CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

DELIA

The hurry part grinds to a halt when I receive a call from the Chief’s assistant. The press conference will start at one-thirty. Be there.

We comply, arriving early enough to brief Chief Black in his office. His eyes widen as he slides the photos out of the manila envelope. I watch his mouth open, close, open again. “Anybody else see these?”

“Donald Grogan, for sure,” I reply.

“I mean does anyone else know you found them?” "C’mon, Chief, you think we phoned Katie Burke?”

“No, no.” He shoves the photos back inside the envelope, but continues to stare down at his desk. Finally, he says, “They never existed, right? The photos?”

“Fine with me, but you better take a close look inside his computer. Or somehow make it disappear. Because that’s where they were before he printed them out.”

The press conference begins an hour late, then continues for more than an hour. On our part, the law enforcement end, we give up nothing. The FBI is investigating. The Baxter Police Department is investigating. We’re on the hunt, but so sorry, we cannot supply you with a single detail. For obvious reasons.

Cynthia Bradford delivers the customary plea for her child’s release. As she steps to the microphone, it’s obvious that the days have taken their toll. The composed woman I first met has been replaced by a frightened mother having to face the possibility that she may never see her daughter again. She’s dressed neatly, her makeup smoothly applied, the small pearls in her ears appropriate to the occasion. But her swollen eyelids, her bloodshot eyes, betray her. As do the slope of her shoulders and the odd way she pauses for breath, the words coming from her mouth obviously written out beforehand. On the advice, I assume, of her FBI handlers.

Christopher Bradford stands behind his wife, seeming bewildered and entirely out of place. I read his expression as intimidated, by the crowd of reporters that includes NBC and FOX, and by the situation itself. Sherman stands beside his father, so obviously distressed that I want to reach out, to draw him close, to hug him. That’s not what he wants and I know it. Sherman wants his sister back. At one point, Paolo described the girl as her brother’s spirit-guide.

I’m standing off to one side when I should be in the field, watching Cynthia respond to moronic questions she can’t possibly answer. The reporters want her to provide details the FBI and the Baxter PD have already declared off limits. Katie Burke is especially persistent and I know we’ll see her face on the local news tonight, appearing earnest.

Just when I decide the party will never end, it ends. I wait a few minutes, until Cynthia is off by herself, then approach her. I don’t have much to say, but I need to say it.

“We’re looking, Mrs. Bradford. I want you to know. We’re looking.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

I skip out before Katie Burke’s able to corner me. I know she’ll ask me a dozen questions that I’ll refuse to answer. I also know that my refusal will become part of the story. Vern’s waiting for me in the parking lot behind the station house. The obvious first step in identifying Quentin and the role he’s played in the kidnapping, if any, is a visit to Palacio. That won’t happen right away. Palacio’s manager, Zane Yarmouth, is an ex-con with a serious attitude when it comes to cops. Not only will he not cooperate, his employees, who fear him, won’t cooperate. I have no leverage, either, because Palacio doesn’t tolerate drug use, much less drug dealing.

Fortunately, Yarmouth has a boss, the bar’s owner, an old man named Zack Butler. Butler’s the source of many rumors. He was formerly a gangster who made so much money he was able to quit the game. Or he’s still a gangster, but too slick and too high up to be caught. Or he was never a gangster, his fortune tied to the millions he inherited from an unknown forebear. All true, or none, it doesn’t matter to me because the certainty is that Zack Butler’s heavily invested in the new Baxter. Discreetly aiding my crusade is to his advantage and he’s reached out to guide me on several occasions.

I’m not fool enough to show up at Zack’s and find him with people who can’t know about our relationship. I call him on the very private number he provided at our first meeting. Zack’s seriously ill with emphysema. He rarely leaves his home and requires care around the clock. When he answers, his voice is very soft, almost a whisper.

“Detective . . .”

“Captain now, Zack.”

“Congratulations. So, what can I do for you?”

“You ever hear of a man named Quentin, probably a local?”

“Never.”

“Well, I need to find him and your man at Palacio can help.”

Zack starts to laugh, chokes for a second, then takes the time to draw a pair of noisy breaths. “That man wouldn’t be Zane Yarmouth, would it?”

“It would.”

“Zane hates cops. He’d rather bite off his tongue than help you.”

“Yarmouth isn’t the boss, Zack. You are.”

Vern and I are wearing street clothes when we stroll into Palacio forty minutes later. The elaborately decorated interior reflects a corn-belt designer’s fantasy of an Italian palace. Murals on three walls alternately reveal gods in battle and elaborate feasts with bare-breasted women. The fourth wall, the wall in back, is given over to the Roman circus. Gladiators, snarling animals, racing chariots, cheering spectators, an emperor with his thumb turned down.

