Another Man's Ground--A Mystery, page 18
“You managed to smack Tucker down without it seeming like it had something to do with his being your opponent. I’m so proud that you didn’t bring him up at all until someone asked you a question about it. That made it look like your focus is the investigation, and not the election.”
Hank started to protest that his priority was indeed the investigation, but she waved him quiet.
“And you managed to make it seem like those Taylor brothers were just a bunch of stupid yokels who steal laughable things like pigs. Which totally undercuts the criticism that you should have known they were big, violent, scary threats. Just excellent.” She sat back and took a sip of her aggressively sugared tea. “Now we just need to build on this momentum.”
Hank started to speak again, but stopped when Maggie laid her hand on his arm.
“What do you suggest?” she asked Darcy.
“Well, we ignore all media requests for a couple of days at least. He needs to look like he’s concentrating on the shooting.”
“That’s what I am concentrating—” He stopped when Maggie squeezed his arm.
“… Battenberg’s radio show. I’ll set that up when the time is right. And then…”
Darcy went on, but Hank stopped paying attention. He stared out the window and wondered if Boone Taylor was looking at the sunset right now from his hidey-hole in the woods. He wondered if that was actually Jackson Taylor lying on a slab up in Springfield, his rotting decay suspended by heavy-duty refrigeration. And he wondered about a set of little, fragile bones that had been sent up to a forensic anthropology expert who would hopefully be able to tell him something about the child whose bulleted skull haunted his sleep.
He looked away from the darkening sky to find both his wife and his campaign manager staring at him in exasperation.
“Well?” Darcy said.
Hank looked to Maggie for help, but got only an eye roll in response. She let him stutter for a moment before taking pity on him.
“We’re going to commit to some more campaign appearances. And we need to have a fund-raiser. Maybe a barbecue,” Maggie said. “Tucker has a lot more money than we do, thanks to Gallagher and all of the donations from his employees.”
Darcy nodded and waved a spreadsheet at him. He was glad he’d tuned out for that part. He nodded solemnly. He really had no choice.
“Okay. I agree. You can commit me.”
Maggie smothered a grin. Darcy didn’t catch it. She was busy tapping notes into her phone.
“All right,” she said, dropping the phone into her mammoth tote bag and standing up. “This is great. We’ll use this momentum and keep rolling right along. More supporters, more donations, more success. We’re on our way.”
Hank wasn’t too sure about that. He glanced at Maggie, who shot him a look back that said, Don’t you dare stomp on her enthusiasm with your pessimistic-ass grumpiness. So he slapped on a smile and walked them both to the garage, where Darcy again climbed in the back of the minivan for the trip back to the hospital to retrieve her car. Maggie gave him a quick kiss and a wink before getting behind the wheel.
He watched them leave from the front window, hoping that Darcy’s faith in the campaign—and Maggie’s faith in him—wasn’t misplaced.
He was turning back toward the living room and his iced tea when he saw it—a brown Nissan Sentra, model year between 2004 and 2007, parked across the street three houses down. It had not been there when he got home an hour and a half before. The man in the driver’s seat was a study in nonchalance. Leisurely scrolling through his phone, as if he were merely killing time waiting for someone to come out of the house. But Hank knew the Conways had gone to see her mother in Florida and weren’t due back until next Thursday. And the way the guy was parked gave him a very good angle from which to aim his phone’s camera directly at Hank’s front door.
He needed to start giving Darcy more credit.
He slowly backed away from the window, grabbed the big Mag flashlight from on top of the fridge, and slipped out the back door. Thankful it was almost completely dark by now, he jogged through his neighbors’ backyards until he had passed where the Nissan was parked. Then he cut through Mrs. Crawford’s side yard, dropping into a crouch as he crossed the street and came up behind the sedan.
He rounded the back bumper, stood, took two strides forward, and turned the flashlight on directly in the driver’s face. The guy jumped a foot. Some professional.
