by Midge Bubany
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
“I’m not. I can’t stand to be in my own skin these days. Look at my hands.” She held out her hand. I could see it shake. “I’m so afraid he’s dead.”
“I don’t think…”
She got a text and ignored me to read it. Then she glared at me.
“I knew you were questioning my friends, but they’re getting the feeling you think I had something to do with Michael’s disappearance.”
“It’s routine to look at the family members in these cases.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “I answered all your questions truthfully.”
“People lie all the time. I hear many more lies than the truth in my job.”
She sat up straight. “So, you think I’m lying and I’m a suspect? Really?”
“Everyone and everything in his life will be looked at. I’ve got warrants for your bank statements and phone calls.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me what you needed? Seems like you’re going about this behind my back.”
“You think my investigation is bad, wait until the media starts looking at you. Your life, as you know it, will be turned upside down and inside out. Cat, is there anything you haven’t told me? Was Hawk into gambling or drugs or in trouble of some kind? Anything that could turn up by asking around?”
She put her hands to her cheeks. “Okay, there was this one time… a long time ago. We were invited to a party in downtown Minneapolis by these people we barely knew. They had cocaine. We tried it.”
“Okay. Did he seem to like it?”
“Yes and no. It was a terrific high, but we both agreed it made us feel too weird, and we never did it again.”
“How do you know he didn’t?”
“I just do, okay? You know what? I don’t need this. I changed my mind about staying here. You have my cell phone number. Call me when you find out something.”
She got up. I don’t know why I felt bad she was leaving, but I did.
“Where are you going?”
“Why? So you’ll know where to come and arrest me?”
“Cat, this isn’t personal. I have to do my job to find Hawk and why he’s missing.”
“Yeah? Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop calling him ‘Hawk.’ It’s a goddamn bird of prey.”
She picked up her purse she’d set on the counter, stomped off, and slammed my front door. My my.
I texted Spanky and asked how much he’d accomplished interviewing Cat’s girlfriends. He texted me back saying he was finishing up tomorrow morning and returning by noon.
I Googled Mac Wallace. His realty company popped up first. Boring stuff. I looked up his address and phone number for future reference. The address looked familiar. He lived in Riverview Estates. The guy had money. I stared at the notebook page and decided the future was now.
It wasn’t until I got to Wallace’s gate that I realized he’d bought the Gage’s house. Bet he got a good deal. Dr. Bentley and Mrs. Lillian Gage fled to Duluth after a family scandal. Adriana Valero’s old boss, Phillip Warner, lived in this development as well. I needed to call him tomorrow—no tomorrow was Saturday. It’d have to wait until Monday.
Since Wallace’s gate was open, I took it as an invitation. There were lights on in the colossal brick home. Before I even exited my truck, he opened the front door and stepped out. I approached him.
“You’re Cal Sheehan,” he said. He stood on the top step looking down at me.
“And you’re the asshole who’s banging my wife.”
He turned his face away from me and shook his head.
“No? You’re not banging my wife?”
“You’re being unnecessarily crude. Is this an official call, or are you here to intimidate me?”
I nodded. “Yeah, the latter.”
He was better looking in person than his photo on the billboards. I could see why Shannon was attracted to him. He was wearing khaki slacks, a white dress shirt, and a blue tie. Probably what he was going to wear on his date—with my wife. I took a deep breath and told myself to remain calm even though I wanted to punch his face bloody. I stayed at the bottom of the steps to keep my distance, so I wouldn’t be tempted.
“I don’t want to argue with a man in a sheriff’s uniform wearing a gun, so I’m asking you politely to leave. If you don’t, I will call 911.”
“Have I threatened you in any way?”
“You’re being here is a threat.”
“You’re being a bit dramatic. It is not my intent to make you feel threatened.” I put my hands up. “I’m here to politely ask you to stay away from my wife and my kids until the divorce is final.”
“I haven’t met your kids… and it’s Shannon’s decision—all of it.”
“I’m just asking you to back off for the time being.”
“Like I said, it’s up to Shannon.”
I nodded slowly. “Well, I thought you’d be a man about this, but I guess you’re still a boy who wants what he wants when he wants it no matter who gets hurts.”
“Wow. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. I think you need to look in the mirror to reflect on why your wife left you.”
What the hell did she tell him? “Yeah? What about your wife? Why did she leave your ass?”
“Don’t come back here.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Before I climbed in my truck, I gave him the finger like a damn twelve-year-old. I couldn’t help myself. Oh, boy. I was crossing the line from a protective husband into a jerk, and I knew I’d be hearing from Shannon very shortly.
As I drove home, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the display and didn’t pick up. I was through fighting with her—and for her.
Chapter 9
May 24
Twelve days missing.
