Every Fear (12 page)

S
tiff from two hours of troubled sleep, Grace Garner untangled her sheets, reached for her phone, and called the hospital.

“ICU.”

“This is Grace Garner. Has there been any change in Maria Colson’s condition?”

“No change, Detective.”

“Is my partner there?”

“Detective Perelli is sleeping in the lounge. Would you like to talk to him?”

“No, thanks. Please tell him that I’ll call later.”

Grace went to her bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face while thinking of Dylan, the odds against him being alive, and how badly they needed a break in this case.

She slid on SPD jogging pants, an academy sweatshirt, tucked her hair under a Mariners ball cap, and grabbed her keys, phone, and change. Then she rode the elevator down to the lobby to get the morning papers from the boxes in front of her building.

The air felt good on her skin. The street was wet, early fog was lifting, and the boxes’ spring-loaded
doors clanged as she withdrew crisp copies of the
Times,
the
Post-Intelligencer,
and the
Mirror.

As the elevator ascended, she found a measure of hope in the news. The late-night confirmation of the shoe impression evidence was the top story with pictures in the
Times
and the
P-I.
It could yield a solid lead. Stepping from the elevator, she looked at the
Mirror’s
front page and stopped in her tracks.

What the hell?

A story about a potential key
suspect
in the Colson case was lined above the fold in a Mirror Exclusive, by Jason Wade.

Suspect?

The item ran with a graphic of an anonymous note over an enlarged picture of a sketch with the headline: “The Woman Who Abducted Dylan Colson?” The sketch lacked detail, identifying the suspect only as Diane M. F.

Who? What the hell was this?
She didn’t have a clue about this.

She snapped through the inside pages. Nothing in the
Mirror
about the shoe. Nothing at all. Shaking her head, cursing aloud, she read every word of Jason’s story, then reached for her phone.

The ringing jerked Jason awake.

“This is ‘the thing’ you were working on, Wade?”

“Who’s this?”

“You promised to alert me before it ran. You gave me your word.”

“Grace?”

“This is how you keep your word, Wade? Pulling a stunt like this? I thought you were different; that maybe we could establish some sort of trust. Maybe help each other. Turns out you’re just a lying hack trying to sell papers.”

“Hey! I don’t know what you’re talking about. All right?”

“You don’t? Well, it’s all over your front page.”

He hadn’t seen any morning papers.

“Just a minute. Don’t hang up.”

He rushed down the stairs to the lower-floor apartments. He didn’t subscribe to Seattle’s newspapers because he got them in the newsroom. This morning he stole the
Times,
the
Mirror,
and the
P-I
from the doorsteps of his neighbors, mentally promising to replace them.

The shoe evidence was news to him.

Man.

Then he saw the
Mirror’s
front page and his stomach twisted.

He picked up the phone. “Grace, I didn’t write that story. I mean, it’s my story, but I don’t know what happened. I swear.”

He could hear the anger in her breathing before she hung up.

Steeped in intrigue, the story outlined his call and how he’d picked up the tipster’s envelope at the park. It left off the suspect’s last name. A black bar obscured it in the reproduction of the note. The article quoted John Chenoweth, the expert with the psychic foundation in New York, and a retired Chicago detective who’d
worked with psychics, giving the piece enough balance for skepticism.
Who wrote this? Where did this stuff come from?
He’d never called these guys. He’d never heard of the Chicago cop. Coming to the end of the article, he found his answer in the tag: (With files from Fritz Spangler).

As soon as he arrived in the newsroom he began hunting for Spangler.
You bastard,
he thought.

“He’s in the morning news meeting, Jason,” Rosemary said while taking calls coming through the news department’s switchboard. “You’ve got twenty-two messages already this morning on your psychic story. Some producers with the daytime talk shows want to interview you.”

“No, they don’t. They want to use me to get to the ‘psychic’.”

“CBS News in New York just called too.”

“Look, Rosemary…” He searched in vain for other news editors. Everyone was in the meeting. The few reporters on duty were working the phones on stories. “Have you heard why, or how, we missed this story?” He held up the
Seattle Times
with the shoe impression article.

