THE TICKING CLOCK
ANGELS AND IMPERFECTIONS
Book Three
By Daniel Roland Banks
COPYRIGHT © 2013
DAN ARNOLD, WRITING AS: DANIEL ROLAND BANKS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BOTH FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC. THIS BOOK OR ANY PORTION OF IT MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED OR PRESENTED IN ANY MANNER WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are a work of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance or reference to any actual locales, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely fictional.
To Lora
You know what they say⁓
Third time’s a charm, or three strikes and you’re out!
Thank you for believing in me.
To my family, in all its variety and generations
Thank you for challenging me in ways you can’t imagine, encouraging me to keep at it, and being the wind beneath my wings.
If you read this work, I hope you enjoy it and learn something about life, yourself, and a little about the author.
Since the dawn of time there’s been continuous mortal combat, both seen and unseen, on earth and in heaven. It is a struggle for the fate of all created beings.
On earth, predators seek to devour the sheep.
The Shepherds are appointed to stand between the sheep and the wolves.
Prologue
As he eased along the wall toward the black, cave-like opening of the long-abandoned warehouse, Detective Lieutenant Tony Escalante flicked the safety off his .40 caliber Glock service weapon.
Where was Tucker?
He’d found the man’s truck parked at the side of the road.
The moon was the only source of illumination. Tony wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or disturbed. The half full orb was scudding in and out of the clouds, providing only dim and intermittent light. The darkness made him all but invisible in the shadows at the edge of the building, but that worked both ways. He was feeling his way along the wall, as much as seeing it.
He was right next to the opening now. He would have to go in—soon. First, his trained eyes scanned the area for any threat or other sign of life. Out in the shifting shadows created by the unreliable moonlight, nothing could be seen moving on the empty plain of oil sand between here and the road, or in the weed choked area beyond. It was as if he were alone in this place.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
The last thing in the world he wanted to do was go into the building. This was typical of the kinds of situations he found himself in, whenever he got a phone call from his friend, J.W.
He knew if things went south he’d regret not calling for back-up. An unobserved grimace and slight shake of his head were the only indicators as he acknowledged to himself, he wasn’t going to make the call.
Drawing a deep breath, he ducked inside. He stayed low and immediately put his back to the inside wall. He was thankful he’dn’t tripped over something, slammed into some hidden obstacle or been shot by an unseen assassin. After a moment, he calmed his breathing, and began to listen.
“Hello, detective, I’ve been expecting you.” The voice beside him whispered.
1
Rosie Ferguson was last seen at her high school, on the day she turned eighteen. Her parents were certain she was with Jimmy Duncan, her former—possibly current, boyfriend. The one who had put her in the hospital a few weeks back.
Jimmy was twenty years old. He grew up in the foster care system and was working at an auto repair shop. Because of what happened to Rosie, he’d been arrested on assault charges. Now, he was out on bail. He didn’t visit her in the hospital, and as far as her parents knew, he didn’t try to see her when she got home. According to the restraining order, he wasn’t supposed to get within three hundred feet of Rosie, about the length of a football field.
Then, she disappeared.
Her car was found where she usually parked in the high school lot. She’dn’t packed a bag. It was believed she’d her purse and her cell phone with her, but she’dn’t called or texted anyone.
The police weren’t much help. There was only so much they could do. They put out an APB for Duncan’s car. It was found in a town about thirty miles away, abandoned. There was no sign of him—or Rosie.
Everyone in the community was trying to help. There were prayer vigils and active petitioning across every avenue of social media. Posters with their pictures were put-up, all-over town and throughout the county.
“Rosie Ferguson is missing! If you see this girl, please call the police. She may be in the company of Jimmy Duncan. If you have any idea where he might be, please call the police. He was last seen in Lindale, Texas. He may be driving a green, 2008 Chevy pickup. If you have any information…”
There were rumors and stories but no one knew anything certain.
After nearly two weeks of heartache and fear, Rosie’s parents called me. We arranged to meet in my office.
I’m a private detective.
*******
“Mr and Mrs Ferguson, I’ll do everything I can, but if the police haven’t gotten any leads, I can’t make any promises. Are you sure your daughter hasn’t been in contact with any of her friends?”
“The police tell us her cell phone hasn’t been used since she went missing.” Mrs. Ferguson said.
I took a long slow breath.
“As I understand it, the Duncan boy is also missing. He disappeared at the same time Rosie did. Is this the only reason you think she might be with him?”
“They were dating, until…” She couldn’t finish the statement.
“Yes, ma’am, did Rosie give ya’ll any reason to believe she was seeing him again, or might run off with Jimmy Duncan?”
Mrs. Ferguson hesitated to speak, then just shook her head, hot tears welling in her eyes. I pushed a box of tissues across the top of my desk toward her.
As she was gathering tissues, Mr. Ferguson said, “We thought she was through with him. This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt her, but we intended it would be the last. She told us she never wanted to see him again.”
