Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
“–if you have information or have seen 10-year-old Robin Masters, who vanished coming home from a neighborhood book box Tuesday afternoon, please call the Maryville Police Department or the Blount County Sheriff’s Office at the listed numbers,” the solemn-faced TV reporter requested from Danni’s phone screen. “This makes the second time in less than a month a young child–”
“I can’t listen to this,” Danni muttered, turning off her phone. “Two children missing. If I didn’t know KPD was working their butts off on this, I’d wonder what they were doing or not doing.”
“There will probably be even more news later,” Patrick reminded her. “Any idea of what Stanley Harris might want?”
“No.” Danni stared out the window as Kristopher rounded the corner and headed into the alley behind Excelsior. Stopping by the service entrance, he asked, “Do you want me to wait here or is there something you need me to do?”
“Wait, pleased,” Danni requested. She put her hand on the door handle but hesitated as tension rippled over her. “If Stanley had a new assignment for me, he’d call or text me, not ask me to come into the office,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Bet he’s going to give you a big raise and put your name up for Pulitzer Prize,” Patrick predicted.
She gently punched his shoulder. “What did you put in your morning coffee? You’re becoming delusional.”
“I know good writing when I see it,” he contradicted. “Sitting here worrying about it isn’t gonna make it easier or happen any sooner. Let’s go face the music.”
Inside, the work area outside Stanley Harris’ office was suspiciously absent of workers, giving the space an eerie quiet vibe. That the shade on his door’s lone window that looked out on the area was pulled down, only made Danni’s heart beat harder. Patrick’s eyes, she noticed, were surveying the area.
“I don’t think someone’s going to hurt us here,” she said. “Probably the safest place for me right now.”
“Famous last words,” he murmured as they stopped before Stanley’s closed door.
“Thanks,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She knocked, and at the faint reply, opened it and they stepped inside.
Four men rose from the table. One of course, was Stanley Harris, who didn’t look very happy right now. Duncan Friedma n, Excelsior’s owner was there as well, still wearing his coat and hat, as if he had just dropped in to say hello and wasn’t planning on staying long.
But the other men were angry, Patrick observed. Very angry and beside him, Danni stiffened. “Hello, Ed,” she greeted, her voice flat. “Patrick, this is Ed Turner, Sara’s grandfather. Ed–”
“It’s about time you got here,” Ed Turner snapped. “If you were my employee, I’d fire you right now, you interfering little bitch.” In his custom-made suit and Italian shoes polished to a mirror gleam, Ed Turner looked to the inch like the wealthy CFO he was and not like a complete and utter asshole. But then, Patrick reminded himself, it was manners that made the man, not clothing.
“What’s this about, Stanley?” Danni turned to look at her boss. “Your text said something about this morning’s article?”
“This is Charles Godwin, attorney at law for Edward Turner,” Stanley introduced, gesturing at the shorter man standing beside Turner. “Mr. Godwin, this is, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, Danielle Blake, one of Excelsior’s reporters.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Godwin began smoothly. “My client, Edward Turner, considers your article about his granddaughter Sara to be insulting, inflammatory, derogatory and highly damaging to his character and career.”
“Gee, and here I thought it was a nice article, Patrick said. “Are you mad because she didn’t mention you, Turner?”
“I was very careful in my article not to mention you by name for a reason, Ed,” Danni said, sounding as if she was choosing her words with great care. “I wanted to give Sara a human face, let others know what she’s like. I simply wanted to remind people not to forget her and keep looking for her. That’s all.”
“That so-called article has everyone at my workplace talking about Sara and me!” Turner’s voice was nearly a whine. “They all know she’s my granddaughter. I have a status in this community and your articles–”
“Shut-up, Ed,” Godwin interrupted. “Duncan, we go way back, you and I. You tell Ms. Blake there will be no more articles that mention Sara Turner or pleas for information about her whereabouts or we will, simply put, sue you and Excelsior for defamation of character.”