“License and registration, please.”
The guy was solidly built. Broad shoulders, very short dark hair, olive skin. He was innocuously dressed in a gray polo shirt and jeans. And his phone had a telephoto lens attached to it.
“License and registration,” Hank repeated.
The guy recovered quickly. He put both hands on the wheel (smart) and tried looking at Hank (not smart). He couldn’t see through the glare of the flashlight.
“I’m not driving, Officer,” he said.
“You’re sitting in the driver’s seat. License and registration. Slowly.”
Hank couldn’t ticket him for anything, but he did want to confirm his suspicion. This had to be Kondakor, the off-the-books private investigator for Wikson & Clancy, Gallagher’s St. Louis law firm.
The gumshoe slowly pulled his wallet out of his front pants pocket and extracted a license. I’m batting a thousand today, Hank thought. Carl Kondakor on Cleveland Avenue in St. Louis. Next came the registration. The car belonged to a woman named Cecilia Liu, out of Florissant in the St. Louis area. He’d track down information on her later.
He handed back the paperwork and asked what Kondakor happened to be doing on a quiet neighborhood street such as this. Gumshoe waved toward the Conways’. Waiting. They were late getting home. Hank shook his head, but the guy couldn’t see him because the flashlight was still aimed full in his face. So he vocalized it.
“That’s funny, because they don’t get back from their trip until next Thursday.”
He was thinking fast, Hank could tell, but he wasn’t used to operating in a place where people actually knew their neighbors.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I was given this address. It might be the incorrect one if it’s as you say. I’ll check it with my … mother. She’s the one who asked me to stop by here.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, sir. She sometimes does get things confused. I’ll check with her.” He reached down toward the ignition.
“I’m sure you will,” Hank said, lowering the flashlight so Gumshoe could see his smirking face. “So who’s your momma—Wikson or Clancy?”
Gumshoe gaped at him. And then burst out laughing. Hank raised an eyebrow.
“You are definitely not as dumb as they told me you were,” he said. “You had me thinking you were just some Branson PD patrol with nothing better to do. And you snuck out of your house without me seeing you. Very nice.”
Hank scowled at him. The compliment at the end had not negated the insult at the beginning. Gumshoe started the car.
“I’m going to have to up my game. Excellent.” He reached down and shoved the car into gear. “I’ll be seeing you, Sheriff.”
His laughter floated out the open car window as he gunned the engine and sped away. Leaving Hank standing in the middle of the street with the uneasy feeling that he’d just given away a major advantage.
* * *
Maggie was not pleased to hear that their house had been under surveillance.
“You really shouldn’t use those kinds of words around the kids,” Dunc said.
He gave her a very parental frown and turned back toward the dishes in the sink.
“The kids are brushing their teeth.” She waved toward the hallway, where suspicious splashing sounds were starting to come from the bathroom. “They didn’t hear anything.”
Dunc didn’t deign to turn around again. He started his own splashing, tossing plastic kiddie cups into the soapy water with theatrical reproof. Maggie rolled her eyes and turned back to Hank.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.
There wasn’t much he could do. The PI hadn’t broken any laws, he told her. He was pretty sure the guy wouldn’t be watching the house anymore, he added. He did not mention that his decision to confront the guy might mean increased scrutiny on other fronts.
“I’ll tell Darcy, and I’ll keep an eye on things,” he said. “It’ll be fine. He’s not going to do anything.”
He found his cell phone on the little built-in desk in the corner where they tossed everything when they came home from work and was making a show of finding Darcy’s number when it rang. Maggie raised a questioning eyebrow and he shook his head. Not Darcy. She grumbled and headed toward the kids as Hank answered the unknown number.
A forceful male voice asked if he was speaking to Sheriff Hank Worth. Hank answered in the affirmative, and wondered how his private cell number had fallen into this man’s hands.
“I am calling regarding the skeleton in the woods,” he said stiffly. “I would like any information you have regarding the identity.”
