Chapter 4
Sunday, March 9
A fter a virtually sleepless night, Beth decided not to be deterred by her blustery conversation with Max. He was viewing the situation from the perspective of one who’d already lost his standing.
But Winston Brady hadn’t asked for her resignation. He hadn’t insisted that the Mellin story was ready for airing and for her to leave it alone. Of course he was unaware of her renewed interest in it, but still. Until he specifically forbade her to back off or risk losing her job, she would persist… at least until the afternoon flight to New York.
Having determined that, she brewed a cup of coffee using the sputtering machine in her hotel room and braced herself with a few swallows before calling the Auclair PD.
“Detective Bowie, please.”
A woman with a soft drawl and pleasant manner told her that he hadn’t come in yet. “Can someone else help you?”
“No. I really need to speak with him.” She asked for his cell phone number, but wasn’t surprised when told that it was department policy not to give out personal contact information on personnel.
“But I can have him call you back,” the woman said. “What’s your name, please?”
The first time she’d called two days ago, she had been put through to his desk without supplying her name. She was reluctant to do so now. “That’s all right. I’ll try later.”
Having struck out there, she moved to Plan B, which was to contact Crissy Mellin’s mother, Carla. Although she’d been integral to the story, she’d been loath to appear on Crisis Point . She had argued with the dogged producer that she’d lived the ugly story. Why go on TV and rehash it when it wouldn’t change the ending?
Eventually she had capitulated, but the interview hadn’t gone well. The interviewer’s suavity had had no softening effect on her. She’d been surly, answering every question with as few words as possible. Her bitterness and antipathy toward the police department had come across on camera.
Beth intended not to be as pushy as her cohort had been. She would ask Carla Mellin for only five minutes, during which she hoped empathy would make the woman more agreeable to talking openly about what had happened to her daughter. Beth had nothing to lose by trying.
She checked out of the hotel and went in search of Ms. Mellin. Her address turned out to be a lot in a mobile home park located in a less than desirable part of town. Beth glanced around cautiously as she got out of her car and approached the door.
Her knock was answered by an elderly man dressed only in his undershorts. He seemed as surprised by her as she was by him. He was also perturbed. “Where’s Tuck? Why’d they send you? I want Tuck back.”
After several stops and starts, she learned that a physical therapist came twice a week to strengthen his “gimp knee.” Once she assured him that she wasn’t Tuck’s replacement, she asked how long he’d been living there.
“Goin’ on two years.”
“Did you know the previous resident, Ms. Mellin?”
“No. Place was empty when I rented it.”
He had no idea who Beth might ask about the former tenant or where she’d relocated. “I ain’t got to know none of the neighbors, and I want to keep it that way,” he said. “Now shoo. I gotta get ready for Tuck.” He slammed the door in her face.
With diminishing optimism, she went from door to door. Most of the neighbors either weren’t at home or pretended not to be. Those she did speak to claimed not to know Carla Mellin personally, only by the notoriety her daughter’s disappearance had created. “I felt sorry for her,” one woman said. “Hounded day and night. I don’t blame her a bit for moving away without telling anybody.”
Disheartened, Beth returned to her car but didn’t start it. She sat mulling over what to do next while watching a little girl two lots down, riding a tricycle with wobbly wheels. She went round and round in a never-ending circle, getting nowhere.
She was going in circles and getting nowhere, too. The wasted effort to reach John Bowie. The failed attempt to talk to Carla Mellin. These weren’t omens, they were blatant strikeouts.
Her dejection bone deep, she started the car and asked the navigation system to guide her to the New Orleans airport.
“Bowie!”
John looked up from his computer screen to see Tom Barker threading his way through the Crimes Against Persons unit. When he reached John’s desk, he placed his hands on his hips and regarded John’s battered face with displeasure. “Somebody told me you looked like you’d gone fifteen rounds. What happened?”
“I was carrying an armload of dirty clothes to the washing machine. Didn’t see my dog, stumbled over him, and broke my fall with my face on the edge of the closet door.”
