by Diane Capri
“I’m…” She screwed up one eye and stared at Morris. “Aren’t you supposed to have a search warrant or something?”
“We don’t want to search his apartment. We don’t even have to step inside.”
The woman considered Morris’s claim for a moment. “Okay. Guess it can’t hurt.”
She located the key in a kitchen cabinet and led the way back to Gotting’s apartment.
She didn’t bother with the doorbell and knocked on the door. “Mr. Gotting. It’s Pam from the office.”
Jess watched the door for any sign of movement but saw none.
Pam pounded on the door. “Mr. Gotting. The FBI is here. They’d like to talk to you.”
In the parking lot, a vehicle started.
The door to the apartment next door opened. Pam waved to an older man. “Just looking for Mr. Gotting.”
“He’s got a visitor,” the man said. “Came a few minutes ago.”
“Is he still there?” Jess said.
The old man nodded. “Far as I know.”
Jess had no doubt the man knew everything about the people who came and went on the floor.
“Unless they used the fire escape,” she said quietly to Morris.
He darted for the edge of the landing to look over the fire escape. “Wait,” he shouted. “Stop!”
Jess bounded down the stairs. A man was running across the grass to a black BMW SUV. She held a hand up. “Stop!”
He jumped into the BMW. The engine was already running, and the SUV screamed out of the parking lot.
Jess ran for her rental and backed out of the parking space fast.
Morris came running down the steps and dove into the passenger seat.
Jess floored the accelerator.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, November 28
10:00 a.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
The Ford pulled hard, but the BMW was faster. It moved in a way that didn’t seem possible, darting between the lanes into spaces barely larger than the vehicle itself. Her rental pitched and rolled, forcing Jess to wait for larger gaps in the traffic.
Morris called the local FBI for backup.
The BMW screeched across the median, bouncing hard on its suspension as its wheels hammered into the curb.
Traffic honked and swerved between lanes to avoid the SUV.
Jess waited for a clear space in the traffic.
Morris strained forward, keeping watch on the BMW. “He turned right.”
Jess floored the accelerator, taking the inside lane. The rental’s tires squealed as she turned a hard corner to follow the disappearing BMW.
The street was a four-lane, two lanes in each direction with no median.
The BMW turned a quick left through a narrow gap in the oncoming traffic. The oncoming traffic braked hard, tires squealing as drivers fought to keep vehicles from spilling into the neighboring lanes and colliding with other vehicles.
The BMW accelerated away down a narrow side street.
Jess followed, weaving through a pair of stationary vehicles, the drivers honking and waving their fists.
Cars lined one side of the narrow road and pedestrians filed in and out of stores.
Jess kept her speed down even though the BMW had disappeared.
A police siren sounded, close and loud. Her Ford was bathed in red and blue flashing lights. She glanced in the rearview mirror. A police car was right on her tail. She sighed and pulled into a gap in the parked cars.
The police car stopped behind her.
Jess lowered her window.
A second police car slid by and parked across the front of the Ford, blocking her in.
An officer with the name Powell on his name tag approached the driver’s door. He didn’t waste time with niceties. “License and insurance,” he said.
Morris leaned over and held out his ID. “We were in pursuit.”
Powell leaned in closer and examined the ID, his gaze flitting from Morris’s face to his picture. “I’m just going to have to run this.”
He held his hand out toward Jess. “ID, ma’am.”
Jess handed over her driver’s license.
Powell grunted. “FBI?”
Jess shook her head. “A reporter.”
Powell’s lip curled up at one end. “Wait here.”
Two more officers stood watch around the Ford like they thought she might be a flight risk.
Powell ran the details on the computer in his car and returned a few moments later.
He handed Jess her ID. “Sorry to have messed with your pursuit. We get too many fake IDs. You should have registered your plates.”
Morris nodded. “Sorry about that. Been a busy morning.”
“Who were you chasing?”
“We don’t know. We went looking for a man named Earle Gotting, and the suspect ran from the rear of the building.”
Powell cocked his head. “Don’t know the name.”
“He was a person of interest. We wanted to ask a few questions.” Morris shrugged. “But now? Seems like more.”
“You working with the local office?”
Morris replied, “We flew in this morning.”
Powell patted the roof of the car. “Well, better straighten things out with them. Drive carefully.”
Powell returned to his cruiser, and the police cars left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, November 28
10:45 a.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Jess drove back to the Palm Tree Court apartments, keeping to the speed limit and obeying every single traffic sign to the letter.
Morris spent the time on his phone, alternating between explaining and persuading a colleague in the local FBI field office to look for the BMW.
Jess only heard Morris’s side of the conversation but deduced they would send a police officer to look for CCTV video from neighboring businesses.
As she parked, the blinds in the leasing office opened, and Pam McGinty beckoned.
Morris finished his phone call and they walked into the office.
“Did you call the police?” Jess asked.
