“We’ve got information on a few Richard Franklins,” he said. “It’s not an unusual name, so more than one popped up in the system. Tell me about him.”
Jennifer gave him a brief description-height and weight, hair color and eyes, approximate age, race.
“Okay, give me a just a second.”
On the phone, she could hear him tapping information into the computer.
“Huh,” he finally said.
“What?”
He hesitated. “I don’t think we have any information for you.”
“Nothing? Not even an arrest?”
“Not based on what you told me. We have records of seven individuals with the name Richard Franklin. Four of those are African Americans, one is deceased, one is in his sixties.”
“What about the last one?”
“A typical druggie. He’s about the same age as your guy, but nothing else about him matches up. There’s not a chance he could pass for an engineer, even for a day. He’s been in and out of prison for the last twenty years. And from our records, he never lived at the address you listed.”
“Is there anything else? Can you track county records? Or maybe records from other cities?”
“It’s all in here,” Cohen said, sounding as disappointed as she did. “The system was just updated a couple of years ago. We have information on anyone arrested in the state going back to 1977. If he’d been arrested anywhere in the state of Colorado, we’d know it.”
Jennifer tapped her pencil on the pad. “Could you fax me a photograph of the last guy, anyway? Or attach it to an e-mail?”
“Sure. But I don’t think he’s your guy,” Cohen said, his tone dropping slightly. He paused. “Look-if you need anything else, let me know. Sounds like a pretty bad guy. Not the kind we want walking around in public.”
After hanging up the phone, Jennifer placed a call to the Columbus Police Department, hoping for better luck.
The Guardian
Mabel had left the salon that morning and driven to the hospital. Now she was sitting beside Andrea in the intensive care unit, holding her hand and hoping that Andrea would somehow know she was there.
“You’re going to be okay, sweetheart,” she whispered almost to herself. “Your mom and dad are going to be here soon.”
The heart monitor beeped steadily in response, and Mabel eyed the phone.
She wished she knew what was going on with the investigation. For a moment, she considered calling Pete Gandy to find out. But she was still so mad at him for letting this go on as long as it had that she didn’t think she could do so without screaming at him. Mike had been right. All he’d had to do was listen to Julie and none of this would have happened. Why had that been so hard? How on earth had he ever passed training?
Mabel heard the sound of footsteps approaching and looked up to see the nurse. She’d been checking in every twenty minutes to monitor any changes.
The first twenty-four hours were critical, the doctor had said. If Andrea was going to come out of a coma without brain damage, more than likely she’d show some improvement by then.
Mabel’s throat tightened as she watched the nurse in action, checking vital signs and scribbling notes.
By the look on her face, Mabel knew there was no change at all.
The Guardian
Jennifer hung up with the Columbus Police Department just as Morrison came out of his office.
“Got the subpoena,” he said. “Judge Riley signed it a few minutes ago, and it’s being faxed to J. D. Blanchard right now. We should have the information shortly, unless they get their legal team involved and try to stall things.”
Jennifer nodded but was unable to hide the information in her expression.
“Still no luck?” Morrison asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. He hasn’t so much as had a speeding ticket in either Colorado or Ohio. No arrests, no record of him even being a suspect in a crime.”
“The fax from Denver didn’t help?”
“Not our guy. Not even close.” She scanned the faxed photograph anyway. “I don’t understand it. A guy like this doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. I know he’s done this type of thing before. There’s got to be some record of it.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Any news from the house?”
“It seems as if he did some cleaning recently. They were able to bag a few things, but we won’t know for sure if any of it’s of use until it’s examined. Right now, we have someone running a blood sample down to Wilmington. The department there has one of the best labs in the state, and as soon as they get both samples, they’ll run a comparison with Andrea’s blood from the hospital. It’s number one on the priority list, and hopefully, we’ll get a match. Blood type checks out, though. Andrea is A positive, and so was the sample. It’s not as common as O, so it seems likely that he’s our guy.”
“Anything from Morehead? Or the workers at the site?”
“Not so far. Franklin seemed to keep to himself. Haroldson and Teeter couldn’t find anyone who liked the guy, let alone hung out with him. Nobody even knew where he lived. They’ve still got a few more people to talk to, but they’re not very hopeful. As for Burris and Puck, they say that no one can remember seeing Franklin anywhere near Andrea’s apartment. But they’re getting information on other possible suspects, just in case. She tended to associate with some pretty rough guys, and Puck is gathering their names now.”
“Richard Franklin’s our guy,” Jennifer reiterated.
Morrison held up his hands as if he realized that. “We’ll know that for sure in a couple of hours,” he said. “As for Morehead City, Johnson is showing Andrea’s picture around. Good idea to grab that photo, by the way. But so far, nothing. There are a lot of bars and restaurants to cover, and they just got there a little while ago. Evening shifts in the bars and restaurants start about five, so it might take a while.”
Jennifer nodded.
Morrison nodded toward the phone. “Have you been able to track down any information on Jessica yet?”
“No,” she said. “Not yet. That’s my next step.”
The Guardian
Julie sat on the couch with Singer by her side, one ear cocked forward. Mike turned on the television and surfed through the channels, then turned it off. He wandered through the house, making sure the front door was locked, then looked through the window, up and down the street.
Quiet. Completely quiet.
“I think I’ll give Henry a call,” he finally said. “Just to let him know we made it.”
Julie nodded.
The Guardian
Pulling back her hair with both hands, Jennifer turned her attention to the photographs that had been in Richard’s briefcase. Unlike Julie, Jessica appeared to have posed happily for most of them. It also seemed likely that she was indeed his wife; Jennifer noted that in a few pictures there was an engagement ring, which was later joined to a wedding band.
