Deception in Strange Places (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Judy Alter

  He called immediately. “Kelly, rack your brain. Who sent you this? It’s important.”

  I bristled just a bit. He didn’t have to tell me that. I knew it was important. “I’ve been thinking. I can’t think who…unless maybe it was his lawyer.”

  “Lawyer!” he scoffed. “Lawyers don’t betray their clients.”

  I explained how fond the lawyer, Donald, was of Sheila and how almost apologetic about what was going on, when we met in Terrell’s offices.

  “Give me his full name. I’m going to call him.”

  “I don’t know his last name. Terrell might have done a check on him, but he was just introduced as Donald the lawyer.” I had the sinking feeling that we were hitting roadblocks whichever way we turned.

  “Call Terrell.” Another of his orders.

  I did, and Terrell supplied the name immediately: Kenner. “What’s up?” he asked.

  So I told him, and he whistled through his teeth. “Kelly, I don’t do much criminal law—outside what you send me—but I think a criminal lawyer might be helpful. Keep me in the loop.”

  I agreed and impulsively asked, “Why don’t you come for supper, and we can talk about it. Do you think it’s possible the lawyer sent me this note?”

  “Normally I’d say no. Lawyers don’t do that kind of thing, especially when they have a client who keeps them on a healthy retainer, but he looked…well, sweet on her, to use an old-fashioned term.”

  “Obviously you investigated him, either before or after the meeting. What did you find?”

  “What I expected. He doesn’t have much, if any, business outside handling Hollister’s affairs. Makes it unlikely he’d kill the goose that laid the golden egg, but you never know about people. He lives well, dresses well as you saw. I did a pretty thorough check.”

  Mike was ringing through on call waiting, so I excused myself hastily with “See you at six” and switched over to Mike. “Kenner,” I said.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Speculating with Terrell. Who do you think Edward is?”

  “Kelly, if I were Donald and were going to do what he hypothetically did, I’d sure open an account under another name. Given his client roster, which no doubt Hollister leads, he might well have established a pseudonym long ago. Gotta go see if I can find him.”

  “Mike, one another possibility…but it’s remote. Maybe Nick felt sorry for her?”

  “Kelly, sometimes you’re too nice for this world. Nick is a professional, from all we can tell. Even a hit man. They don’t survive by feeling sorry for people.”

  “Do you know if he was there when the police searched the house?”

  “Not sure. They said his personal assistant was there, looked bored the whole time. And there was an SUV in the five-car garage. They checked it but it was clean—no blood, no signs of disturbance, none of that.”

  Sounded like Nick to me. “Did they dust for fingerprints?”

  Patiently he said, “No, Kelly, they were looking for Sheila.”

  “They could have run them and, I bet, identified Nick.”

  He was silent, and I thought it was because he knew I was right. Finally, he said, “It’s not my police department. I can’t tell them what to do. And I’m not sure they’ve dealt with a lot of kidnappings. Just a guess, mind you.” He was trying to let us both off the hook—me, for butting in to police business, and himself for having missed a beat.

  I wasn’t going to make it hard for him. “Okay. See you at supper. Terrell’s coming. You two can talk about this.”

  “Okay.”

  Supper turned out to be hamburgers from the Grill. Maggie had been supposed to go to Jenny’s for supper, but she elected to ask if she could come another night—she didn’t say it, but I knew she didn’t want to miss out on what was going on. The girls were delighted with burgers from the Grill, until I reminded them we’d be getting turkey burgers. Mike and Terrell could have full-blown cheeseburgers, though on his way home Mike called to say he’d prefer a bison burger and would swing by to pick it all up. Then I called Terrell to ask his preference. When I asked Maggie and Em if they wanted bison burgers, they each made a horrible face. So much for that. I called the order in to the Grill. When I itched for action, I was spending my afternoon on the telephone.

  The girls had asked right away about Sheila, and Em demanded, “Why isn’t Mike in San Antonio? He could rescue Sheila.” Like me, my daughters were convinced Sheila was being held hostage in San Antonio—only there would be no ransom note—and they thought Mike could do anything.

