Smith Investigation Series Box Set 1 (8 page)

Chapter 2

“Female missing person, 56, early onset Alzheimer’s,” I began, throwing my notebook on the desk.

Smith kept in the background, a sign this was my case and I was in charge of the briefing.

Various congratulatory expressions showed on the faces of my colleagues, except for Spike, who was sporting her ‘I knew before you did’ smugness.

“Fiona Petersen, former chemist, important figure in the city. She disappeared from her home on the 13th of this month. No witnesses, no cameras. Police are treating the case as search and recovery,” I presented.

“So, they’re basically waiting for a body to turn up,” DeMarco summarized.

“As usual,” Spike spat, more anger in her voice than one might've expected from her.

“It does make sense for them to think like that. It’s the end of November now, — what? — two weeks since she had disappeared? She’s a vulnerable adult…” Dylan tried to play the devil’s advocate, but Spike cut him off.

“That’s the reason they should have continued to actively search for her!”

“Yes, but, I don’t think they have the budget to sustain something like that,” he made the mistake of arguing.

“So, what? They should sit on their asses and not do anything?”

“I’m sure they’re doing what they can,” I intervened. “Let’s be the ones to consider her as still alive, shall we? That’s why the family has come to us, after all.” I was eying the two sternly, but an unidentifiable suspicion had formed in my mind.

Dylan dropped his gaze to the floor, obviously having something else to say to Spike. I waited a few moments to make sure he kept quiet on the issue, glad the situation, albeit still tense, seemed to remain civilized.

“So, what do we have?” asked DeMarco.

“Almost nothing. This is a build-from-scratch investigation, guys. We need background on Fiona, on the family, as well as door-to-door with the neighbors. Robert, you’re on the background research, as usual. Dylan, use your charming personality to talk to the neighbors. Spike, I need financial and character research on everyone. DeMarco’s running point with the police.”

They all nodded, the usual pointless shuffle of feet and papers commencing.

“Alright. Angles we should look at?” I asked, after the noise died down.

“Are we looking at rescue?” Dylan made his second mistake for the day.

“What else? Didn’t you hear Rob?” Spike barked.

“What about kidnap for ransom?” intervened DeMarco, eager to nip the possibility of another argument in the bud.

“No ransom call so far,” I answered, more than grateful for his help.

“Revenge? Murder?” Dylan wouldn’t let it go. Strike three.

“If she was mentally impaired that doesn't mean she couldn't have taken care of herself so, listen here, you ignorant …”

“That’s enough, both of you! Dylan, why don’t you start with the door-to-door. We need more information on how Fiona lived up until her disappearance, the last time anyone saw her around, and if she wandered off often,” I said. I had my eyes fixated on Spike, despite addressing Dylan, but she didn't look up at me.

As I followed Dylan to the door, I caught Smith's badly hidden smirk.

“One more thing,” I whispered to Dylan. “This looks like something personal for Spike…”

“You think?” he interrupted with attitude, but swallowed it back when he saw my raised eyebrows.

“I mean, it’s touching on something personal. Really personal. So, please, be the bigger person and don’t freaking screw up my investigation,” I said through gritted teeth.

He nodded and scurried out. I turned and threw Smith a 'you're not off the hook yet’ look.

“We're set then," I concluded. "DeMarco, let’s take a trip to see the police. What do you say?”

“Sure thing, Ma’am.”

“And guys? Keep in mind that this is time sensitive. We’re not going home until we find something to go on. Understood?”

Spike nodded, already busy at her computer. Robert looked as absent-minded as usual.

Grabbing my jacket, I hurried after DeMarco, who had already left. I knew he thought that if he got to the car first, he could drive. “Fat chance,” I thought.

Chapter 3

“That was a waste,” remarked DeMarco, reluctantly heading for the passenger door.

I didn’t even try to hide my smile, and he made a point of showing that he saw it.

“What did you expect from this?” he asked, eager to talk about something not related to his riding shotgun.

“Nothing much. Mainly find out if we have permission to trample over their jurisdiction. Amongst other things.”

“I hate to bring it up to you, but you forgot to ask them.”

He looked happy at the possibility of me making a mistake. I smiled.

“But they gave permission without me asking. Like a silent agreement.”

"And what was that thing with the complex investigation all about? They're not doing anything about this woman."

"It's a thing they say when they mean the investigation is in limbo between departments, kiddo," I tried to keep up my all-knowing attitude, but stopped myself. How could I have missed that? If what the police were saying was to be taken seriously, everything changed. It meant that the police was withholding information, that they knew something about Fiona's disappearance that could, potentially, concern another department. "So, they must know more about her whereabouts." I thought, then said aloud "Why would they sit on this sort of information?"

DeMarco glanced at me quizzically, but my ringing phone stopped him from inquiring about my mental health.

“Hi, Spike.”

“I found an article about Fiona in the paper.” She sounded way more excited about this small piece of information than it was called for.

“Alright,” I decided to play along. “What does it say?” She must’ve had a reason for her happiness.

“It’s some sort of tribute to her. It says that she is a prominent chemist, that she’s a symbol for this city. Basically that if you go to school and work hard you…”

“Hold on. Does it say she has Alzheimer’s?” Suddenly, the idea that had budded in my mind earlier seemed to take a clearer shape.

