The Guardian

by Nicholas Sparks

  By the look on her face, Mabel knew there was no change at all.

  Jennifer hung up with the Columbus Police Department just as Morrison came out of his office.

  "Got the subpoena," he said. "Judge Riley signed it a few minutes ago, and it's being faxed to J. D. Blanchard right now. We should have the information shortly, unless they get their legal team involved and try to stall things."

  Jennifer nodded but was unable to hide the information in her expression.

  "Still no luck?" Morrison asked.

  She shook her head. "Nothing. Not a damn thing. He hasn't so much as had a speeding ticket in either Colorado or Ohio. No arrests, no record of him even being a suspect in a crime."

  "The fax from Denver didn't help?"

  "Not our guy. Not even close." She scanned the faxed photograph anyway. "I don't understand it. A guy like this doesn't just appear out of nowhere. I know he's done this type of thing before. There's got to be some record of it." She ran a hand through her hair. "Any news from the house?"

  "It seems as if he did some cleaning recently. They were able to bag a few things, but we won't know for sure if any of it's of use until it's examined. Right now, we have someone running a blood sample down to Wilmington. The department there has one of the best labs in the state, and as soon as they get both samples, they'll run a comparison with Andrea's blood from the hospital. It's number one on the priority list, and hopefully, we'll get a match. Blood type checks out, though. Andrea is A positive, and so was the sample. It's not as common as O, so it seems likely that he's our guy."

  "Anything from Morehead? Or the workers at the site?"

  "Not so far. Franklin seemed to keep to himself. Haroldson and Teeter couldn't find anyone who liked the guy, let alone hung out with him. Nobody even knew where he lived. They've still got a few more people to talk to, but they're not very hopeful. As for Burris and Puck, they say that no one can remember seeing Franklin anywhere near Andrea's apartment. But they're getting information on other possible suspects, just in case. She tended to associate with some pretty rough guys, and Puck is gathering their names now."

  "Richard Franklin's our guy," Jennifer reiterated.

  Morrison held up his hands as if he realized that. "We'll know that for sure in a couple of hours," he said. "As for Morehead City, Johnson is showing Andrea's picture around. Good idea to grab that photo, by the way. But so far, nothing. There are a lot of bars and restaurants to cover, and they just got there a little while ago. Evening shifts in the bars and restaurants start about five, so it might take a while."

  Jennifer nodded.

  Morrison nodded toward the phone. "Have you been able to track down any information on Jessica yet?"

  "No," she said. "Not yet. That's my next step."

  Julie sat on the couch with Singer by her side, one ear cocked forward. Mike turned on the television and surfed through the channels, then turned it off. He wandered through the house, making sure the front door was locked, then looked through the window, up and down the street.

  Quiet. Completely quiet.

  "I think I'll give Henry a call," he finally said. "Just to let him know we made it."

  Julie nodded.

  Pulling back her hair with both hands, Jennifer turned her attention to the photographs that had been in Richard's briefcase. Unlike Julie, Jessica appeared to have posed happily for most of them. It also seemed likely that she was indeed his wife; Jennifer noted that in a few pictures there was an engagement ring, which was later joined to a wedding band.

  Unfortunately, the photographs couldn't tell her anything about Jessica herself-if indeed that was her name. None had information written on the back that might reveal a maiden name or even where they were taken. The photographs themselves showed no landmarks, and after a cursory glance through them, Jennifer wondered how to find out more about her.

  She searched the Internet for any mention of Jessica Franklin, looking for the obvious-anyone from Colorado or Ohio, for instance-and checked out the sites that posted a photograph. There were less than a handful of those, and none matched the woman she was looking for. It didn't surprise her. After a divorce, most women would go back to their maiden names. . . .

  But what if they hadn't divorced?

  He'd already demonstrated how violent he could be. Jennifer looked at the phone. After hesitating for just a moment, she dialed Detective Cohen in Denver.

  "No, no problem," he said in response to her request. "Since you called, I've been thinking about that guy. For some reason, his name sounds familiar. This shouldn't be too hard to find out. Let me check."

  She waited as he checked the records.

  "No," he finally said. "No murder victims listed under the name of Jessica Franklin, no missing persons, either."

  "Is there any way you could find out anything about their marriage? When it took place, how long they've been married?"

  "We don't have that kind of information on hand, but the county might. Your best bet is to look through property tax records, since most homes are owned in both names, and that might help you get started. But you'll need to find someone who can access the archives. And that's, of course, assuming they were married in the area."

  "Do you have the number?"

  "Not offhand, but let me look it up."

  She heard him pull open a drawer, curse, then call to one of his colleagues for a book.

  A moment later he recited the number, and Jennifer was jotting it down as Pete came rushing to her desk.

  "Daytona," he said. "The son of a bitch went to Daytona when he said he went to his mother's funeral-"

  "Daytona? Isn't that where Julie is from?"

  "I don't remember," Pete said quickly, "but listen . . . if his mother died, we might be able to find some information about her in a recent obituary. I've already accessed the newspaper, and I'm printing up the information now. Pretty smart, huh?"

  Jennifer said nothing as she thought about it. "Don't you think that's odd?" she asked. "I mean, his mother dying in the same place Julie grew up?"

