A Field of Red (16 page)

Frank knew better than to interrupt. Often, people used silence to get their nerve up. Frank waited.

Around them, the coffee shop buzzed. The woman behind the counter took orders and made drinks, the brass espresso machine hissing as she steamed milk. Near the window, two teenagers played chess at a large alabaster board. Above them hung a giant fake spider in a thick web. A woman came back from the bathroom and joined her friend, who was flipping through the magazines arrayed on the low tables. The zombie stood by the fountain, the “blood” gurgling like a bubbling wound.

The silence drew on, but Peters finally broke it.

“I don’t think it’s any of the partners,” Deputy Peters said quietly. “No one close to the family seems to be that needy. Of course, I could be wrong, but we did exactly what you’re doing. Chief King interviewed everyone, pulled all their credit reports and backgrounds. No red flags, nothing strange—but the case itself. It’s like everything doesn’t add up.”

 “Yup, my feelings exactly,” Frank said, nodding.

Peters looked up.

“You should speak your mind more often,” Frank continued, gathering up the files and putting the two red folders on top. “Use your instinct, but only after you’ve been through all the hard data. And as you do more investigations, you’ll get the hang of what to look for. But we need to keep digging—this information is fine,” he said, tapping the files. “But we need more.”

Peters nodded, and then smiled.

Frank drove.

He pointed out the car to Deputy Peters as they left the coffee shop, each carrying one box of reports and files. Peters stumbled over the sidewalk coming down the stairs of the coffee shop and almost dropped his box again. Frank smiled and popped the trunk on the Taurus, dropping his box in and holding it open for Peters.

The electronic locks didn’t work anymore, so Frank climbed in and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Peters nodded at a group of three women passing on the sidewalk. Frank had parked across the street from Perks, and the three women waved at Deputy Peters before heading inside a small bookstore, The Haunted Bookshop.

Peters sat down in the car and looked around.

“Don’t say anything,” Frank said.

The interior of the car was a mess, and Frank knew it. There was trash in the floorboards and a crack in the windshield and part of the ceiling fabric had come loose in the backseat, sagging down like a tattered brown curtain. The jury-rigged, battery-powered CD player sat on the floorboard between them, tied into the car speakers with exposed wiring.

“It’s…nice,” Peters said.

Frank started the car, pulling away from the curb. The music came on, “Beggar Man Blues” by Willie B. Huff. Old blues, from back in the day. Bayou music, they called it.

“Don’t lie—you’re horrible at it,” Frank said, glancing at Peters. “It’s an old Alabama Bureau of Investigation vehicle, and I got it on the cheap. It was used in sting operations but got in a crash. The IT guys in Birmingham said the electronics got screwed up—the locks don’t work, or radio, but the GPS tracker and speakers are OK.”

“GPS tracker?”

Frank nodded. “Yeah, all the Bureau cars had them, especially sting cars, so they could be remotely tracked during operations. Too bad it doesn’t work anymore. I should see if it can be fixed. Along with the radio and door locks.”

Peters shook his head. “What’s the point? No one is going to steal this—”

“Careful,” Frank interrupted. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

Peters smiled. “The CD connections look loose—you want me to fix them? I’ve got some of those plastic zip ties. I take them with me, everywhere I go. Handy.”

Frank looked at the wires that led from the dashboard to the CD player on the floor between them, but shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

Peters nodded and pointed up the road.

“Okay, head back west on Main,” Peters said, taking another long, curious look around the interior of the car.

Frank took two rights, passing and recognizing the hair studio where Laura worked. Then, he made a left to get back on the main drag through downtown.

He stopped at the train tracks behind a line of cars, all stopped and waiting for a train that was passing through town. As the train crossed Main, it blew its whistle loudly.

“Doesn’t that get annoying?” Frank said, pointing at the train.

Peters shook his head.

“I honestly didn’t notice it. You get used to it. I know people who live downtown that can’t even hear the train whistle blowing—I guess they just filter it out.”

Frank nodded, thinking about it. “Seems like a bad idea, having a slow-moving train come through town multiple times a day. Do they ever block the fire or police calls?”