Hank moved into the empty living room and away from Dunc’s background noise. He stood in front of the tall window by the fireplace and fought back a swell of anger at the night’s second intrusion into his family life.
“And who are you?” he said in as even a tone as he could manage.
“My name is Calvin Holm.”
Hank’s anger instantly evaporated. Holm was on his list.
“I am,” the man continued, “the brother of Jeremy Holm, who was kidnapped on June 5, 1976, in Rockaway Beach.”
It was a sentence worn smooth with time and repeated use. So was this one:
“Do you know yet who the child skeleton is?”
How many times had this man asked that question? Every time a body was discovered anywhere in a ten-state region, Hank guessed. He explained the same things to Mr. Holm that he had to Mrs. Alton, who had indeed been the one to give Jeremy’s brother Hank’s phone number.
Calvin confirmed that his DNA was on file, as was his parents’, both of whom had passed on.“Good thing,” Calvin said. “I don’t think they could have survived another body—another possibility that it was Jeremy, only to have it not be. It does kill you a little bit, every time.”
Hank didn’t doubt it. He sank onto the couch and asked a few questions, holding the phone away from his ear. Calvin’s voice was still almost belligerent, but Hank now had a feeling it was a protective measure. Maybe the more loud and forceful he made his voice, the easier it was to get through his story.
The Holm family went on a picnic that Saturday. Festivities were really starting to crank up for the national bicentennial in July, and the parks and lake shorelines were already crowded on the weekends. They had all packed up the station wagon and headed down to a stretch by the lake that was privately owned, but that everyone used as a beach and picnic spot.
Jeremy was nine, and he was twelve. Their dad was an electrician and their mom had a day care. They took ham-and-cheese sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies. And grape soda, special. Their parents stayed put after a long week’s work while the boys ran around, darting through trees and chasing squirrels. And then Jeremy disappeared. Just … disappeared. There wasn’t shouting, or the sound of a car driving away or anything. He just turned around, and Jeremy was gone.
He had wandered back to his parents and the picnic fixings. They all figured Jeremy’d be back. He never strayed far without Calvin. But after about fifteen minutes, their mother started to worry, and they started to search. After fifteen more, they went for the police. Another picnicker who they knew from church ran to his car and drove quick into town to use the phone.
By then, everyone there was looking. He was a skinny, little beanpole of a kid with a mess of black hair and big ears and probably a collection of rocks in his pocket. What he wasn’t was sneaky. He’d never play a trick and hide. He wasn’t that way.
They told that to the police, who didn’t believe them. He’d probably just run off, they said. Were there problems at home? That one destroyed his mother. It wasn’t until their pastor arrived and confirmed that Jeremy was not the type of boy to pull something like this that the cops started taking it seriously. They turned that property and everyplace else along the lakeshore inside out. And the only thing they ever found was a torn shred that matched the American-flag T-shirt Jeremy had been wearing. And more than forty years later, that was still all they had.
He still had nightmares about that day, Calvin Holm told Hank as he thanked him for his time. Hank promised to keep him updated and told him to call again if he needed anything. He hung up and hauled himself to his feet. He turned to find Dunc standing in the kitchen doorway and Maggie at the entrance to the hallway. Both of them were staring at him. Dunc’s chin trembled, and Maggie’s eyes brimmed with tears.
He gave them a sad smile and headed with a heavy step toward the bedrooms. It was his turn to read the bedtime stories.
CHAPTER
26
He’d already gone through an entire pot of coffee and it was only 8:00 A.M. He hadn’t slept well at all last night. He’d finally given up, gotten dressed, and gone to see his deputy at the hospital. Ted was still in ICU but might be moved to a room later today if he remained stable. Hank prayed that would be the case.
He took a sip from the first cup off the second pot and leaned back in his squeaky desk chair. He had several things to do before heading out to the Taylor property, which had become the staging point for the manhunt. He picked up the phone.