  Over dinner, we talked about Sheila and how to find her. We couldn’t have made small talk if we wanted. Terrell, too, was convinced that Donald Kenner sent me the anonymous note.

  “I wouldn’t confront him, if you find him,” he said. “In fact, let me try calling him. Maybe he’ll respond more quickly to another lawyer.” He excused himself from the table and went into the living room to call. Back in seconds, he said, “He wasn’t available, but he had an emergency number, and I left a message. Let’s pray he calls back.”

  Donald Kenner called Terrell about ten that night and was apparently shocked by the news of Sheila’s abduction. “How awful! Poor Sheila. She’s been through too much, and Bruce insists she’s not strong. In fact, I think he works to make her think that.” He chuckled, as though taking Terrell into his confidence. I heard all this because Terrell immediately called Mike, who was good enough to put him on speakerphone. Kenner had said he’d have called back immediately, but he was out to dinner with a lovely lady.

  So, we knew he lived in Alamo Heights in one of the older dwellings with a small lot but a high price tag, he was single, and he drove a Lexus. Gave us a profile, but not one that was helpful. Logic told me a man who lived like that would protect his income by protecting his client.

  And, indeed, he denied any knowledge of Sheila’s whereabouts or of who the mysterious Edward might be. Of course, he did.

  Terrell hung up, and Mike called the chief in Alamo Heights, rousting him out of a sound sleep apparently. “Sorry, but we’re frantic up here with the weekend upon us.” He reported my anonymous tip and asked if the chief could call the judge. Apparently the answer was something to the effect of “Not at this time of night. How to ruin your case completely. Talk to me in the morning. We’re keeping an eye on the house.” Then he added ironically, “Have a nice night.”

  “Yeah, you too,” Mike muttered. He disconnected and called Terrell to report.

  “He’s right,” Terrell said. “Wait till morning. I know it’s hard, but it’s good advice. I have an idea that might work and might make it worse. Let me call the judge. I’ll call the Alamo chief and get the judge’s name. If he won’t give me the home phone, I can find it. Want me to do that?”

  “Anything, at this point,” Mike said, holding his forehead in his hand.

  We slept, Mike as soundly as though he had nothing on his mind and me as restlessly as a bird.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mike spent most of the next morning closeted in the bedroom, on the telephone. This meant I was left to fix breakfast, distract the girls, and pace the floor wondering what was going on. My thoughts kept going back to Sheila—was she frightened? In pain? What about the baby? I could not imagine the trauma she was going through, and I was angry on her behalf.

  The girls were restless. They wanted to see a movie, they wanted to go to the middle school JVL game—I told them any plans for the day would have to wait on Mike and what he found out, what he had to do.

  About midmorning, he emerged long enough to say, “Call Keisha and see if she can keep the girls and then pack an overnight bag. We’re probably going to San Antonio.”

  My heart caught in my throat. Action! Wasn’t this what I wanted? Why was I suddenly afraid—afraid to leave my daughters, afraid of what we’d find, afraid for Sheila and Mike and myself?

  Keisha proved agreeable and said she’d be right over to discuss plans with the girls, who
were elated. With a pang, I thought They aren’t even going to miss us. They don’t realize we’re going into danger. I straightened up, and by the time Keisha arrived, I had my bag packed, complete with the dark clothes Mike had demanded I include.

  “Forget the make-up,” he said. “This isn’t a glamour trip.”

  But I couldn’t do that. It always amazed me, the little bit I traveled, how few clothes I took and how much other stuff. I did forego the hair dryer, hoping we’d stay someplace that had one.

  Keisha announced they would go to the game and then to a late afternoon movie and then to a late supper at Bun Appetit. The girls cheered, but when Maggie said she wanted to see The Hunger Games, Keisha firmly nixed the idea.

  “You want to scare your sister to death?”

  “Well, I don’t want to see Charlotte’s Web or some drippy Disney movie.”