“Gee, do you have a character, Turner?” Patrick’s temper simmered just under the boiling point. The man’s arrogance was revolting. “Sounds to me like you’re more worried about your precious reputation than finding your granddaughter.”
“We’re done here,” Godwin announced. “Duncan, do we understand each other?”
“We do,” Friedman said, shooting Stanley a vicious look. “There will be no more articles mentioning Sara Turner from this paper. I promise you that.”
“Good.” Godwin gave a brief nod. “Let’s go, Ed.”
They were almost to the door, when Danni called after them. “Have your investigators found any trace of Sara, Ed? I hope you’re not spending too much of that six-figure salary you’re always boasting about on them because from what I can see, they’ve come up with squat. But of course, with you, it’s always about the money, isn’t it?”
“You little bitch!” Features contorted, Turner lurched forward, but Godwin grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back.
“Enough, Ed,” he ordered. “We’ve delivered our message so let’s be on our way. I’m due in court this afternoon. Duncan, remember what I’ve said.”
Still holding Turner, Godwin dragged him to the still-open door, and they left.
Friedman’s glance was still hostile as he directed it back to Patrick. “Who the hell did you say you were?”
“I’m Ms. Blake’s bodyguard from the Brotherhood Protectors.” Patrick said, savored a pause before adding, “the one Excelsior is paying for. Sir.”
“Stanley, I expect you to take care of this,” Friedman snapped. “And as for you, Ms. Blake.”
“Yes?” Danni’s perfectly straight posture would have made the sentries guarding a soldier’s tomb proud. If they weren’t standing in front of her employers, Patrick might have kissed her.
And maybe he should.
“No more articles about Sara Turner, trafficking or missing kids,” Friedman ordered. “Stick to your court reporting or recipes or vacation spots. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.” She obviously was not going to address him as “sir.” Friedman continued to stare at her as if he were expecting her to give him the courtesy. When she didn’t, he stomped off, slamming the door after him.
“Sorry, Danni,” Stanley sighed. “I asked you to write that article for Marcy. I didn’t think it would start a firestorm.”
“It’s ok, Stanley,” and Patrick could hear her affection for the man. “I was glad to write it. What do you want me to do?”
“Take the weekend off and get some rest,” Stanley said, “But I will tell you this. One of our switchboard operators told me the phones are off the hook with people calling in their positive response to your article about Sara.”
“They are?” A ‘most becoming blush’ as Patrick’s father would have called it, spread over Danni’s face.
“Yep,” and a broad grin lit up Stanley’s tired features. “I’m going to set up a special number for folks to call if they should find out something about Sara and pass it on to the police. No way in hell Friedman can object to us helping the police, or Turner for that matter.”
She went to enfold her boss in her arms. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Marcy loved your article,” Stanley said, stepping back. “She said, ‘Someone is bound to come forward.’ Now. Patrick, take her to lunch or something. I have a paper to get out and I gotta get everyone out of the cafeteria where Friedman sent them. Guess he was worried they’d gossip if they saw him.”
“Glad to,” Patrick said. “Come, Nellie Bly. Let’s go have lunch.”
But in the work area, she said, “Wait a minute. I want to check my work e-mail while I’m here.”
She led him to a cubicle among the others. It was almost Spartan in its tidiness, with only an old-fashioned appointment book with copies of paintings featuring reading women and a large color photo of her and Sara.
Plopping down in the rolling office chair, she switched on her laptop and pulled up her account. “You know, I’m feeling like Mexican for lunch if that’s– Holy Saint Hannah!”
“What?” Patrick leaned over her shoulder as she opened an e-mail with today’s date and the heading MY KIDNAPPED DAUGHTER
“Look at that.” Danni had to swallow hard before she began to read aloud.
Ms. Blake,
I hope and pray you find this in time. I read your article about Sara Turner, and I beg you to help me. My daughter Robin Master has been missing for three days and the police have found nothing. I really want to talk to you. I’ll be at The Museum at 4 th and Main in Knoxville tomorrow at noon by the staircase. I can wait two hours before my husband gets suspicious. Please DON’T TELL OR brING THE POLICE!!!. I will be wearing a red coat and white knit hat. Please answer asap. Celia Masters.