He stopped there. Elaboration could ruin a semi-plausible lie. He knew by the way Barker was rocking back on his heels that he wasn’t buying it, but he went along and asked if John had seen a doctor.
“No need. Looks like hell, but I’m fine. Thanks for your concern, Tom.”
“Yesterday was your day off.”
“Yeah. And?”
“You do laundry on your day off?”
“When my clothes need washing.”
“That’s what wives are for. Maybe you should get you one.”
“Had one. I’d rather do my own laundry.” Enough of this bullshit do-si-do. “Something special you needed me for? Because…” He tilted his head toward his computer screen. “Things got backed up yesterday.”
“No, nothing special.” He gestured toward John’s face. “Try some bruise cream.” He turned away, then came back around in a slow pivot that looked like a choreographed move. “Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I’m all ears.”
“ Crisis Point has scheduled the episode on the Mellin case. Not this week’s program, but next week’s.”
Beth Collins hadn’t specified when it was scheduled, but he pretended that this was news to him. He brightened. “Oh, yeah? Be sure you’re all set to record it. You don’t want to miss seeing yourself on TV.”
“Before it airs, I’m sure the media around here will play it up big. You know, recap the story to refresh everyone’s memory.”
John wanted say that his memory didn’t need refreshing, but he merely nodded.
Tom went on. “I’m already scheduled to do two interviews.”
“Maybe you need a talent agent, Tom, to handle all that scheduling for you.”
John’s nonstop sarcasm hadn’t escaped the other man. His lips had tightened into a thin, straight line. “The point is, you may be approached with a request for an interview. In fact, the officer working the switchboard this morning informed me that before you came in a woman had called asking for you.”
John struggled not to act too interested, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the caller had been Beth Collins. “Did she leave a message, say what she was calling about?”
“No. Declined to talk to anyone else. Didn’t leave her name.”
“Huh.” John shrugged. “No clue.”
“She asked for your cell number.”
John reacted with a start. “Well, I hope to God that whoever took the call didn’t—”
“Of course not. Department policy.”
“And we all know how strict you are about adhering to department policy.” John relaxed back into his chair.
By contrast, Barker hiked up his trousers and assumed a combatant stance. “Now, on the outside chance that you’re being sought for comment about this upcoming program, or about any aspect of that Mellin case, you’d do well to decline. Graciously but firmly.” He lowered his pugnacious chin and looked at John from beneath his eyebrows. “It would be a really bad idea for you to go before a camera.”
John chuckled. “No shit. Looking like this?” He pointed at his face. “There’s not enough makeup in the world to—”
“Cut the crap, Bowie. You know what I’m leading to.”
“Actually, I think I lost the thread.”
The other man’s expression turned even meaner. “Don’t dredge up all that stuff you were mouthing before.”
“Before? By before, do you mean before you closed the case when the body was still missing? That stuff ?”
Tom’s face turned red. “I should have convinced the chief to fire you then.”
“For what?”
“Dereliction of duty.”
“I wasn’t the one who was derelict, Tom. But you’re right. You should have convinced him to fire me. I wonder why you didn’t. Oh!” He snapped his fingers, then pointed his index finger at Barker. “It would have looked bad on you.
“One of the senior detectives on the case,” he said, pointing to his own chest, “started raising questions.” John spread his arms at his sides. “Isn’t raising questions in our job description? Isn’t that what detectives are supposed to do in order to detect? Aren’t we meant to be on the lookout for inconsistences, do some meddling, poke and probe when called for?” He paused, but Barker didn’t say anything.
“Obviously that’s not standard operating procedure when you’re leading an investigation,” John said, scoffing. “The truth now, Tom. You wanted me to stay employed only because you didn’t want me out of here and at liberty to talk about the goings-on inside these walls. Am I warm?
“If I’d been free to speak my mind, the public, the attorney general, just about every-damn-body might have wanted to take a closer look at just how hastily and irresponsibly you investigated that girl’s disappearance.”