“That one? Oh, they caught it late.” She rummaged on her desk. “The night desk caught it on the fly for the fourth edition. Guess we missed most of the run, but we have it. See?”

She handed him a copy of the
Mirror,
the front page with the psychic story and the shoe evidence. The series of little stars near the date and price indicated a late-night replate to update the front page.

Spangler passed by him. “Helluva story.”

“I want to talk to you.”

Jason followed him into his office and tossed the
Mirror
on his boss’s desk.

“When I left, you assured me that we’d hold this story until I’d reached Chenoweth and I confirmed the information with my sources. You betrayed me and burned my sources.”

Spangler loosened his tie.

“I considered the circumstances, made a few calls, and decided we’d go with it. I wrote it.”

“You could’ve done the courtesy of calling me.”

“There was no time, and I couldn’t risk you telling your sources.”

“Jesus Christ, Fritz, either we’re on the same team here or we’re not!”

Spangler’s eyebrows rose and his face tightened as he shut the door.

“Sit down, shut up, and listen. You obtained your information while in the employ of the
Seattle Mirror.
The company has ownership of any material you gather. And I, as management, have the authority to determine when and how the company will make use of it. I exercised my authority, which resulted in an exclusive with your name on it.”

“But we’ve got absolutely no confirmation on that material. Zero.”

“We took it as far as we could.”

“Not as far as I wanted to go with it. The story was not developed.”

“You seem to forget an expensive news library
search. The rest is up to the police. They now have a lead thanks to us.” Spangler turned to his notes from the morning story meeting. “It was the right way to go under the circumstances. The Associated Press moved a hit on our psychic tip. We’re drawing attention. Got crews from CNN, FOX, and ABC coming in—and CBS too, I see.”

Jason looked toward the newsroom and shook his head.
All bull.

“Today, I want you to go to the investigators, see if they can confirm our psychic suspect. Are you listening to me?”

“Your style of journalism sucks. It’s dangerous.”

“Excuse me? Did you just say you’re resigning?”

Jason drew his hand over his reddened face.

“No.”

“Good. I have approved the library to spend a little more to go to some private data firms to continue a fullcourt press in the search for Diane M. Fielderson. Now, I suggest you get to work.”

Jason fumed for the rest of the morning and through lunch, which was a bowl of mushroom soup eaten at his desk. Every cop source he called couldn’t help him.
Or wouldn’t.
The news library made no further progress than it had the day before in attempting to confirm the existence of a Diane M. Fielderson, born in the early 1980s in the United States or Canada.

For a moment he considered calling his old man for help, now that he was working as a private investigator, but he didn’t want to get him involved. Besides,
something was gnawing at him. Something he’d overlooked or had forgotten at the outset of this psychic caper.

He tried to recall what it was, as he got fresh coffee from the newsroom kitchen. Passing by the photodesk, he was on the verge of remembering when he saw a group of well-dressed people huddled around his desk, then recognized Grace Garner, with her partner, Kirk Dupree from the FBI, and a couple of other guys in suits.

“Jason Wade?”

“Yes.”

Jason’s eyes went round the group meeting ice-cold expressions, including Grace’s.

“We’d like the original note and sketch and all related original documents you cite in your article here, pertaining to Diane M. F.,” Dupree said. “We’ll also need a list of the names of all people who handled the original documents.”

“I don’t think I can give that up. You know, freedom of the—”

Dupree nodded to one of the men, who unfolded some legal papers.

“We’ve got a search warrant signed by a federal judge.”

Newsroom staff had gathered around Jason’s desk.

“I’m Fritz Spangler, Metropolitan Editor. Who are you?”

IDs were flashed, then Dupree handed Spangler the warrant. After reading it, Spangler said, “We’ve got federal privacy laws that prohibit police searches of newsrooms.”

“There are exceptions that concern the material we’re interested in,” Dupree replied as he pointed to a paragraph, “as we have reason to believe that the immediate seizure of such material is necessary to prevent the death of, or serious bodily injury to, a human being.”

“Well, we’ve published the sketch and the source’s letter.”

“Are you refusing to cooperate?” Dupree asked.

Spangler indicated his office and led Jason and the small group inside. He punched a number on his phone then put his call on speaker.

“Dixon, Niederman, and Bailey.”