On Saturday morning at 7:00 a.m., I met with the sheriff’s reserve sergeant, David O’Neil, who was coordinating the equestrian search team. As the six volunteer deputies were heading out on their horses, Tom and Barb Hawkinson drove up and parked in front of the horse trailers and sheriff’s vehicles. When I saw Cat get out of the backseat, I knew where she had gone after she left me last night—to her “beloved” in-laws.
“Hello, Cat. Surprised to see you out here.”
“I called the sheriff to find out if a search was being conducted. She told me you were out here with the horses.”
“It’s going to be a long day. I don’t know what you can do here. ”
“You’ll see,” she said.
“And what does that mean?” I asked.
She pointed to a large vehicle approaching, and then I understood. A WCCO news van drove by us and parked ahead of all the vehicles.
“You called them?”
“Not me,” Cat said, looking toward Tom.
I turned to Tom Hawkinson. “This isn’t a good idea, Tom.”
“What do you expect us to do? Just sit on our hands?”
“No, but calling in a news crew creates a whole lot of circus without the peanuts and popcorn.”
“Cal, we need the public’s help with this whole deal.”
A female reporter approached. “Mr. and Mrs. Hawkinson, can we have you stand by the horse trailers?” she asked.
I held back, watching Barb and Cat give their accounts of how Hawk had been missing for several days before the authorities took his disappearance seriously. Barb mentioned I was the only one interested in finding him, and that Sydney and I flew out to Vegas only to discover someone else had been using his credit cards. Then Barb Hawkinson invited all Minnesotans to join the search. Oh, man.
A light plane flew over, fairly low. Next it would be news helicopters.
After they’d finished questioning Hawk’s family, I was s
ought out. Refusing to make a statement would make me look like a self-serving prick, so I decided to defend our delayed action.
“Until Michael Hawkinson’s vehicle was found in Birch County, there was no evidence he’d been in our jurisdiction. When Sheriff Clinton was made aware of this, she ordered a canine and equestrian search at once. If and when we have something to report, the sheriff will convene a press conference. I have no further comments at this time.”
As I walked away, the reporter shouted questions about an organized community search effort. I hid in my Explorer and called Patrice. I describe the situation and suggested she send out more squads for crowd control and appoint someone to manage the search effort.
“Why can’t you coordinate it?” she asked.
“Because I have too much to do. I need to get back to the office so I can do my job. You do want me to solve Hawk’s disappearance and the burglary, right?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take care of it. We have a couple light plane pilots who are searching the open areas from the air.”
“When did you decide that?”
“I didn’t. Irving Ames called me—your friend’s father-in-law?”
“I know who he is.”
“Well, he demanded I have my deputies go door to door and search every residence in the county.”
“And you said?”
“That we didn’t have the resources to pull that off. He said he was hiring planes to do an aerial search and divers to search Rodgers Lake. So, he kind of forced my hand to commit our sheriff’s reserve water patrol as well. Why didn’t you tell me about Ames?”
“I thought I had. Honestly, I didn’t think the prick cared enough to get involved.”
“Don’t you know powerful pricks like to flex their muscles for the world to see how very powerful they are? Anyway, please stay until someone gets there to take your place.”
“My place? I’m one guy, and there’ll be one gigantic circus here any minute.”
“Damn it. This is just what I need.”
By eight thirty, the public was beginning to arrive, along with folks from KSTP, KARE 11, Star Tribune, and St. Paul Pioneer Press newspapers. It was clear someone did a thorough job of notifying the media.
When newly appointed Chief Deputy Carole Knight and four squad cars arrived to take charge, I waved at her and got the hell out of Dodge. What was supposed to take me a half hour, grabbed almost two hours of my time.
When I arrived at the office, Tamika was waiting for me. Her eyes were lit up as she said, “Remember I said the big dude with the tattoos looked familiar. Well, his name is Glenn Hayes. DOB was 12/25/80. Two years ago I arrested him on possession with intent to sell. He lives here in Prairie Falls. He’s been in trouble since he was a kid, mostly small-time burglaries to feed his drug habit. Released from St. Cloud last January.”
“Maybe Ginty was in Prairie Falls to see this guy.”
I then called the lab to find out if Brooks’s tenants, Nate Cook, Tammy Johnson, and Bobby Lopez, had come in yet. Les said he was busy and would get back to me. That man could never give me an answer right away.
I checked my email messages. I had one from Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department that Raybern Jerome Ginty was now in their custody. That was quick. He also gave me the Minneapolis address they had for him.
While I was filling out the paperwork for search warrants for my four suspects (Raybern Jerome Ginty, Nevada Wynn, Roseanne Martinez, and Glenn Hayes), Greg Woods stopped by to tell me he arrested Jesse Emerson last night. He was Clifford Emerson’s kid.
“Following in his old man’s footsteps?”
“Nah, he just had a little weed on him. I wrote him up, gave him a ride home. Clifford was there. He must be drinking at home lately—his car hasn’t been at Buzzo’s. He’s still not back driving for Estelle’s. When’s that lawsuit going to be settled anyway?”
