Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels Page 19

  Bastard was fond of his Taser.

  The suspension led to a hearing, which led to his eventual dismissal. The victim—who had two prior convictions for aggravated assault—was suing the department, and so was Sean Hanrahan, for wrongful termination. He claimed that the Tasering was justified because the guy in cuffs had headbutted him, making him groggy, and he was afraid the guy was about to run away. The victim said, “That’s a crock. If I’d headbutted him, the dude would still be sleeping it off.” There was no dash-cam video of the incident.

  My phone vibrated.

  A text from Mia: She went out for lunch. Brought food back to office.

  I replied: Stay on her. Get my voicemail?

  She said: Yes. Vry interesting. What r u doing?

  Me: Researching Sean H. Has a history of Taser abuse.

  Mia: Keep me posted.

  I went back to my research, but my phone interrupted me again, this time with an incoming call. I knew it wasn’t Mia, because the personalized ringtone I’d selected for her long ago was “Brick House” by the Commodores, whereas this was just a generic tone. I checked the caller I.D. No name came up. But I recognized the number.

  Ruelas.

  I was torn. Maybe he had something good to tell me. Or very possibly not. Answer or no? I chose no. He surprised me by not leaving a voicemail. Now I was curious as hell.

  I kept looking but didn’t find anything else useful about Sean Hanrahan, so I tried to learn more about Erica Kerwick. The last time I’d checked her Facebook page, her privacy settings were tight. Now I couldn’t find her page at all. She’d deactivated it or changed the settings. Didn’t want anyone snooping around.

  My phone rang again. Ruelas for a second time. No voicemail. Damn.

  I did find Erica Kerwick on LinkedIn. Her employment history said she’d worked for PAH, Inc. for eighteen years, just as Patrick Hanrahan had said. Prior to that, she’d worked briefly at a travel agency in Austin. She’d attended Austin High School, followed by the University of Texas. Didn’t list the dates she’d graduated from either.

  I felt like I was fumbling around. What was I searching for? Was I likely to find it online? I sat back and thought for a moment.

  Someone had entered the Hanrahan home while Kathleen was sleeping and taken Tracy. I was guessing that Brian Pierce was the only person on that list who probably didn’t do it. No, they’d send someone Tracy knew and trusted.

  Patrick Hanrahan wouldn’t do it himself, because once Tracy went missing, his actions beforehand would be scrutinized endlessly. He’d need an airtight alibi.

  That left Sean Hanrahan or Erica Kerwick. My money was on Erica, because she was like a regular part of the family, even if Kathleen hated her guts. Erica took part in Hanrahan family events, at least occasionally. She saw Tracy on a fairly frequent basis and had almost certainly developed a bond with her. If Aunt Erica suddenly arrived at the Hanrahan house and told Tracy it was time to go, Tracy would go. Okay, then what?

  Erica takes Tracy directly to Brian Pierce’s house? Probably. Was Sean Hanrahan already there? No way of knowing, but I assumed so. How would Tracy react to this sudden change, with neither parent around? Again, no way of knowing. Some kids would freak out, while other kids were happy just about anywhere, with just about anyone. But it didn’t really matter whether Tracy was upset or not, did it? She had to go along, one way or the other.

  What came next? They kept her at Pierce’s house, but they moved her later. And somebody killed Pierce, for some unknown reason. Maybe Pierce was starting to have a hard time with the situation, and was about to blow it for all of them. Maybe he was ready to take Tracy back to her mom, and Patrick Hanrahan wouldn’t hear of it. And his brother—the tough cop with a history of violence—took care of the situation.

  Maybe.

  None of that mattered, really. The only thing that mattered was figuring out where Tracy was now.

  Damn phone rang for a third time, but this time I heard “Brick House.” Mia. I took the call.

  “What’s up?”

  “You talk to Ruelas?” Anxiety in her voice.

  “No. He called you?”

  “Just now. They found Pierce.”

  41

  The lead detective had been on the job long enough to be realistic, if not quite cynical. Big case with lots of publicity meant hundreds of leads, and sometimes thousands. Most of them were bullshit, of course.

  They had to be.

  But every last one had to be checked out.

  So you talk to each person claiming to have seen the missing person—in this case, a little girl—and hear what they have to say. Some of them, it takes about half a minute to rule them out. When someone claims the girl was snatched by a secret cabal of neo-Nazis headed by George Clooney, all you can do is say thanks, we’ll look into it. Sometimes you find yourself actually wanting the caller to be an obvious head case, because then he or she wouldn’t waste any more of your time.

  Conversely, the rational, reasonable, credible callers ate up resources and man-hours. When someone says, “I’m not positive it was her, but it sure looked like her,” well, hell, you couldn’t just let that go. Too many cases were solved as the result of calls like that.

  So one of your team members takes each call and starts asking questions, looking for cracks in what this person is telling you. Which city are you calling from? What day did this happen? What time? If the missing person was supposedly seen in Buffalo on Wednesday at three o’clock, but you had her on video in Tucson at about the same time, you could hang up. How tall was she? Four feet? How sure are you about that? Nope. This missing girl is about a foot shorter than that. On and on, like that. How long was her hair? Weight? Color of her eyes? Scars? Type and color of clothes? How far away were you? Did you speak to her? Who was she with? Overhear any conversation? Did you hear any names?

