Beneath Forbidden Ground (7 page)

Following three weeks of no progress in the investigation, and with their funds running low, Arturo and his father returned to Panama, with promises from the authorities they would be updated on any developments. No calls came. The Juarez family began to accept what they knew to be true; Freda was gone, and would not return. The never-ending grief parents feel when losing a child, let alone not knowing what their fate had been, began to fester.

Later in the year, when Arturo returned to Houston with a more permanent immigrant visa, assisted by a relative who had previously been granted citizenship, he made it a point to check in with the detectives handling the case from time to time. It became clear the case had reached a dead end, and interest in his sister’s disappearance was flagging. He had no choice but to move on with his life, hoping to create alone what he and Freda had dreamed about.

Scallion knew this history, having read the section of the file on Freda Juarez several times. The visit he was about to make to Arturo Juarez’s restaurant would be the first time he had talked to the man himself. The drive south down I- 45 in the direction of Galveston brought back memories and images of the earlier series of murders, some too gruesome to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He tried to ignore the fact some had occurred not too far from where he and Marti now lived—a little too close to home.

He timed his arrival for mid-afternoon, usually a slow time for restaurants. The name on the facade above the cantina’s front door read
Freda’s
, paying homage to his presumed dead sibling. It was a moderate-sized establishment in a strip mall facing the frontage road running alongside the expressway. The sign went on to say Central American cuisine was featured, not limited to Panama. Entering, his senses were immediately alert to tantalizing aromas, the afterglow of lunch hour.

A series of reactions came from Arturo Juarez when Scallion showed his badge and introduced himself. First was suspicion, a natural response to a police officer visiting a place of business, especially one owned by a minority. Next came a hopeful expression when told the officer was working on his sister’s case.

“Is there something new on her disappearance?” Arturo asked quickly.

Scallion hated deflating the man’s optimism, bringing on the final reaction of resignation. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Juarez. I’m assigned to the Cold Case unit of the Sheriff’s office. We’re re-visiting Freda’s case, hoping to uncover anything that might help.” He scanned the restaurant, noticing mostly cleanup work under way. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

The deflated Juarez motioned with a nod of his head, “Follow me.”

He led Scallion to a small office in the rear of the restaurant, with the detective observing the man’s appearance and demeanor, a habit he couldn’t break, nor did he want to. He liked the man instantly. He was roughly five-ten, a trim build, most likely staying in shape due to the rigors of running the place. Dark hair had a few specks of pre-mature grey, belying his age of no more than thirty. He seemed open and cordial, and spoke excellent English, which didn’t hurt.

“Please, have a seat,” Juarez waved toward a chair across from his modest desk before taking his own seat. “I’ll tell what I know, but I assure you, it has all been said before, and it is not much.”

Scallion had heard similar comments before. He had also uncovered many leads in his career that the sources didn’t know they knew—or had forgotten they knew.

“I understand,” he said. “I realize this may be hard to go over again, but my aim is to do all I can to solve what happened to your sister.”

The dark-skinned man leaned in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully, a far away gaze in his eyes. “Freda was everything to our family. She was the oldest, and my best friend. Intelligent, and beautiful at the same time.”

The detective nodded agreement. “Yes, I’ve seen her picture. She was indeed beautiful. I know your family misses her.” He looked directly at the other man. “I must say, you speak English very well.”

Juarez gave a slight grin. “Freda better than I. We both attended English-speaking schools in Panama. Our life-long goal was to come to America—Houston in particular. So we were trying to be prepared.”

Scallion was now even more impressed by the young man; he hoped that in some way he could find answers for him.

Juarez directed a questioning look at the detective. “Have any of the other girls been found? The ones who disappeared at the same time?”

“I’m afraid not. We’re looking into their situations also. One thing I was hoping to determine was if you’ve become aware of any possible connections to the others Freda might’ve had.”

Juarez’s face showed the first sign of frustration, but he simply answered, “We —my father and I—were asked that many times at the beginning. But, no. She had never mentioned them, and the officers who went through her apartment could find nothing mentioning their names.”