Barker’s face had become congested with rage, but his voice remained controlled. “You’re a head case, Bowie. An undeclared alcoholic. Your wife had the good sense to leave you and is getting happily fucked by her new boyfriend every night and most daytimes, too.
“Your kid has run off to God knows where. You’ve got nothing to recommend you. And the funny part? Despite all that, you’re a delusional smart-ass who thinks he’s got it all figured out.”
John stood up and lifted his sport coat off the back of his chair. “I’ve got one thing figured out. I don’t have to take this shit.”
“Then quit ,” Tom bellowed.
John bore down on him and got right in his face. “Not. On. Your. Life.”
He held the man’s furious stare for several seconds, then turned and walked out, becoming aware that he and Barker had attracted an attentive audience. Other detectives, uniformed patrol officers, a janitor emptying the wastebaskets had all stopped what they’d been doing to watch. John didn’t care. He wouldn’t take back a single word he’d said.
He jogged down the stairs to the ground floor. A minute later, he was in his car, booting up his laptop.
On every thoroughfare between the mobile home park in Auclair and the New Orleans airport, traffic was heavy and belligerent, adding an extra fifteen minutes to the hour and a half drive. Beth was frazzled by the time she had returned the rental car and made her way to the ticket counter.
She’d fibbed to Max in a text, telling him that she’d stood by for the morning flight but had been unable to get a seat. She was confirmed on the four o’clock. He hadn’t bothered sending a return text, but he’d viewed her trip as a fool’s errand and would be happy that she was on her way back.
But she wasn’t happy, damn it. She decided to give it one last try. She moved out of the flow of the airport foot traffic and called the police station again. She was relieved that this time a male voice answered, reducing the chance that her repeat calls would be noted. She asked for John Bowie and was put on hold.
When the officer came back on the line, he informed her that Bowie had been there, but had left. “Couple of hours ago, they said. Maybe longer.” Nobody knew if or when he’d be back before the day was out. Did she want to leave him a message?
“No, thank you,” she said into her phone. Disconnecting, she thought, Take it as a sign. It wasn’t meant to be.
She got in the security check line, listlessly tugging her roll-aboard behind her and staring absently at all the cities in which U2 had performed on their world tour. The itinerary was printed on the back of the t-shirt the young woman in line ahead of her was wearing.
“That’s her.”
As did most of the people around her, Beth turned in the direction of the authoritative voice. Her stomach dropped.
John Bowie, looking grim and intimidating, was pointing her out to a TSA agent. “The one in the blue jacket.”
Had he been in an accident? What had happened to his face?
The TSA agent asked those in line to move aside as she made her way forward. When she reached Beth, she said, “Beth Collins?”
Beth dragged her astonished gaze from John Bowie’s unflinching stare to the uniformed woman. “Yes.”
“Would you come with us, please?”
“What for?”
“A police matter. ” Bowie opened the right side of his sport coat so that everyone nearby could see the badge clipped to his belt.
“Ms. Collins, if you’ll follow me, please.” The TSA agent motioned for Beth to step out of line.
But she stayed where she was, too appalled to move. By now, everyone was gawking at them. Those in line ahead and behind her were craning their necks to get a better view. She shot John Bowie a murderous look. “Why are you doing this?”
He sighed as though put out. “Thank you, Agent Gorman. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll take it from here.”
He reached behind the agent and closed his hand around Beth’s elbow. “This way.” He gave her arm a tug, which she resisted. In a silent threat, he arched an eyebrow and wrestled the handle of her roll-aboard from her grasp.
Damn him! She couldn’t defy him without making a scene. More of a scene. If it should get back to Winston Brady that she’d been apprehended… It didn’t bear thinking about.
Resentful and fuming, she went along as the TSA agent opened up narrow avenues in the queue for them to squeeze through. When they were clear of it, Bowie propelled her forward and again thanked Agent Gorman for her assistance.
“You’re welcome, but, if you don’t mind me asking, what did she do?”
Over his shoulder, Bowie replied, “She cut in line.”