Vanishing Day Page 9

  “Sexy,” Ben said, watching from behind as Logan threaded her way through the parking lot on crutches, her knee ensconced in the new brace. He handily danced out of reach from the swipe she made with her crutch.

  “Every woman in Jasper’s going to want one,” he said.

  When they got to his truck, and he went to open the door, Logan punched him in the arm. She knew she shouldn’t take it out on him, but being slowed down like this just from tripping over a stupid tree root she should have seen, pissed her off.

  She was not in the mood.

  Wisely, Ben did not engage.

  25

  Lauren said she had “everything”, but what exactly did that mean? And where did she hide it? Was she bluffing?

  Garrett didn’t think so. Lauren had stayed home for so long, he almost forgot she had an accounting degree. Hell, he met her in his friend’s office. She was the manager of the department.

  “You’re stealing one of my best employees,” his friend complained, only half kidding.

  What was she doing snooping around? He controlled all their finances, so had a fully furnished home office. He even occasionally worked from home. Had she gotten into his computer, his files? How much did she know? The thought of his own wife betraying him; he just couldn’t wrap his head around it.

  Why? Why did she want to leave all the time? And why would she go to such lengths to ensure a permanent escape? He thought she was worthy of his love, his caring for her, taking care of her, but she wasn’t. She didn’t value his love. She threw it away. She didn’t deserve his love. She didn’t deserve to have a life with him. But first, he needed whatever it was she had.

  Not once did it occur to him to wonder if his wife had any life left to live, after the beating he gave her. It was as if someone else delivered the attack...repeatedly punching, kicking, and then, lifting her like a rag doll and throwing her body against the wall.

  He tried to think. He wasn’t missing any physical documents. He would have noticed that. He had a copy machine at home, but paper copies would be too bulky to lug around, especially dragging a three-year-old with you. They could be in a computer file, but he hadn’t seen a computer anywhere in the Jasper house, and she denied having one.

  She could have sent a file with attachments to her mother, but he monitored all her mother’s emails, so would have caught that if she tried. She had no other relatives, and no close friends anymore. She used to be on a softball team, but he put an end to that. The other women on the team were a bad influence. Only one was married. The rest were single or divorced. All they did was party and sleep around. He’d finally convinced her sports were unladylike, and a complete waste of time. Now that she was a wife and mother, she needed to give up distractions—get serious—she had more important obligations. No ... she hadn’t given documents or sent a computer file to anyone.

  Neal? He knew his driver was soft on Lauren, but if he thought Lauren was even aware of those feelings, he would have gotten rid of Neal long ago. It was about time anyway. Neal’s probation was up in October. After that, he’d have no incentive to do Garrett’s bidding. Yes, he’d have to do something about Neal.

  It had to be something small and portable. Probably a flash drive. Could be anywhere in the house. Probably taped under a shelf or in a plastic baggie in the toilet bowl. That’s what they always did in the movies. He’d take Neal back down for one last job. With two of them looking, it shouldn’t take long for them to find it. But it needed to happen soon. Lauren probably went to the hospital. She shouldn’t have made him hit her so hard. But she was fine. She’d probably be kept overnight for observation and then sent home. And if by some fluke she died, her landlord would be there to clean the place out for the next renter, before he could find the flash drive.

  What a mess. He still had access to the plane for another few days. Stan wasn’t due back from Panama until Sunday. Garrett didn’t think anyone had seen the Jeep last night, but to be on the safe side, he’d take one of the sedans. He hated regular cars, but a man had to do what a man had to do. Best to keep to his regular routine as much as possible. Several regular clients needed to be placated. He could leave right after lunch tomorrow.

  26

  Detective Diaz plopped into his chair and swiveled to face his partner. Short and stocky, his forehead was perpetually sweaty. Thick, black hair stuck out of his head like a chia pet. In another era he may have been described as “swarthy.”

  “Good wreck on PCH, just south of town, and three new break-ins. Sergeant’s not going to give us anybody tonight,” Diaz informed him.

  “Shit,” Andrews replied, leaning back in his chair.

  Andrews’ desk was in the opposite corner of the detective bureau. A small department, there were five detectives, all working out of the second floor. Andrews was Crimes Against Persons, Saunders was Property Crimes, and Latrell handled Financial. Diaz was officially Juvenile Crimes, but his caseload was light, so he’d been partnering with Andrews lately.

  Even though each detective had an official assignment, in reality, they all helped each other with their cases as needed. Singh was the new hire, General Crimes, a kind of catchall designation where new detectives got their feet wet working with and being trained by older, more experienced detectives. In the time they occupied the position, they learned how to execute a search warrant, conduct an investigation, even research case law. It took about a year to bring them up to speed. The learning curve was steep and not everyone lasted.

  It’s not that he expected to get a dedicated guard on the Jane Doe’s room for the night, but Andrews was hoping to squeeze out a few hours for her. Whoever just beat her to within an inch of her life, might come back to finish the job. Now, with the PCH wreck, all the uniforms would be spoken for.

  Andrews stretched his long fingers, then let out a huff.

  “What about the reserves?” he asked, looking up.