“Any problems with co-workers? Maybe her manager?”

“No. When I first came to Houston to stay, I talked to those who worked with her. I was not surprised to hear they all liked her. She had no enemies. Everyone liked Freda.” He paused for a second. “Her supervisor, the manager, seemed indifferent, which I understand. The restaurant business is hard, especially when it comes to keeping up with employees who come and go.”

Scallion drummed his fingers on the note pad he was prepared to make entries on. Nothing had been written yet. “Was she having money problems? Any second jobs she could’ve had?”

The question did at least raise an eyebrow on the other man.

“No. However, I would not have been surprised if she was looking for something.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Juarez paused briefly before answering. “Freda always gave us the impression she was getting along okay, as far as money went. She would wire my parents some every few weeks, saying she had plenty for herself. When I finally had the chance to look at her finances, and talk to her landlord, I realized she was sending us more than she could possibly afford. She was falling behind on rent, as well as other things. That is the way she was, always thinking of others before herself.”

Finally, Scallion had something to scribble on the pad. Money problems could be the key. But the key to which door? He thought back to the notes he had seen in the files on the girls. On more than one occasion the theory had been advanced they might possibly be involved in prostitution, a theory he paid no mind to. Not these girls. And from what he was learning today, definitely not Freda Juarez.

He searched his brain for other ideas. Only one came to mind. “Did she have any hobbies, or outside interests?”

Juarez gave a restrained laugh. “I don’t believe she had time for such things. And from her financial position, surely no funds.”

Scallion instantly realized the question had indeed been ridiculous, wishing he could retract it.

A far-off look settled on Arturo Juarez’s face. “Do you think we’ll ever know what happened to our Freda?” he asked with a hopeless tone.

“I’ve learned never to make promises,” Scallion said. “But I can tell you this. I’ll keep looking as long as I’m able.”

Juarez narrowed his eyes and nodded. “I believe you.”

With no more ground worth covering, he thanked the restaurant owner for his time, gave his condolences for his sister’s presumed fate, and again promised to do all he could. Pulling away from the shopping strip, he made a mental note to bring Marti to
Freda’s
on one of their Friday night outings soon. He had no doubt the food would be worth the trip.

The sitting room of Madeline Crew’s large home could not have been more different on the class scale from Arturo Juarez’s modest yet inviting cantina. A stately brick mansion, the house sat nestled in the fashionable neighborhood of River Oaks, the oldest of old money in Houston. The view Scallion enjoyed from his upholstered wingback chair as he peered through a bank of french doors was of well-manicured gardens, surrounding a rock-lined pool. The woman he had come to see seemed nice enough, but he couldn’t squelch the feeling of harboring lesser empathy toward her compared to the Panamanian left behind thirty minutes earlier.

She was an attractive woman in her late sixties, silver hair covering a face pulled taut by obvious cosmetic procedures. Wearing a flower-patterned dress, she sat comfortably in a plush sofa across from the detective, a white puff of a dog, a breed unidentifiable to him, in her arms. He wondered why she even bothered with the surgery, since she appeared to be a natural beauty, even at her advanced age. She shared her missing daughter’s looks.

In case there was any doubt that former President George Bush and his wife Barbara were neighbors, and friends—or at least acquaintances, a framed photograph of a smiling Mrs. Crews and her late husband with the Bushs’ hung on a far wall. He noticed it when entering, but chose not to give her the satisfaction of mentioning it.

“I know you mean well, Detective Scallion,” she was saying, “but I’m surprised after all this time Otto Howorth would decide to bring up such a painful time for our family. Of course, I miss my Tamara dearly, but I’ve resigned myself to the fact I’ll never know what happened to her. And perhaps it’s just as well.”

Scallion had the distinct impression she wanted to frown, but her face no longer allowed her to express such reactions. At the same time, he was struck by the difference in her attitude from that of Juarez. They were from two separate worlds, in more ways than one.