Zane Yarmouth stands behind a black faux-marble bar. He’s what locals describe as country strong. As tall as Vern, he’s wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt that exposes muscles that remind me of braided rope. Zane’s not happy to see us and his slash of a mouth tightens until his lips vanish. We approach him nonetheless, relaxed, seeking eye contact he refuses to make.

“Got some questions for ya, Zane.” Vern takes the lead, as he usually does with locals. “About somebody you know.”

“Ask ‘em.”

“We’re lookin’ for a drug dealer named Quentin . . .”

Zane interrupts. “Now, see, that’s bullshit right there. Quentin Durwood ain’t no dealer. The asshole’s a boy tryin’ to be a man. All mouth.”

“Talks big, does he?”

“Dumb, too. Talks big and dumb.”

“So how do you know him?”

“He ain’t a friend, if that’s what you’re getting to. The boy started comin’ round about a year ago. He’s a regular now.”

“You see him recently?”

“No, come to think on it. Ain’t seen him for two weeks.”

“What about friends? Quentin have any friends?”

Zane takes a minute to think it over. Should he shut down at this point? Wait us out? Or send us off to annoy someone else?

“Quentin, he has a thing for older women. Older than him anyway.”

“Anyone special?”

“Giselle Omansky. They were tight for a long time. Ain’t seen her for a while, either, but I heard they broke up and she wasn’t real happy with how it went down.”

Off and running. Zane may not have been happy about cooperating, but he didn’t set off my bullshit detector. Giselle Omansky isn’t hard to find in any event. She lives at the address on her driver’s license and opens her door a few seconds after I ring the bell. When I flash my badge, she smiles. When I ask her about Quentin, she laughs. Two minutes later, I’m in her tidy kitchen, sipping hot coffee. Vern’s outside, my fear being that he’ll inhibit a woman talking about her lover. We’re better off with girl to girl. At the same time, our phones are connected and he’s listening to every word.

“Lost my husband to Covid more than a year ago,” she tells me. “Thought I’d die myself, at that point. That’s how much I loved him. But I lived on, the way folk do, and you could say I’ve run a little wild since then. Not drugs, though. Seen too many relatives go down those tubes.”

Giselle’s honey-blond hair is augmented by extensions. She has a generous body that compliments a strong chin, and I’m reading self-sufficiency in her body and her attitude. A woman who can take care of herself.

“I guess you could say I got lucky with Quentin. Mostly I keep away from younger men. They expect some kind of bullshit gratitude for their attentions, not to mention outright gifts. Meanwhile, most of ‘em can’t hold out for ten minutes.”

“Quentin was different?”

“Yeah, I was what Quentin wanted, not what he settled for after a few drinks. Then the bitch . . .” Giselle nibbles at her lower lip as she rethinks her response. “Look, I didn’t have a hold on Quentin, so I can’t complain. We were good for each other, yeah, but then he found that Russian bitch and moved on. Skinny little thing from what I heard.”

“What about Quentin’s address? Do you know where he lives?”

“Sure do, but you’re not gonna find him there. Quentin ain’t been around for more than a week.”

“I still need to check it out. And I’d appreciate a list of his friends and acquaintances. And where he worked.”

“Never worked, far as I know, but I can help you out with his friends. Believe me, the list ain’t all that long. He mostly hung out with the regulars at Palacio.”

That’s enough for me, but as I get up to leave, Giselle lays a hand on my arm. “Saw how you carried that girl away from the fire,” she tells me. “Never was prouder of this city, Captain, and I ain’t forgettin’. Nor anyone else I know. You want to, you can run for mayor.”

And wouldn’t Mayor Venn be happy to hear that.

It’s after five when I rejoin Vern out front. Ordinarily, we’d begin an intensive hunt for Quentin and his girlfriend by questioning his neighbors, maybe showing the photo taken at the Prairie Hotel. As it is, we settle for a drive past Quentin’s obviously empty home. Giselle didn’t ask why the cops wanted to find him, but others will, and the more civilians we interview, the more likely that rumors will spread. If they should reach Katie Burke or Basil Ulrich, the consequences are obvious enough.

“I think we should call it a night, Delia. Quentin and his older girlfriend? What does it prove?”

“Especially when the original tip came from a pathological liar trying to stay out of jail. But the bit about the ‘Russian bitch’ has my attention. And it doesn’t want to let go.”

“Like we’re close—I can feel it—but close may be the worst place for Elizabeth Bradford. My instincts? Same as always. Go for the touchdown. But there’s the kidnappers’ established pattern. The victims are released . . .”

I jump in before he can finish the sentence. “Except for one.”