“Another case of a suspicious husband,” Patrick muttered. “This is starting to smell really bad.”
“It does,” Danni agreed, typing in her agreement and sending it before turning off the computer. She turned to face him, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “C’mon. Let’s go back to the Safehouse. I want to start writing some articles.”
“What about Friedman?” Patrick asked, catching her mood.
“Did I say I was going to write about this?” She fluttered her eyelids in such a parody of innocence, Patrick laughed. “No, I’m going to contact Anne Hamilton and Elaine Prescott to start their interviews. I don’t know when Excelsior can print them, but I can get started on them, provided they’re available. Sound good?”
“Absolutely, my Nellie Bly,” he said, lifting her up. “Let’s go. But I have to say, you were awesome in the way you handled Ed Turner and your self-control was beyond awesome. I wanted to re-arrange his face.”
“He’s a jerk,” Danni said. “But thanks.”
“Look, I don’t mean to be forward, but I have an overwhelming desire to kiss you right now.” Patrick watched as surprise parted her lips into an inviting ‘o’. “Okay?”
She blinked. “Okay.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, slowly exploring its full softness of it, savoring the taste, and then chuckled.
“What?” she asked. “Kissing me is funny?”
“No,” he gasped, trying hard not to laugh. “You taste like mustard.”
To his relief and delight, she laughed. “So do you,” she accused. “For now, I think we should go back to the Safehouse and brush our teeth.”
“And after that?” he asked.
For a moment, sorrow clouded her eyes, dimming her smile. “I need to send Captain Haggerty the address for Leo’s brothers in Mozambique,” she said. Then her lips twitched, suggesting the return of a smile. “After that, maybe, we can get something to eat.”
KPD Morgue Later that afternoon
“Who and where did you say they found him?” Haggerty stared at the body on the table.
“Some hikers at Talbot Park in South Knoxville,” Miller answered. “Someone left the body off into the brush near some picnic tables. There were no drag marks, so I guess someone carried him and left it there.”
“Good place to hide a body,” Haggerty mused. “It’s a nice park, but it doesn’t get a lot of foot traffic at this time of year. How’d the hikers find him if he were hidden in the brush?”
Miller grinned. “According to the officers who answered the 911 call, one of the hikers was answering the ‘call of nature.’ Probably scared the pee right out of him.”
The morgue attendant sniffed in disapproval, but Haggerty choked back a laugh. “OK, Miller, that will do. Anything else?”
Miller gestured toward the door, and they went to step into the hall. The scent of disinfectant seemed to follow them, and Haggerty coughed again. “What is it?”
“I think we may have caught a break in Leo Anderson’s case,” Miller told her.
“Let’s take it to my office,” Haggerty said. When they were safely inside with the door closed, she asked, “What do we have?”
“There was a 2015 Datsun parked a short distance from where the body was found. It’s registered to a Frank Sullivan with a Knoxville address.”
“Frank Sullivan.” Haggerty frowned. “Isn’t that the name of that suspected hit man we’ve been after?”
“It is,” Miller said, tapping down his mounting excitement. “There are at least four suspected hits over the past six years attributed to him, but he’s like smoke. Haven’t been able to prove a blessed thing. My snitches say he commands a high price and usually gets what he asks for.”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re about to tell me something important?” Haggerty asked. “Something current?”
“Guess what we found in the trunk of his car?”
“I know you’re probably enjoying this, Miller, but don’t make me tease it out of you,” Haggerty warned, but she was smiling. “What?”
“A recorder–as in the musical instrument–and a man’s fake beard.”
“Good Lord in the morning,” Haggerty breathed out. “Does the lab have it?”