“Doesn’t happen that often that the tracks are blocked,” Peters said, looking at the train roaring past them, moving from right to left, heading south to Dayton and points beyond. Graffiti raced past them, painted on the sides of the train cars. “Once in a while, the train stops in town. But you can always get around it. There are crossings north and south, if you know where to look.”

The train finally ended, and Frank and the other cars moved in a procession past the signal gates, over the tracks and up Main Street. Frank noticed all of the beautiful old Victorian homes that lined both sides of the street. One of them was for sale, and a crazy idea drifted through Frank’s brain that he should buy the house and have Laura and Jackson move in. Any place would have been better than that apartment she was in now.

They passed through a green light and Frank realized that Peters was talking to him.

“What?”

Peters was pointing. “That was Hyatt,” he said, as they passed through the intersection. “The Martins live down there,” he said, pointing to the left. “I asked if you wanted to drive past the house.”

Frank shook his head. “No, let’s check in with King. I’ll check it out when we do the re-interview.”

“Re-interview?” Peters was looking at him.

“Yeah, it never hurts,” Frank said, nodding. “And bringing in new investigators is a perfect excuse to conduct new interviews—if only to get the new guy up to speed.”

Peters pointed ahead.

“A left up here, at the hardware store, and then the station is on the right.”

The building that housed the Cooper’s Mill Police Department was smaller than Frank would have guessed. Peters explained that they actually took up half of the larger Government Building, as it was known—the CMPD offices, conference and interrogation rooms and one temporary holding cell. The other half of the building were the offices of the city government—City Manager, tax department, utilities, planning department, and the Council chambers, where the City Council met every other Monday evening.

Frank parked in front, and they went inside, avoiding the small group of reporters gathered outside.

“Can I help you?”

Frank turned to see an attractive young woman behind a window. She was doing her nails, an emery board pausing in the air, as she waited for an answer.

Peters walked in behind Frank.

“It’s okay, Lola. Thanks, anyway,” he said and smiled. She nodded and went back to painting her nails. Peters took out his security card and waved it at the reader, then led Frank through a set of double doors.

Inside was the police station, made of up of a large central room and two smaller offices for Chief King and Detective Barnes. A warren of cubicles for the other police officers and deputies took up most of the room. White boards lined the walls, along with corkboards and bulletin boards covered with tacked-up mug shots, faxed police reports, and alerts from other localities. One window looked out onto a weed-grown parking lot and the back of a supermarket.

In the middle of the room was a grouping of conference room tables and freestanding whiteboards. Several officers were seated at the long table, reading from stacks and piles of papers in the middle.

Chief King was talking to a small group of policemen and, following their eyes, turned to see Frank. King said something to the other officers and came over.

“Hi, Frank,” he said loudly, shaking Frank’s hand. Frank knew immediately that this wasn’t for him. King was making a show of welcoming Frank to the office and, by inference, to the case.

Frank nodded and murmured his thanks. King turned and led them over to the group of officers and made the introductions.

“Guys, this is Frank Harper,” Chief King said to the others. “He’s retired from the New Orleans PD, over twenty years on the force. He’s had extensive experience in kidnappings and has agreed to look over our files and lend a hand.”

The reaction was decidedly mixed, but one of the men put out his hand.

“Welcome, Frank. I’m Barnes.” They shook hands. “Lead Detective. We’re working all the leads, but information is thin. And with the ransom drop going south, we could use the help. I really dropped the ball on that, getting distracted like I did.”

At the mention of the ransom drop, several of them looked at a young man to Frank’s right. He was dressed more formally than the others. He wore a lanyard that read “Ted Shale, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Frank stuck out his hand.

“Ted, nice to meet you. I liaised with the Cincinnati office one time,” Frank said. “They still downtown?”

“Good to meet you, Frank,” Agent Shale said, shaking Frank’s hand. “No, they moved offices—now we’re out by the Kenwood Mall. Yeah, that ransom drop thing—that was me. All me. We should’ve had better roadblocks, and then the car—”

Frank put up his hand.