“Maybe he was killed trying to escape. Or died of a heart attack or a stroke before the ransom was paid. The point is that releasing victims guarantees payment in the future. That’s how they’re playing the game.”

The conversation is maddening. Calculate the odds? Place your bet? Elizabeth Bradford isn’t a horse running a race. If we investigate and it goes wrong, it’s not me and Vern who’ll pay the price.

“Elizabeth told her mother about a delay,” I finally decide. “One or two days. So, I’m thinking we have too much wiggle room to make a snap decision. Let’s call it a night. I’ll arrange to get Caitlin in the House early tomorrow, see if we can turn up something on Quentin before we take the next step. In fact, maybe the magic computer will show us what that next step should be.”

I arrive home at six, bearing the promised pizza. I’m half expecting to find Zoe and Emmaline in residence. Instead, I’m greeted by Paolo Yoma. Paolo’s leaning against a Mercedes SUV, the one I last saw in the Bradfords’ driveway.

“I’m acting as Sherman’s security this afternoon.” He raises his hand, palms out, and smiles. “Sherman’s inside.”

“And what exactly is Sherman Bradford doing at my personal residence? Who authorized him to come to my home unannounced?”

“Wasn’t me, Captain.”

“Then who ordered you to drive him?”

“That would be his mother.”

I have a lot more to say—like how did Cynthia Bradford discover my unlisted address—but I’ll save that one for later. Paolo will only take me in a circle that comes back on itself. “Alright, Paolo. Let it go for now. Did you check out the people still in the house when Elizabeth snuck out?”

“I did. The staff’s been with the family for decades, but the employment records of the security personnel are very incomplete. Remember, they’re supplied by a private contractor. That would be Kentucky Security Services. If more extensive files exist, Kentucky Services has them.”

The sun is setting behind Paolo, turning the heavy, advancing clouds a smoldering crimson. The weather’s about to change, our late summer heat wave to finally break. “If the inside informant isn’t one of the staff, it must be one of the security guards. Keep looking, Paolo. Find an angle.”

At each of the many checkups that marked his first five years, my son, Danny, was at the top end of the height and weight charts. You might describe his build as sturdy or robust, and his dedication to athletics has only added to that effect. Sherman Bradford seems diminished in Danny’s company, made even more fragile, his feigned arrogance vanquished. Has he ever had a friend who wasn’t a peer? How about a friend with a lesbian cop for a mom? But he’s sitting at the kitchen table where we take our meals, he and Danny. They’re huddled shoulder to shoulder, staring at a tablet. I carry the pizza to the kitchen counter, lay out four plates, place a slice of mushroom pizza on the closest plate.

“Sherman, carry this out to Paolo.”

“Should I ask him to come inside.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Come in by yourself.”

I wait until Sherman passes through the door, then address my son. “What am I dealing with, Danny? Is the kid off the wall?”

“That’s what I figured when he showed up.” Danny grins. “I was gonna kick him out, but he’s a Bradford, right, and his sister’s been kidnapped. So I listened and what he’s talking about makes sense. Some, anyway.”

Sherman returns a couple of minutes later, still anxious. I fill three plates with pizza, two slices each, and carry them to the table, finally returning to the kitchen for a pitcher of limeade in the refrigerator. The pitcher’s resting beside the salad I asked Danny to make, but my maternal instincts, meager to begin with, are exhausted for the moment. I bring the pitcher and three glasses to the table and fill them.

“Okay, Sherman, let’s hear it. Why did you show up at my home unannounced?”

Sherman looks at me, head tilted. Am I criticizing him? Fooling around? He’s not sure, and I can see why his sister protects him. The boy’s incredibly vulnerable.

“It’s the first call Elizabeth made. You know, where she says that if the ransom isn’t paid, they’ll dump her body next to some highway where it’s sure to be found?”

Again, that puzzled look. I motion for him to continue and he draws a quick breath. “I didn’t get it at first, but doesn’t that part about where it’s sure to be found seem odd? And don’t think Elizabeth went with the first words that popped into her head. That’s not her. But if the kidnappers did . . . you know . . . did kill her, wouldn’t they bury her where she’d never be found? You can find lots of forensic evidence on bodies. Plus, it’s really hard to get a conviction when there’s no body.”

Sherman grinds to a halt and I look at Danny. His expression is almost protective. “It does seem kind of weird,” he says. “If she thought it through, I mean. Because Sherman’s right. They wouldn’t leave her body where it was sure to be found. It’s just too stupid.”

