The Guardian
An hour later, Morrison emerged from his office with both the phone records and the information from J. D. Blanchard that Richard Franklin had originally submitted. Included in the fax was his résumé and information about the previous projects on which he’d consulted.
Pete took the phone records; Jennifer put the photographs aside and began studying the information from J. D. Blanchard.
At the top of the résumé, Richard had listed an apartment in Columbus as an address; below that, however, was a gold mine. Whom he’d worked for and when, association lists, previous experience, his educational background.
“Got you,” she whispered. After calling information, she dialed Lentry Construction in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the last company he’d worked for before forming his own corporation.
After identifying herself to the receptionist, she was passed on to Clancy Edwards, the vice president, who’d been with the company almost twenty years.
“Richard Franklin? Sure I remember him,” Edwards offered almost immediately. “He was one hell of a manager here. Really knew his stuff. I wasn’t surprised when he went into business for himself.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Oh, gee . . . let me think about it. He moved to Denver, you know. I guess it must have been eight or nine years ago. We were working on . . . oh, let’s see . . . that would have been in ninety-five, right? I think it was a project out in-”
“Excuse me, Mr. Edwards, but do you know if he was married?”
It took a moment for Edwards to realize she’d asked another question. “Married?”
“Yes, was he married?”
Edwards laughed under his breath. “Not a chance. We were all pretty sure he was gay. . .”
Jennifer pushed the phone closer to her ear, wondering if she’d heard him right. “Wait. Are you sure?”
“Well, not a hundred percent. Not that he ever said anything about it, of course. We didn’t push it, either. A man’s personal business is his own as long as he can do the job. That’s always been the way we work. We do a good job with affirmative action at our company. Always have.”
Jennifer barely listened as he went on.
“Wyoming’s come a long way, but it’s not San Francisco, if you know what I mean, and it wasn’t always easy. But times are changing, even here.”
“Did he get along with everyone?” she suddenly asked, remembering what Jake Blansen had told her on the phone.
“Oh yeah, absolutely. Like I said, he really knew his stuff, and people respected him for it. And he was a nice guy, too. Bought my wife a hat for her birthday. Not that she wears it much anymore. You know how women are about-”
“How about the construction workers? Did he get along with them?”
Caught in midsentence, Clancy Edwards took another moment to catch up.
“Yeah, sure, them, too. Like I said, everyone liked him. A couple might have had a problem with his . . . well, his personal life, but everyone got along with him fine. We were all sorry to see him go.”
When Jennifer said nothing, Edwards seemed to feel the need to fill the silence.
“Can I ask what this is all about? He’s not in trouble, is he? Nothing happened to him, did it?”
Jennifer was still trying to make sense of this new information.
“It’s regarding an investigation. I’m sorry, but I can’t say any more,” she answered. “Do you remember if you ever received a call from an outfit called J. D. Blanchard regarding a reference?”
“I didn’t, but I think the president did. We were happy to give a recommendation. Like I said, he did a real good job. . . .”
Jennifer found her gaze drifting to the photographs of Jessica again. “Do you know if he was into photography as a hobby?”
“Richard? He might have been, but if he was, he never mentioned it to me. Why?”
“No reason,” she said, suddenly running out of questions. “I want to thank you for your time, Mr. Edwards. If I need any more help, would you mind if I call you again?”
“No, not at all. You can reach me until six on most days. We have a lot of respect for law enforcement around here. My grampa used to be the sheriff for . . . oh, gee . . . I guess it must have been twenty years or so. . . .”
Even as he was speaking, Jennifer was hanging up the phone, shaking her head and wondering why none of what she’d just heard seemed to make any sense.
The Guardian
“You were right,” Pete said to Jennifer a few minutes later, looking confused that she’d been right about her instincts while his had been so off base. “There was a number listing a private investigator in Daytona.” He glanced at the note he’d scribbled. “Richard made three calls to an outfit called Croom’s Investigations. No answer when I dialed it, but I left a message. Sounds like a one-man shop. No secretary and a man’s voice on the answering machine.”
“How about Julie’s mother?”
Pete shook his head. “Yeah, I got her number through information, but there was no answer. I’ll try again in a little while. How’s it going on your end?”
Jennifer briefed him on her conversation with Clancy Edwards. When she finished, Pete scratched the back of his neck.
“Gay, huh?” He nodded as if it made sense. “I can see that.”
Jennifer reached for the résumé again, trying to ignore his comment.
“I’m going to try the next company on the list,” she said. “It’s been a long time since he’s worked there, but I’m hopeful that I can talk to somebody who remembers him. After that, I guess I’ll try the bank in Denver where he kept his accounts, or maybe I can get some information from some of his former neighbors. If I can locate any of them, that is.”
“That sounds like it’ll take a while.”
Jennifer nodded, distracted, still thinking about the call to Edwards. “Listen,” she said, scribbling down the basic information from the résumé, “while I’m doing that, see if you can find out anything about his childhood. It says he was born in Seattle, so call the major hospitals and see if you can find the record of his birth certificate. Maybe we can find out more if we hunt down his family. I’ll keep working on this end.”
“Sure.”
“Oh-and keep trying the detective and Julie’s mother. I really want to talk to them.”
“You got it.”
The Guardian
It took more time than he’d imagined it would to find a car, but Richard exited the parking lot of the mall in a green 1994 Pontiac Trans Am. Turning into traffic, he headed for the highway. As far as he could tell, no one was watching him.