Pam laughed derisively. “They said they’ll be here when they can. Apparently, after the person of interest has fled the scene, we’re no longer a priority.”
“Did you see the guy?” Jess said.
Pam shook her head. “Only from the back.”
“Was it Earle Gotting?”
“He seemed bigger.” She patted her shoulders. “Wider, you know.”
Jess glanced at Morris and said, “He was running from Gotting’s apartment. So, a crime was probably being committed inside.”
Morris grimaced. “Not exactly imminent danger, if you’re looking for a reason to enter the apartment.”
McGinty stood up. “You can’t enter the building without a warrant. Management drums that into us, given where we are. But…follow me.”
She led them out of the office and around the back of the building to a steel door with a hefty padlock.
She clicked open the lock with a small key, stepped inside, and disabled an alarm.
Morris followed Jess inside. The room was filled with tools, cans, pipes, and all the paraphernalia Jess figured was required to maintain an apartment complex.
Pam handed Morris a large tank with a hose and spray attachment. “We can enter to spray for bugs. It’s in the lease documents. I’d carry the tank myself, but it’s heavy.”
She walked them around to Gotting’s apartment without waiting for a reply.
Morris knocked hard on the door.
The old man from the next apartment poked his head out of his door. Morris waved him back inside.
Pam pulled a bundle of keys from her pocket, sorted her way through them, and finally inserted one in the lock.
The door swung open revealing a studio with an open plan kitchen and living room. Pam grimaced in understandable disapproval.
The place was a mess. The sofa cus
hions were on the floor. The sofa itself was overturned and the bottom had been cut out of it, exposing the springs and thin wood frame. The coffee table lay on its side, wedged against the far wall.
In the kitchen, the cabinet doors were wide open, and junk was piled up on the floor. Bottles, cans, and dirty glasses littered every surface. The sink was full of mugs and dirty plates. The fridge door had been folded back on its hinges, and the contents were spread over the floor.
Jess put her arm across the doorway before Pam walked inside. “Earle Gotting wasn’t the guy in the BMW. This place is a mess. It’s a crime scene. We can’t go in.”
“Roger that,” Morris said, dialing a number on his phone and walking away.
Pam stepped back. “Do you think he’s all right?”
Jess looked over the apartment. “Hard to say.”
“There’s a bedroom and a bathroom…” Pam’s words trailed off, leaving her fears unspoken.
Morris returned and peered into the apartment. “Cops on their way. I’m going inside, be sure we don’t need an ambulance.”
He stepped carefully between the mounds of debris on the floor, eased the bedroom and bathroom doors open with his elbow, and reversed his steps to back out. “There’s no one in the apartment.”
Pam breathed an audible sigh of relief.
Jess took several photographs, panning her cell phone camera across the studio. “This place was a mess before someone decided to search it.”
She turned to Pam. “When did you last see Gotting?”
“Two days ago. He went out in the morning, came back mid-afternoon. Nothing unusual.”
“Walking?”
“No. He drives an Audi.”
Jess raised her eyebrows. It was a curious vehicle for a guy living in a low rent apartment.
“It looks nice, but it must be old. Kind of dirty. Don’t think he ever washes it,” Pam said.
“No job? He doesn’t go out every day?”
Pam shook her head. “Not since he lost his job. It can be days before I see him sometimes.”
“Where did he work?”
“Finger-Lickin’ Fried Chicken. Half a mile south down the road.”
Jess turned to close the door. Someone had been searching for something. She paused, the door still half open.
A short stubby bottle caught her eye. It had rolled against the wall in the kitchen. Probably when whoever was searching the apartment emptied the cabinets.
She leaned into the apartment without stepping inside, stretching to get her phone’s camera as close to the bottle as she could. She fired off half a dozen shots to be sure she got a couple of good ones, and leaned back out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.
“What was it?” Pam said.
Jess brought up the picture on her phone and zoomed in. She knew what she had seen. But she had to look.
Pam tried to look at the phone’s screen. “Was it important?”
Jess held the picture up. “It’s a baby’s bottle.”
Pam frowned. “He doesn’t have a baby. And I’ve never seen anyone visit with a baby. What would he need that for?”
Jess clicked her phone off and shook her head. She had the awful feeling she knew why, but she didn’t want to voice her guess. As if saying it aloud would make it more likely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday, November 28
11:00 a.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
A police cruiser with two officers arrived in the apartment parking lot. Morris went down the stairs to brief them on what they’d found.
Jess called Stephenson while she waited. When he answered, she said, “What do you know about Earle Gotting?”
“Not much. What have you found?”
“When we arrived at his place, a guy was here searching the apartment.”
“Who was it?”
“Don’t know. Male in a black BMW SUV. He got away.”
Stephenson asked, “Any idea what he was searching for?”
“No. And he ransacked the place.” She kept her voice down, just in case someone was around to overhear.
“What about Gotting? Any sign of him?”