  “Don’t know,” Diaz answered. He considered it for a minute. “Yeah, I can give that a try.”

  Everyone wanted the police to protect them, but nobody wanted to pay for it. In recent years, the detectives had taken to utilizing the services of the few reserve officers still willing to work for nothing.

  Diaz was already flipping through a well-thumbed Rolodex on top of the filing cabinet for a number.

  Everyone had family and friends’ numbers in their cell phones, but some lists, like reserve officers that were only accessed occasionally, hadn’t made the transfer. Everything was done old school when they were in the office.

  He found the number and located a reserve officer who could be at Hoag in twenty minutes. Andrews felt a lot better when he knew Gussler was on his way. Good guy. Gussler, a corporate pilot and father of six, had a lot of downtime on his job and held his own with the young bucks. Made it through the rigorous police academy training at age 39 and was first in his class. A reserve officer for the last four years, he was trusted with a unit and a gun, even if there wasn’t a regular uniform to accompany him. Good man.

  Andrews already had over thirty cases. Above average, even for this time of year. If they couldn’t get any traction on this one in a day or two, the Lieutenant would have them move it to the bottom of the pile. Unofficially. Unofficially or otherwise, Andrews never let a case go. None of them did. And, given the tenuous hold on life this assault victim had, they’d be working it hard, like a homicide, in case it turned into one.

  Everything about this case screamed domestic violence, but since the victim had no ID, they couldn’t interview family and friends to get a lead to follow. They’d have to start with what they had, which wasn’t much. Coworkers and neighbors here in Jasper would all be interviewed thoroughly, but they’d only known her a few months.

  No witnesses so far, either. Except for the one neighbor, the McKenna woman, everyone else was asleep or out of town at the time of the attack. At least she got a
partial plate and fleeting glimpse of the guy as he ran. He had to hand it to her. She did better than most people could with a three-year-old hanging on her. Took balls to run after a fleeing suspect, one who just beat your neighbor to a bloody pulp. He would have to interview her again. Maybe she’d remember something else.

  Right ... you keep telling yourself that, Keith.

  His mind filled with images of Logan’s long legs sprinting down the beach that night.

  Time to go home.

  They’d canvassed the neighborhood. Interviewed everyone. Nothing else they could do tonight. They’d tackle it fresh in the morning. Run down variations on the plate. Check surrounding business’s CCTV footage.

  Someone meeting the McKenna woman’s description of the fleeing suspect just might show up on their cameras. And who knew? If they got lucky, they’d get a shot of him driving a car with a match for the partial plate. And if they got really lucky, the Jane Doe he left for dead, who was fighting for her life at Hoag, would be conscious in the morning, ready and able to tell them who beat her, and where to find him.

  Had to be someone she knew. Boyfriend or husband.

  27

  Only 8:00 in the morning and already Andrews felt the sun on the back of his neck as he made his way slowly back down Killer Hill. He did another walk through the house and wanted to canvass the street again in daylight. Diaz was called out this morning on a cyber bullying incident at the middle school, so he was on his own.

  So far, nothing new. Two neighbors had home security cameras, but they were aimed at their front doors, trying to catch package thieves that had plagued the neighborhood since Christmas, not the street. Only two houses could have heard anything, the McKenna home and the neighbors just across from her and two lots down. Directly across from the victim’s home was an empty lot, and the owner of the next house was out of town. Had been for couple of months. Snowbirds. Had a place in Idaho during the summer. Came south for the winter. Weren’t back yet.

  Must be nice.

  Andrews looked at his watch. The owner of the gas station was meeting him in ten minutes to give him access to their video feed. Normally, he would have had it last night, but the sole employee manning the register said she wasn’t authorized, and even if she was, she didn’t have the key or code or whatever you needed to get into it. Above her pay grade she said. She exhibited no curiosity as to why the police were asking to see the video. Good posture. Former military. Called her manager.

  The manager said only the owner had the pass code, and she was out of town on a fishing trip. She called the owner, who said the fish weren’t biting anyway and to meet her at the station anytime after 8:00 a.m.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Friday, September 9, 2016

  Andrews was back at the gas station. The owner had car trouble and couldn’t get back yesterday. She was waiting for him now.

  Two bells dinged when Detective Andrews pushed open the heavy, glass door into the mini-mart. The smell of hazelnut coffee and hot dogs already turning on the warming rollers greeted him, along with a nod from the girl behind the register, who let him know he was expected.

  A squat, middle-aged woman came barreling down the center aisle, stuck out her hand. The owner. Looked former military herself.

  “Andrews?” she asked.

  “Yes, m’am,” he said.

  “Marge,” she said, turning to lead him back to her office, “I’ve got everything back here.”

  After spending the first few minutes apologizing for not having a more modern system...meaning to upgrade, but everything costs so much and profit margins being what they were...she hoped he understood. He told her not to worry, the police appreciated her help.

  Following her single-file between two tall, metal, shelving units stuffed with cleaning supplies and restaurant-sized cans of nacho cheese sauce and stacks of paper towels, they reached a small, cleared square of polished concrete floor. Marge sat behind a scarred, wooden desk and offered Andrews a metal and plastic, taped-up chair opposite. He wasn’t tired, but he sat. You couldn’t rush people. Another gem his training officer imparted.

