Once the additional board had been wheeled in and positioned next to the first, Toby flipped through his notebook until he found the pages he was looking for. He picked up a marker and began to write a series of bullet pointed notes on the board.
“What are you writing?”
“The key ideas from Edmondson’s first briefing to us. You know—the stats on child trafficking and the profile characteristics of the people likely to be involved.”
“Okay. But, why are you using a blue marker? I thought you said we were going to use green, yellow and red.”
“I did,” he acknowledged. “But this information is like a framework to sort things against.”
“Like a theory?”
“Pretty much. We can evaluate what we know or suspect against this list.”
“I like it. But I have another question. What are we going to do when we come up against a hole in the information?”
“That’s the best part. Then, we brainstorm.”
“You mean make things up?”
“No, I mean we try to come up with plausible ideas. We’ll still have to either prove or disprove them, but it’ll at least give us some direction.” He stood back from the board, checking his work against the notes in his hand. “I think that’s everything.” He laid down the marker and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess you could think of the brainstorming as a trail of breadcrumbs in the forest. If we follow it to the end, we’ll either find it leads us out of the trees, or…”
“Takes us right to the door of the gingerbread cottage?”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I never liked that story though.”
“Me either, but I think it fits, given the nature of what we’re dealing with. Hey, is the idea that this is a child trafficking case something we know, or a just what we suspect?”
“Hmmm. Good question.” He looked over the stacks on the table and then back to the board. “I vote we treat it as something we know. Nothing else makes sense.”
“I agree. It’s either a case of trafficking or some sort of sick serial killing.”
They both went silent as the import of her words echoes in the room.
“I don’t know which I think is worse,” he whispered.
“Me, either,” Melba agreed. Shaking off her feeling of unease, she gestured to the table. “What first?”
“Well, when or what was our first contact with this case?”
She thought about it for a minute and then reached for a folder. “When Moon came to us for help.”
He nodded, and turned to write on the board. He filled in one of the boxes, but stopped and erased the words. “No. That’s not right. That wasn’t the first thing.” He walked halfway around the table and lifted a single file folder from its place on the table. “This was.” He handed her the file and then crossed back to the whiteboard and wrote a name. “Lucy was the first. The first time we knew anything about this was the day Maria Escabar came into Earth Fruits and asked if she could post her daughter’s picture.”
Melba opened the file and stared down at the photo of the girl’s smiling face. “You’re right,” she agreed. “Let’s start there.”
They worked through each of the stacks, not even stopping for lunch. SarahJune ordered in an assortment of sandwiches and a box of cookies, and they snacked while evaluating each piece of information and color-coding it on the board. Melba wasn’t sure what the exercise was telling them, but had to admit it was making things clearer in her mind.
Toby finished off his latest cookie and picked up another folder. “Okay, this one contains the information about Diane. I’m not sure how to code it though.”
“Why?”
“Well, do we know her disappearance is tied to trafficking, or is that a suspicion?”
“We know—” Melba stopped short, before completing the thought. “I’m…not sure. Hold on a second. I need to review my notes.”
She took a seat at the table and opened her notebook to review the information she’d written down the night Moon had provided them the details about her daughter’s disappearance. Nothing immediately jumped out, and she turned back a few pages to the very beginning of Moon’s recitation. Her notes on Moon’s early life and her time in Houston didn’t offer much, and she was about to close the notebook when one short sentence caught her eye. “I filled a rolling suitcase with Diane’s things and hopped a bus…”
Melba traced the words with one finger, trying to figure out why they seemed important. Something about a rolling suitcase seemed to resonate. She looked over the remaining files on the table, moving from one to the other as she tried to remember. Finally, she stopped in front of the files containing notes on each of the dead girls. She scanned the notes, and stopped when she came to the description of the items found with Lauren’s body: a grey smock, and a purple rolling suitcase. She flipped through the pages until she reached the information she’d jotted down during the briefing with Tom Anderson. There was something else found…something in the suitcase.
“Toby, write this down on up on the board. ‘Purple suitcase, book of poetry, Lauren and Dorrie.’ I need to make a couple of calls.”
Toby added the information to the board while Melba dialed the number to the first person she needed to talk to.
“Anderson, Melba here. I have a question. Can you tell me what the title of the book was that was found in the purple suitcase? Yeah, I can hold.” She tapped the edge of the folder against the table, wondering if her hunch as going to pay off. “Yes, I’m here,” she replied a few minutes later. “What was it again? …Okay, got it. Thanks, I talk to you later.” She ended the call and made a note in the file. “Okay, add this: Cloudy Skies, Silver Moon.”
She dialed another number, and sighed in relief when the call was quickly answered. “Moon, I have a couple of weird questions. I was reviewing some notes and came across something. When you brought Diane back here to South Carolina, you said you packed her things into a rolling suitcase and then got on a bus. Do you by any chance remember what color the suitcase was?” There was a slight pause, and then she got the answer she feared. “Are you sure? …Okay, next question and this one is really odd. Did you ever own a book of poetry called Cloudy Skies, Silver Moon?” She laid the file folder down on the table and listened. “Okay…last question. Do you know what happened to the book?…You did?…No, nothing positive, just trying to tie up some loose ends. I promise I’ll call as soon as we know anything for certain. Yes, I know…just try to keep positive, Moon.”
