Murder In Her Dreams (26 page)

She drove past the address of the Bureau
Reading Room on East Chestnut Street just beyond High Street. No
parking places remained near the tall office building. With
business people, shoppers, and state officials, she always found
downtown parking a hassle even though hot, dusty parking lots
covered most of the vacant land.

At last, she located a place in the shade of
a tall building on a two-hour meter several blocks from the Bureau.
She parked the car and then fished in her wallet for the necessary
quarters. It might be borderline, but the meter should last until
the Bureau closed. She didn’t need a parking ticket.

Cassie suspected a search of the birth
records would provide a vital clue to Bradford Harrison. Exactly
what she would find, she didn’t know, but something.

Inside the building, she took the elevator to
the sixth floor and then followed the signs to the Bureau. A dark
haired woman behind the counter looked up as she entered.

“Good afternoon, my name is Cassie Blake. I
made an appointment with Bonnie Dawson to check on some records
this afternoon.”

The clerk checked a log in front her. “Yes, I
have you down in the book. The readers are to your left. If you
need any help, let me know.”

“Thanks.”

The small reading room looked strictly
utilitarian. State-issue gray tables and chairs encouraged the
readers to finish their task quickly. A man and two women sat at
the three microfiche readers at the first of the three tables so
Cassie continued on to the second. She stopped at the first empty
place, pulled out the chair, and switched on the machine. The
screen glowed a lighter shade of gray. Next to each machine sat a
file of microfiche.

Cassie wondered why the Bureau hadn’t
converted it files to electronic form, but suspected the State
wasn’t interesting in making access easy. She had used the
microfiche index before so she skipped over the death certificate
index and concentrated on the file of births. The index provided
access to the certificate number by year, county, and then last
name.

She found the appropriate year and quickly
located the fiche for Franklin County and the city of Columbus.
Unlike the Ohio Historical Society, the Bureau had fairly new
readers. She positioned the microfiche containing the H’s in the
reader and adjusted the focus. She quickly scanned down to Hansen.
Barbara, Barry, Berry, Buck, Burt. No Bert. She checked the date of
birth for Burt, but it didn’t match the one given her by Ian. She
scanned back, but nothing seemed to fit. Had Ian given her the
wrong date? Bert short for? Bertel, but she hadn’t found a Bertel
either. Albert? A little old-fashioned, but maybe. She repositioned
the fiche. Sure enough, she found an Albert Hansen with the same
birth date as Bert Hansen. Ian hadn’t mentioned the name Albert,
but she could appreciate why Bert might have shortened it. She
noted the certificate number and replaced the index fiche.

One down and two to go. She located the
appropriate fiche for Lord and repeated the process. Jason,
Jeffrey, Jennifer, John. Lots of Johns. This time she had no
problem locating the entry and quickly noted the certificate
number. With the right name, birth date, and birthplace, she had
been able to locate the record quickly.

Bradford Harrison took a little more work.
According to Ian, Bradford’s father, James Harrison, had lived in
Columbus his entire life so she limited the search to Columbus and
started by assuming he had been born in the same year or one near
the other two. She hoped he didn’t have a different first name or
she would never find him.

First, she tried the same year as Bert and
Justin, but failed to find a Bradford Harrison. Next, she searched
a year ahead. No Bradford. She tried a year back. Still nothing.
This could get tedious. She tried two years earlier and found him
at last. With a sigh of satisfaction, she copied down his
certificate number.

At the service counter, she filled out
request slips to look at the three records and left them with the
clerk. Some fifteen minutes later, the clerk called her name.

The dark haired clerk pointed to the
ledger-sized book on the counter. “Here are the first two. I’ll be
back shortly with the other one.”

Cassie stared down at the green covered book
that held copies of the certificates. She thumbed through to Bert’s
record and then to Justin’s. As she read Justin’s, she let out a
low whistle. Under race, “BLK" had been recorded. All three men had
been born before 1974. All Ohio public records after that date
carried no indication of race.