  I never did hear what they compromised on, but they all left after kissing me good-bye and giving Mike hugs.

  “Bring Sheila home,” Em whispered, and Keisha gave me a long look over my daughter’s head.

  Mike and I headed for San Antonio, a five- or six-hour drive, about noon, with sandwiches and thermoses of ice water I’d prepared. We’d drive straight through. He explained to me what the plan was. They’d gotten a warrant for a surprise search after dark that night. Since it now got dark by six or earlier, that meant it wouldn’t be too late. He had cajoled both his own chief and the chief of the Alamo Heights police into letting me come along—highly irregular—so I could comfort Sheila for as long as necessary.

  I almost yelped at that. I expected us to turn around and come home tomorrow. I had the girls and my job and…I guessed if Sheila needed me I’d stay. I knew I wouldn’t be going on the search.

  “Do I have to stay in the hotel room?” We had reservations at a Holiday Inn Express not far from Hollister’s house.

  “Nope. San Antonio’s loaning the Alamo police a surveillance van, along with a couple of guys to operate it. You’ll stay in the van, about a block away, able to hear everything that goes on.”‘

  I didn’t find that thought at all reassuring. What if I heard something I didn’t want to hear—piercing screams, shots, all kinds of possibilities went through my mind. “Can I put my hands over my ears?”

  Mike was so focused and so solemn he didn’t get what I was telling him. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Never mind. It was a lame joke.”

  He patted my knee.

  For long stretches of road, we drove in tense silence, though every once in a while I’d punctuate the silence with a question, when my mind went to the worst-case scenario. “What if she’s dead, Mike?”

  “She isn’t dead, Kelly. That’s not what he wants any more. Now that there’s a baby on the way, he wants his wife back being compliant, the showcase wife she’s been for his ministry all these years.”

  I looked sharply at him. “How do you know that? You’ve never even met him, just heard what I told you.”

  “And the messages he sent to Sheila, the things he told the police. He hasn’t been quiet about what he wants. Selfish, but not quiet.” He paused. “Now he wants that baby to make them the perfect family and show how glorious God is.”

  “What if he abuses her again…kicks her or something and she loses the baby?”

  “Kelly, stop! Stop imagining things until we get there and find out the situation. Your anonymous hint about a safe room indicates he’s hiding her, figuring out how to make her go public again. She may be drugged, or tied up, but she’s alive.”

  He said it with such certainty that I accepted it and turned to stare out the window. I watched Waco go by, and then Temple and Belton and the cut-off to Killeen and Fort Hood. By Salado, I spoke again,

  “She doesn’t know her mother’s dead. We’ll have to tell her.”

  “Not the first words we say to her,” he said wryly. “Why don’t you bring all your bridges right on up here and cross them and then we’ll be done worrying. Kelly, you have to go into something like this focused on the moment, not worrying about the what-ifs and planning the future. We have to focus on finding Sheila and getting her out.”

  Mostly to distract myself, I called Keisha to check on the girls. She didn’t answer, and I figured they had gone to the movies. Left a message that just said, “Tell the girls I love them,” and then realized it sounded like a last message from someone going to her death.

  We reached Alamo Heights about five o’clock, checked into our motel—not luxurious but surely adequate, and we both changed clothes, donning the black outfits Mike had insisted we bring, though if I were to sit in a van I had no idea why I needed dark clothes.

  Then we went in search of a light supper, ending up at a Mexican place I’d never heard of. I thought that was a risky choice, and it looked like a dive, but Mike strode through the door, leaving me to follow or wait in the car. It turned out to be a family-owned stand-alone and we both had large and delicious taco salads, figuring enchiladas and beans would slow us down later in the evening.

  Then we went to the Alamo Heights Police Station. I walked in timidly, unsure of my welcome, which wasn’t cordial at all. The chief, Sam Spadolo, introduced himself by taking my hand roughly and saying, “We don’t usually invite wives along on the job.” He gave Mike a look that I guess was meant to be meaningful or disapproving or something, and thereafter I wanted to call him Sam Spade. “Don’t usually work on Saturday nights, but this is different. If we’ve really got a hit man in our town, I don’t like it one bit. Obliged for the tip.” That was as close as he came to being gracious.

