Chapter Twenty-Four

HANNAH DROVE US back to the police station, where we appropriated a small conference room with two computers. We divided up the tapes and began looking for Drew’s car.

There were three days of tapes to review. If each car took thirty seconds at the entrance gate and two hundred and fifty cars entered the lot per day, we were hoping to finish in less than four hours. However long it took, neither one of us was looking forward to what promised to be a long and tedious process.

To our surprise, the video proved unexpectedly amusing. A half hour into our review, Hannah called me over to her computer screen. She backed up the disk to an old Cadillac pulling up to the entryway. The recording showed the driver, a gray-haired gentleman in his midfifties, as well as the make and license plate of his vehicle. Once at the entrance, the driver put his hand to his side and struggled to reach his wallet.

A few seconds later, the reason for his fumbling became clear. A female form rose slowly from the man’s lap. From her gray hair, she looked almost as old as her companion.

“I wonder if it was his birthday,” Hannah said.

“I wonder if it was his wife.”

“I was wrong. You really are a cynic.”

“I have to give him credit. I would have driven into the parking barrier.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

After watching a young woman’s attempt to drive through the parking barrier—a unique if less effective way of avoiding the lot fee—we finally hit paydirt when Hannah spotted Drew’s Ford Focus pulling in at 9:54 p.m. on April 20th. The security camera image was clear. The driver was Mary Dhillon.

Hannah and I felt a certain amount of relief. We’d considered the possibility that Grieve had simply paid someone to drop off the vehicle. Mary’s image on the camera provided some confirmation that we were finally on the right track.

To be certain Grieve did not follow Mary into the lot, we reran the security footage for the cars coming in thirty minutes before Mary and thirty minutes after. A total of six vehicles drove into the lot during that timeframe, and Grieve was not in any of them.

“It would have been nice if he had followed her,” Hannah said, “but it still leaves us with our other possibilities. We know Mary entered with a credit card. Even if Grieve had stolen it, I’d love to know what else they purchased on that card and where. Now that we know when Mary came into the lot, we should also be able to figure out how she got back to wherever they’re staying. Grieve didn’t follow her, so it’s likely she either grabbed a taxi, or he picked her up in front of the terminal. The security footage from the other cameras should tell us which one.”

Hannah assigned me the task of contacting Caitlyn Grivens and asking her for the other tapes from the time Drew’s car was abandoned. If that assignment was based on my perceived sex appeal, I thought it best not to ask. Obtaining Mary’s credit card information was a little more complicated and would require a warrant. As the police officer in our little partnership, Hannah left to find a judge.

I contacted Caitlyn on the phone without a problem. She agreed to copy all the tapes from the long-term lot and the walkway to the airport terminal based on the time of Mary’s arrival. She asked if I’d be picking them up, but I requested they be messengered instead.

Caitlyn sounded disappointed, though that might have been my imagination. After ending our conversation, I got a call from Tomas.

“Tomas, how was your date?”

“It ended successfully, no thanks to you.”

“I am genuinely sorry for the interruption. I do owe you one.”

“You owe me two. Remember how you asked me to find any connections between the priest and the psychiatrist? I don’t know if this fits what you’re looking for, but I found a reference to a court appearance that could indicate a juvenile arrest record.”

“Dr. Grieve had a juvenile record?”

“Not Dr. Grieve. It was the Jesuit you told me to look up, Father Dennert.”

“A priest with a record? What did he do?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. First, this was a juvenile case. Samuel was seventeen when it happened, and you know those records are sealed.”

“I’m sure you didn’t let that stop you.”

“I didn’t. Sealed or not, juvenile records are remarkably easy to break into. That’s what I meant about it being interesting. Dennert doesn’t have a juvenile record.”

“Now I’m confused. You said he had one.”

“No, I found a reference to a court appearance. That reference was in the local newspaper, the Manhattan Mercury. They have a small local crime section, and this somehow made it in despite the juvenile seal. The article mentioned an upcoming court appearance and not much more.”

“If he had a court appearance, wouldn’t it show on his record?”

“I wondered the same thing. I suspect the court dropped the charges before the appearance took place—no appearance, no juvenile record. I do have two other bits of information, however. The first is the name of the detective involved in the case, Jason Aldean.”

“Like the country singer?”

“Terry, I’m Irish-Hispanic. We don’t do country.”

“Fair enough. Were you able to get any contact information for Detective Aldean?”

“I called the Manhattan Police Department. They told me he retired five years ago. I asked them for contact information, and they gave me the name of a local tavern, the Drunken Cow. Come to think of it, that does sound like a country bar.”

“You said you had two pieces of information. What’s the other one?”