She tried to recall exactly what the gunman
had looked like. Because of the ski mask and the gloves, she
couldn’t be entirely sure, but she thought he had been Caucasian.
No accent or cadence in his speech had caught her ear nor had she
detected any mannerisms that would single him out as
African-American or Hispanic. Was there any such thing or had she
just assumed it?

She copied out the information and waited. A
few minutes later, the clerk returned with Bradford Harrison’s
record.

After a quick review of it, she handed the
ledger back to the clerk. “Thanks.”

As Cassie left the Bureau and walked to the
elevator, she mulled over what she had learned. According to the
records, Justin was African-American. She’d never met Justin, but
as an African-American, he couldn’t be impersonating Bradford
Harrison. That left Bert Hansen.

If Brad had passed himself off as Hansen,
what had happened to the real Bert Hansen? People didn’t just
disappear without a trace. They had family and friends who would
ask questions about them. How could anyone take on another person’s
identity? Surely, at least one person would find out.

The Bert Hansen she had met at Tula’s party
had appeared to be a nice young man. Maybe a little too full of
himself, but she had sensed nothing odd or evil about him. Nothing
about him reminded her in any way of the killer rabbit from her
dreams.

The elevator came and one man got out. Cassie
joined the two women and the remaining man in the car. The lobby
button glowed so she waited with the others as the car continued
down.

Outside the building, Cassie walked toward
her car, still thinking about Bert Hansen. She tried to visualize
him. Tall, fairly muscular, with blond hair and brown eyes.

The gunman had been tall and strong. He
fought with Ian and pushed him to the floor before he hit him with
gun. She remembered his threatening gaze as he stared at her and
then raised the gun. That had drawn her attention all right.

She hadn’t been able to see his hair, but he
had dark eyes. Yes, the gunman could have been Bert. Cassie
shuddered. She had to reach Ian.

Driving north along High Street, she looked
for a phone. At a Stop-N-Go convenience store, she saw one. She
swung into the parking lot and pulled up to the phone. She fumbled
in her purse for change, but she had used all her quarters on the
parking meter. She parked the car and ran inside the store.

A bearded young man sat at the cash register.
He surveyed Cassie with a bored look as she approached him.

“Can I have change for a dollar?”

“Sorry, lady, no can do. You have to buy
something. We don’t make change.”

Cassie glanced around and grabbed a pack of
spearmint gum from a display on the counter. “I’ll take this.”

“Eight-four cents.”

Damn. She needed a quarter, sixteen cents
wouldn’t do it. She grabbed another pack, “Make that two. And I
want a quarter in the change.”

He rang up the sale and handed her the
change. A quarter, a nickel, and two pennies.

“Thanks.” She grabbed the money and ran out
the door.

“Hey, lady, you forgot your gum.”

“Keep it,” she yelled back.

Another car had pulled up to the phone. It
surprised Cassie to find the phone in use. She backed up and pulled
behind the car. If the guy saw her, he might hurry up.

Maybe she should just drive on and find
another phone. There had to be other phones in the area. She
shifted into reverse, but before she could back up the guy hung up
the phone and started forward. Relieved, Cassie pulled up to the
phone box.

In her haste, she fumbled with the quarter
and almost dropped it. She punched Ian’s office number and waited
for an answer. The phone rang four times.

A woman’s voice answered. “You have reached
voice mail for...”

“Ian McLeod,” Ian’s voice cut in.

Then the woman’s voice returned. “At the tone
please leave your name, phone number, and a brief message.”

Cassie groaned. Damn answering machine! She
left a message and hung up. Better go home and see if she could
find Ian’s home number. This phone, like most of them, had no phone
book. Directory Assistance would require more coins. She pulled
ahead and out of the parking lot.

At home, she found no listing for Ian in the
Columbus telephone book. Directory Assistance had none either. So
much for an emergency.

She hadn’t had another dream, so maybe
Bradford Harrison was biding his time. At least now that they knew
who Bradford was impersonating, they should be able to protect
themselves. Ian would check his phone messages and get hers.
Frustration ate at her anyway. Why did Bradford Harrison have to
pick on the man she loved, the man of her dreams?