“Yes ma’am, I’m aware this will open old wounds, but there are three other families involved too. As long as there’s any chance to shed light on what happened to your daughter, as well as the others, we think it’s worth taking another look.” He wanted to mention the decision to re-open had not been the sheriff’s, but Murtaugh’s—and now his. Instead, he allowed her to think he was impressed by her tossing out the name of his boss, when in fact, he wasn’t. Most people of any standing in Harris County were personally acquainted with Sheriff Otto Howorth.

“Well, yes. I suppose I can understand that. Please forgive my rudeness. It’s just that so much has happened to our family since she disappeared. As I’m sure you know, my husband passed away soon after. And since then, my other three children have been squabbling over things he left them, or didn’t leave them, in his will. It’s been simply horrible. I never thought I’d see the day.” A tear did manage to force its way out, rolling down a taut cheek.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry to hear that,” Scallion said, not wanting to dwell on her soap opera. “I’ll try and be as brief as I can.” He glanced at the notes he had brought. “I see from your previous interviews you maintained contact with Tammy—or rather Tamara—following disagreements she had with Mr. Crews.”

“That’s correct,” she said, pausing to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Unfortunately, Stanley wasn’t happy with choices she made with her life, beginning in high school. I’d have to say he was right, in some regard. She was influenced by friends who had nothing but partying on their minds. Introduced her to drugs and alcohol, stealing every scrap of motivation she had. We thought she had come out of it when she enrolled at the University of Texas after graduation. She really didn’t have the grades, or the S.A.T.’s needed to get in, but Stanley was able to pull a few strings.”

Scallion distaste for the Crews family was growing by the minute.

“Anyway,” she continued, “she lasted one year before dropping out. Came on home, then didn’t do much of anything, except hang out with some of those horrible friends.”

“So, she never worked?” He knew the answer, but wanted to keep his thoughts in sequence.

“No, not really. But you see, Tamara wanted to be an artist. It was the only thing that she maintained an interest in. And I do believe she could have been successful at it, if only...” She paused. Another tear appeared.

“I see.” Scallion waited a second for the woman to compose herself. “I also see from my notes she was studying with someone who owned an art gallery.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes. West End Studios, owned by a young man by the name of Brandon Newell. It’s located on Westheimer—but I’m sure that’s in your notes too.”

“Yes it is. Mrs. Crews, I believe you also mentioned previously that Tamara developed a relationship with Mr. Newell. Can you tell me about that?”

“I can tell you it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as far as Stanley was concerned. He detested the man, thought he was leading her on to get to our money. Can’t say I cared much for him either. When my husband confronted her with his suspicions, they had a horrible fight. She accused him of having no faith in her talent. They never spoke again.”

Scallion made a few pretend notes, digesting what he’d heard. Brandon Newell would be next on his list of people to see. “Mrs. Crews, have you been able to think of anyone else she may have been seeing? Either before or after Mr. Newell?”

“No. And I’ve racked my brain trying to recall anyone since high school. Oh, there may have been a fling or two at U. T., but she left them behind when she came home.” She paused again, letting the puffy animal lick her fingers. “You have to understand, I didn’t see her often after the flare-up with her dad. I just made sure her rent got paid on time.”

“Did you have any way of knowing if she was still using drugs?” he asked bluntly.

She exhaled a deep sigh. “I wish I could answer that. I’d like to think not. At least, no drugs were found in her apartment. Stanley was sure she was, however. Up until the time she disappeared, he accused her of everything.”

Taken on her own, as a single case, Scallion might’ve seen drugs as an angle to follow. But not when combined with the other three. He was aware he was finding it way too easy to dismiss motives in this puzzling mystery.

He quickly decided asking more of the same questions she had answered ten years earlier would be plowing infertile ground. And even though he did feel an inkling of sympathy for Madeline Crews, his true feelings involved removing himself from this woman—this room—this house. Thanking her for her time, he left.