Past Deeds

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Yep, all four of our victims. I’ll be damned. All of them knew each other.”

  “Who’s this guy?” Brandon pointed a finger toward the fifth man.

  “I don’t…” Paige took a closer look. There was something familiar about the bridge of his nose and the distance between his eyes. “Bring up Frank Evans’s license photo.”

  Brandon did so and held his phone’s screen toward her.

  “Number five is Frank Evans,” she said with certainty. “Michelle’s father not only knew the men she killed, but by the looks of this photo, Frank was good friends with them.”

  “The possibility was mentioned that Michelle might have been assaulted by the victims. What if it had been Frank who’d brought them into Michelle’s life?”

  “Sure, but what the hell happened?” Paige wasn’t sure she really wanted the answer.

  -

  Forty-Six

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Saturday, October 26th, 12:30 PM Eastern Standard Time

  Kelly stood next to Jack as he banged on Frank’s door—a little loud for any time of day. But given how heavily Frank had been into the drink last night, he might still be passed out. So far, it was like rousing the dead. They’d buzzed his apartment, but there’d been no response, and Jack had gotten them into the building by way of calling another tenant.

  Like rousing the dead. Her thought repeated, and she feared Paige and Brandon might have been right about Frank Evans being target number five. What if Michelle had already gotten to him?

  Kelly raised her hand to knock, and the door swung open.

  Frank was massaging his forehead. “You again? What do you want? I told you I don’t know anything.” He was peering at them with half-mast eyes.

  Kelly’s impression last night had been that Frank was an alcoholic who sought regular comfort in a bottle, but for him to be feeling the effects of overindulgence this much, it wasn’t a habit for him. The state of his place would indicate he’d probably been drinking for a few days or so, though. What had caused him to turn to the bottle? Did it have something to do with one of his old buddies recently turning up dead? But he had acted like the shooting in Arlington was no big deal—or was that what he wanted them to believe?

  “Here, we brought you this.” Kelly extended a take-out cup of coffee, which had been her idea, and Jack had agreed to it. If they were going to get Frank to talk, they had to come as allies.

  Frank took the coffee. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “It’s just black. Figured if you like cream and sugar, you’d have that here,” Kelly said.

  “Black is fine.” He slurped from the small hole in the lid and stepped back to let them into the apartment.

  The place still looked like a hurricane had run through—not that Frank would have been in the mood to clean after they’d left last night.

  Frank went into the living area and gathered the take-out containers from the sofa and stacked them onto the coffee table. “What is it you’d like to talk about today? Come on, sit.” He pointed to the recently cleared cushions, and Kelly and Jack sat down.

  Frank grabbed a dining chair from around a small table and plopped down on it. He let out an involuntary groan as he did so. “Paying the piper today,” he said. “Sure, ain’t like drinking back in my younger years. Everything hurts this morning.”

  “Did you know the man who was shot in Arlington, Virginia, a couple days ago?” Jack asked, obviously unmoved by Frank’s complaints about his self-inflicted joint problems.

  Frank slurped his coffee. “I heard it was some prosecutor.”

  “We’re pretty sure you can do better than that,” Jack said firmly.

  Frank took another gulp of coffee and ripped into a coughing fit. He tapped fingers against his throat, then held one up for them to wait. Eventually, he said, “I’m an engineer. He was a prosecutor. Where would our paths have crossed?”

  Kelly shifted on the lumpy sofa cushion and kept her eye on Frank. They’d come here thinking he might be his daughter’s next target, but that didn’t explain why he was acting so strangely and hiding his association with Darrell Reid.

  “Does Bridgeport, California, sound familiar?” Jack asked.

  “Sure, I lived there for a bit, but—”

  “It’s better for you and us if you just tell us the truth,” Kelly jumped in, playing good cop.

  Frank met her gaze. “Fine, I might have known Darrell at one time in my life, but that’s ancient history.”

  “What about Robert Wise?”

  Frank turned his attention to Jack. “Yeah, I know him. What about him?”

  “He was shot. Albuquerque, New Mexico, six months ago.”

  Frank wiped his forehead that glistened with sweat. “I had no idea.”

  “You have television and internet, I assume,” Jack said.

  “Sure, but—”

  “What about Gregory Miller. Do you know him?” Jack had Frank under rapid fire.

  So much for presenting ourselves as allies.

  Frank closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Used to.”

  “He was shot in Arkansas three months ago.” Jack leaned forward. “And Dennis Sherman? Know him?”

  “Yes. Again.” Frank set his coffee cup on the floor. “If you think I killed any of these men, think again. I can provide you with alibis. Call my work, and they’ll tell you I haven’t taken any vacation time in the last year. Not even any sick days.”

  “Kelly pulled out her phone and brought up the photo that Paige had found. She held her screen for Frank to see. How do you know these men?”

  He glared at her. “If you knew I knew them, then why did you…” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “We met in an after-school program.”

  “What kind of program?” Kelly asked.

  “It was really more like summer school. None of us were doing that great in our classes, so our parents had us taking courses during the summer to boost our grades.”