I nodded my understanding.
“With the restraining order and him not being a student, if he were seen at the school, you’d think someone would’ve reported it.” I said.
They were both silent.
“What? Did someone report seeing him?”
“No. None of Rosie’s friends, or his, will tell us anything. The girls all seem to think Jimmy Duncan is ‘dreamy’ and together they are a magical couple, like Romeo and Juliet.” Mrs. Ferguson said.
“If they won’t talk to you, where did you get that idea?”
“Face Book, I’ve been watching what Rosie’s friends have been saying about all this. Everyone thinks they’ve run off together.” She said.
“But you don’t.”
Mr. Ferguson said, “We think he took her. He lured her into his car, somehow, and drove away with her.”
“That might be indicated by the fact she hasn’t made any attempt to contact you.”
“That’s what we’re thinking.”
“On the other hand, if she did run off with him, she might not want to talk to ya’ll about it.”
Mr. Ferguson crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
“Why would she do something like that?”
“Love, between young girls and bad boys. It happens.”
“Not after the way he treated her.”
I rubbed my eye lids. How many times had I seen this? Parents wanted to believe the best about their children. Parents want the best for their children and try to lead them in the direction they should go.
Children often want
to live their own lives, their way. Sometimes the two different views can’t be reconciled. Once children start approaching adulthood their skills at deception improve exponentially. The things they consider personal and private are often expertly hidden from their parents.
Family dynamics are complex and difficult for outsiders to see or interpret. Appearances can be deceiving. Like a muddy East Texas creek, things are seldom as simple as the surface suggests. Relationships run deep and are often filled with unseen currents, troublesome personalities and unhealthy conditions.
“About that, I know you had Jimmy Duncan arrested for assault. Ya’ll pressed charges against him because, at the time, Rosie was still a minor. Were there any witnesses to the assault?”
“No. She was alone with him when it happened. He beat her up because she told him she wanted to break up with him.” Mr. Ferguson said. His body language and expression suggested he wasn’t interested in discussing the matter further.
Mrs. Ferguson was crying.
“As I said, I’ll look into it. The thing is I can’t make any promises. I have to look at every possibility and follow every lead. I don’t know where that will take me, or what I’ll discover. Are y’all prepared for the outcome, no matter which way it goes?”
Mrs. Ferguson clutched the tissue, now balled up in her white knuckled fist.
“Do you think he may have…?”
“No, Ma’am. I’m not speculating about anything. All I’m saying is we don’t know all the facts yet. Ya’ll may not like everything I learn. This situation could go a very different direction than we expect.”
Mrs. Ferguson gave her husband a worried look.
“How soon can you start?” He asked.
“Well, sir, as it happens, I’ve already started”
*******
Mrs. Ferguson supplied me with a list of Rosie’s friends. I researched them on social media, noting the comments and attitudes they were so willing to share with the world, but might not dare to discuss in person. It was just as she’d told me. All of Rosie’s friends and classmates thought she and Jimmy belonged together. They were viewed as star crossed lovers on the run, part Bonnie and Clyde, part Romeo and Juliet. There was some discussion about whether Jimmy had, or ever could, hurt Rosie.
I was able to persuade Priscilla Davidson, Rosie’s best friend, to agree to an interview. I told her I was a PI hired by Rosie’s mom. She’d heard about me on the news, back when I helped find some missing kids. She would only talk to me if her parents and Rosie’s mother were present for the interview. Not Rosie’s parents, just Rosie’s mom.
When I explained this to Mrs. Ferguson, she was reluctant and sounded like she was afraid to talk with Priscilla. It took considerable coaxing and promises that her husband, Bob, wouldn’t know about the meeting, but she eventually succumbed to my silver-tongued charm.
Since Bob Ferguson always played golf on Saturday, we met on Saturday morning at the home of Nancy and Ted Davidson, Priscilla’s parents. They were friendly and supportive of Mrs. Ferguson, telling us they’d just learned their daughter had been in contact with Rosie.
Priscilla looked like she wanted to run away. She made a face and turned to Mrs. Ferguson.
“…So anyway, Rosie just wants you to know she’s safe and happy or whatever.”
“Priscilla, how long have you been in contact with Rosie? The police said her cell phone hasn’t been used.” Mrs. Ferguson asked.
“Jimmy bought one of those pay as you go phones, we mostly just text. They found a safe place to camp and plan to move on as soon as the hub bub dies down.”
“But, I’m her mother. Why hasn’t she called me?”
“Don’t you know why?”
Mrs. Ferguson looked away, a forlorn yet distant expression on her face. She looked as if she would never smile again.
“Do you know where they are?” I asked.
Priscilla looked down at her phone and said, “No. I think it’s somewhere in the area, but I don’t really know where.”