“After CSI had swept the scene, they had the car towed straight there and handed it over.” Grant Miller could not keep the triumph from his voice. “Hopefully, the son-of-a-bitch didn’t wipe the recorder clean of fingerprints, but there could still be saliva on its mouthpiece. I don’t remember from Danni Blake’s description of the recorder player if he were wearing gloves the day she saw him, but there could still be some there.”
“And that fake beard could have enough residual skin and sweat to give us some DNA,” Haggerty added. “Damn, it’s about time we had some good news on Leo Anderson’s case. Having one of your own get killed right before a major holiday always sucks. Morale has been low ever since he was killed. Good man, good cop.”
“Yes ma’am, that he was,” Miller said. “Always had time for the new recruits, letting them ride along if there was an interesting case, and never too tired to answer even the dumbest of questions. I should know because I asked plenty myself when I was getting started.”
“Do you know how Danni Miller is holding up?” Haggerty asked. “You being the point person between us and Brotherhood Protectors.”
“I’ve not talked to her in a day or so,” Miller said. “Do I have your permission to tell her we have a possible lead or suspect in Leo’s death? Might make her feel a bit better.”
“Get the results from AFIS to see what they have and then tell her,” Haggerty approved. “Since she was with Leo when he died, she needs some good news.”
“What do you want me to tell her about the Larsen case file being gone?”
Haggerty frowned and Miller was glad that frown was not directed at him. He’d only come under that frown once and he’d sworn he’d be damn sure it would never happen again. Someone’s ass was about to be chewed.
“Don’t tell her unless she thinks to ask,” Haggerty finally said “IT is bringing in their own forensic people to take a hard look at our system and find out how in hell an entire case history could be wiped from the system. Especially one that may have led to Leo Anderson’s murder.”
“Are we sure it was digitized?” Miller asked. “And who was the last person to open The Larsen case file?”
“Every case KPD has handled in the last 30 years is electronically filed.” Haggerty said “And the last person who opened it was Leo, the Friday before he died. Of course, there were others in and out of the records-file room all day, including staff, but they’d have to log in on their own names and passwords and Leo’s was the only one.”
Miller’s stomach began to roll in the old familiar pattern when apprehension hit. “Jocelyn,” he said softly. “You don’t think Leo erased that file?” They seldom used their given names when alone together, and never in the presence of others. Only when cases involving police misdeed or corruption were suspected did they allow themselves that freedom.
“No way, Grant,” Haggerty said just as softly. “For one thing, Leo was a technophobe. Took him years to get a handle on entering case notes electronically. I was glad when he did ‘cause his handwriting was a mess.”
“Could someone else have done it, hacked into it pretending to be him?” Miller’s thoughts raced. “He told you someone sent him threatening e-mails that looked to be sent internally. Maybe the source hacked into our system using his identity and erased the Larsen case file. Has IT learned who the sent the e-mails yet?”
“No, but I’m going to be paying some major overtime to find out,” Haggerty said grimly. Behind her, came the gentle hum of the fax machine engaging. She rolled her office chair to its station and took several sheets from the tray. “Hot damn,” she said, reading over them. “We got him.”
Rolling back, she handed Miller the sheets. “Frank Sullivan’s DNA was all over that recorder and inside the wig,” she told him. “Now we just need to learn who hired him and why.”
“Did Danni get a chance to send you the contact information for Leo’s brothers?” Miller asked.
“She did, a short while ago along with several electronic addresses for officials at the American Embassy in Maputo, the capital,” Haggerty said. “I’ll get to it after I’ve double checked on the time change between here and there because I’d really like to speak with the person in charge of such things. I’m not sure if it’s an ambassador or an attaché I’d be speaking to, but I hope like hell he can find the brothers Anderson to tell them in person. This is not the kind of thing to relay over the phone or by e-mail.
“No, it isn’t,” Miller agreed. “Leo Anderson deserves more than that. I’ll go start to see about tracking down Frank Sullivan’s next of kin. Bad as he was, if he has family, they need to be notified as well.”
And he left Haggerty alone with the painful task of writing a message to Leo Anderson’s brothers to gently inform them that he was dead.