Читать книгу The Hunt - Andrew Welsh-Huggins - Страница 21

12

KAREN FEINBERG HAD EVEN LESS TIME FOR me the next morning. But she agreed to find out the name of Jessica’s last probation officer. I thanked her, got up from my kitchen table, refilled my McCulloh College mug with more coffee, and called the next number on my list.

“Kevin Harding.” The Dispatch reporter answered on the second ring.

“It’s Andy Hayes. Got a minute?”

There was an uncomfortably long pause before he answered. “Not really. I haven’t updated my Twitter feed since I got in.”

“Why I auto-schedule mine first thing every morning. Listen.” I told him what I wanted. There was another pause.

“You know there’s like twenty task forces already looking for this guy?”

“I’m not after the killer. It’s a missing person case. At least I hope she’s just missing.”

“Who is it?”

I told him. I heard the clicking of keys in the background, like several mouthfuls of tiny teeth. “Never heard of her. She’s not on our list.”

“List?”

“A database we created. Missing women in central Ohio who fit the profile.”

“Profile of what?”

“Of our guy’s victims.”

“Which is?”

“Drug-addicted prostitutes in their twenties and thirties. Your person match up?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said. “But her brother only reported her missing last week.”

“That explains it. We’re behind. There’s a lot of missing women. Have you talked to Larry Schwartzbaum, at CPD?”

I told him I’d left messages.

“He’s the guy you want. So what do you need to know?”

“I’m not sure. Anything classified you can tell me about the killer?”

“Like what?”

“Like, I won’t know until you tell me. Like stuff the cops haven’t released. It’s worth lunch. Name your place.”

“Pretty busy. Rain check, OK?”

“OK,” I said, but I’d detected something besides busyness in his voice, and I was pretty sure I knew what it was. “Anything you can tell me over the phone?”

“Maybe one thing. I don’t know how much it’s worth. Except it’s mine alone. I see it anywhere, I know it came from you, and this is the last time we talk.”

I laughed, but he didn’t laugh back. After a second, I said, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll also keep you in mind if Jessica turns into a story.”

“Sure you will. So you’re not going to burn me?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Scout.”

“I swear on a stack of Bibles.”

He snorted. “I’ll go with the first one. OK. Ever heard of a band called Gätling Gün?”

“Sure. From the eighties. The whole ‘umlaut rock’ thing. I had a couple albums. Why?”

“You know that song ‘Pleasure Prince’?”

“Yeah.” Memories surfaced of the raunchy song, background music to several of my romantic encounters as a teen. “What’s it got to do with anything?”

“There’s a girl, LaVonne Brown. The cops are pretty sure she survived this guy. Sometime in early July, between Natasha Rumsey and Lisa Washington. He picked her up late one night off Bryden Road, wouldn’t say where he was going. They’d made a couple of turns when she started to get nervous and tried to back out. Police think he has a lair someplace and Brown realized they were headed that way.”

“A lair?”

“Someplace he takes them first. Maybe keeps them there alive, a day or two, before he strangles them.”

“I take it she didn’t figure out where.”

“Sold to the private eye on a fool’s errand. Anyway, he pulls around the corner, drives into an alley, drags her out of the car, grabs a rope of some kind, and starts choking her. The whole time he’s singing something in this low voice. She’s blacking out when a dog wanders by and starts barking and the guy gets scared. He punches her in the face, gets back in the car, and drives off.”

“She get a look at him?”

“Vague description. White, thick glasses, mustache, ball cap. Cops figured he’s lost the mustache by now.”

I thought of Mr. Patel and his parole officer. Normal looking.

“Singing something,” I said. “‘Pleasure Prince’?”

“You got it.”

I recalled the song’s chorus: Love my touch, love my push, love my Pleasure Prince. Things I had done listening to the song were not my finest moments.

“Creepy,” I said.

“No shit. No one knows if he sings it every time, mainly because there haven’t been any other survivors. He’s been thorough that way. Anyway, homicide desk code-named him Prince, just for yuks.”

“So why haven’t you reported this? The singing.”

“Cops asked me not to.”

“And you agreed?”