  "Maybe they grew up together."

  Possible, but unlikely, she thought, shaking her head. It just didn't sound right. Especially considering that there was proof he'd been in Denver four years ago and Julie certainly would have mentioned any common history they shared. But . . . why would he go to Daytona?

  Suddenly she paled.

  "Do you have a phone number for Julie's mother?" she asked.

  Pete shook his head. "No."

  "Get it. I think we should talk to her."

  "But what about the obituaries?"

  "Forget them. We're not even sure if the story about his mother is true. Let's get his phone records instead. Maybe we can find out who he called."

  I should have done that from the beginning, she realized suddenly. So much for thinking she knew everything.

  "Phone records?"

  "From the house, Pete. Get the phone records for Richard Franklin."

  Pete blinked, trying to keep up. "So the obituaries don't mean anything?"

  "No. He didn't go down there to see his mother. He went down there to learn about Julie. I'd bet my life on it."

  Henry sat with Emma at the kitchen table, his eyes absently following a fly that was bouncing against the glass.

  "So they're sure no one followed them?"

  Henry nodded. "That's what Mike said when he called."

  "And do you think they're safe?"

  "I hope so, but until they catch the SOB, I won't rest easy."

  "What if they don't?"

  "They'll find him."

  "But what if they don't?" Emma asked again. "How long are they going to have to hide there?"

  Henry shook his head. "As long as it takes." He paused. "But I should probably call and let the police know where they are."

  Jennifer absently twirled a strand of her hair as she finished up her conversation with Henry.

  "Thanks for letting me know," she said. "I appreciate
it. Good-bye."

  So they'd left town, she thought, hanging up. On the one hand, she probably would have done the same thing if she'd been in their situation. On the other hand, they were farther away if they needed help. Though Topsail was still in the county, it was at the southern end-at least forty minutes from Swansboro.

  The archived tax records had been a dead end. The house had been listed in Richard Franklin's name only.

  Without anyplace else to turn for information, Jennifer returned her focus to the photographs. Photographs, she knew, could tell her about not only the subject, but the photographer as well. And Richard had been quite good-many of the images were striking, and she found herself staring at them. Richard Franklin, she decided, wasn't simply a weekend photographer, but someone who viewed photography as art. It made sense, considering the equipment they'd found in his house.

  It wasn't something she had focused on right away, but could that knowledge be helpful? And if so, how? She wasn't sure yet.

  Still, the longer she looked, the more she felt that she was on the right track with this line of thinking. Though she wasn't sure exactly what the answers were yet-or even the questions, for that matter-as she stared at the photographs and wondered what they implied about Richard, she couldn't help but feel that she was getting close to something important.

  Thirty-six

  In Denver, Detective Larry Cohen thought about the phone calls.

  Officer Romanello had wanted information on Richard Franklin, and though he'd searched the database without success, he knew he'd heard the name before. As he'd told Jennifer Romanello, the name was familiar.

  Could have been anything, of course. A witness in one of the hundreds of cases he'd been involved with; he may even have seen the name in the newspaper at one time or another. Might even have been a stranger he'd bumped into at a party or someone he'd met in passing.

  Yet he had a feeling that the name had something to do with police business.

  If he hadn't been arrested, though, what was it?

  Rising from his desk, he decided to ask around. Maybe someone else in the department would be able to clear it up for him.

  An hour later, Morrison emerged from his office with both the phone records and the information from J. D. Blanchard that Richard Franklin had originally submitted. Included in the fax was his resume and information about the previous projects on which he'd consulted.

  Pete took the phone records; Jennifer put the photographs aside and began studying the information from J. D. Blanchard.

  At the top of the resume, Richard had listed an apartment in Columbus as an address; below that, however, was a gold mine. Whom he'd worked for and when, association lists, previous experience, his educational background.

  "Got you," she whispered. After calling information, she dialed Lentry Construction in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the last company he'd worked for before forming his own corporation.

  After identifying herself to the receptionist, she was passed on to Clancy Edwards, the vice president, who'd been with the company almost twenty years.

  "Richard Franklin? Sure I remember him," Edwards offered almost immediately. "He was one hell of a manager here. Really knew his stuff. I wasn't surprised when he went into business for himself."

  "When was the last time you talked to him?"

  "Oh, gee . . . let me think about it. He moved to Denver, you know. I guess it must have been eight or nine years ago. We were working on . . . oh, let's see . . . that would have been in ninety-five, right? I think it was a project out in-"

  "Excuse me, Mr. Edwards, but do you know if he was married?"

  It took a moment for Edwards to realize she'd asked another question. "Married?"

  "Yes, was he married?"

  Edwards laughed under his breath. "Not a chance. We were all pretty sure he was gay. . ."

  Jennifer pushed the phone closer to her ear, wondering if she'd heard him right. "Wait. Are you sure?"

  "Well, not a hundred percent. Not that he ever said anything about it, of course. We didn't push it, either. A man's personal business is his own as long as he can do the job. That's always been the way we work. We do a good job with affirmative action at our company. Always have."

  Jennifer barely listened as he went on.

