CHAPTER 30

 

Alan’s eyes were fixed on his computer screen as he searched for as much as he could find about Robert Markham. It had been over three hours since he’d left a message on Charlie’s voicemail and he still hadn’t heard back from him. It was times like this that he seriously considered going into the computer hacking business himself just so he wouldn’t be so dependent on his associate.

What he had found on Markham thus far via Google, Yahoo and Bing search engines was miniscule at best. He could find no working phone number listed for him nor a residential address. The only meaningful hit he’d had was the defunct website for Markham’s defunct business, The Village Lock Shop. It was a bare bones website with little more than the location, phone number and a listing of available services, including “emergency service 24/7.” There was also a thumbnail headshot of Markham on the page. He had dark hair cropped fairly short and appeared to be in his late thirties to early forties. Alan had already printed out the photo and planned on showing it to Katie Callahan as soon as possible.

The last posting on the site, dated in June of last year, announced that the business was being forced to shut down and included a personal thank-you from Markham to all of his loyal customers over the years.

Alan had called the business phone number with hopes that it was also Markham’s personal phone and received a recording informing him that the number had been disconnected. He contemplated whether or not to drive down to the former business address but decided against it since it would probably be an exercise in futility.

He glanced at his phone and heaved a desperate sigh.

“C’mon Charlie, call!”

There had been plenty of time for him to think things over and he’d begun to wonder if Robert Markham was indeed his man or if this was going to be yet another dead end in this case. He had played his “outsider looking in” question/answer routine and came up with some encouraging results:

He had begun by posing the simple question, “Why would Robert Markham want to kill Chloe McPherson?”

In order to provide an answer he first had to list the known facts and circumstances. One, Markham’s wife was suddenly laid off from a well-paying job and his own business had recently failed; therefore, the couple suddenly found themselves dependent exclusively on his wife’s income.

Two, there had to be somebody for Markham to blame for his wife’s untimely termination and the logical choice would be Travis McPherson, since he was the one with in position to make choices of that nature.

No-brainer there.

Three, his wife had passed away just a few months after the layoff.

If Markham hadn’t already been feeling vengeful prior to that, it would seem his wife’s death was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. It didn't matter how his wife had passed—by natural causes or otherwise—Markham would put at least some of the blame for her passing on McPherson as well. The added stress he had caused her if nothing else.

So he killed Chloe in May to get back at McPherson; but he wasn’t done yet. There were others at UrbanGroup he apparently wanted to pay back including the company’s CEO, Andrew Morrow.

But what still didn’t make sense was how Rebecca Wielding’s husband fit into all of this and why Markham had waited nine months before murdering him and leveling Morrow’s home.

There had to be some reason.

Recalling that he’d promised Amanda he would call, he gave her a ring, got her voicemail and left a message.

He had no sooner hung up than the phone rang. It was Charlie.

“Jesus, where have you been all day?”

“Busy, man. Sorry, but I do have a life beyond sitting around the phone waiting for you to call.”

Alan managed a smile. “Didn't realize that. Anyway, I need some help and it’s urgent. Have you got some free time right now to check up on someone?”

“How urgent is it? I mean, I’m pretty beat and was thinking of just chillin’ this evening.”

“It’s really urgent, Charlie. I think I’ve figured out who I’m looking for but I need some more info before I can go any further with it. I’ll pay you double time if you’ll just see what you can do.”

“Okay, man, what do you need?”

“It’s very specific, actually. The guy’s name is Robert Markham—husband of Marcy in fact, the woman you researched a few days ago. He used to own a business downtown called the The Village Lock Shop. What I need to know is if he’s had any military experience or some sort of training that would qualify him to rig bombs and play sniper. And of course anything else you can get on him, including a current address and working phone number, cell or landline. Think you can do that?”

“First of all, answer one question for me. Where the hell else besides the military would somebody learn how to make bombs and shoot high-powered rifles at people? Unless at an Al Qaeda training camp or something like that?”

“I see what you’re saying,” Alan replied drily. “Just stick with the armed forces, then. I’m not thinking this guy is a terrorist.”

“That’s really good to know. So now you’re asking me to hack into military records? That is very dangerous territory, my friend—an area I avoid at all costs, in fact. I know a guy who made that mistake and they ended up throwing his ass in federal prison. Not going to be able to help you with any military records unless I get lucky somehow. Maybe I can find some employment or college apps that include his military history, but I can’t promise you anything.”