“When you say ‘in the area’, what gives you that idea? Do you think they’re close by?”
“Oh, uhh, no, I don’t know, really. I guess I just assumed they were around here somewhere.”
I wasn’t buying it, but trying to confront her under the present circumstances wouldn’t accomplish anything.
I knew Priscilla Davidson worked after school at a local daycare. I planned to stop by and ask her a few more pointed questions, in a time and place where she might feel a bit more vulnerable.
It would have to wait till Monday. That afternoon, I’d a funeral to attend.
2
I arrived at the third-floor office of what I liked to call “the international headquarters” of Tucker Investigations just before eight o’clock on Monday morning. This four-room office was a huge improvement over the single, dingy room in a strip mall I’d been using just a year or so before. This newer space, in a bank building right on the south loop, had been used by the ATF before we became the tenants. When the feds moved out, they left the bullet proof walls and windows in place, as well as the keypad locks on the doors. I’d had new security cameras mounted to the housings they’d left behind.
Inside, the walls were all paneled in oak, including my corner office with windows that looked out over the forested city below. My associate, Christine Valikova had carefully chosen the furniture and appointments, giving this space the appearance of an upscale agency. Even my heavily carved oak desk, with the two upholstered wingback chairs in front, was there due to her efforts. I’d been using a folding plastic table from Walmart when she first came into my life.
Seated behind her desk in the reception area, Christine greeted me with a tenuous smile. She wore a black suit with a knee length skirt and what might’ve been a man’s open neck, white dress shirt. The black and white made her radiant red hair appear even more stunning. For me, the black suit was a reminder of the funeral we’d attended the day before and perhaps a testimony to her frame of mind.
Today, her jewelry of choice was a small gold cross.
“John, there’s a lady coming to discuss whether we might be able to help her with a family matter. I didn’t know if you would be here. So, I told her I would meet with her. If you would rather do it yourself…”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Hafsah Mohammad. How’s that for a a Muslim name?”
“Egyptian, I think. I believe her name means ‘married to the prophet’. I wonder if she’s related to Izzy?”
“Who is Izzy?”
“Issa Mohammad. He goes by Izzy. He has a pretty successful investment and insurance business here in town.”
“It seems likely doesn’t it? How many people named Mohammad would live in little old Tyler, Texas?”
“I have no idea. Probably more than we might expect. The name is popular and considered a great honor in the Muslim world. In this country, the name is fashionable with prison inmates, others who convert to Islam and the proponents of the Nation of Islam.”
“Is that another name for ISIS or the Islamic State?”
“No, it’s an American racist group that espouses quasi Muslim ideals. Is Ms. Mohammad a lady of color?”
“I don’t know. She has a barely discernible foreign accent; it’s more refined than East Texas, maybe even more British than American.”
“Hmmm, did she say what she wanted to talk about?”
“No, just that it’s a private family matter.”
“I think it might be best for you to meet with her. If she observes the cultural restraints of some of the Islamic countries, she would probably be more comfortable talking to you.”
“OK, I’ll do it. She’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
On my monitor, a few minutes later, I watched Ms. Mohammad come into our outer office to be greeted by Christine. The lady was a knockout, and not at all what I’d been expecting.
That was odd. What was I expecting?
A moment later
Christine came in, closing the door behind her.
“John, she wants to confer with you.”
“And it’s a problem because…?”
“When she called to set up the appointment, I told her I didn’t think you would be in the office at all today. Now, somehow she knows you’re here.”
I smiled.
“Does that seem funny to you?” Christine asked.
“Unh huh, it’s funny odd, not funny laughable. Does she want to meet with both of us, or just me?”
“With just you. Apparently, I’m not to be included.”
“Interesting…”
“I’ll say. So much for ‘cultural restraints’. Not to mention how she knows you’re here. Shall I send her in?”
“No, please bring her in and introduce us.”
Christine smiled at me.
“You saw her on the monitor, didn’t you?”
A moment later, she ushered Ms. Mohammad into my office. I stood up to greet them as they came in.
“John, this is Hafsah Mohammad. Ms. Mohammad, may I present John Wesley Tucker?”
I love it when Christine gets all formal and what not.
Ms. Mohammad was about five feet nine inches tall in her high heels, slim and very well dressed. Her sleeveless dress was closely tailored and appeared to be some sort of textured silk in a color I could only call “peacock” blue. She’d dark hair falling in cascading swirls to her shoulders. Her complexion was much darker than Christine’s, what we would call olive, I suppose. It was warm and natural. N darker shade than most high school cheerleaders achieved after baking for hours in tanning beds. Her makeup was flawless, and it was difficult to determine her age. She’d dark, almond shaped eyes that locked onto mine.
Momentarily stunned, I couldn’t look away.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Tucker,” she said, as she extended her hand across the desk. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Mohammad, please have a seat. May I offer you coffee or tea?”
The Ticking Clock Page 1