  “Shandy, we’ll go into a conference room to plan. Mrs. Shandy, you can sit over there and wait.” He indicated a waiting area that looked surprisingly comfortable.

  “It’s Ms. O’Connell,” I said, trying hard for frostiness.

  “Baker, get the lady coffee, water, a soft drink, whatever she wants.” Mike threw me a look that said, “Sorry,” plain as day as he followed the chief down a hallway.

  The Alamo Heights Police Station was not the dingy place you think a small city police station would be. Clearly no more than ten years old, it featured white walls with a mural painted along one long side, well-upholstered and clean furniture, tiles floors that shone with cleanliness. I pulled out the book I had brought and tried to immerse myself in the latest Diane Mott Davidson culinary mystery, but our own mystery kept drawing my attention. In spite of what Mike said I couldn’t focus on the moment—what? Focus on sitting in this waiting room?—while my mind kept leaping ahead.

  Now I was imagining myself in that van, tensely listening to every sound. And then my mind would see Sheila running out the front door of a Spanish house and throwing herself into my arms. No, maybe that wasn’t realistic. Maybe she’d be clutching Mike as she came down the stairs. My imagination refused to pull up Bruce Hollister or Nick whoever-he-was. I must have sat there an hour and read three pages. Several officers went through the doors and down the hall while I sat there. They were spit-and-polish dressed, businesslike, polite to the receptionist. One brought in a teenager, hands cuffed behind his back, and I wondered what transgression he’d been up to. Not much later, I was joined by a well-dressed couple who looked to be in their late forties. They gave a name to Baker, and he asked them to wait over where I was. We nodded but didn’t exchange pleasantries. I could guess why they were there—the teenager—but they had no clue about the traumatic road that had led me to a suburban police station at seven at night with my daughters 250 miles away.

  At long last Mike came down the hall and sat beside me. “Sorry. I know you like to be part of the planning, but it isn’t going to happen that way. We’ll leave here at nine.”

  “Why not sooner? It’s dark now, and every minute makes Sheila’s ordeal longer—mine too. I’m a bundle of nerves. Why don’t you just tell Sam Spade that we’re going in now?” There, I’d said it, called him Sam Spade.

  Mike laughed out loud, which ca
used the worried couple across from us to stare. I’m sure to their minds, no one laughed in a police station.

  “Kelly, I’ve pushed my luck on this one about as far as I can…getting to come down here, getting to bring you. I’m happy with the way things turned out, and I’m not pushing anymore.”

  “I won’t be happy until Sheila’s back at our house.”

  He turned conciliatory. “I know, but you know what I mean. I’m glad to have a chance to be in on this. That guy shot at my wife, among other things. I want to take them both down.”

  “Two hours,” I moaned.

  “I’ll get you some coffee…it’s better than most police station coffee. And you can nap on this couch.”

  “Nap? Are you kidding?”

  Somehow the time went by. I’d spent every long minute for three days…and nights, too…waiting. I could wait another two hours.

  Actually it was eight-thirty when Sam Spade strode into the lobby. He looked at the couple and said, “Someone will be right with you. I’ve spoken to them about it.” They smiled gratefully, if sort of tentatively, and then Sam Spade turned to me. In a loud tone, he said, “Ms. O’Connell, your job is to sit very still and stay very quiet.”

  The couple now looked alarmed, while I resisted to the urge to stand, salute, and snap, “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s roll.”

  We followed him down the hall and out a rear door into a parking lot where a van and three police cars waited. He did turn to me with sort of an explanation. “We’ll go in without lights or sirens. You’ll be in a van a block away, but you’ll hear everything. There’s a camera in the control panel—I’ll be wearing it, so the picture may jump around a lot, but you can watch. When we need you, we’ll call to have the van bring you up to the house.”