“Don’t blame yourself,” he said to Ted. King was right—the kid was young, a sure sign that the Bureau office in Cincinnati didn’t think this case was important. Or solvable. “It happens to all of us.”

King finished the introductions: Deputy Simon, another young member of the squad, and Sergeant Graves, third in command and next in line for Detective.

“Okay, Frank is getting up to speed,” King said. “He’s going through all the files first, and then we’ll take it from there. Show him all the courtesy you would a fellow officer. Frank, let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll get you out in the field.”

Frank looked at King.

“I’m ready now.”

It wasn’t what the Chief and others were expecting. Chief King looked at him, suddenly curious.

“I’ve been through all the personal files this morning,” Frank said. “I’d like to see a final report on the ransom drop, and photos, if you have any, and I need to read through Shale’s report. But first, I’d like to re-interview the Martins.”

Chief King nodded, rolling with it.

“No problem. When?”

Frank glanced at the clock on the wall. “Now, if that’s convenient.”

Deputy Peters and the others smiled at Chief King, who was looking at Frank. After a moment, King slowly nodded.

“Okay,” Chief King said, slightly flustered. “Graves, can you call over there and set it up? Let me get my keys.”

Frank looked out the car window. The Chief was taking them on a different route, taking the back way through a residential neighborhood.

“So, you’ve been through all the files already?” the Chief asked. “Really?”

 “I’m a fast reader,” Frank said, looking at the houses around them. “You guys covered everything pretty good, but I had a few questions for the Martins.”

He heard the Chief grunt. “Okay, but I think it’s too soon—you could review—”

“Nope,” Frank said. “Done enough reviewing. I need to get started bringing in new information, not rehashing stuff you and the others have been through a dozen times already.”

They drove in silence until the car turned onto Hyatt, then into a long driveway, and the Chief stopped the car. They climbed out. Frank recognized the house from the police report from Sergeant Graves, the first officer on the scene—a long driveway lined with bushes. He turned and stared up the street for a long moment, thinking. This driveway had an unblocked view up the street to the corner where the girls would have turned—he imagined standing here that morning, watching the girls walk up the street.

King walked up and joined him.

“Straight shot, all the way up to where they turned,” King said. “What you thinking?”

Frank shrugged. “Not sure, yet.” He pointed up the street. “It’s a clear line of sight to Broadway.”

King nodded.

“Yup. The water bottle was found just thirty feet down on the right,” he said. “Like I said, I can’t believe no one saw anything—Hyatt is one of the busiest streets in town, after Main. And the drop-off area at Broadway is always packed. Parents, teachers, an officer, even crossing guards. No one saw anything out of the ordinary.”

Frank nodded, thinking, and followed the Chief inside.

Mrs. Gutierrez, the housekeeper, opened the door and greeted them, and Frank could tell she’d been doing a lot of crying over the past week. That kind of emotional attachment was hard to hide and impossible to fake—her daughter was missing, and she was dealing with it.

The Chief introduced them, and Frank shook her hand. Her hands were as rough as Frank’s. She knew about hard work.

The Chief told her they were doing all they could to find her daughter, and she thanked him in broken English before leading them through the house.

And the house was huge, impressive.

Frank wondered what it would be like to be this well off. He was driving a hand-me-down car from the Bureau, filled with broken electronics. His tiny apartment in downtown Birmingham was a dump. His NOPD pension wasn’t impressive, but he could have lived a better life, if he took more side work. Just being surrounded by all of this wealth made him want to revisit the idea of getting out of Birmingham proper, maybe get a nicer apartment, in a nicer part of town. He had a little scratch, but he could make more if he wanted to. And he just needed to be smarter about spending it. Way too much of it ended up at Tammy’s Liquor down on Park. Tammy knew how much he liked his bourbon, maybe better than anyone else.

Of course, some of the wealth surrounding the Martins was an illusion. Frank had been through the finances. The Martins were very good at projecting a mirage of stability and success. Frank guessed that rich people had the same problems as anyone else—keeping up appearances, people relying on you too much. Frank’s eyes took in the foyer as they walked through. The place was posh, like a hotel lobby. They passed a huge, sweeping staircase and through into what had to be the largest living room he had ever seen.