“I don’t know how important this is, but it could explain why the juvenile case never came to trial. While I was only able to find one reference to Samuel Dennert, I found multiple references to his parents. It appears they are what passes for high society in Manhattan. The father owns a chain of furniture stores, and the parents have been involved in fundraising efforts for local charities as well as Kansas State University. I know it’s an assumption, but that might give them the clout to get a juvenile charge dropped.”

“It probably has nothing to do with my case, but I’d dearly love to find out what he was accused of. That’s probably spite on my part, but it would be interesting.”

“Unless you can locate the detective, you might need to physically go to Manhattan if you want to hunt this down. I don’t think I’ll be able to find any more. I also figured any further searching on my part might alert the parents, and they could contact their son. I assumed that was the last thing you’d want.”

“You’re right. I’ll try to follow up with Detective Aldean.”

“Any word on Drew Allen’s hard drive? You were supposed to get me a copy.”

“Let me check with Detective Page; I thought it was coming in today. Seriously, Tomas, I want to thank you for all this. I won’t forget it.”

“You remember what my parents said when you brought Rosa back? We will always be in your debt. Anything you need, call me.”

Hannah returned as I was finishing up with Tomas. I filled her in on the news about Father Samuel, but she was unimpressed.

“He probably got caught joyriding a car or vandalizing a cemetery. This is Kansas. He may have even tipped a cow. In any case, I don’t see how it affects us.”

“It probably doesn’t, but I want to follow up. I need the contact information for the Manhattan detective, Jason Aldean. Any chance you could call the Manhattan PD for me? They’ve got to be sending his pension check somewhere.”

“I owe you for dinner tonight. I’ll call and see what I can do.”

The warrant for Mary Dhillon’s airport credit card was still in process. I asked Hannah about the copy of Drew’s hard drive, but it had yet to arrive from Louisiana. Interestingly, the security tapes from the airport had already reached the station. It’d been a little over an hour since I’d hung up with Caitlyn Grivens. Her assistant must have been flying to get them copied and sent here that fast.

It was nearly four o’clock, and Hannah and I decided to review the airport video before getting ready for dinner with her parents. The six tapes came marked “Long-term Lot, April 20th.” After fast-forwarding to the time Mary Dhillon entered the lot, we eventually found Drew’s car as it made its way down the first aisle of parked cars. Though there were several openings, Mary continued to the last aisle, where she chose a space at the north end of the parking lot. Following Mary’s progress meant switching between footage from the three different security cameras monitoring the lot. Once we got the hang of which camera surveyed which sector, that process became much more straightforward.

Eventually, Mary parked and exited Drew’s car. For someone presumably new to Cleveland, she appeared to know exactly where she was headed. She walked through the lot to the tunnel leading to the main airport concourse. That path led her through the airport’s short-term parking lot as well as a long, windowed skyway. Four additional cameras monitored those areas, and we followed Mary’s progress until she entered the airport terminal, where the crowd grew so large we could no longer locate her. Before that happened, however, we did see Mary turn in the direction leading to ground transportation.

“We’re still in good shape,” Hannah said. “We know no one picked her up in front of the terminal, and that almost certainly means she took a taxi. We can check with the taxi company to see who was picking up fares that evening. We also have the advantage of Mary’s appearance. Where a lot of passengers wouldn’t have stood out, I’m betting most drivers would remember Mary if we showed them a picture.”

It was almost five-thirty. Hannah and I wanted to leave the station no later than six o’clock so we could change and be at the restaurant by seven. Before we left, Hannah called the Manhattan Police Department and obtained the contact information for Detective Aldean. In the evening mail delivery, she also discovered the copy of the hard drive messengered from New Orleans. Hannah wouldn’t give that to me until the department’s own computer expert could make a second copy.

I’d hitched a ride with Hannah to the station, so she dropped me off at my apartment. On the way, she said we’d be eating at Le Chateau Franklin, one of Cleveland’s most exclusive downtown restaurants. For the second time in this case, I would be wearing one of my mom-purchased gray suits. Part of me thought I should mention this to my mother, but I knew that would buy me a return trip to the suit store. Feeling guilty, I decided to hold off for now.

I asked Hannah about the restaurant. I’d never heard her say anything about liking French food.

“I don’t,” she said, “but my parents do. They picked out the restaurant.”

“Isn’t it your birthday?”

Hannah gave me a long, flat look and said absolutely nothing in reply. Taking the hint, I figured it was safer discussing the case. I asked her about tomorrow’s schedule.

“I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock. By that time, we’ll have a warrant and the credit card records. I want to see those before we talk to the taxi company.”