It was ridiculous in this day and age, he thought, that people still left their keys in the ignition. Didn’t they realize that someone would take advantage of their stupidity? No, of course not. Those things could never happen to them. It was a world of Pete Gandys out there, blind and lazy morons who left us vulnerable to terrorists, not only with their stupidity, but with their lack of vigilance, their fat, contented ignorance. He would never be so careless, but he wasn’t complaining. He needed a car, and this one would do just fine.
The Guardian
The afternoon wore on.
In the course of her calls, Jennifer had come across one dead end after another. Finding neighbors had been all but impossible-she had to convince a county worker to go through property tax records to find the owners, then find the names through information, all the while hoping they hadn’t moved-and that took more time than she’d thought it would. In the course of four hours, she talked to four people, all of whom had known Richard Franklin at one time. Two were former neighbors, and two were managers who vaguely remembered Richard Franklin from the single year he’d spent working for a company in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Like Edwards, all four had said essentially the same things about Richard Franklin.
He was a nice guy who got along with everyone.
Probably gay.
If his hobby was photography, they didn’t know about it.
Jennifer stood from her desk and made her way across the station to get another cup of coffee.
Who was this guy? she wondered. And why on earth did it feel as if everyone had been describing someone else entirely?
The Guardian
Halfway across the country, Detective Larry Cohen discussed the situation with a few people in the department.
Like him, they recognized the name but couldn’t place it. One had gone so far as to look up the same information that Cohen had, convinced that he must have had a record, only to get exactly the same results.
Frowning, Cohen thought about it as he sat at his desk. Why was the name so familiar? Familiar not only to him, but to everyone here? If he’d never been arrested and no one could remember using him as a witness?
He bolted upright as the answer suddenly came to him. After tapping the keyboard of his computer, he scanned the basic information that came up on his screen. His hunch confirmed, he rose from his seat to find the detective he had to talk to.
The Guardian
At his desk, Pete was having more luck. He’d finished collecting the information on the early period of Richard’s life, none of which was difficult to find. Feeling rather proud, he was heading over to fill Jennifer in when her phone rang. She held up a finger for Pete to wait until she was finished.
“Swansboro Police Department,” Jennifer said, “Officer Romanello speaking.”
She heard a throat clear on the other end.
“This is Detective Cohen from Denver.”
Jennifer sat up. “Oh . . . hey. Did you find anything?”
“Sort of. After your call, I kept thinking how familiar the name Richard Franklin sounded, so I asked around the department before it finally hit me where I’d heard it before.” He paused. “After that, one of the other detectives here told me something rather interesting. It concerned a case he investigated four years ago about a missing person.”
Jennifer reached for her pen. “Jessica Franklin?”
Pete glanced at Jennifer when he heard Jessica’s name.
“No. Not about Jessica.”
“Then who are you talking about?”
“Richard Franklin. The guy you called me about.”
Jennifer paused. “What are you trying to say?”
“Richard Franklin,” Detective Cohen said slowly. “He’s the missing person.”
“But he’s here.”
“I understand that. But four years ago, he vanished. He didn’t show up at work one day, and after a week or so, his secretary finally contacted us. I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation. From all appearances, he said it looked like the guy suddenly took off. Clothes were on the bed, and the drawers looked rifled through. Two suitcases were missing-his secretary told us they were the ones he always used on business-and his car was gone, too. He’d made a cash withdrawal from an ATM the last day that anyone saw him.”
“He ran?”
“Seemed so.”
“Why?”
“That’s what the detective couldn’t figure out. From the interviews with Franklin’s acquaintances, no one could figure it out. They said he wasn’t the type who would simply take off and leave his business behind. No one could understand it.”
“And there wasn’t any legal trouble?”
“None that the detective could find. There weren’t any lawsuits pending, and as I told you before, he wasn’t in any trouble with us. It’s like he simply decided to start over.”
It was the same thought Jennifer had had when she’d seen his credit report, she remembered.
“Why didn’t his family report it?”
“Well, that’s the thing. There really wasn’t any family to speak of. His father was deceased, he had no siblings, and his mother was in a nursing home and suffering from dementia.”
Jennifer considered the implications. “Do you have any information you could send me on the case?”
“Sure. I’ve already pulled the file. I can FedEx it tomorrow after I make copies.”
“Is there any way you could fax it over?”
“It’s a thick file,” he said. “It’ll take at least an hour to get it all to you.”
“Please,” she said. “I’m probably going to be here all night, anyway.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can do that. Give me your fax number again.”
The Guardian
Beyond the window above the kitchen table in Henry’s beach house, the ocean was glowing orange, as if a fire had been set beneath the surface. As the last traces of the day began to vanish, the kitchen slowly grew dimmer. The overhead light buzzed with a fluorescent hum.
Mike moved close to Julie as she watched Singer on the beach. He was lying in the sand, ears up, head swiveling occasionally from side to side.
“Are you ready to eat yet?” he asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
Mike nodded. “How’s Singer doing?”
“He’s fine.”
“No one’s out there, you know,” Mike said. “Singer would let us know.”
Julie nodded, then leaned into Mike as he slipped his arm around her.
The Guardian
Morrison left his office, striding toward Jennifer and Pete.
“It’s Andrea Radley’s blood all right. Just got off the phone with the lab and they confirmed it. No doubt about it.”
Jennifer barely heard him; instead, she was staring at the first page that had come through the fax from Denver.
“And Johnson found a witness,” Morrison went on. “Turns out that one of the bartenders at Mosquito Grove remembered Andrea from the other night. Gave a perfect description of Richard Franklin. Said the guy was a real jerk.”
Jennifer was still staring at the first page from the fax, ignoring the other pages as they came through.