  Little by little, you whittle away. Find a fatal flaw that means this is another dead end, and you say, “We certainly appreciate your call. We’ll let you know if we learn anything.” And that was it. On to the next one.

  But some of the credible calls can’t be dismissed that easily, so they make it past the initial screening. You have to expend even more time and resources on them.

  Like this McDonald’s lady.

  Says she saw a little girl earlier today. Description was spot on. Right age, height, weight, hair color, et cetera. Says the girl was with a white male, approximately 25 to 30 years old. Average height and weight. Brown hair. Clean shaven. Nothing particularly memorable about the guy. Nothing that raised any red flags, except that the little girl looked familiar. She looked like the missing girl. So the lady had written down the man’s license plate number, just in case. And later, when she got home, she pulled up the missing girl’s photo on the Internet.

  And oh, Lord, she immediately knew she’d been right.

  Are you positive? “Yes, it was her. I have no doubt about it at all.”

  How many times had he heard that? Simple enough in a situation like this to run the plate number and get a name. Then run the name and see who you’re dealing with.

  So the detective did that, and what he learned made him wonder—without getting unduly excited about it—if maybe he’d found a needle in the haystack. Because this guy, despite his appearances, wasn’t as ordinary as he looked.

  His name was Daniel Wayne Bertram. Twenty-seven years old. Record was almost spotless. Almost. But that one entry sure raised a red flag.

  Three years earlier, Bertram had been arrested for public lewdness. A sex crime. Worth calling up the file and digging deeper. And the detective saw that the crime had taken place at a public swimming pool. The report said Bertram had sat just so, purposefully, with his legs splayed open, and he had tugged his suit over in a way that would allow a woman nearby to get a look at his genitalia. Had done it several times, until the complainant “knew it wasn’t an accident.” What she had done then—oh, man, why couldn’t every complainant be as clever as
this one?—was videotape the son of a bitch.

  And the woman had been especially pissed off about it, because she wasn’t alone. Her four-year-old daughter had been with her.

  42

  “Was he still dead?” I said.

  “That’s not funny, Roy.”

  “It’s a little funny.” But, at the same time, I found myself looking over at my front door to make sure I’d remembered to lock the deadbolt.

  She said, “I’d say you were right, that Ruelas is thinking of you as a suspect.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Yeah. All he said was he wanted to talk to you. He asked where you were.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t know.”

  My doorbell rang. I can’t tell you how quickly my heart sank when I heard that. I was hoping I’d have a little more time. “Roy?”

  I got up quietly and walked softly into the bedroom.

  “Roy?”

  “Yeah?” I whispered.

  “Was that your doorbell?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Hold on a sec.” One window in the bedroom faced the parking area in front of my apartment. I peeked around the edges of the blinds and saw a patrol car parked along the red-curbed no-parking zone. “Cops are here,” I said. I sat on the edge of the bed. “Does Ruelas know I’m driving your car?”

  “No.”

  “If you talk to him again, definitely don’t tell him that.”

  I was glad I had parked Mia’s Mustang in the far reaches of the lot so it wouldn’t get dinged. Less noticeable over there. Meanwhile, the cop at my door had probably been told to look for the van.

  “I’m not an idiot. What are you going to do, Roy?”

  “Not much I can do, for the moment.” The doorbell rang again.

  “Could they have gotten a warrant?”

  “Search warrant or arrest warrant?”

  “Either one.”

  “With what probable cause? I’m betting Ruelas just wants to grill me.”

  “Maybe you should talk to him.”

  “Not in person. No way. Not right now. Not gonna let that buffoon waste my time. We’re too close to figuring this out.”

  “Honestly, Roy, I don’t feel close.”

  I heard a car door close. I peeked out the window and watched as the patrol car pulled away.

  I said, “Cops just left. For the moment, anyway.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “That you don’t feel close to solving this? I don’t understand why you’d say that.”

  “We have no idea where Tracy is. They could’ve taken her anywhere.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about that. At this point, we have to conclude that Tracy is with Sean Hanrahan, right?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “I guess.”

  “So think about this. If you were him, would you attempt to travel a great distance—even by car—in the company of the most sought-after missing person in the nation? A huge portion of the population has seen photos of Tracy.”

  I gave her a few seconds to mull it over.

  “No,” she said. “I’d hole up somewhere. That’s what they were doing at Pierce’s.”

  “Exactly, but something went wrong and Pierce ended up dead. So where did they go?”

  I wanted to get her spirits back up. Answering questions—even in the form of informed conjecture—would make her realize we were close.

  “I wouldn’t go to a hotel or motel,” she said. “Too easy to get spotted. Plus, you can’t check in anywhere nowadays with just cash, so he’d be leaving a paper trail that might be used as evidence later, or to track him down if they start looking for him. Hey, what about—” She stopped.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about the photos we saw on Facebook. The ones taken at the Hanrahans’ place on South Padre Island. If they own a vacation place down there, that might be a good place to hide. But we already agreed that Sean Hanrahan wouldn’t want to drive a long distance, and that’s, what, six hours?”