  Colleges and universities would show on their backgrounds, but it’s not likely extra course credits would. That’s why Nadia hadn’t been able to link the men. Kelly also thought of the variety of occupations among the five men. “None of you ended up in the same field. What did you study in the summer?”

  “Math. None of us were really great with the subject.”

  “That must have changed.” She remembered clearly that Robert Wise became a plumber; Gregory Miller a teacher; Dennis Sherman an electrician; Darrell Reid a prosecutor; and Frank Evans an engineer. “Did you stay in touch over the years?”

  Frank shook his head. “Ancient history. I got married, went off to serve. They moved on.” He grabbed the coffee cup, pressed his scowl to the lid, and took a long sip.

  “Did the five of you have a falling out?”

  “You could say that.” A pulse started tapping in his cheek. Something bad had happened. Something that led to four men’s murders?

  “Tell us what it was,” Jack demanded.

  Frank clenched his jaw and shook his head. “No, I have a right to my privacy, Agent. And I hardly believe whatever us kids squabbled about has anything to do with why they are dead.”

  Squabbled? Frank was failing at downplaying the significance of what had happened. “Your friends were murdered,” Kelly said, earning Frank’s gaze. “And you were hardly kids. You were in—what?—your early twenties in this picture?”

  Frank rolled his shoulders. “I don’t even remember when it was taken or where,” he snuffed out, cavalier, but his body language was betraying him. The subject of his former friends had struck a nerve. “Where did you get that photo?”

  “It was found in an apartment Michelle kept in Bridgeport,” Kelly delivered, and Frank went white and bristled.

  “You—you were in her apartment? Why?”

  Kelly n
oted that he didn’t ask how Michelle had come into possession of the photo. “As we told you last night, Mr. Evans, your daughter is of interest to the FBI.”

  “And as I told you, she’s not my daughter.”

  Kelly cocked her head. That was his original stance last night, but then he’d gone on to talk about her as if she was, so which was it? And why the confusion? “You might want to start talking to us, Mr. Evans, because we believe your daughter plans on killing you next.”

  “She what?” Frank spat. “She wants to…kill me?”

  Kelly felt Jack watching her, but she wasn’t going to look at him. Maybe she’d gone too far laying out how it was, but they had to shake Frank into talking, and there was only so long they could dance around ‘she’s of interest to the FBI.’

  Frank looked from her to Jack.

  “Do you know why your daughter would want you dead?” he asked.

  Frank hugged his cup with both hands, and his body shook. His eyes were full of tears; his face a mask of panic. “I might.”

  -

  Forty-Seven

  Bridgeport, California

  Saturday, October 26th, 9:30 AM Pacific Standard Time

  It was going on midmorning by the time Paige and I arrived at the Sunset Diner. Before leaving Michelle’s apartment, we told Deputy Mitchell we needed the place processed to see if they could find anything Paige and I might have overlooked. He was going to call for help with that and have officers take a thorough look at Michelle’s car that we’d found parked around the back of the building. Without dedicated crime scene investigators, officers stepped up to collect evidence and process crime scenes.

  Sunset Diner’s exterior was teal-painted brick and had faded over the years, but I’d bet this was where the photo of our victims and Michelle’s father had been photographed. “Paige, can I see that picture you found again?”

  “Sure.” She brought it up on her phone, as the original was bagged and tagged and with local law enforcement.

  I compared the image to what was before us. “I’d say that it was taken right here.” I touched the corner of a brick that had a chunk missing out of its corner and matched identically to the picture.

  “Good eye. Maybe that has something to do with why Michelle was drawn to get a job here.”

  “Let’s go see if we can find out.”

  Paige walked to the door of the restaurant, but I cut in front and grabbed the door for her. Chimes rang overhead.

  “Thanks,” she said as she walked in, “but I could have gotten it for myself.”

  “Good day.” A plump waitress in her sixties, wearing a full apron over a teal uniform to match the exterior brick, came over to us. “Welcome to the Sunset Diner.”

  Paige smiled at her, and I looked around the restaurant. It was having an identity crisis, with a jukebox in a corner and black-and-white floor tiles paired with heavily varnished blond-pine tables and spindle-back chairs. Fifties-era diner meets country restaurant. Regardless, there wasn’t a customer in sight.

  “We’d like to speak with Earl Gilbert,” Paige said and added, “if he’s in.”

  “Oh, he’s in or the doors would be shut.” The woman gestured to a cut-out in the wall that opened to the kitchen. “He’s just cleaning the grill, getting ready for the lunch crowd.”

  I couldn’t see anyone back there, but I could hear clanging and scrubbing.

  “Maybe I can help ya? I’m his wife, Harriett.”

  Typical hospitality as expected in a small town without the usual curiosity and suspicion.

  “That you might.” Paige gestured toward a table as if seeking permission to take a seat and, at the same time, inviting Harriett to join us.

  We all sat, careful not to upset the table that was set up with paper placemats and paper-wrapped cutlery.

  “We’re FBI Special Agents Paige Dawson and Brandon Fisher,” Paige said.