It’s my turn—both kids are looking at me—and I lead with a scenario that must be considered. “First thing, it’s possible the message was written by her kidnappers and she read it word for word. But let’s assume you’re right and Elizabeth wanted to send a message. What do you think . . .” It came to me then, and I almost spoke the name of the murdered Deputy aloud. Only the eager expressions on the two young faces at the table stayed me. “What was the message? What did she want us to know?”

“The Deputy?” Sherman’s holding a forgotten slice of pizza in his left hand. “The one who was murdered on Sunday night?”

“He means Deputy Sheriff York, Mom. We’ve been looking through the online coverage in the Bugle. The Deputy was killed sometime after four o’clock in the morning. So, if Elizabeth was taken around three-thirty, she could have been in Maryville County after four.”

Sherman gives his slice a little wave, then cuts in. “A kidnapping victim in your car? That’s a motive, Captain.” He pauses for a second before adding, “And the item that links it together? The Deputy’s body was found alongside State Highway 14.”

I finally take a look at the map on Sherman’s tablet. It’s of Maryville County with Highway 14 centered. I don’t have to back off or zoom in because the area’s a clone of every county surrounding Baxter. Farms and ranches, farms and ranches, farms and ranches.

Homes in Maryville County are widely separated, sometimes by miles. Worse yet, farms and ranches have been steadily growing larger for almost a century, the small farms disappearing. But not the homes that once sheltered the farm families who moved on, or the weathered barns and outbuildings. I’m not contemplating a needle in a haystack. I’m looking at a hundred haystacks surrounded by a million acres of corn.

“What you’ve put together is intriguing,” I tell Sherman, “and you surely know your sister a lot better than we do. So tomorrow morning I’ll call Sheriff Martin, see what’s up with his investigation. Maybe he’s already got a suspect. Maybe there are details I don’t know about. For now, though, it’s pizza time. So eat up, kids.”

I head for the kitchen and the salad in the refrigerator, but decide to call Zoe as I lay it out. She answers on the second ring, her tone a lot fresher than I’m feeling at the moment.

“Hi, Delia. What’s going on?”

I glance back at the two kids. “Just an evening at home, me, Danny, and the paperwork I didn’t get to this afternoon. How’s Emmaline?”

“Better, I think, though she’s still suspicious. Most likely, she’s expecting all this bounty to vanish. She’s just waiting. But I’m at Vern and Lillian’s. They want to adopt Emmaline.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Didn’t you want to foster Emmaline?”

“That really doesn’t matter. I’m a professional, Delia. It’s my job to do what’s best for the child.”

I carry the salad to the table where the two boys are chatting away, then excuse myself. Paolo Yoma’s still outside and I want a short talk with him. He’s standing beside the car when I come through the door, leaning on a fender. His empty plate’s lying on the hood.

“Tell me something, Paolo. Did you set this up? Was bringing Sherman to my house your idea?”

“No way.”

“But you could have refused.”

Yoma flushes. I’ve finally gotten to the guy. “Sherman’s interpretation makes a lot of sense to me. I thought you needed to hear it. So, yeah, I could have come to your office tomorrow morning, but the boy . . . Sherman loves his sister as much as he loves his mother. Maybe more. And he’s terrified, Captain. I’m hoping that personally taking part will ease his fears, at least a bit.”

“You could have brought him to my office tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t that be one too many visits from the Bradford family? If you’re trying to keep any investigation quiet?”

“What makes you think we’re investigating? No, scratch that.” I pause to wait for a car to pass, a Dodge Charger blaring hip-hop loud enough to loosen the wax in my ears. “What are you doing in Baxter, Paolo? Why are you here?”

“Simple, I’m here to estimate the site-security costs for the demolition phase of the project. If not for the kidnapping, I’d already be out of the country.”

“Doing what?”

“The Bradford Group’s landed a construction project on a remote island in Malaysia. We’re building an airport from scratch. The final plans have been drawn up, which means I can start work on the security arrangements. For the site and for any foreign nationals working the site.”

“It’s that dangerous?”

“The threat is ongoing, Captain, but we’ve arranged military protection. A Malaysian special-forces platoon normally stationed at the other end of the country will handle perimeter security.”

“What, no cameras?”

Yoma laughs. “Cameras won’t protect you against armed guerillas, or even saboteurs. But, please, don’t tell Henry Bradford.”

As I pick up Yoma’s plate, I realize that I like the guy. The end result of a determined charm offensive? Maybe so, but I’ve also realized that I can’t trust him. That’s because he’s at least as manipulating as he is charming.

“At the risk of being a bore, I’m going to repeat myself. I appreciate what you’ve done, but I want you to stay away from the investigation. I don’t need any more wildcards in play.”

“Does that mean you’re making progress?”

“Just the opposite. We struck out at the Prairie Hotel and the only new development is the theory Sherman brought with him tonight.”