carol. Somebody send up a flag.
“Why are you here, Detective?”
Jane realized that for Carol to even utter such an inquiry, it took all the courage she could muster. This was not a woman who wanted to appear rude or presumptuous. And, after all, the only reason Jane was there was because she knew Bailey wasn’t. “Well…”
“Is there something new regarding Jake’s case?” Carol fiddled with the hem of her cashmere turtleneck. “I don’t mean to sound like a gossip, but I got a call a few hours ago from a friend in town who said she saw several police cars heading down the highway, past where Jordan Copeland lives.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I just wondered if you found…” She choked on her words.
Jane put a hand on Carol’s arm. “You would have been called.”
Carol nodded, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Carol kept her head down but touched Jane’s arm with her shaking hand. It’s the perfect time to jump, Jane thought. “Carol, if you know something that might help us in any way…”
Carol took an even more defined step back toward the corner of the room where the empty box and packing materials lay in a heap. “I don’t know anything!” She avoided Jane’s gaze and turned her head to the side, toward the corner of the room.
Jane stared at the empty box. It was about eighteen inches long and twelve inches wide. The perfect size for a pair of expensive cowboy boots, Jane surmised. But the way Carol seemed to point her head toward the box even when she said, I don’t know anything, troubled Jane. “Every second counts right now, Carol.“
Carol looked Jane straight in the eye. “I said I don’t know anything! Now, I really do need to get on with my day. If there’s nothing else I can help you with…”
Jane was getting tired of being abruptly asked to leave people’s homes and property. She let out a tired breath and walked out into the entry, followed by Carol. But before she got to the door, she turned. “One more question. Bo Lowry told Sergeant Weyler that you and your husband withdrew a reward fund two nights ago. Why did you do that?”
Carol took a hard swallow. “My husband didn’t want every crackpot in the world calling up Chief Lowry and offering false clues just to get money.”
The words fell like stone from her lips.
“Yeah, but, people with genuine information will talk for the right amount of money. It’s worth sorting through the wingnuts to get to the cream…”
“No! My husband has made the decision and we are sticking with it,” Carol stammered as she moved Jane to the door and opened it.
Carol was the victim personified. Victims, Jane thought, were the bottom feeders of bad luck. The more they stewed in their suffering, the more they attracted a world that validated their misfortune. Jane did her best to make eye contact with the woman but it was useless. Even trained thieves and seasoned liars learned to look a cop in the eye occasionally. It was the ones who were new to the game who kept their heads hung.
Jane didn’t cross the threshold at Town Hall until a little past 12:30 pm. The receptionist buzzed her in with a wave and a questionable glance at her mud-encrusted shirt. Right before she rounded the corner of Bo’s office, she nearly ran straight into Vi who was carrying a file folder and heading to her desk. Jane quickly realized that she had an impromptu opportunity. She asked if she could see Jordan’s file, for no other reason but to find out what mysterious page Vi had torn off the front of the file. When Vi handed her the file, there was only a staple on the front with a torn fragment of paper at the top.
“What’s missing here?” Jane asked, pointing to the staple.
“An internal cover page.” Vi’s answer was polished and succinct.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t do that at Denver Headquarters? I thought that was protocol.”
Jane had never heard of any “protocol” at DH that required a facing page on the outside of all files. And if it did exist, there’d be no reason to rip it off and hide it away in a top desk drawer—unless it had seriously confidential information in it. If that was the case here, it didn’t make sense that Vi ripped the front page off of both Jake and Jordan’s file. And furthermore, if Bo brought them into solve this case in a timely fashion, shouldn’t any and all confidential information be brought out into the open? Jane assured Vi that they didn’t follow that practice. “Can I ask what’s on the page?”
“Sure,” Vi replied graciously. “It’s the date the file was opened, the contents inside the file, initials of who has read the file and the date they read it and how many photos are in the file.”
For a small-time police department, this place sure felt a need to be as thorough and anal as possible with their filing system. Funny thing was, Jane realized, for a town that basically had no crime, it seemed ridiculous that they would go to the trouble of creating such a front page on each file. And furthermore, as far as Jane could tell, the only two people reading said files were Vi and Bo. Was it really necessary for them to “sign off” on it each time they read it? Vi’s story was as phony as they come but Jane gave the woman credit for the way she delivered the lie. She talked quickly, with authority and didn’t smile too much while she was doing it, so it didn’t come off as disingenuous. She was well trained, Jane decided, and this wasn’t her first horse in the deception race. “You know, I would love for Sergeant Weyler to get a copy of that front page so we could incorporate it in our filing system back at Headquarters. Could I see one of them?”
“Of course. I’ve got to make a quick phone call, but I’ll bring it in shortly.” Vi smiled pleasantly, turned and sat back at her desk.
Yeah, Jane deduced, Vi was a pro. Jane waited. Now pick up the phone to make it look real, she said to herself. As if the woman heard Jane’s thoughts, she lifted the receiver and dialed a number. Damn, she’s good.
Jane knocked on Bo’s door and walked inside. Weyler was seated across from Bo who was standing at his desk, his belly resting comfortably on the cluttered desktop. He was smoking a cigar.