  “When Bill and I had the station out in Hemet, we used to just monitor the pumps,” she said, “Gas-and-dash yahoos cost us a bundle. But after he died, I moved here—always wanted to live near the beach. I figured out just as much action happens inside, so now I just wire everything, particularly the cash register area,” she said. “Chrissie didn’t report any robbery attempts or anything major yesterday. Just a couple of kids shoplifting.”

  She shook her head, “Lots more of that out here, too.”

  “How far back do you want?” she asked, getting back to business.

  “Everything from yesterday through last night, all cameras, if you have it,” he said, handing her his card. “Just send the files to me at this email. If they’re too large, we can use Dropbox.”

  “No problem. Should go through. If you need more, let me know and I’ll see you get it,” she said, getting up from her chair to shake his hand.

  Before he left, Andrews added, “I’m going to need names and addresses of anyone working yesterday, delivery people or anyone who may have seen anything. All my numbers are on there.” He pointed at his card she held in her hand. “Once I have a chance to go through these, I can narrow it down to time and place, if anything shows up.”

  “I wish you the best,” Marge said, shaking her head. “That poor woman. What’s the world coming to ... people just attacking other people for no reason? What’s the matter with this country?”

  Her eyes clouded over, “You know, I fought for this country,” she said, looking at Andrews, “but I hardly recognize it anymore.”

  Shaking it off, she extended her hand again.

  “You tell me if you find anything,” she said. “I really hope you catch the guy.”

  “We will,” Andrews said, hoping that was true.

  28

  Logan hated being dependent on anyone. She’d been feeling so strong and good and healthy. She craved a good beach run, which she knew she wouldn’t be able to enjoy for a long time.

  Sulking and apologizing to Ben for being a witch with a capital B took up most of last night. By morning, Logan grudgingly accepted her temporary limitations, and after a few cups of Ben’s high-octane coffee, made a plan to deal with them. It wasn’t cancer, just a hugely inconvenient setback. She was surprised how wrenching her knee sharply brought back the same feelings of helplessness and pain she endured after her car accident. It had taken her over a year to recover from her injuries and she still had occasional back and neck trouble.

  Pushing aside her fears, Logan logged onto Amazon. She found and ordered two large ice wraps with thick, Velcro straps for overnight delivery. The shipping cost more than the merchandise, but she didn’t care. The bags of frozen vegetables kept slipping off. And they didn’t go all the way around her knee. These ought to do the trick.

  Lime green and royal blue. One wrap could be freezing while the other was doing RICE duty. Crutches at the ready. Computer and phone within reach. She asked Ben to bring her a few files from her studio. If she absolutely needed anything else from her office, she could get there on crutches, then lift herself with her arms one stairstep at a time, backwards on her butt. Hopefully, her knee would calm down soon and that wouldn’t be necessary. The studio had more stairs than the ones up to her bedroom, so it would take forever, but at least she’d be able to work her triceps. Hmmmm ...

  Stir crazy by noon, there wasn’t much more Logan could do. One call she kept putting off making was to Rita, director of the New School. She should let her know about her knee. She wasn’t cleared to travel yet, but hopefully she would be by next week. One way or the other, she was getting on that plane. Until then, she’d just have to be the perfect patient.

  On the bright side, Sally was bringing In-N-Out for lunch, before she pic
ked up Quinn at Bonnie’s.

  Rick stopped off after his shift to give Logan the update on Lori’s condition. Everyone knew him down at the hospital. One of the ER docs gave him her status.

  "Multiple concusions, smashed jaw, dislocated shoulder, couple of cracked ribs. She’ll be sipping food through a straw for a while. Lost a lot of blood, but no gunshot or stab wounds. Stitched up her scalp. Might lose her sight in one eye. Too early to tell. Whoever did this to her did it with his hands. And feet. Up close and personal."

  “He said it’s a good thing you and Ben interrupted her attacker. If not, she’d probably be dead,” Rick said.

  “Jeez,” Logan said, “do they think she’s going to be OK? Will she recover?”

  “He said he’d know more in 24 hours,” Rick said, “If she doesn’t stabilize, they may need surgery. She could have internal bleeding.”

  “Can she have visitors? Is she awake?”

  “Not yet,” Rick said, “They’re still trying to locate family. Did she ever mention any family to you?”

  “No, she was pretty tight-lipped about anything personal,” Logan said. “I don’t even know where they came from. What are they going to do about Shannon? Can she stay with Bonnie and Mike?”

  “Haven’t heard,” Rick said.

  Charlie, Rick’s German Shepherd K9 partner, knowing she was off duty at Logan’s house, licked her hand, begging for a treat she knew Logan always kept on hand, hot dogs cut up into 1” slices.

  “You’ll have to settle for a scratch behind the ears, girl,” Logan said, rubbing her forehead on Charlie’s, giving her a love. “I’m fresh out and couldn’t get up to get you one if I had any.”