“Who’s this? Another consultant?” A man stood, his arms on his hips. Nick Martin—Frank knew from the photos and the barking attitude. Confrontational and short-tempered when surprised. Frank knew the type.

“I’m Frank. Frank Harper,” he said. He didn’t bother to offer his hand. He knew that Martin either wouldn’t take it, or he’d squeeze too hard just to prove his anger. Instead, Frank turned and started walking around the room, taking everything in. It was a typical suburban living room—couch, chairs, TV the size of an aircraft carrier, and a bunch of low tables with crap on them. Lots of beautiful landscape photos, blown up and mounted on expensive canvas. And magazines, piles of them, everywhere.

 “More questions, right?” Nick said, shaking his head and looking at Frank. “Instead of asking us more questions, shouldn’t you be out there, looking for Charlie?”

 “Well, thanks for seeing us,” Chief King said, holding his tongue. Frank would have done the same thing, had he been in King’s position. No need to engage the man in a useless debate. “We’ve brought in a consultant on the case, and that—”

Nick Martin shook his head and turned to look at the Chief. “We don’t need another goddamned consultant,” the man barked. Nick’s voice was getting louder. “YOU need to be out looking. You and everyone on that police force. Why are we paying you people?”

“We are searching, Nick,” the Chief said, shaking his head. “We are combing every location we can think of and interviewing anyone that might have a problem with you, or anyone who might know the kidnappers.”

 Martin looked at him sideways. “That’s bullshit. Just about everyone in town has a problem with me. You interviewing everyone?”

 “We’ve talked to everyone on the list, Nick,” Chief King began. “And we’ve got people out there—”

“Mr. Martin,” Frank interrupted. “Why does everyone in town hate you?”

The father and the Chief both turned to look at him but with opposite reactions. The Chief seemed mortified, but the City Councilman’s face went through four versions of red, before settling on a particular rosy shade.

“What? How dare you come into my house—someone I’ve never met, by the way”—he shouted at the Chief—“and insult me!”

Frank shook his head.

“I’m not insulting you. I’m repeating back what you just said—everyone in town hates you. Why?”

 “Are you from Cooper’s Mill?” the man challenged Frank.

Frank shook his head.

“I’m on the City Council,” Nick said forcefully. “I have a record of fiscal conservancy. I’ve ended some programs and cut some funding that I didn’t think was necessary. We scaled back the police department, for one thing.” Frank glanced at the Chief, who gave no outward reaction. “Anyway,” Nick continued, “I’ve led the charge to get the city’s books in order. I’m used to running a business, living within my means. We cut some stuff, killed a few projects, and people are mad. I’ve had threats before, and I can take it. I was in the Army.”

Frank nodded at Martin. “I was in the Corps, 7th Brigade.”

It was so easy to get ex-military talking. Let them know you were in—it always got them to relax. Martin nodded at him in that brotherly “we served together” kind of way that Frank hated, but Mr. Martin seemed to calm down a few notches. He sat heavily on the couch, letting out a sigh.

“Chief, I don’t care who you bring in,” Nick said. “I just want our daughter back.”

The Chief nodded and sat down on the flowery couch opposite Nick. Frank sat down next to the Chief. He glanced at two thick coffee table books in front of him: “Photography and Darkrooms” and “Ansel Adams—A Retrospective.”

“Mr. Martin,” Frank began. “Are you a photographer?”

“No, my wife is. She dabbles,” he said, clearly not impressed with his wife or her level of talent. “That means she spends lots of money on it, but it never amounts to anything.”

Frank took in the coffee table and the stack of magazines—Oprah and Martha Stewart and House Beautiful were on top, but underneath were four about photography. He flipped through one. Beneath it, were four large albums of pictures, and Frank picked them up, flipping through each one. Vacation pictures of the Martins, good quality. Later pictures with Charlie, again very professional for an amateur. He knew next to nothing about photography, but the shots seemed well-composed.

“So, Mr. Martin,” Frank said, not looking up from the photos or making any eye contact. “Who do you think took Charlie?”