Unfortunately, the photographs couldn’t tell her anything about Jessica herself-if indeed that was her name. None had information written on the back that might reveal a maiden name or even where they were taken. The photographs themselves showed no landmarks, and after a cursory glance through them, Jennifer wondered how to find out more about her.
She searched the Internet for any mention of Jessica Franklin, looking for the obvious-anyone from Colorado or Ohio, for instance-and checked out the sites that posted a photograph. There were less than a handful of those, and none matched the woman she was looking for. It didn’t surprise her. After a divorce, most women would go back to their maiden names. . . .
But what if they hadn’t divorced?
He’d already demonstrated how violent he could be. Jennifer looked at the phone. After hesitating for just a moment, she dialed Detective Cohen in Denver.
“No, no problem,” he said in response to her request. “Since you called, I’ve been thinking about that guy. For some reason, his name sounds familiar. This shouldn’t be too hard to find out. Let me check.”
She waited as he checked the records.
“No,” he finally said. “No murder victims listed under the name of Jessica Franklin, no missing persons, either.”
“Is there any way you could find out anything about their marriage? When it took place, how long they’ve been married?”
“We don’t have that kind of information on hand, but the county might. Your best bet is to look through property tax records, since most homes are owned in both names, and that might help you get started. But you’ll need to find someone who can access the archives. And that’s, of course, assuming they were married in the area.”
“Do you have the number?”
“Not offhand, but let me look it up.”
She heard him pull open a drawer, curse, then call to one of his colleagues for a book.
A moment later he recited the number, and Jennifer was jotting it down as Pete came rushing to her desk.
“Daytona,” he said. “The son of a bitch went to Daytona when he said he went to his mother’s funeral-”
“Daytona? Isn’t that where Julie is from?”
“I don’t remember,” Pete said quickly, “but listen . . . if his mother died, we might be able to find some information about her in a recent obituary. I’ve already accessed the newspaper, and I’m printing up the information now. Pretty smart, huh?”
Jennifer said nothing as she thought about it. “Don’t you think that’s odd?” she asked. “I mean, his mother dying in the same place Julie grew up?”
“Maybe they grew up together.”
Possible, but unlikely, she thought, shaking her head. It just didn’t sound right. Especially considering that there was proof he’d been in Denver four years ago and Julie certainly would have mentioned any common history they shared. But . . . why would he go to Daytona?
Suddenly she paled.
“Do you have a phone number for Julie’s mother?” she asked.
Pete shook his head. “No.”
“Get it. I think we should talk to her.”
“But what about the obituaries?”
“Forget them. We’re not even sure if the story about his mother is true. Let’s get his phone records instead. Maybe we can find out who he called.”
I should have done that from the beginning, she realized suddenly. So much for thinking she knew everything.
“Phone records?”
“From the house, Pete. Get the phone records for Richard Franklin.”
Pete blinked, trying to keep up. “So the obituaries don’t mean anything?”
“No. He didn’t go down there to see his mother. He went down there to learn about Julie. I’d bet my life on it.”
The Guardian
Henry sat with Emma at the kitchen table, his eyes absently following a fly that was bouncing against the glass.
“So they’re sure no one followed them?”
Henry nodded. “That’s what Mike said when he called.”
“And do you think they’re safe?”
“I hope so, but until they catch the SOB, I won’t rest easy.”
“What if they don’t?”
“They’ll find him.”
“But what if they don’t?” Emma asked again. “How long are they going to have to hide there?”
Henry shook his head. “As long as it takes.” He paused. “But I should probably call and let the police know where they are.”
The Guardian
Jennifer absently twirled a strand of her hair as she finished up her conversation with Henry.
“Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I appreciate it. Good-bye.”
So they’d left town, she thought, hanging up. On the one hand, she probably would have done the same thing if she’d been in their situation. On the other hand, they were farther away if they needed help. Though Topsail was still in the county, it was at the southern end-at least forty minutes from Swansboro.
The archived tax records had been a dead end. The house had been listed in Richard Franklin’s name only.
Without anyplace else to turn for information, Jennifer returned her focus to the photographs. Photographs, she knew, could tell her about not only the subject, but the photographer as well. And Richard had been quite good-many of the images were striking, and she found herself staring at them. Richard Franklin, she decided, wasn’t simply a weekend photographer, but someone who viewed photography as art. It made sense, considering the equipment they’d found in his house.
It wasn’t something she had focused on right away, but could that knowledge be helpful? And if so, how? She wasn’t sure yet.
Still, the longer she looked, the more she felt that she was on the right track with this line of thinking. Though she wasn’t sure exactly what the answers were yet-or even the questions, for that matter-as she stared at the photographs and wondered what they implied about Richard, she couldn’t help but feel that she was getting close to something important.
Thirty-six
The Guardian
In Denver, Detective Larry Cohen thought about the phone calls.
Officer Romanello had wanted information on Richard Franklin, and though he’d searched the database without success, he knew he’d heard the name before. As he’d told Jennifer Romanello, the name was familiar.
Could have been anything, of course. A witness in one of the hundreds of cases he’d been involved with; he may even have seen the name in the newspaper at one time or another. Might even have been a stranger he’d bumped into at a party or someone he’d met in passing.
Yet he had a feeling that the name had something to do with police business.
If he hadn’t been arrested, though, what was it?
Rising from his desk, he decided to ask around. Maybe someone else in the department would be able to clear it up for him.