by Terry Odell
Megan asked the concierge to check spa reservations.
She called, then set down the phone and flashed a sympathetic smile. “Sorry. Nothing for either a Rose or a Sam Kretzer.”
“Thank you,” Justin said. “We’ll check around.” He took Megan’s hand and found an empty seating area. He got out his phone and tried both numbers again. Voice mail.
“We told them to keep their phones on, didn’t we?” Megan said.
“I don’t remember what we said, other than they should have fun and not worry about us. If they got in at two-fifteen, they could be anywhere.”
“What now? Hotel security?”
“Let’s try a house phone first. Maybe they are asleep, or turned off their cells.”
“Go ahead, say it. You’re thinking it loud enough. Or they forgot to charge them.”
“If that’s the reason they’re not answering, I’ll be happy.”
“Okay, you go find a house phone. I need a bathroom break. I’ll meet you at the front desk.”
He watched her walk away, not leaving until she disappeared into a hallway marked “Restrooms.” As he headed toward the front desk, it was as if the cartoon light bulb lit up over his head. Maybe his grandparents had left a message for him. He quickened his pace.
“I need to know if Sam and Rose Kretzer are still registered,” Justin said to the clerk. “And if I have any messages. Justin Nadell. Or Megan Wyatt.” He gave her their room numbers.
He waited impatiently while the clerk checked her computer, verified that his grandparents hadn’t checked out, then disappeared into a back room. She returned with a large envelope and handed it to him. He thanked her and worked the seal free. Before he could check the contents, Megan rushed to his side.
“Did you find them? What’s that?” Megan snatched the envelope from his hand. “Let me see.”
###
Once Colfax had gone, Gordon tried Megan again. His call went straight to voice mail. If Justin had received the fax, he should have called. He rummaged through his desk, checked his notes, searching for Justin’s number. He knew he had it somewhere. He scrolled through his cell’s contacts and call logs, with no luck. Damn.
Gordon did a quick regroup. Solomon had shown up after Megan had been accosted, and Justin had given a statement. His number should be on the report. He picked up the phone and called Laurie. Moments later, she came in and dropped the report on his desk.
“Thanks,” he said. “Everything under control out there?” One of Laurie’s greatest assets was her ability to keep a buffer between him and the annoying minutiae of the job, but sometimes she left him a little too far out of the loop.
“Considering this is the biggest crime wave I can remember in Mapleton, yes.”
“Deputies getting along with our guys? No turf wars?”
“Thanks to Angie’s generosity, there’s no trash talk. The deputies don’t want to be cut off.”
The way to inter-departmental peace, like almost everything else, was through the stomach. But if it meant inter-departmental cooperation, he was all for it. He saw the fatigue behind her cheery attitude and checked his watch. “If you want to cut out early, feel free to leave. You’ve had a long couple of days.”
“There’s about an hour left. I don’t mind staying.”
“Go. Get some rest. Or whatever you do to unwind.”
She smiled. “Thanks. I will. And I called Lou at the garage. He’s expecting you. If you leave now, you’ll get there before he closes.” She left, closing the door behind her.
He rubbed his eyes. It had been a long couple of days for him, too. He’d drop his car off at the garage, call Justin, then see if Angie’s invitation was still open. An interval of detaching his brain from the rest of his body might help him see things with a refreshed perspective.
Solomon’s report was as detailed as Gordon expected. He found Justin’s cell phone number and plugged it into his cell.
Before he left, he poked his head into the squad room. “Anything I need to know about?”
Heads swiveled at his words. “We’ve got it covered,” Vicky said.
“Carry on,” he said. He grabbed his jacket and headed for Lou’s garage. Routine vehicle maintenance wasn’t high on Gordon’s priority list, but it would make one less thing for the mayor to whine about.
“Hey, Chief. Been expecting you.” Lou wiped a greasy hand on a slightly less greasy rag. “But I won’t get to it until tomorrow, so if you need her tonight, you can bring her back in the morning.”
“Nah, keep it.”
“Shouldn’t take long. One job ahead of you, and I’m waiting on a bumper for the next, and it ain’t gonna get here for a while, so I should have yours done by noontime. You need a lift anywhere now?”
“No. I’ll walk to the station, pick up a ride there.”
“You’re the boss.” Lou guffawed. “Boss. Chief. Get it?”
“Yeah. Good one, Lou. Key’s in the ignition. And make sure the paperwork’s in order. The city fathers love tormenting me about paperwork.”
“Been maintaining the fleet since before you were born, Chief. I know the drill.”
“I know you do.” He retrieved his jacket from the SUV. “Call me when it’s ready.”
“Will do.”
Gordon turned to walk away.
“Chief?”
“Yes?”
Lou scuffed his feet and fussed with his rag. “You’re doing a good job. From what I’ve seen, Dix would be proud of you. The council knows it, too.”
“Be better if we catch the creep. But thanks for the endorsement. “
More foot scuffing and rag fussing. “My money says the mayor ain’t gonna be reelected. The town folks know he’s in it for himself.”