“Not yet. Which is why I need to hear what you know.”
“Right.” She heard hunt and peck typing on an electronic keyboard before Stephenson continued. “I just sent you a report. He has priors for possession of drugs and illegal possession of a firearm. Not at the same time. Separate incidents. He spent five years at Humboldt prison on the last one. After you called earlier, I asked around. He received the maximum sentence because of the priors, but also because he was on the way to use the firearm when he was arrested.”
“Any record of violence?”
“Nothing in what I have.”
“Why was he arrested?”
Stephenson said, “Stupid thing. He ran a red light. Not speeding. But still odd since he had no prior traffic violations on his record.”
“So, he might have been distracted and didn’t notice the light. Anything else?” She asked.
“Yeah.” A long pause followed.
“Spit it out, okay?”
He cleared his throat. “Looks like Gotting lived two floors down from your apartment in the same building when Peter was abducted—”
“Really?” She felt her eyebrows shoot north. She cocked her head and tried to recall Gotting, but she had no memory of him.
She’d lived in that building because she couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. She’d always been careful, although events had proved she wasn’t careful enough.
“Sorry. I guess I thought you knew,” Stephenson said. “Police interviewed almost everybody at the time, including him. Nothing suspicious, according to the report. He moved out a month later.”
“It was a big complex. There were a lot of people living there and most of them were less than model citizens. By the time the cops quit and I started looking for Peter on my own, tenants had turned over several times.” Jess nodded, although Stephenson couldn’t see her. “Where did Gotting move to?”
“West Denver. Another apartment not much better. He’s moved a lot in his lifetime.”
“Always lived in Denver?” she asked. A shiver ran through her. A convicted felon. Not that there weren’t plenty of them walking around. But still.
“Not hardly. He’s been a regular gypsy. Iowa, Illinois, Arizona, New Mexico, and Missouri that I can find so far. And he’s had more than one address in each state.”
“And now Kansas City, Kansas.”
Stephenson said, “That’s where he was convicted. Like I said, he served five years in Humboldt. Released six months ago. Earlier parole denied. Served his full term.”
“No reduction for good behavior?”
“Humboldt has a reputation as a tough place. Hard to serve a sentence without some kind of trouble there.”
“It’d be good to know what happened. Can we identify his known associates, including friends and enemies?” she asked.
“The guy’s a loner and a vagrant, mostly. Moves around, lives by his wits, based on what I see here.” Stephenson clicked his tongue. “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t hold your breath.”
Jess thanked him and hung up.
She found Stephenson’s email with Gotting’s details and forwarded it to Morris.
A minute later Morris came back up the stairs, his hands filled with sample bags, gloves, and face masks.
The officers followed and began to go from door to door, taking statements from the neighbors.
Jess held her hand out for a mask and gloves.
Morris grimaced. “I can’t just let you walk in there. Evidence, and all that.”
“I’m not going to plant evidence against the guy. If I had any to plant. Which I don’t.”
Morris sighed and offered no further objections. He handed her a face mask and pair of gloves. “Apparently, Earle Gotting both sells and uses drugs. We need to be careful.”
“Just tal
ked to Stephenson. When Peter was taken, Gotting lived two floors below me in Denver.”
Morris’s eyes widened. “That can’t be a coincidence. Did you know him?”
“I was a kid. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. I’ve been wracking my brain to remember the guy, but—” She shrugged. “I sent you a list of Gotting’s known addresses. Might correlate to other kidnappings.”
“Maybe.” He spoke as he typed email messages on his phone. “Kidnapping isn’t rare, unfortunately. We have to be careful not to read too much into things.”
She put on the face mask and gloves. “Are we going in?”
Morris nodded. “Local guys don’t think this situation requires a crime scene team.”
Jess scowled. “But we need prints. Confirm Earle Gotting really lived here. And there’s BMW-man. And more.”
“I get it, Jess.” Morris pulled a small bag from his coat pocket. “But we don’t know that a crime was committed here. We don’t have any evidence of a robbery or a burglary even. Resources are stretched everywhere. I brought my own kit. We can take pictures and send them off.”
“But—”
“They’re kind of stretched, Jess. Unless we turn something up.”
“Like what? We need a dead body?”
“Pretty much. They got two this morning. Like I said, they’re a bit stretched.”
Jess sighed and let her angst drain away. In a system that was always on the verge of overload, she was more than privileged to have the undivided attention of an FBI agent, and, she smiled, not just an agent, but the best agent.
Morris opened the front door. Jess made her way to the baby bottle. The manufacturer’s name had worn off, and it had years of caked-on grime. She picked it up with a pen and dropped it in a plastic evidence bag.
She sifted through the clutter on the kitchen floor but found no other baby paraphernalia.
Morris scoured the inside of the upturned sofa before righting it. “Nothing,” he said.
Using the fingerprint kit, he worked his way over the door that led to the fire escape and the window beside it.