Chapter
Twenty

Once home, Cassie tried Ian’s office several
more times, but got only the voice mail system. Where could he be?
Frustrated, she marched out to the kitchen to fix dinner and
eat.

The doorbell sounded as she washed the dinner
dishes. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she hurried toward the
front door. A pony-tailed young man stood on the porch. He held a
clipboard in his hand. Tall and muscular, he smiled down at
Cassie.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m sure you’ve heard
about the problems of toxic waste disposal here in Ohio. Greenpeace
is collecting signatures against the proposed disposal site in
southern Ohio. We’re lobbying against amended legislation to extend
a permit to Waste Management for its site near Marietta. I have a
petition we’d like you to sign. I’m also collecting money to
support our lobbying efforts. We owe it to future generations to
protect the environment. We don’t want the problems New Jersey has
or a Love Canal here. I hope you’ll be able to help us.” He gave
her a winsome smile.

“Toxic waste? Marietta’s on the Ohio River
and that flows to the Mississippi.”

“That’s right, ma’am .We’re concerned about
ground water contamination and runoff that would pollute the creeks
and then the Ohio River itself. There’s a lot of big money pushing
this.” He smiled again. “We need all the donations we can get.”

Cassie debated a moment as Ian’s warnings to
be careful reverberated in memory. She looked again at the earnest
young man with his Greenpeace T-shirt and his clipboard. He posed
no danger. She only had to worry about Bert Hansen and she knew
what he looked like.

“Why don’t you come in, and I’ll get my
purse.” Cassie held the door open and the young man came
inside.

She went to the kitchen and pulled her wallet
from her purse on the counter. After removing five dollars, she
headed back to the front hall. The young man had disappeared.

* * * *

When Ian entered his office, the flashing red
light on his answering machine gleamed like an urgent beacon. He
hit the play button. MaryLou had called to remind him about
breakfast downtown tomorrow morning, and a call from Sharon
followed.

“Ian, are you avoiding me?” Sharon’s voice
sounded annoyed. “I need to talk to you. Call me.” An audible click
sounded signifying she had hung up.

She had broken the engagement, and he had no
reason to want to changes things. Now that he and Cassie might have
a future together, he didn’t want to hurt Sharon. His feelings had
changed so much, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to tell that to
Sharon.

The next message came from Cassie Blake. She
sounded a little breathless.

“Ian, this is Cassie. I found birth records
on all three men. Bradford and Bert are both white so Bradford has
to be impersonating Bert. Justin is African-American. I don’t think
the gunman was African-American, so that leaves Justin out. Call me
when you get a chance. Bye.”

African-American? Ian hit the save button and
then replayed the messages. Had he misunderstood? The message
remained the same. It didn’t make sense. Justin was no more black
than he was. He looked as white as Bert. Cassie must have made a
mistake.

He punched her number, but got the answering
machine.

* * * *

The phone rang and Cassie lurched forward,
but the muscular young man, the ersatz Greenpeace representative,
motioned her back with the gun.

“Let it ring.”

After the fourth ring, her answering machine
kicked in. Her short message finished.

“Cassie, Ian. I got you message, but it
doesn’t make sense. Justin is white. Are you sure you looked at the
right record? Call me later, okay?” The phone clicked.

She looked up at the blue snub-nosed gun
pointed at her. It looked all too familiar — just like the gun that
hit Ian. The man facing her must be the same man who had threatened
Ian earlier.

He wasn’t Bert. The words of Ian’s message
now made sense. If the Justin he knew wasn’t an African-American,
then Bradford Harrison must be impersonating Justin Lord.

“So you’re Justin. Did you kill the real
Justin?”

“Look bitch, if you’d minded your own
business, I wouldn’t be here. Now, let’s go.” He motioned her to
her feet.

Her brain raced as she struggled to think of
a way out. She had foiled this man three times before, and she
meant to do it again. “Where are we going?”