“Sarah, it’s Fritz at the
Mirror.
Can you get Winston on the line?”

“He’s in a meeting with a client, Mr. Spangler.”

“Get him now, please. I’ve got the FBI in my office with a search warrant.”

Fifteen minutes later, after the
Mirror’s
legal counsel, Winston Bailey, advised Spangler to cooperate, one of the FBI agents pulled on white latex gloves and placed the documents in evidence bags.

Jason looked at Grace, who looked away, her expression cold.

“By the way, you’re going to be in tomorrow’s paper.” Spangler nodded to the newsroom.

The group turned to face the photographer taking pictures of the exchange through the glass walls of Spangler’s office.

“Just so you know,” Dupree said, “you’ve hampered the investigation into the abduction of Dylan Colson.”

“How so, Agent Dupree?” Spangler folded his arms. “We’ve given you a lead.”

“You’ve most likely given us a bullshit lead in order to boost readership, and you know it. Your presentation of this ‘tip’ gives it unwarranted credibility.” Jason lowered his chin and smiled to himself as Dupree continued. “You’ve diverted attention from the first solid piece of evidence to emerge in this case. We’ll be inundated with calls from every nutcase who thinks they have psychic abilities, or thinks they can identify this phantom in the sketch. There’s no detail here. This could be you, me, or an alien. We’ve already put resources on this thing which are being drawn away from following up solid evidence on the suspect’s shoe.”

“If our tip is such a bogus one, then why are you here, huh?” Spangler asked.

“Unlike you, we confirm our information before deciding to make it public.”

At that moment, Jason noticed Nate Hodge in the newsroom standing next to Danny Kwong, the photog shooting the police.

It puzzled Jason why Hodge was waving this morning’s front page of the
Mirror
and his camera.

Then it started coming back to him.

The thing he’d forgotten.

Yesterday morning, before heading to Sunset Hill Park, he’d called Hodge to ask him to get there in advance of his secret meeting and set up. Jason wanted him to take pictures from a distance with the same powerful lens he used to shoot Seahawks games.

It was an ass-covering thing some reporters did whenever they met with sources in public places.

Since Jason hadn’t actually met anyone at the park, he’d forgotten to ask Hodge if he’d actually shot anything.

Now he could see Hodge nodding to him, holding up the
Mirror
and his camera and nodding big nods, confirming that Christ yes, he had something to show him.

Right now!

A
xel didn’t have a lot of time to pull it off.

Forty-eight hours.

If he was lucky.

The way things stood, he was jammed tight by the situation—guaranteed to go down for it unless he tried something.

Anything, man.

His plan was his only chance.

Nadine was still in the shower when he returned to the house. He took her shoes and the other items into the room they used for storing stuff. He hid it all there among some sheets and blankets.

Then he sat at the desk in the room, a sheet of finished plywood atop two two-drawer file cabinets. He switched on his laptop computer, used his secret password to log on to the files he kept hidden on his hard drive.

As his computer beeped, he accepted that the FBI, with that shoe evidence and other stuff, would likely find Nadine. It was just a matter of time. But he could erase himself from the picture, or at least complicate the trail leading to him. He’d learned about police procedures from other inmates at Coyote Ridge.

His mind raced back to the store. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? That she was lying about a kid, that she was a psycho? She had to be nuts. He couldn’t believe the kid was hers. The whole time they were hauling ass from the store with the thing bawling he kept drilling her.

“Nadine, is this baby really yours?”

“Yes!”

“Bullshit! I want the truth, Nadine!”

“He’s mine, I swear, Axel. The services people took him from me and gave him to the Colsons. When I got better they wouldn’t give him back to me.”

“Why not?”

“They didn’t think I was well enough to take care of him. But they’re wrong. Tell me that they’re wrong, Axel!”

He glared at her in disbelief.

“Is this the truth, Nadine?”

“Yes, I swear. I had to rescue him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything, Axel. I needed your help.”

Oh, he was going to help her.

He seethed as he worked on his laptop. This psycho bitch was not going to pull down his life’s work, the grand plan he’d begun building inside for the last three years of his life.