“We’ll see.” Gordon lingered as Lou got behind the wheel of the SUV, wondering once again why he’d promised Dix he’d serve as Chief.
Because Dix saved your father’s life, idiot. Not to mention the mayor’s choice was a brown-nosing suck-up who didn’t have an independent thought in his brain.
He shook it off. Why he’d accepted the job didn’t matter. He had, and what mattered was doing it well. Lost in thought, he meandered across the lot as Lou parked his SUV alongside the open garage bay, where one car was up on the lift, and another sat in the second space, its hood gaping open like a shark out for the kill.
He turned his thoughts away from the job and dialed Daily Bread. “Hey, Ozzie. It’s Gordon Hepler. Is Angie around? I’ve got a couple of questions for her about last night.”
“Hang on.”
While he waited, Gordon heard the sounds of a busy diner. Guess the citizens were over their initial panic. Said a lot for their trust in the police department, and he felt a brief surge of satisfaction.
“Hey, Chief, what’s up?”
Her voice brought the memories of the previous night. He glanced around, checking to see if any passersby were within earshot. “How about we get together and you can see for yourself.”
“What time?”
“You name it. I’ll be in my office.” He’d tell her about Willard Johnson’s visit in person.
“Things are crazy here. Let me call you back.”
“Wait. Use my cell.” He gave her his number and drifted the rest of the way to the office on a warm glow.
Glad to find his office empty for a change, he shifted to cop mode and dug through the mountain of paper that had accumulated in the last few days, trying to get a feel for the big picture. The more he read, the more the picture resembled a Jackson Pollock. The one connection they’d been able to make, tying Willard Johnson to his marijuana supplier, had been a dead-end.
Time for a different perspective. He carried the mountain down the hall to the war room and stared at the white board. Dix’s voice echoed in his ears.
Things happen for a reason. As a cop, it’s your job to find it. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense. People are nuts.
He heaved out a sigh and started
organizing paper. With the mountain now divided into more manageable foothills, he started climbing. Thank goodness these were all computer printouts. Less handwriting to decipher. As he read, his father’s voice replaced Dix’s.
Find the beginning. Then start there.
He glanced at the board again. Where was the beginning? Were they dealing with a single case? Did it matter? Karl Franklin’s accident was at the earliest end of the timeline. Who was he? Colfax had said he was waiting on the background check. Had it come in? Gordon started to hunt for it. This time Dix and his father spoke in unison.
Teamwork is essential, but if you want something done right, do it yourself. And then Dix would wink and add, Just don’t let anyone think you’re checking up on them when you do.
Given the demands of proving anything in court nowadays, triple-checking didn’t carry the stigma of distrust, not on his watch. He preferred to think of it as fresh eyes, not duplication of effort. He went to the computer and entered what information he had about Franklin into a search engine. Mapleton might not have the budget for all the programs the county cops could access, but they weren’t totally without resources. Results came back within minutes.
Whatever he’d expected to find, it wasn’t that Franklin had been a private investigator.
Gordon felt that thrill-of-the-hunt tingle as he studied the screens of data. Franklin had moved around a lot. He’d lived in seven states, had held PI licenses in five over the last thirty-three years. Nevada, Washington, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Arizona, although all had lapsed. His current residence was in Urbandale, Illinois. Same address for the past three years. Sixty-five years old. Drove a 1997 Ford Probe. No criminal record, no outstanding warrants. Collecting Social Security. No other income, or not the kind one reported.
Gordon started making notes. The man was a retired PI, not visibly well-off. Gordon moved on. The man had a permit for a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver. That rang a bell. They’d found a bullet in the radio of his rental car, and a revolver explained the lack of shell casings. He snorted. Some of the crap that came out of the radio these days had him wanting to shoot it, too.
No, the bullet had entered through the rear windshield. Had whoever killed him tried to shoot him first? Had the techs recovered the gun? Still too many questions.
He pulled the accident reports as well as the follow-up search. Cold, dry facts. It was like handing someone a dictionary and saying, “There’s a great book in here. All you have to do is put the words in order.”
Colfax had left copies of everything. Evidence logs, crime scene contamination sheets, plus the reports from forensics, which weren’t many, due to backlog in the labs. He noted that they had found Franklin’s Smith and Wesson. A revolver, one shot fired. And a cell phone. Both near a streambed about fifty yards from where they’d determined Franklin had been killed.
He called Colfax. “I’ve been digging into Franklin’s background and reviewing the crime scene evidence logs from the spot Franklin was killed. Any prints on the gun? Anything in the phone?”
“And a good evening to you, too,” Colfax said. “Franklin wasn’t a priority. The Bedford homicide is ahead of him. Why is it important?”
“Just a hunch. Were you aware Franklin was a retired PI?”
A pause. “No, I haven’t seen the report.”
“I fed him through our system, and that’s what I got. I’m thinking he might have been working under the radar. If I knew who he’d been in touch with, it might give us some leads. Will you do some more of your Fred Astaire routine and get the phone records?”
“I’ll go get the damn phone from Evidence and call you.”