“Just do whatever you can do, Charlie. And please hurry. I have a feeling this guy is planning to hit somebody else in the very near future.”

Andrew Morrow for one, Alan thought.

“Okay. Sit tight and I’ll see what I can find on this dude.”

“Thanks, Charlie. You’re—”

“I know, the best. Ciao.”

Alan noted the time and saw that it was nearly six-thirty. The late hour made his stomach growl.

He fed Pan and decided to get a pizza to go from Giovanni’s. He called and placed his order on the way to his car. It was warm out for this late in the day and the gentle breeze reminded him that spring had already officially begun. The fresh air perked him up and he hoped that the fair weather was a harbinger of better things to come in this case.

After dinner, he opened up the Stephen King thriller he’d been reading on his iPad and tried to read but had trouble focusing on the page. He felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin if Charlie didn’t call back soon.

Nearly an hour later, he finally called.

"I was able to get a last known address but no phone number. That will take some digging since he probably owns a cellphone and no landline. Got a pen handy?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

Alan copied down the address.

"What else do you have for me?"

"Robert Markham served in the army six years ago. He was a sharpshooter and served active duty in Iraq.”

“Awesome, that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear. Anything else?”

“Only that he was less than honorably discharged after his stint of active duty.”

“What the hell does that mean, ‘less than honorably discharged?’”

“I was wondering the same thing so I looked it up. It’s what they give soldiers that have done something bad but not bad enough to earn a total dishonorable discharge or court martial. Stuff like stealing, partying too much or assaulting commissioned officers.”

“Hmm, but you don’t know the specifics on Markham?”

“No—hell I was lucky to get this much on him! I will add that anybody who gets discharged less than honorably loses all his benefits. So it’s a pretty serious thing.”

“And it would make Markham’s financial situation even more desperate,” Alan thought out loud.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Is that all?”

“That’s it. I can work on his phone number if you want. I just thought I’d tell you what I have for now since you’re in such a hurry.”

“And I’m so glad you did. Yeah, keep searching for a phone number. Let me know the second you get it.”

"Okay, boss.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“My pleasure.”

His excitement was palpable. Robert Markham was ex-military and a sharpshooter to boot!

He was the perp. Had to be.

Time to pay Mr. Markham a visit, he thought.

Alan typed Markham's address into the search field and read the results. He lived on the northeast side not far from Easton Mall. He figured he could be there in fifteen minutes.

He grabbed his camera, Pan's leash and led the way out to the garage. He held the door open for Pan and she hopped in the front seat.

"Let's go see what we can find out about this Markham character, what say?"

Along the way, Alan decided to call Mike Draker and got his voicemail.

“Hey, Mike. I am about 95 percent positive that a guy named Robert Markham is our man. Please call back ASAP. He lives on the northeast side and I'm headed there now.”

Alan turned onto the street where Markham lived and started reading the address numbers. A couple of blocks later he found it—a modest ranch with a detached garage. The garage door was open and the garage was empty. There was a light on in the rear of the house. Markham was apparently not home at the moment.

He drove another block and parked.

"Let's go for a little walk," he told Pan as he hooked the leash onto the border collie's collar.

They got out and walked casually toward Markham's house. The traffic was fairly light and the neighborhood relatively quiet. As he approached the house, Alan slowed his pace so he could get a better look. He glanced toward the garage and noticed that the only light was coming from a window along the driveway—if there was a back porch light it was not turned on.

He walked as far as the next street corner and turned around. When he returned to Markham's house he followed the driveway toward the rear of the house.

Fortunately the man didn't own any pets or Pan would have already let him know. He rounded the corner of the house and scaled the steps to the back porch. The curtains in the door window were slightly parted so he peaked inside and saw a simple, basically appointed kitchen.

He then went over to another window facing the small backyard and in the dim light saw a small bedroom that apparently also served as an office. On a desk sat a desktop PC and an inkjet printer. Between the computer and printer sat a neat stack of letter-sized boxes that could be mailing labels but it was too dark to tell.

He walked over to the garage and took a look inside. All he saw was a small workbench, a few garden tools and a lawn mower. He walked around the garage and spotted a pair of plastic garbage bins. He took a small flashlight out of his jacket and lifted the lid of the nearest one. It was filled to the brim with yard debris.