Frank could see Nick shaking his head.

“I don’t know—anyone with a grudge, I guess. Isn’t that what I’ve just been saying?” The man was clearly running on fumes. “I just hope that’s what it is. If they’re mad at me, they might not hurt Charlie. But now they’ve got my money, lots of it. Maybe the satchel will make us square, in their minds.”

Frank looked at Nick. “Okay, so you’re unpopular around town. Anything recently piss people off more than usual?” Frank asked.

“Funding,” Nick said. “It’s always about money. Last month, we cut the Parks Department by four positions, so those guys are gone now. They were let go this week. And the police force”—he glanced uncomfortably at Chief King—“was cut two months ago by three positions. Plus, we had one person retire and one begin a long-term deployment with the military. Those positions will not be filled.”

Frank glanced at the Chief.

“Anyone on your payroll pissed enough at Scrooge here to hold back on the investigation? Maybe miss something on purpose?”

The Chief sat up a little straighter. “No.”

Frank nodded soberly. “Had to ask,” Frank said, and turned back to Martin. “Any other issues? Family problems, bad blood with the neighbors, business deals?”

“Nope, nothing. Glenda will be home soon. She’s with a group walking the Freeman Prairie.”

Frank turned to the Chief.

“I thought they already checked there?”

The Chief shook his head. “Yes, but the group is checking the prairie again ahead of the burn, and the kidnappers would have known about it as well. It’s been in the paper. The fire department burns it regularly this time of year.”

“Why?” Frank asked the Chief.

“Standard procedure,” the Chief answered. “It borders the town and Canal Lock Park and the bike trail, and kids wander out there sometimes. The grass is tall, and they get lost, and it’s far enough away from downtown that no one hears them yelling. There’s an off chance the girls could be out there,” he said, glancing at Nick Martin. “But it’s been checked once before by our group of about 100 volunteers—they did Kyle Park, too, and others,” the Chief said.

Frank shook his head.

“So, you’re still actively searching for the girls, even though you have a ransom demand and identified possible kidnappers?”

The Chief shrugged. “Still working all assumptions, including the possibility that the kidnapping part of this is a hoax for money.”

Frank nodded, thinking. He turned to Nick.

“Is everything fine with your wife? The relationship solid?” Frank asked.

“Yup,” Nick said quietly. He looked like he wanted to get offended at the question but just didn’t have the energy. “Mostly just money problems, which you probably know about, if you’ve been through the files.” Nick turned to Chief King. “Glenda’s bringing in a psychic.”

“You’re joking me,” Chief King said.

“No, it’s all set up, Nick Martin said, shaking his head. “They’ll be here in the morning. She’s supposedly good, having closed a few cases.”

“Good,” Frank spoke up, and King turned to him, surprised. “No, it’s good,” Frank said again. “At the very least, it will be a distraction for everyone involved.”

King nodded slowly. “I guess so. But the press will love that—but seriously, Nick, we don’t need more people poking around here.”

Frank nodded. “No, it’s fine, Chief. The more eyes looking at the evidence, the better. Mr. Martin, did Charlie always walk to school alone?”

The man shook his head. “No. Her two friends that she normally walks with were on field trips.”

“Who would know that?”

“Anyone with access to the online school calendar,” Chief King said. “Though, to figure out she would be walking alone, they’d have to know the girls’ names. The teachers’ names were posted, but not the students’.”

Frank nodded and stood up.

“Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Martin,” he said curtly. Frank shook Nick Martin’s hand—the man was taken aback by the suddenness of his dismissal—and walked away. Frank heard the Chief apologize and chase Frank out onto the lawn. Frank was standing in the middle of the lawn, staring down at the ground, thinking.

“Okay,” the Chief said. “What was all that about?”

“He didn’t do it,” Frank nodded back at the house. “He doesn’t know who did, either, so I decided to not burn any more daylight. The school is that way?”

The Chief pointed. “Five blocks up. Straight shot.”

Frank nodded.

“Meet me there. I’m going to walk it,” Frank said. He turned and started walking across the luxurious front lawn, leaving the Chief standing there in the driveway alone.