“Wikson and Clancy, attorneys-at-law. How may I help you?”
He asked for Cecilia Liu and got an impatient sigh in return.
“Is this her boyfriend again? Look, file clerks are not supposed to get personal phone calls. You’ll need to call her once she gets off work. You’re going to get her in trouble.”
He tried to sound like a chastised boyfriend as he hung up. Excellent. The Gumshoe had, just as he suspected, borrowed a junior employee’s car for his reconnaissance trip. He hoped the jerk returned it in good condition. He resisted the temptation to use the department computers to look up what kind of car Kondakor actually owned. It wasn’t an official investigation, and he shouldn’t be using official avenues. But it would make it so much easier, he groused. Then he imagined Edrick Fizzel, spiky hair all aquiver, standing up at a campaign event with proof of Hank’s illicit use of county resources. That doused his urge to misappropriate the way a cold shower doused—
He heard the door to the outer office bang open, followed by a set of unmistakably heavy footsteps. Kurt poked his head around the doorjamb.
“Got a sec, Sheriff?”
Hank waved him in.
“I was just curious that the money was safe,” Kurt said. “You got it out of here, right?”
Well, that was proof right there he hadn’t overreacted. If someone with a lot more county experience than him was also worried about it staying in this facility, then Hank had made the right call.
He reassured Kurt that it was now in Springfield, and then asked about the processing of the rest of the Taylor evidence. Kurt had just talked to Alice, who said that with the help of the Branson PD techs, it was almost complete. He was heading out to the scene now to help with packing everything up.
Kurt was almost out the door when a thought popped into Hank’s head.
“Hey, wait a minute. Can I ask you something?”
“Course, Sheriff. What do you need?”
“I, um, I was just wondering about the stomping. You know, when you were in the Taylor trailer. I…”
Kurt started laughing. “I guess that did look mighty strange. I probably shook that thing something fierce.”
He settled himself into the chair across from Hank’s desk. He’d searched so many of those kinds of mobile homes—all of them rickety, cheap, old, or a combination of all three—that he’d developed a feel for them. The floor didn’t feel the same if there was something hidden underneath it. Maybe it didn’t have as much give to it, maybe it didn’t feel as hollow. He shrugged. He’d never really thought about exactly why—he just knew it when he felt it. Originally, it had taken forever, slowly going over every square foot. But eventually, he developed a quicker system. He stomped. Hard. And that let him “feel” whether there was anything underneath the floors.
And that helped a whole ton when they had to pry off the metal skirting that shielded the space between the raised trailer and the ground. It was usually only about a foot and a half high and packed with all kind of bugs and gravel and such. Knowing where something was hidden meant they could crawl straight to it instead of searching the whole thing. So that’s what he’d done yesterday. And bam, if it wasn’t right where he knew it’d be.
“It’s usually guns or drugs, though. It’s never been cash. Not like that.”He shook his head. “I never in my days thought I’d see something like that.”
“Yeah,” Hank said. “Me, either.”
Kurt hefted himself to his feet just as Sheila called out that it was time to go. He grinned.
“She can holler at me all day long. She’s doing the search warrant return paperwork, which means me and Alice don’t have to.” He gave a wave and headed out the door.
* * *
Five hours later, they saw him. Deputy marshals radioed in that they had spotted a man deep in the woods. He had slipped away, but all search teams were converging on the coordinates.
Hank and Sheila stood at the command center located upwind of the Taylor trailer and listened to several federals—at this point hot in temperature and in temperament—debate how Taylor had gotten away. Then things really got heated.
“It wasn’t him,” came a voice over the radio. Hank recognized the drawl of the state conservation agent attached to the northwestern search team.
“Well, who the hell else could it be?” a deputy marshal snapped. “Nobody’s out for a day hike in this area right now. It has to be Taylor.”
“It doesn’t match the description of the suspect,” the agent said calmly.