Melba ended the call, and stared at the phone for a minute. She rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. “Okay, draw the connecting lines, and use the green marker. The suitcase found near the dumpster in the alley with Lauren’s body belongs to Diane. So did the book.” She glanced over the notes again and added, “The suitcase had fingerprints belonging to a Dorrie Ferguson, who was reported missing about six years ago.”
Toby made the additions and stood back from the board. “I guess that pretty much answers the question of knowing or suspecting.”
“Yes, it does.” She joined him at the front of the room and studied the boxes and connecting lines for a moment, before moving to the next board. She read through the bulleted list written in blue marker and made a suggestion or two.
With the latest additions, there was now a box containing three names, written in green: Beth, Lauren, and Diane. One green line connected a box containing Dorrie’s name, in yellow. Another green line connected both the first box of green names and the yellow name to the suitcase and book of poetry. Lucy’s name was in a box as was Jessica’s, both in yellow maker. A green line connected them, and another yellow dotted line connected to a box labeled ‘unknown fire victim—Nathan Fields?’ A dotted green line ran to the box labeled ‘Gro-Transport,’ and a solid green line connected the business to Grokov. Things were slowly starting to make visual sense.
Melba returned to the table and surveyed the remaining piles. “We need to work through every person of
interest who has landed on our radar over the last couple of weeks, regardless of how or why. Let’s evaluate them against these notes on trafficking and see if they have any relationship to anything on the list, no matter how tenuous.”
“We still have to prove any theory we come up with.”
“Hey, brainstorming was your suggestion.”
“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “Let’s make a list of all the names, and we can either mark them off or map them to the profile and the possible trafficking approaches.”
Melba picked up the file folder containing the notes on the fire. “I wonder if the forensic artist from Charlotte has finished coming up with the composite drawing of the victim yet? If she has, maybe we can figure out if he really is Nathan Fields.”
“I’ll call and ask. I kind of hate referring to him as the unknown victim.”
“Good idea,” Melba agreed as she worked on the list of names. If we can confirm the information one way or the other, it’d be helpful. Do you have Dr. Bridges’ number?”
“Yes, she gave me a business card, and I put all her information in my contact list.” He located the number and dialed, and Melba only half-listened as she checked to make sure she had the names of everyone she could find in mess of paper transcribed onto a single page of her notebook. She looked up when he returned to the table.
“Well?”
“They finished about thirty minutes ago. Dr. Bridges says it won’t be completely accurate, but should be pretty close. She going to scan the drawing and email it to us. We should have it in a few minutes. I asked her to send it to Edmondson and Mitchell, too.”
“Good. Have SarahJune keep an eye out for it and bring us a print-out when it gets here.” Melba picked up a marker and began to add the names to the whiteboard. “Maybe Mitchell can drive out to Gro-Transport and see if they can make an ID based on the drawing. I think that would be the quickest approach.”
“He could, and it would probably be a good idea.” He picked up the office phone on the table and relayed the request. “Hey, I just thought of something,” he said, after putting down the phone. “We have someone in the neighborhood that can identify Fields.”
She turned back to him, raising one eyebrow in question. “Who?”
“Lindsi,” he answered.
“You’re right. I wonder if she’s working at Green Dragon today?”
“Only one way to find out,” he answered, already dialing the number.
***
Agent Edmondson ignored the buzzing phone in his pocket, and kept his attention focused on Vassily Grokov while the man answered Garfield’s questions. They hadn’t gotten anything useful out of him so far, although Edmondson thought there had been an almost imperceptible flicker in Grokov’s eyes when they’d introduced themselves. That might not mean anything—most people had some sort of reaction when the Feds came to call. His phone buzzed again, and seeing Garfield had things well in hand, he excused himself and stood from his chair in front of Grokov’s massive desk and stepped away to see who was sending him a message.
He pulled out his phone and read the text, then opened the attached file. He examined the contents and then resumed his seat, phone still in hand. When Garfield started to wrap up her questioning, Edmondson smoothly interrupted.
“I just received another piece of information, Mr. Grokov, and I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“I can only promise to try,” Grokov responded, offering a small smile. “How can I assist?”
“I just received a composite drawing of the man found in Nathan Fields’ home. As you know, the body recovered was badly burned. The process of making a positive ID has been delayed, but we’re hopeful we can now start to close that loop, thanks to the work of a very talented forensic artist.” He paused until Grokov signaled his understanding and then pulled up the artist rendering on his phone and handed it across the desk.