He peered inside the other bin and saw a knotted white trash bag. He untied the knot and noticed a few wads of crumpled up paper on top. Training his flashlight, he uncrumpled one of the wads.

What he saw made his heart skip a beat.

A full page of printed barcode labels!

Excitedly, he uncrumpled the others and saw more of the same. Taking a closer look, he noticed that there were uneven bands of ink running along the labels that indicated the printer had been running low on ink. Markham had apparently tried to squeeze out as much ink as he could out of his printer before finally deciding to replace the cartridge.

Alan took out his iPhone and accessed his photo library. He had photographed the copy of the barcode from the Morrow home bombing in Cleveland that Detective Bloom had faxed him.

It was identical in size and font to the labels he had just found in Markham's trash.

He was convinced now. Markham was his man.

He debated taking the labels as evidence and decided to stuff one of the sheets in his pocket. Either way, he was covered. Then he replaced the lid.

"Let's get out of here, girl."

As soon as he was back in the Pilot, Alan wondered what his next step should be. He had already called Mike Draker to let him know that he had a solid suspect in mind. Short of hearing back from Mike, there was little else he could do now.

When he arrived back home, he decided to call the Columbus PD anyway. Maybe they could get through to Draker quicker than he'd been able to on his cellphone.

"Columbus Police."

"This is Alan Swansea, a private investigator and a friend of Mike Draker. I am trying to reach the detective on his cell but haven't had any luck. Is there any way you could track him down and tell him to give me a call. It's quite urgent."

"Hold on a moment."

Alan tapped his fingers on the desk while he waited.

"Sir? Detective Draker is in the field and cannot be reached presently. Until he calls in, I'm afraid there is nothing else we can do. Is there somebody else who could help you?"

"No. Please just ask him to call me the moment he calls in, okay?"

"Will do."

Alan disconnected. The phone suddenly rang while it was still in his hand. Draker, he thought.

It was Amanda instead.

“Hey there, handsome,” she greeted.

“Hey, what have you been up to?”

“I went out to dinner with Dottie—my mentor, remember? We just got back and she’s been showing me her house. It’s absolutely gorgeous!”

“I’ll bet. How was dinner?”

“Wonderful. We went to some new Italian restaurant and I ate enough for two people.”

“I had Italian, too. As in take-out pizza.”

She laughed. “Wow. Anything else new?”

“Yes, quite a lot, in fact. But I’ll have to fill you in later—I'm waiting for an important call. When are you heading home?”

“Oh, probably in a few minutes. You want me to call when I get there?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”

“Okay, bye-bye.”

Alan started to disconnect but he could still hear voices on the phone. There was a rustling sound and then he heard the voices again. It appeared as though Amanda had missed hitting the end call button on her iPhone and had placed it in her handbag or back pocket.

Instead of hanging up, he turned up the volume as loud as it would go. He could just barely make out the conversation between Amanda and another woman, whom he assumed to be Dottie.

“So how serious are you two?”

“Pretty serious, I guess.”

“Pretty serious? What does that mean?”

“We like each other a lot—that much I’m sure of. Where it will go from here, only time will tell,” he heard Amanda say. It sounded as though she was talking into a pillow.

“Now this is the family room. I don’t spend much time here since my husband passed away.”

“How long ago was that, if you don’t mind my asking,” Amanda said.

“Nine years. Miss him like crazy.”

“Well, your home is simply beautiful, Dottie.”

“Thank you. I sometimes think it’s too big and am seriously considering moving somewhere that’s smaller.”

“What would you do with all of this gorgeous furniture, then?”

“That’s the problem. I really don’t want to give any of it up. Hell, I’ve had this grand piano since I was only eight years old. But it takes up so much space.”

“Do you still play?”

“Occasionally I’ll play a tune just to see if I can still do it. But I’ve gotten a bit rusty. In fact, I used to know this song by heart, but now I can’t get all the way through it without referring to the music. My memory isn’t what it used to be and I swear I’m getting senile. See this? I noticed it last week and have absolutely no idea how it got there.”

“You mean the sheet music?”

“No, the barcode that’s pasted to it. This music has been there for a month but I’m positive that barcode wasn’t there before. So either I’m starting to lose my mind, or there are ghosts in this house. Maybe it was Harold—he always was a practical joker!”

Alan couldn’t believe his ears.