  Harriett dropped into the chair with a humph. “FBI?” Her mouth fell in a straight line. “What brings the FBI to my door?”

  “Our analyst back at Quantico spoke with your husband about a former employee of yours, Michelle Evans, and we’d like to ask some questions about her.”

  “Earl!” Harriett bellowed.

  “What in blazing—” A man’s face appeared in the cut-out, then disappeared. He burst through the kitchen door and hustled toward us. He eyeballed Paige and me. “Who are you?”

  “They’re the FBI, Earl. They said they spoke to you. Why didn’t you tell me anything about that?” Harriett set a glare on her husband, but he seemed unfazed.

  “Earl,” Harriett prompted him. “Start talkin’.”

  “Listen, woman, I don’t have to tell you everything.”

  “You better start.”

  Earl’s turn to glare at his wife.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert, we’d just like to know what you could tell us about Michelle Evans,” I said.

  The couple looked at me for a long moment, then Earl said, “I told that lady on the phone all I really know about her. She worked here about eight months ago and only stuck around for a month. I was sad to see her go, too. She was a hard worker.”

  “Why did she leave?” I went to lean my elbows on the table and remembered the place settings, so I threw an arm over the back of my chair instead.

  “Don’t really know, truth be told. She just didn’t show, and we’ve not been able to reach her since.”

  “Would you sit down, Earl? You’re hanging over us like a bat,” Harriett complained.

  “I’m just fine standing, Harriett.”

  It was amazing the two of them survived one day to the next and hadn’t taken each other out yet. That must have been love. But what was bugging me was they probably knew exactly why Michelle had left and weren’t saying. Either way, it would have been about a month after her mother’s death, but neither Gilbert brought it up. “Did she just take off or…”

  “Well, we heard her momma died,” Harriett said.

  Earl nodded.

  They probably hadn’t just heard; they likely had attended the funeral. Another thing with small towns was everyone knew everyone—and everybody’s business. Harriett made it sound like she and Earl didn’t know Michelle and her family, but Estella had grown up in Bridgeport and stayed here all her life. They were holding back on us.

  “Do you know why Michelle came to you for a job?” I asked.

  “I suppose it was for the same reason as everyone else; she needed money,” Harriett said.

  “We were thinking more that it might have something to do with her family’s past, a connection here.”

  Harriett traced the placemat in front of her with her fingertip. “I don’t know all of it. Earl and I just picked up the diner about ten years ago.”

  Michelle would have been in the Marines, but Estella would have been around. And ten years was plenty of time to get welcomed in by the residents of a small town and privy to the gossip. “Did Michelle ask you any questions about the diner or her parents?”

  Harriett stopped moving her finger and looked at her husband. “I know she was curious about the diner’s history.”

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “Oh, just mostly about the customers. Do the same ones always come around, that sort of thing.” Harriett looked across the room, and again I had a feeling she wasn’t telling us everything, but I wasn’t sure why she’d be withholding.

  I was curious if Michelle had asked about Wise, Miller, Sherman, and Reid. She might have even shown the Gilberts the picture we’d found.

  “Speaking of the diner’s history,” Paige said, pulling out her phone. “Do either of you recognize these men?”

  They say great minds think alike.

  Earl leaned down, his cheek close to his wife’s, and they studied the photograph of the five men taken outsi
de the diner.

  “I don’t. What about you, Harriett?” Earl straightened up to a full standing position again.

  Harriett didn’t respond to her husband and kept her eyes on the screen.

  “As my wife told ya, we just picked up the diner ten years ago, so maybe this was from before our time?”

  I nodded and kept my eye on Harriett. “We believe it was taken about thirty-three to thirty-five years ago.”

  “Yep, before us,” Earl said.

  Neither Paige nor I said anything. Harriett was fussing with her apron beneath the table. Just because they’d taken possession of the diner ten years ago didn’t mean they weren’t around town before then.

  “How long have you lived in Bridgeport, Mrs. Gilbert?” It was time to apply a little pressure.

  Harriett slowly raised her gaze to meet mine. “All my life, and for Earl, most of his. His family moved in when he was ten.”

  Huh, so they do know more than they’re saying. “You’d be privy to a lot of what went on in this town, even without owning the diner.”

  Neither Gilbert said a word.

  “Did either of you know Michelle before she came to work here?” Paige asked.

  “Only as a girl. She went off to join the Marines when she was twenty. I know she wanted to before then, but Estella wouldn’t allow it. She was devastated when the girl left.”

  “So you knew Estella? What about Michelle’s father?”

  “Oh, yeah, I knew both of them. And that man…” Harriett pursed her lips and looked up to the ceiling. “He left his young family to fend for themselves. Little Michelle was only six.”

  Earl sat beside his wife, and they made eye contact, an unspoken conversation passing between them.

  I leaned forward. “Is there something else?”

  They both shook their heads. Just like residents of a small town to protect their own from outsiders. If we wanted to get any sort of inkling as to Michelle’s possible whereabouts now, we’d have to approach it the right way. We wouldn’t get anywhere saying that Michelle was a threat. “We believe that Michelle’s unwell and that she needs help.” Not entirely a lie.