Grokov took the phone in one hand and brought the picture closer. He examined it in silence, and then looked up and cleared his throat. “As I told Agent Garfield already, I didn’t know Mr. Fields well. He was employed by one of my companies in a mid-level management role, but other than running into him at an occasional holiday party or local function, I had very little direct contact with him. However, I would say that this picture bears some resemblance to him, based on my faint memories. You do understand I can’t be completely certain, given my earlier explanation.” He handed the phone back and leaned back in his seat, face betraying nothing except slight disappointment. “It would perhaps be more helpful to show the picture to others at his place of work. There are several people there who worked with him on a daily basis. They would be more helpful.”
Edmondson nodded and placed the phone back in his pocket. “I understand. However, even your tentative identification is helpful. We’ll follow-up with the staff at his place of work. Is there anyone specific you’d recommend we talk to?”
Grokov leaned back and his chair and steepled his hands in front of him. “Let me think for a minute.” He sat quietly and then eventually nodded. “Yes. The person who worked most closely with Nathan Fields is probably the logistic supervisor, George Padgett. He is where I’d suggest you start.”
Edmondson glanced at Garfield, noting she was making a record of the name. When she finished, she nodded, signaling she had nothing further. They both stood from their seats and Edmondson held out his hand. “Thank you for your time today, Mr. Grokov. You’ve been very helpful.”
Grokov stood and clasped the offered hand. “You’re welcome, Special Agent Edmondson. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to assist the Bureau.”
Edmondson nodded and then he and Garfield left the office.
“Well?” he asked once they reached the privacy of their car.
“He’s a cool customer,” she responded. “Helpful on the surface, but he really didn’t give us much real information, other than the ID on the body.”
“He wasn’t exactly positive about that.”
“No, but you know an artist rendering is a best guess. There’s bound to be a degree of uncertainty. We’ll see if Mr. Padgett can ID him with any more certainty.”
Edmondson started the car, and buckled up. “Did you notice any reaction when you told him Jessica Fields was presumed to be missing?”
Garfield shook her head and opened the glove compartment and removed a small stash of candy “No. Other than expressing regret and hope that she’d soon be found, he took the news the same way he did when we told him about the house fire victim. Like I said, he’s a cool customer.”
Edmondson muttered his agreement, and reached over and stole a piece of candy from her stash.
“Hey, you could at least ask first!”
“Sorry,” he said through a mouth full of chewy caramel. “Can I have a piece of candy?”
***
“No, that’s not him,” Lindsi informed them after a quick glance at the picture.
“Are you positive?” Melba asked. “Sometimes an artist rendering can be a little off.”
“You told me that already,” Lindsi replied, her impatience clear. “Jessica’s dad had a different kind of face, sort of square at the top and his jaw was more pronounced. His eyes were also bigger and further apart. The guy the artist lady drew has a thin face and a pointy chin. It’s totally different. It may be the man they found burned up in the fire, but it’s not Mr. Fields.” She looked at the picture one more time and shrugged. “Anything else? I have class tonight and don’t want to be late. Master Chiang doesn’t like it if you show up late.”
“Master Chiang? That’s what you call him?” Toby could hardly contain his mirth.
“Yes,” Lindsi replied. “That’s what all of his students call him.” She narrowed her eyes and studied them both. “What do you call him?”
“Well, I don’t call him Master Chiang,” Toby answered.
“At least, not in public,” Melba amended, sotto voce.
***
Melba relayed the new information to Edmondson via phone and filled him in on how they’d spent the afternoon.
“They’re going to stop by in a few minutes,” she told Toby once she ended the call. “He was interested in the approach we’re taking.”
“It’s probably pretty basic to them,” Toby replied. “It’s not very sophisticated.”
Melba shrugged. “Don’t knock it. We seem to be making progress. Sometimes simpler is better, and the information isn’t snarling around in my brain anymore. Hey, do you think we should order pizzas or something? It’s getting close to dinner time, and I’d like to finish this tonight if you’re up for it.”
“Sure, pizza sounds good. What kind?”
“Anything but anchovy.”
He pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, agreeing anchovies were off the menu. “Two or three?”
“Better make it three, or four if we can get hold of Mitchell. It would be nice if he could join us.”
“I’ll order four then, and give him a call.”
He placed the order and dialed the number he still knew by heart. When the call went to voicemail, he left a message.
***
“So, he lied,” Garfield cut to the chase once her partner filled her in on his conversation.
“Looks that way,” Edmondson agreed. “We’ll know after we talk to Padgett.”
“Why would he lie? I don’t get it.”
Edmondson answered her with the only options that made sense. “Either he really didn’t know Fields well enough to easily recognize him, or he’s hiding something.”
“Double or nothing on the latter.”
“That’s a sucker bet, Garfield.” He exited onto the cloverleaf that would redirect them downtown. “Can I have another piece of candy?”
***
Vassily Grokov hung up the phone, confident Padgett understood his instructions. Within the hour, everyone at Gro-Transport would be speaking the party line, at least as far as the identification of the dead man was concerned. There were still a few other loose ends to tie up. He made another call, and was pleased with the foresight the other party had demonstrated.
Skin Puppet: Reightman & Bailey Book Three Page 42