While he waited, Gordon pondered the Mapleton connection. Who would have hired a private investigator? Had Franklin known about the mysterious journal Justin and Megan had been looking for? It made more sense now, one more commonality that tied all three cases together.
Common denominators. Unlike the ones in math class, he actually enjoyed ferreting them out in police work.
His phone rang. “Hepler.”
“Got it,” Colfax said.
“Tell me whoever threw it into the stream was too stupid to wipe out the call log. And that the water didn’t ruin it.”
“Consider yourself told. Which is a good thing, because I’ve worn out my welcome with my cell phone company contacts, and I’d have to get subpoenas for all the numbers otherwise.”
“So what do you have? Any Colorado numbers?”
“One. Incoming and outgoing calls over the last two weeks, including one shortly before we think Franklin was killed.”
“Give it to me,” Gordon said, reaching for a pen.
Colfax recited the number. “You recognize it?”
Gordon pulled out his own cell and scrolled his contact list. “Damn.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Megan dug into the envelope, pulling out several sheets of paper. She scanned the first page. “It’s a fax. From Gordon. Says it’s confidential.”
Positioning the page so Justin could see it, they strolled across the lobby to a seating area. She dropped onto a loveseat, and Justin sat alongside. She passed off the cover sheet and stared at the next page. Expecting the message to relate to finding whoever was after them, it took a few seconds for the text to register as handwriting, and in German at that. A letter of some sort.
She snatched the typewritten cover sheet from Justin, who sat, slack-jawed, hardly seeming to notice she’d removed the paper. Rather, he was staring at the German writing on the sheets she held, a puzzled expression on his face.
She handed off the letter and read the cover sheet.
Megan and Justin:
The following letter, addressed to Sam, was misfiled at Vintage Duds. I’m honoring your request for confidentiality before sending it off to be translated. I’ll let you decide how you want me to handle it, but be advised that if it turns out to be evidence in the Bedford case, I’m going to have to follow procedure and turn it over to the county investigators.
G.
“Could this be what we’ve been searching for?” she asked, handing the cover sheet to Justin and reclaiming the other pages. “Four pages. It’s not much of a journal. Did your cousin say how long it should be?”
Justin shook his head, still looking stunned.
“Earth to Justin.” She waved her hand in front of his eyes.
He took the first of the German pages from her and stared at it for an endless moment. He handed it back and lowered his head to his hands. He’d gone three shades of pale.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, his voice flat and barely audible.
His obvious distress had the squadron of butterflies in her belly doing a darn good imitation of the Blue Angels. She took his hand, then snaked her arm around his waist. “No offense, but you don’t look fine. You need some water? Or a drink?”
He stood, pulling her up with him. “I’m said I’m fine. But I don’t know how to tell Opa.”
“Tell him what? You can read it?”
“Maybe, with a couple of days and a dictionary. We spoke English at home. I’ve got two years of high school German. You were probably exposed to more German than I was.”
“Rose and Sam spoke English around me. And most of what I picked up was Yiddish. Mapleton didn’t offer German in school.”
Justin’s brow furrowed as he started reading the pages again. She itched to take them from him, but why? It wasn’t like she could read them.
“Does it mention the journal?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember much, and handwriting isn’t the same as a textbook.”
“So what do you know?”
“It’s from someone’s brother, and says something about the camps. And death. And it’s signed ‘Heinrich’, but Sam’s name isn’t in the letter. But there’s a reference to Kaestner. And Carpenter.”
“So there is a connection between them.”
“That says that the stuff I Googled is likely accurate. The big question is, do I show it to Opa?”
“If it’s not for him, he says, ‘I don’t know who this is,’ and maybe he’ll have ways to trace it to its rightful owner. I say we have to show him.”
“You’re right,” he said. But he still looked shaken.
Something squeezed her heart. All those years she’d thought he was a pain in the neck. She’d been too shallow, too self-centered to see beyond his exterior and recognize the compassion inside. She thought he was in more anguish than Rose and Sam would be if the story turned out to be true.
Without a glance to see if anyone might be watching, she grasped his neck, pulled him lower, lifted her lips to his. His quiet groan was swallowed by their kiss.
“Megan.” His voice was hoarse in her ears. “God, Megan.” He broke the kiss, broke the body contact, but held her hands. “This isn’t the time.”
She sucked air. “I disagree. I feel a lot better now.”
His gaze bored through her. “You can’t tell me that was just another sharing the stress trick.”
She lowered her eyes. “I could. But it would be a lie.”
He jerked away and reached for his belt, unclipping his phone.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face as he stared at the display. “It’s a text. From Opa.”
She tried to grab the phone, to read it herself, but he spun away. “What does it say?” she asked.
“They’re in Mapleton.” He extended the phone.
She stared at the screen. Rose not feeling well. Rented car. Back in Mapleton. “Oh, God. She overdid it. Or her medication is wrong. We have to get back. Now.”
“We will. Let’s get our stuff.”
She grabbed his hand and started dragging him toward the elevator. “Call them. Find out what happened.”