  “If you don’t speed, yeah, about that. It’s tempting to consider, but I think you’re right. Too far.”

  “Still. If he drove after sundown, so nobody could see inside the car…”

  “All it would take is one simple traffic stop and he’s screwed. I just don’t think they’d risk it.”

  “But we’re guessing.”

  “Bottom line, yeah, we’re guessing. That’s all we can do, short of driving down there.”

  The line went quiet as we both considered other possibilities.

  Mia said, “What if there’s a fifth person involved? Someone we don’t know about?”

  “I guess it’s possible, but I don’t know who it would be. And right now, we don’t have any reason to think there’s a fifth.”

  “Well, I’m running out of ideas.”

  “Can you stay on Erica Kerwick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If anyone’s going to lead us to Sean Hanrahan, it’s her, not Patrick.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’d come spell you, but I think it’s best if I keep my distance now, considering.”

  “Are you going to go anywhere?”

  “You mean to avoid the cops, or to look for Sean Hanrahan?”

  “Either.”

  “Don’t know yet. Wouldn’t know where to go. The cops can’t just break into my apartment without a warrant. In fact, I could answer the door and tell them I’m not interested in talking. But I think I’d rather not let them know where I am.”

  “What should I do if Ruelas calls again?”

  “Voicemail. No, wait. Don’t worry, he won’t call you again.”

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  Call him back. That’s what I was going to do.

  But first, I dug around on YouTube until I found a video that featured airport announcements. Really. Who would upload that sort of crap? I didn’t really care, to be honest. I simply queued it up, with the sound turned low, then I dialed Ruelas and he answered on the first ring.

  “Thanks for getting in touch. Have you spoken to Mia?” The pseudo-cordial patter of a bureaucrat on autopilot. Not an asshole this time.

  “We use smoke signals.”

  “I’m assuming she’s told you that Brian Pierce was found dead.”

  “She did.”

  “Listen—where are you right now?”

  “At the gym, working my pecs. I am so jacked. I’m huge, bro.”

  “Really, where are you?”

  “Why?”

  “I think we should talk about this. Maybe you can help me figure some things out.”

  “Yeah, that’s you. Always looking for help from guys like me. Because you’re so humble and you understand your limitations.”

  It didn’t faze him in the least. “Can we meet?”

  “We can talk now.”

  “If we could just sit down for a few minutes and—”

  “We can talk now. That’s the only way it’s going to happen. Take it or leave it. I don’t have much time.”

  I’ll admit I was taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in giving him a hard time. And I just knew the faint airport sounds were driving him crazy.

  He sighed—which meant he was shedding the nice-guy persona—and said, “I understand you had a little chat with Kathleen Hanrahan.”

  “I did. Did she call you?”

  “She’s the one who found Pierce’s body. Sounds like you got her all hyped up about Pierce, then sent her over to his house. That how it happened?”

  “Nope. What else you want to know?”

  “She rammed her damn SUV through Pierce’s gate and went stomping all over the crime scene. Drunk as hell. Lucky she didn’t kill anybody along the way. Nearly incoherent, but she did manage to tell us that
you told her Tracy was at Pierce’s house.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I was almost positive I saw Tracy there on Wednesday of last week. I didn’t say anything about Tracy being there now. In fact, I told her you searched the place and didn’t find anything. Has she told you Patrick Hanrahan had an affair with Erica Kerwick, and that she thinks the affair is still going on?”

  The silence told me I’d taken him by surprise, and it made me realize just how reluctant Kathleen was to have the affair become public knowledge. Too ashamed or embarrassed, or simply too much pride. But I had no problem divulging these details to Ruelas. Maybe the information would help him find Tracy. I didn’t care who found her, as long as she was found.

  When Ruelas recovered, he ignored what I’d just told him and said, “Have you ever been to Brian Pierce’s house?”

  “Well, he did host a Tupperware party once.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “You know I have. I told you I saw Tracy Turner there.”

  “No, I mean actually on the property. Or inside the house.”

  “No comment. But I can tell you that I didn’t kill Pierce. That’s what you’re wondering.”

  “How do you know someone killed him? He could have died naturally.”

  “Because you just called it a ‘crime scene.’ Are we really going to play these games? I understand that I’m an obvious suspect, but strike me from the list or you’ll be wasting your time.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Not until I get some answers.”

  I was getting frustrated. All of those old buried feelings—cops not believing what I was telling them—were coming back. “Jesus, I know you’re not that dumb. You’re an asshole, for sure, but you’re not an idiot. I didn’t kill Pierce. I know you know that. So move on. Find Sean Hanrahan. Surely you’ve figured that part out by now. You know about Patrick’s brother and why he was fired. You figured out he’s the guy in the video I showed you. Find Sean Hanrahan and you’ll find the girl. Not only that, you’ll be a step closer to knowing who killed Pierce.”