Markham had left his calling card—the warning before he strikes!

Dottie was one of the higher-ups at UrbanGroup and Markham has targeted her as a victim!

But when?

“Amanda!” he screamed into the phone. “Get the hell out of that house!”

There was no response.

“Amanda, can you hear me?”

The phone was evidently too far away for her to hear his voice.

He heard Dottie speak.

“How about a drink before you go?”

There was a slight pause before Amanda replied, “Sure, why not?”

Shit!

Although he was probably overreacting, Alan couldn't sit there when there was even a slim chance that Markham might strike. Somehow he had to warn the women to get out of the house as a precaution if nothing else until Markham could be apprehended.

He could call Dottie on her home phone, he realized. All he needed was her phone number.

Her last name would help, too—he couldn’t recall it.

He rifled through the papers on his desk, trying to locate the UrbanGroup annual reports Amanda had given him. Then he remembered that they were still in the Pilot.

With his cellphone on speaker mode, he raced out to the garage. He could hear the clinking of glasses and inaudible chatter through the tiny speaker as Dottie apparently prepared their drinks.

He opened the car door, snatched up the folder containing the annual reports and ran back into the office. He opened the one on top and leafed frantically through the pages, looking for any mention of a Dottie Somebody.

After the last page he threw the report aside and started with the next one. About half way through, he found it: Dottie Carling.

He heard Amanda laughing at something Dottie had said.

“Amanda, get on the phone!” he cried.

He may as well be talking into a brick wall.

He picked up the receiver of his landline phone and dialed information.

“Columbus, Ohio. I need a number for Dottie Carling, or Dorothy.”

“Do you have an address?” the operator asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t have a Dottie or Dorothy Carling listed.”

“Are you sure? How about a D. Carling?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do you have any goddamn Carlings at all?” he snapped.

“I don’t appreciate that sort of language, sir.”

“Sorry. Listen, it is very important that I contact this person—it’s an emergency. Maybe the number is listed under her husband’s name. How many Carlings do you have there?”

“Quite a few, sir. An address would be a big help. Do you have any idea where this person resides?”

“No, I don’t. Okay, thanks, anyway.”

“Sorry.”

He disconnected, found Janice McPherson in his contacts and dialed her number.

“Hello?”

“Janice, it’s Alan Swansea. I need to ask a favor of you. Do you know Dottie Carling’s number by any chance?”

“Travis might know it—he’s in the other room. What’s this all about?”

“No time to explain right now. I just need to call Dottie ASAP. Can you see if he knows it?”

“Hold on a minute.”

Alan could still hear Amanda and Dottie chatting away through the iPhone speaker. He was in absolute disbelief that he could be this close to speaking to her yet may as well be on fricking Mars.

“Amanda, can you hear me? Pick up your phone!”

“Alan?” he heard Janice say in his other ear.

“Uh, yeah. You got it?” he asked.

“Yes, you ready to copy it down?”

Alan scrambled for a pencil and readied himself.

“Go ahead.”

He wrote the number down as fast as his hand could travel.

Just as he was getting ready to thank Janice, he heard Amanda say, “What was that?”

“It sounded like it came from upstairs,” Dottie replied.

“Are you still there?” Janice asked.

“Uh, yeah. I have to go—I’ll call you later.”

He hung up the landline and pressed the iPhone to his ear. There was nothing but silence. He continued straining to hear but it almost sounded like—

He suddenly heard a beep-beep, indicating that he had been disconnected.

“Fuck!”

He called Amanda. It rang five times then went to voicemail.

Why isn't she answering?

He keyed in the phone number Janice had given him. It went immediately to voicemail.

He called Janice back on his way to the Pilot.

“I need Dottie’s address, Janice. Now!”

“What in the world is going on, Alan? Does this have something to do with the case?

“Yes, I’m checking up on something right now. I’ll explain everything after I’ve gotten in touch with Dottie Carling.”

He heard her speaking to Travis again. “Her address is 2547 Chadwick Place. It’s in Bexley.”

“Great, thanks.”

He sprinted out to the car, started the engine and did a search for Dottie’s address on his GPS while backing out of the garage. Two things were on his mind right now: what Amanda and Dottie had heard upstairs and why the phone had suddenly been disconnected.

Of course, he may still be overreacting and this could be just one big false alarm.

But he was having a real problem believing that.