“Not soon enough for me.”
“My Jen’s a friend of his wife, Celia. She had to go back to work at the post office. Times are tough. Jesse’s acting out, but I guess that’s not your problem.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Celia’s worried about losing their house.”
“We’re not taking their house from them. The lawsuit is against the company for letting him drive with infractions on his record.”
“That’s what I told Jen. Look, I just thought you’d want to know about the Emerson kid.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks.”
Folks in town were in two camps: one said the accident was just that, and the most Clifford should get would be community service—the other said he deserved to go to prison for murder. He didn’t get either because his attorney proved Shannon had been texting at the time of the accident.
Shannon and I had a fight the morning of the accident, an extension of the heated argument from the night before when I expressed my concern how we were constantly battling about something, that we needed to end it. I meant the fighting—not the marriage. She retorted that our marriage was a mistake because we only dated a few months before I proposed.
But it wasn’t sudden, we’d been flirting friends for eleven years, and she didn’t hesitate to say yes when I asked her. The next morning our argument continued. She said she felt like a guest in my home, that she couldn’t be herself, and she was going to notify Spanky she wanted him to move out of her house she’d been renting to him, so she could move back in. It was the last thing she said to me before I took off for work—and Luke heard it all. When I texted her that morning, I had no idea she was driving the boys to school; they should have taken the bus.
After the accident nothing was mentioned about the move, and we stayed together for several months. At first, we seemed closer than ever, clutching onto to one another as it could mend the hole in our hearts. But as time passed, the distance grew wider than ever.
I went to get Judge Olann’s signature on the search warrants, then made my way to Glenn Hayes’s last known address in South Haven Estates. Sounded fancy, but it was the trailer park on the south side of town. Hayes lived on the eastern edge of the park. A pink Chevy pickup was parked in the gravel drive. Rust had taken its toll on the bottom quarter of the body, the back fender was dented, and the tabs on the plates expired last month.
I knocked on the door. It opened about six inches revealing a plump cheek and one eye defiantly staring at the badge I flashed.
“Good morning. Detective Sheehan with Birch County. I need to speak with Glenn.”
She opened the door wide to say, “He doesn’t live here anymore.”
The top half of her hair was the color of oatmeal, the bottom had been colored the same pink as her truck. Her tight pink flowered tank top emphasized her stomach rolls and fleshy arms, and her leggings were stretched to their limit. Gotta wonder if she owned a mirror.
“And your name is?” I said.
“Shelly Hayes.”
“You’re married to Glenn?”
She laughed and coughed at the same time. “Eewww, no, he’s my brother.”
“May I come in?” I asked. “I have a few questions.”
She stepped aside to let me in. I entered cautiously. You never know when some whackadoodle will burst out of a room toting a weapon. The smell of the place reminded me of a school lunch box left untended in a locker for a couple weeks. Dirty dishes lay mounded in the sink; trashy magazines were piled high in a corner. A half-eaten box of doughnuts lay in a butt depression on the couch, and the amount of wrappers strewn about indicated she was doing her part to keep Hostess, Nabisco, and Frito Lay in business.
She placed herself so she could keep an eye on the television tuned to Godzilla Brides, and I sat on a sticky bench seat opposite her, affording me a view of the back of the trailer, which is preferable for safety reasons.
She
lit a cigarette, exhaled upward.
“When was the last time you saw your brother?”
“Been a while.”
“What’s a while? Days, weeks, months, years?”
“Weeks. Why?”
“Just want to ask him a few questions. Who does he hang out with?”
“Anything living under a rock.” She let out a gravely laugh.
“Do you know Raybern Ginty and Nevada Wynn?”
“Those assholes? They’re nothin’ but trouble.”
“Do you know anything about their activities?”
She pointed to her couch with the butt impressions and said, “They sat right there, in my house, and talked about selling dope.”
“When was this?”
“Maybe March.”
“Does Glenn deal for them?”
“Says he doesn’t, but why were they talkin’ to him? That’s what I have to say about that.”
The Joint Drug Task Force assumed the Hackett brothers were Nevada Wynn’s Prairie Falls connection. I made a note to pass along Hayes’s name to them.
“Do you know where he’s living?”
“At Max Becker’s. You know where that is?”
“Yep.”
“Todd Hackett told me. Otherwise I wouldn’t know.”
He’s been released already? “Where did you see Todd?”
Todd and Chad Hackett and their sperm-donor father, Kent Silva, had been serving time after I caught the trio burglarizing an auto parts store.
“At Buzzo’s the other night. He was trying to hit his ma up for money—you know Connie? She’s a barmaid there?”
“Yes.”
Connie Hackett was a nice lady who had bad taste in men. And although her sons were worthless, she raised an incredible daughter, Britt, who was our nanny for two years while she attending community college.
“Yeah, I was sitting at the bar talking to Connie when he came up and sat next to me.”
“What’s he up to?”