Hannah dropped me off in front of my apartment building with a warning to be on time. Luckily, my downtown apartment was within walking distance of the Chateau Franklin. I took a quick shower, picked out a suit, and put on my best power tie. Impressing Hannah’s parents was pretty much out of the question. Acknowledging that, I didn’t want my wardrobe to be an issue.

I figured it was bad form to arrive at a birthday dinner without a gift. On my way over to the restaurant, I stopped at Samantha’s, a small shop on Euclid Avenue. Samantha’s sold every type of present, from the raunchy to the sweet, and I chose a small crystal globe. I had no idea what Hannah would like, but I figured the globe might catch the sunlight coming through her front bay window. It would probably look cheap next to whatever her parents gave her, but at least it was something.

I arrived at the restaurant at precisely seven o’clock, my first assignment accomplished. After checking with the front desk, I found I was the only one there from our party of four. The maître d’ gave me a skeptical look and asked if I was sure I had the right restaurant.

I ignored the question and told him I would wait. Luckily for me, Hannah and her parents arrived just ten minutes later. From the looks I received from the restaurant staff, that was right about the time they were considering calling the police.

Hannah’s father, David Page, was tall and handsome with graying, well-styled hair and a bright smile, the stereotypical image of a successful politician. He shook hands with me as Hannah performed the introductions.

“It’s good to meet you, son. Hannah told us you two have been working together.”

Maybe I was overly sensitive, but I hated people who called me “son.” It always sounded presumptuous, like the speaker was trying to usurp my father. I wanted to call him Dad in reply but held back for Hannah’s sake.

“Thank you, sir. Your daughter is an excellent detective. I couldn’t ask for a better partner.”

One parent out of the way, I turned to Hannah’s mother. Amanda Patterson-Page resembled her daughter. She was roughly the same height and shared Hannah’s curly, brown hair, though hers was beginning to gray. She gazed at me closely as we shook hands—I felt like one of those exotic animals you see at the zoo. I figured I should break the ice.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“I’m pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Luvello.”

The suddenly solicitous maître d’ escorted us to our table. I glanced at Hannah as we walked through the restaurant, and she gave me a quick shake of her head. I wasn’t sure if it was a commentary on my performance or her parents. It was turning into a long evening.

The service was prompt, and I managed to order my meal without incident. My knowledge of French was nonexistent. As a defensive measure, I ordered the item that was the closest thing to English I could find on the menu. That turned out to be the porc dijonaisse, basically a pork tenderloin with orange sauce. It was nothing I would have requested at a more ordinary restaurant, but it seemed less dangerous than my other options.

The staff was clearly aware there were two VIPs in their midst. They served our food within fifteen minutes of our order, well before any of the other people seated around us. With our entrees in place, the interrogation began. It started with Hannah’s father.

“Mr. Luvello, I wanted to let you know I am a big supporter of the LGBTQ community. Hannah tells me you are not politically active. Is that true?”

“I’m afraid it is, sir. I read the front page the same way I read the sports section. I’m just interested in who won the latest game.”

He laughed like it was the funniest comment he’d heard that day. Coming from the political world, maybe it was. He tried again to raise my social awareness.

“With your rather unusual profession, I thought you could be a symbol to others in the community. They might view you as an example of a transgender person who successfully broke down barriers.”

“I’m not sure I can do that, sir. Private investigators operate in the background of life. It’s how we survive. Other than Sherlock Holmes and Bruce Wayne, I don’t know of any famous detectives.”

He looked confused. “Bruce who?”

“Batman, sir.”

“Oh, yes, Batman.”

It was fortunate Hannah had inherited her mother’s intelligence. Right on cue with that thought, Mom picked up the conversational slack. I hoped she might steer things to safer ground, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“There’s been a lot of talk about transgender people being forced to use certain public restrooms,” Amanda said. “How do you feel about that issue?”

Hannah looked like she was suffering a migraine. “Mom, why don’t you let Terry eat his dinner?”

“Your mother’s just asking, dear,” replied her father. “I’ve been pushing this for some time. Terry, don’t you think transgender people should be allowed to use any public restroom they choose?”

“To be honest, sir, I don’t think about it much. I usually avoid public restrooms like the plague, primarily because that’s what I’m afraid of catching if I walk into one.”

“On those rare occasions, which restroom do you use?”

“I use the male restroom. That isn’t a social statement. I’ve just found one area where men and women differ the most is in restroom etiquette. If you walk into a lady’s room, everyone expects you to hold a conversation. If you walk into a men’s room, other men suddenly develop a fascination with the tile on the wall in front of them. No one says a word in a men’s room, and that suits me just fine.”