It had gone well after he got out. He found a job at a wrecking yard. He had limited supervision, worked his own hours, and was paid in cash. He got the van through a friend of a friend through a side deal with a repo guy. He got a safe plate and a motorcycle. Neither the van nor the bike were registered to him.

He’d established his relationship and “ties to the community” with a single mother. However, on paper, Axel had passed off Nadine to the community corrections officer as Ms. Jane Carruthers, a secretary at a daycare center. He gave Axel a thumbs-up for taking the correct rehabilitative path with such an upstanding and pretty young lady. More important, his CCO, an absentminded white-haired guy, kept pushing back residential visits because he was being treated for some kind of cancer.

It didn’t matter because Axel had listed three different addresses. All of them wrong. He kept promising his CCO that he would update his residential address as required.

The address thing was all part of living smart outside. In prison, other inmates taught you to stay out of all databanks. No credit cards. Never list a real address; use postal boxes, general delivery. It was what he and Nadine were doing with this place they were renting.

Axel had tried to be certain nothing tied them to the property. And he always ensured his fingertips were cut up with deep scrapes, or he wore bandages or gloves, something he could pass off to the work he did on wrecks. Keep yourself invisible, don’t make it easy for anyone to find you. Keep your number unlisted, or use a public phone.

They must’ve done it right, or Nadine’s stunt would’ve had the FBI on their doorstep by now. It must’ve bought them a little time.

Until now, the real deal Axel had been working on
involved an upcoming job meticulously planned by some guys inside. He was part of the project team. He had to first set himself up as being clean, then they would get him a new identity and a job repairing armored cars in Los Angeles. When the time came, he’d help the team pull off one mother of a heist.

Axel’s cut was going to be $2.5 million.

Then he’d dump Nadine and her kid and head off to one of the South American or Caribbean countries that had no extradition deal with the United States and he would enjoy the rest of his life on the beach.

That was Axel’s dream plan.

Nadine’s move threatened to send him back inside. He could not allow that to happen.

The shower stopped.

He heard her hair dryer going as he continued working online with his files. The best thing he took out of prison was an extensive network of friends on the outside.

Axel could get expert help fast on just about anything he needed: forged passports, stolen credit cards, counterfeit cash, drugs, stolen plates, guns, advice on how to leave no trace evidence at crime scenes, how to make bombs, plot a bank job. He could contact brokers who handled every stolen item on the planet: cars, diamonds, art, guns, computer programs, postage stamps, trading cards, university exams, even plutonium.

Axel needed help now.

“Here’s a scenario,” he began an e-mail to a friend he trusted with his life. When he finished, he sent off
two more to other trusted sources, seeking their help on his plan to turn Nadine’s act around. The floor in the hall creaked.

“What do you think, honey?”

Axel closed his files and looked at Nadine standing in the doorway.

“My new look for our new life.”

She grinned, buffed her head with her hands. Her hair was short and dyed a completely different color. She didn’t look a thing like the woman who’d stepped into the bathroom.

He nodded.

“Whatcha working on, there?”

“Just keeping an eye on things.”

“I saw you at the fire by the drum.” She nodded to the back. “You get rid of everything?”

He nodded. “Everything we needed to get rid of.”

“Good. I’m going to check on my baby. He’s still asleep.” She turned, then stopped. “I’m hungry, and I’m going to have a tomato sandwich. Can I fix you anything, hon?”

He shook his head.

After she left, he checked his e-mail inbox. One response already. Good. “Friend,” it began, “the answers you seek will soon be on their way.”

Good.

He closed his files, cocked an ear to the radio news in the kitchen where Nadine was humming again. The stupid bitch. Satisfied no new developments were being reported, Axel left his desk, went down the hall to the room where the kid was.

He entered.

The shade had been pulled down, washing the room with soft light.

Axel liked the sweet smell, the serene calmness. Tranquil like a funeral chapel during a wake, he thought, gazing down at Dylan Colson, who slept in the crib.

The light over the baby dimmed as Axel drew closer.

He stood there in silence, knowing that soon he’d have the information he needed to take the action Nadine had forced him to take. He looked at Dylan Colson, thinking it was too bad but it was out of Axel’s hands. He was not to blame.

It was Nadine’s fault.