“Glad you could make it!” Bo said with the usual contempt he saved for interchanges with Jane. “You take part in a hog tying contest?” He motioned with his cigar to her muddy shirt.
Jane glanced at Weyler who shot her a look of silent reproach.
“We got the phone number of the cell phone we found in the trunk. Area code 201.” Bo held the paper up with the phone number. “It’s in New Jersey. Just like where Jordan Copeland is from. We checked his file and it’s real similar to the phone number his parents had when they lived back there. Starts with the same three numbers…379.”
“The Van Gordens are also from New Jersey. Wentworth.”
“What in the hell has that got to do with anything?” Bo grumbled.
“Well, your number-one suspect and the family of the kid he’s allegedly kidnapped, hearken from the same state.”
“So what’s the connection?” Bo asked.
“I don’t know. But it’s just a little too coincidental. So, let’s call the number.”
“Call it?” Bo exclaimed. “Why? To hear his cell phone ring?”
Jane maneuvered around the boxes scattered on Bo’s floor and sat in the chair next to Weyler. “You said the first two phone calls that came in when the kidnapper left voicemail messages didn’t display any number on your Caller ID, right?” Bo nodded, puffing nervously on his cigar. “Now, suddenly, there’s a phone number? He’s not stupid. If he wanted to block it, he’d block it. He’s obviously hip to some kind of technology.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Weyler put forth.
“It’s too ironic that a disposable cell phone has a New Jersey area code and the two people involved in this case are both from New Jersey.”
“Maybe the kidnapper’s from New Jersey, too?” Bo offered. “And he’s workin’ with Jordan. Maybe they knew each other at some time? Maybe from his stint in prison?”
Bo’s presumptions actually sounded reasonable to Jane—everything except the guy was working with Jordan. Then again, there were a few statements Jordan made to Jane regarding the clues that there was no way he’d have any knowledge of unless he was involved in some way. That closing comment of Jordan’s, “You can’t go home again,” was still ringing loudly in Jane’s ear. “Call the number,” Jane instructed.
“Why?”
“I think it’s another clue. I think the guy spoofed the number. And I think he did it for a reason.” Jane had to explain the art of “spoofing” to Bo and Weyler. It was becoming a relatively well-known practice by both pranksters and those with more nefarious motives. Spoofing was the practice of allowing the telephone network to display a specific phone number on the Caller ID, which was not the actual number from where the call was originating. By signing up with one of the many Internet spoof providers, all a person had to do was pay in advance for a PIN number, which allowed them to make a call for a certain amount of minutes. When they entered the PIN number, they were asked to enter the number they wanted to call and the number they wished to appear on the Caller ID. Some of the spoof providers even had options for altering one’s voice once the connection was made, allowing for a man to sound like a woman and vice versa. “This guy knows what he’s doing. The phone is likely a Wal-Mart throwaway. Just like a drop phone that drug dealers use. He paid cash for it, so no records. Good for one number only. That number!” Jane pointed to the New Jersey number in Bo’s hand. “Call the number and see who answers. And put the phone on speaker so we can all hear.”
Bo looked a little suspicious. He grumbled about not knowing how to use the speaker feature on his phone and promptly called in Vi who effortlessly dialed the number, increased the volume and hit the SPEAKER button. “This is your idea,” Bo said to Jane. “You talk to whoever answers.”
“Hello?” The man’s voice sounded both elderly and ill.
Jane leaned over Bo’s desk, speaking into the phone. “Hello, sir. My name is Detective Jane Perry. I’m calling from Denver, Colorado.” Bo looked quizzical at her but she held up her hand.
“Where?” The man sounded irritated.
“Denver, Colorado,” Jane repeated with increased volume and enunciation.
“Don’t know anyone in Denver.”
>
“I’m a detective, sir. I’m calling on police business.”
“What kind of business?”
Jane asked the usual establishing questions. His name was David Sackett. He was eighty-one. Sackett volunteered that he wasn’t well and suffered from emphysema and lung cancer. Christ, she wondered, is anybody not dying from cancer these days?
“How long have you had this number, sir?” Jane asked.
“How long? Oh, well, since we moved into the place. It’s been over forty years with the same phone number. We inherited the number from the last family who lived here. Moved here in February of 1968…back when it was quiet.”
“I just want to confirm this number, sir.” Jane took the phone number from Bo and rattled it off, along with the area code.
“Everything’s right except for the area code,” he said with a marked wheeze. “They changed from 201 to 973 awhile back.” The prospect of spoofing was becoming much more probable in Jane’s opinion.
“May I ask what town you live in, sir?”
“Sure. Short Hills.”
Bo looked at Weyler with heightened interest. Jane whispered to Vi to retrieve Jordan’s file. Vi quickly left the office.
“But when you got the phone number back in 1968,” Jane continued, “it was area code 201, right?”
“Yeah. What’s this all about?” His breathing was labored.
“We’re working on a case, sir. I can’t divulge the details right now. But it would be extremely helpful if you could tell me your address.”
Vi returned with Jordan’s file.
“Sure. It’s 43 Warwick Road, Short Hills, New Jersey.”