Hannah’s migraine looked like it was degenerating into a stroke. If she survived the evening, Mrs. Page might soon be prosecuting her daughter for attempted murder. For my part, I was beginning to enjoy myself. I hadn’t expected the dinner to get this absurd this quickly. John knew I was going out tonight. Describing this conversation would be fun.

Hannah finally found her voice. “If we’re done discussing Terry’s bathroom habits, maybe we could get back to the part about this being my birthday.”

Her father sounded miffed. “I wanted Terry to know we are on his side of these issues.”

“I appreciate that, sir. While I don’t often use public restrooms, I’ll think of you when I do.”

Hannah smiled for the first time that evening. Her parents seemed uncertain if I was joking. I guess they didn’t want to upset the transgender guy—I was, after all, holding a knife. I smiled to reassure them I was okay. That done, I tried to resurrect the evening. Remembering the gift in my pocket, I handed it to Hannah before her parents could think of any other inappropriate topics.

“I wanted to get you something for your birthday. Mr. and Mrs. Page, your daughter is an exceptional investigator. I’ve never worked with a partner before. With this case, I don’t think we would have accomplished nearly as much if we hadn’t been working together.”

“Thank you,” her mother said. “We don’t say it often enough, but we’re proud of the path our daughter has chosen.”

The words sounded fine; her perfunctory tone did not. Forgetting my previous reticence, I resolved to call my mother and thank her for everything she’d done for me, including the suits.

Hannah had been silent through this part of the discussion as she concentrated on opening my gift. I wasn’t sure about my choice, but she looked genuinely touched as she held the globe up to the restaurant lights. I restrained myself from mentioning that it might reflect the sun from her bay window. It wouldn’t do to let her parents know I’d been to her home.

For the rest of the meal, we transitioned to topics that seemed less contentious. Hannah’s father talked about the new crime bill now before Congress. I asked Hannah’s mother if she’d ever been the prosecutor for one of Hannah’s cases—your basic small talk with the Page family. At least we managed to finish the meal without Hannah pulling out her gun. From a culinary standpoint, I also learned that orange sauce should never come anywhere near an otherwise decent cut of meat.

Hannah’s mother made one more attempt at a personal connection. “Terry, you mentioned a few policy matters that don’t interest you. Is there anything you do want on a policy level?”

“Not to sound rude, ma’am, but what I want most is to be left alone. I am a private investigator. I’m good at my job, and it’s all I ever wanted to do. What would get me upset? If someone tried to keep me from doing that job because I’m transgender.

“With that in mind, I’d choose workplace discrimination laws. Those have a far more significant impact on people like me, though I understand that effort would likely come at the state level.

“My philosophy about issues like this goes back to what my dad told us growing up. He said you need to decide the four or five things that are the most important in your life and protect them with everything you’ve got. Beyond those four or five things, everything else is just an annoyance.

“Would it be an inconvenience if the government said I could no longer use a men’s bathroom? Absolutely, but I have the advantage of looking male, and I would use the men’s room anyway. Call it civil disobedience for the sake of convenience. To me, the whole bathroom controversy is no worse than when the government insists we take off our shoes in an airport TSA line. Both are annoying, but I can live with either one.”

“Not to pry,” Hannah’s mother said, “but can I ask what are your four or five things?”

“My job, my mother, and my friends. I have three friends, so that comes to five.”

After my little soliloquy on current affairs, Hannah’s parents grew quiet. We finished our meals and left the table. I thanked the Pages for dinner and again wished Hannah a happy birthday. I’d walked to the restaurant, but I went out to the parking lot with Hannah. She looked more stunned than angry, and I wanted to make sure that wasn’t on my behalf.

When we reached her BMW, she said, “I know I owe you big time for this. Do you see why I wanted you along?”

“It was a little more theater of the absurd than I’m used to, but I still had fun. Did you like your gift? I thought it might reflect some of the light coming in from your front window.”

“The gift was special. It’s the first real gift anyone’s ever given me for my birthday. My parents just give money.”

Paul and I always got gifts for our birthdays. They weren’t huge, but they were fun to open, and I assumed everyone else did the same. I never thought of myself as screwed up. If I was, it was due solely to my own choices. Hannah’s issues started with her parents.

“If your parents aren’t stopping by,” I said, “I could come over tonight.”

“I’d love to have you over, but I’m exhausted from the effort of not killing them. Let’s go with the original plan. I’ll pick you up about ten o’clock, and we’ll review the credit card records.”

I stood in the parking lot and watched her pull away. After a short distance, she stopped and rolled down her window. I hoped she’d changed her mind about me spending the night. Instead, she had a question.

“Am I one of your three friends?”

“I hope so.”

“Good.”

With that, she rolled up her window and drove away. I stood and watched until she reached the street. I’m not sure I would ever understand her, but I was certainly having fun trying.