“They made a good case. They’re worried it could taint the investigation. Normally, I’d say screw it. If the guy was wearing a Walking Dead T-shirt, let’s put it out there. Nine times out of ten his girlfriend finds the shirt crumpled in the closet, sneaks around the corner to call 911, and they’ve got their man. But this is different. The song makes it ripe for copycatters, which is just what they need right now. Couple johns try to be funny, start warbling while they go at it, and the cops are chasing leads all over town.”

“I appreciate the tip. And no, I won’t burn you. Sure I can’t buy you lunch?”

“Some other time.”

I said goodbye and cut the connection. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. I had no doubt Harding was busy, but I’d never known him to pass up a free meal. The issue was he didn’t want to be seen with me. I guess I couldn’t blame him. A reporter who hired me as his bodyguard for a couple of weeks not long ago ended up murdered on my watch. It wasn’t my fault, exactly, but plenty of people still blamed me, Harding among them.

Although I recalled that hadn’t kept him from running with the inside details of the reporter’s death I passed along when the truth came to light. It was OK. We both had jobs to do.

I was mapping out the distance to Mount Alexandria and Jessica Byrnes’s mom’s house when my phone rang. Caller ID blocked.

“Mr. Hayes? Darlene Bardwell. Have I reached you at a convenient time?”

“Depends what you’re trying to sell me.” I knew I should recognize the name but was unable to place her. Voice confident, with a tinge of huskiness, as if she talked a lot.

“Very good, very good. I’ve heard about your sense of humor. Truthfully, I was hoping I could invite you to lunch. To discuss a case you’re working on. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Case?”

“Jessica Byrnes? Her brother Bill is one of my constituents. He contacted me about his sister. When I talked to him he mentioned you.”

Bardwell. Of course. The congresswoman who’d been going after Reardoor.com and the other personals sites.

I cleared my throat. “We talked, yes,” I said, in my best imitation of a guy who gets calls from congresspersons any old time. “And I am trying to find Jessica. Without much luck right at the moment.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I understand how difficult these cases can be. Especially now, with everything going on . . .” Her voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell if the pause was rehearsed or if she was exuding real emotion.

“As you may know,” she continued, when I didn’t reply, “I sit on the House Special Committee on Human Trafficking. I wanted to speak to you in that capacity about Jessica. And to see if there’s any way my office could assist you. I know it’s late notice—any chance you’re free this afternoon?”

I thought for a second. I’d intended to head to Mount Alexandria to find Jessica’s mom and stepdad. On the other hand, I didn’t get calls like this very often.

“That could work. But what do you mean by assist?”

“Anything I can do to help. This hits home, with Bill in my district and all. His sister is a perfect example of the women we’re trying to help.”

“Have you talked to Columbus police? Or the FBI? They’re the ones who really need the help.”

“I’ve interacted with several stakeholders. The mayor, the chief, the sheriff. The special agent in charge for the region. Pretty much everyone.”

“I’m not sure what I could tell you that you don’t already know. And any assistance should really go to them first.”

“I understand that. And you have my word I’m not bigfooting them. But when I get involved in something, this is standard operating procedure. I try to cover all the bases.”

Standard operating procedure. The phrase I’d used with Bill Byrnes when he questioned why I needed to call his mother. An interesting coincidence. Maybe her way of calling my bluff. And what was there to lose, anyway? A congresswoman could probably help me, and I’d played fair by checking she wasn’t doing an end run around the professionals.

“All right. Where can I meet you?”

“Do you know TAT Ristorante di Famiglia? On James?”

I confessed that I did. We arranged a time.

“Thank you, Mr. Hayes. I look forward to it.”

“Call me Andy.”

“See you in a bit,” she said.

After I hung up I turned to my laptop and Googled Bardwell. I studied the results as I sipped my coffee. She was forty-one, blonde, hair worn in a professional bob, favored dark suits and pearl necklaces. A champion diver in college and a former Miss Ohio. Married, two kids, her husband an ex–TV anchor turned PR consultant. A Republican in her third term, antiabortion but with concerns about climate change. The perfect central Ohio middle-of-the-roader. Also, I noted with interest, on a couple of watch lists for a potential U.S. Senate run next year. Against a Democrat with some semi-serious baggage.

One thing was sure, I thought, clicking on her official bio picture to enlarge it. Whether she could help me or not, I could do worse for a lunch date.