  "Wyoming's come a long way, but it's not San Francisco, if you know what I mean, and it wasn't always easy. But times are changing, even here."

  "Did he get along with everyone?" she suddenly asked, remembering what Jake Blansen had told her on the phone.

  "Oh yeah, absolutely. Like I said, he really knew his stuff, and people respected him for it. And he was a nice guy, too. Bought my wife a hat for her birthday. Not that she wears it much anymore. You know how women are about-"

  "How about the construction workers? Did he get along with them?"

  Caught in midsentence, Clancy Edwards took another moment to catch up.

  "Yeah, sure, them, too. Like I said, everyone liked him. A couple might have had a problem with his . . . well, his personal life, but everyone got along with him fine. We were all sorry to see him go."

  When Jennifer said nothing, Edwards seemed to feel the need to fill the silence.

  "Can I ask what this is all about? He's not in trouble, is he? Nothing happened to him, did it?"

  Jennifer was still trying to make sense of this new information.

  "It's regarding an investigation. I'm sorry, but I can't say any more," she answered. "Do you remember if you ever received a call from an outfit called J. D. Blanchard regarding a reference?"

  "I didn't, but I think the president did. We were happy to give a recommendation. Like I said, he did a real good job. . . ."

  Jennifer found her gaze drifting to the photographs of Jessica again. "Do you know if he was into photography as a hobby?"

  "Richard? He might have been, but if he was, he never mentioned it to me. Why?"

  "No reason," she said, suddenly running out of questions. "I want to thank you for your time, Mr. Edwards. If I need any more help, would you mind if I call you again?"

  "No, not at all. You can reach me until six on most days. We have a lot of respect for law enforcement around here. My grampa used to be the sheriff for . . . oh, gee . . . I guess it must have been twenty years or so. . . ."

  Even as he was speaking, Jennifer was hanging up the phone, shaking her head and wondering why none of what she'd just heard seemed to make any sense.

  "You were right," Pete said to Jennifer a few minutes later, looking confused that she'd been right about her instincts while his had been so off base. "There was a number listing a private investigator in Daytona." He glanced at the note he'd scribbled. "Richard made three calls to an outfit called Croom's Investigations. No answer when I dialed it, but I left a message. Sounds like a one-man shop. No secretary and a man's voice on the answering machine."

  "How about Julie's mother?"

  Pete shook his head. "Yeah, I got her number through information, but there was no answer. I'll try again in a little while. How's it going on your end?"

  Jennifer briefed him on her conversation with Clancy Edwards. When she finished, Pete scratched the back of his neck.

  "Gay, huh?" He nodded as if it made sense. "I can see that."

  Jennifer reached for the resume again, trying to ignore his comment.

  "I'm going to try the next company on the list," she said. "It's been a long time since he's worked there, but I'm hopeful that I can talk to somebody who remembers him. After that, I guess I'll try the bank in Denver where he kept his accounts, or maybe I can get some information from some of his former neighbors. If I can locate any of them, that is."

  "That sounds like it'll take a while."

  Jennifer nodded, distracted, still thinking about the call to Edwards. "Listen," she said, scribbling down the basic information from the resume, "while I'm doing that, see if you can find out anything about his childhood. It says he was born in Seattle, so call the major hospitals and see if yo
u can find the record of his birth certificate. Maybe we can find out more if we hunt down his family. I'll keep working on this end."

  "Sure."

  "Oh-and keep trying the detective and Julie's mother. I really want to talk to them."

  "You got it."

  It took more time than he'd imagined it would to find a car, but Richard exited the parking lot of the mall in a green 1994 Pontiac Trans Am. Turning into traffic, he headed for the highway. As far as he could tell, no one was watching him.

  It was ridiculous in this day and age, he thought, that people still left their keys in the ignition. Didn't they realize that someone would take advantage of their stupidity? No, of course not. Those things could never happen to them. It was a world of Pete Gandys out there, blind and lazy morons who left us vulnerable to terrorists, not only with their stupidity, but with their lack of vigilance, their fat, contented ignorance. He would never be so careless, but he wasn't complaining. He needed a car, and this one would do just fine.

  The afternoon wore on.

  In the course of her calls, Jennifer had come across one dead end after another. Finding neighbors had been all but impossible-she had to convince a county worker to go through property tax records to find the owners, then find the names through information, all the while hoping they hadn't moved-and that took more time than she'd thought it would. In the course of four hours, she talked to four people, all of whom had known Richard Franklin at one time. Two were former neighbors, and two were managers who vaguely remembered Richard Franklin from the single year he'd spent working for a company in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Like Edwards, all four had said essentially the same things about Richard Franklin.

  He was a nice guy who got along with everyone.

  Probably gay.

  If his hobby was photography, they didn't know about it.

  Jennifer stood from her desk and made her way across the station to get another cup of coffee.

  Who was this guy? she wondered. And why on earth did it feel as if everyone had been describing someone else entirely?

  Halfway across the country, Detective Larry Cohen discussed the situation with a few people in the department.

  Like him, they recognized the name but couldn't place it. One had gone so far as to look up the same information that Cohen had, convinced that he must have had a record, only to get exactly the same results.