“Let me check. No, it doesn’t. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that the theory that she’s alive might hold more water than we thought.”

“I was sure you didn’t believe me either!”

“Spike, this is not the time. And it’s not about you.”

A moment of silence passed, and I could picture Spike steaming at the other end.

“Anyway, good job with the article, Spike. We’ll be at HQ in ten minutes. Tell Robert to have the background prepared.”

DeMarco had never lost his questioning look, our little feud forgotten.

“Spike found an article on Fiona. It doesn’t mention her Alzheimer's, so I’m thinking…”

“You’re thinking kidnapping?”

“Yeah.” I was thoroughly surprised by his catching up so fast.

“Does it say if she was rich?”

And back to disappointment.

“It implies it, but…”

“Who kidnaps someone and waits two weeks before asking for ransom?”

“Maybe because they don’t want a ransom,” I replied, without looking at him. It was starting to snow, surprisingly early this year, and I was trying to act concerned with my driving.

“What is it today with this team?” I asked myself, struggling with my growing annoyance. Ever since I had started working for Smith Investigations, something was bound to come up around these people. When before I felt like I was a square block in a sea of round spaces, I was now starting to consider the fact that I might be the only on in her right mind around this firm. When I added to that the prospect of police hiding vital information, I could just feel the beginning of a migraine squeezing my temples.

“Criminal interest?”

Surprise snapped my head back to DeMarco, almost losing control of the wheel for a split second.

“Whoah, the road!”

I laughed, enjoying my newfound respect for him. At least I knew some of my colleagues were normal people. Some of the tension of the case dissipated. I drove faster and we got to headquarters sooner, despite the snow.

I let DeMarco park the car in the designated spot from the underground parking lot and entered the building through the front entrance.

“Oh, you’re here!” Spike exclaimed, somehow magically appearing from behind the tall reception desk. So, this was the reason nobody saw her there. She was too short to be seen behind it.

“The article?” I motioned for the piece of paper she was holding.

I read it while walking, only raising my eyes from it to give Spike a thankful look for holding the door to Operations open for me.

“You’re here,” observed Robert. This was new.

“Yes, I am. Do you have something for me?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. Just what you asked me to do.”

I gave him an encouraging nod.

“Yeah, so… Fiona Petersen. Her husband died ten years ago. Right about then, her problems started.”

“Problems?”

“Mental problems.” He looked sheepish for saying the words.

“Alright,” I said to him, then asked myself again, “Is everyone weird around here?”

“Alzheimer’s is not a mental illness,” Spike intervened and the reason for his attitude became clear. He was afraid to get on Spike’s wrong side.

I waved him to go on.

“OK. No major life changes since her husband's passing. Well, her younger daughter married last year.”

“The older one is still single?”

“It looks like that.”

“Divorced?” He shook his head.

“Both daughters have studied medicine. Karen is a researcher, and the other just got back from working with Doctors Without Borders.”

“Financial situation?”

“Good. For everyone. The husband is a doctor too, has a private practice in Burlington. Plastic surgery.”

“Right.”

“What are you thinking?” asked Spike, just as DeMarco came in, careful not to get too close to us. “Did you smoke again?” she figured.

He shrugged and sat at his desk. He seemed to be reading Robert’s findings more intently than the information required, choosing to look busy so he could avoid bickering with Spike about his on-and-off affair with nicotine.

“I think she was kidnapped,” I said, taking a deep breath. I knew this would give Spike hope that might hurt her in the long run, but I decided to take my chances. I needed her sharp and calm, not angry and feeling cornered as a lunatic for believing Fiona was still alive.

She squealed in excitement. I shot her a look and she tried to calm herself.

“But there was no ransom,” remarked Robert.

“Very observant,” DeMarco joked, looking smug for having guessed my thoughts earlier.

“Care to explain?” I invited him.

“Sure. Rob is thinking about a criminal case. As in someone kidnapping her not for the ransom but for who she is or what she knows. The fact that the article doesn’t mention her Alzheimer's tells us that she was kidnapped for something she knows. The family has no money problems, so an inside job is excluded. My guess is the kidnappers are not prepared to ask for a ransom. Either they don’t have the means for it or are not experienced enough.”

“Exactly,” I said.

Spike’s expression darkened.

“What will they do with her if she’s no use to them?” she asked concerned.

“Let’s not think about that for now. This is a rescue operation, remember?”

She nodded, reluctantly.

“And if they haven't killed her yet, it means that something is keeping them from doing so. Let's hope that will keep her alive until we find her." I smiled, checking the time. "Besides, the cops would want nothing more than to rub it in our faces if they found a body.”

At my last remarked, Spike brightened, her eyes sparkling with new interest and hope.

“DeMarco, would you do me a favor?" He nodded, struggling with a menthol chewing gum that looked to be just too flavored for him. "Could you ask some of your contacts if they know anything about what the police might be up to?"

"You want me to ask street thugs about the police?" He seemed genuinely amused.

"Sure. When some of those street thugs are moonlighting as police informants, the game changes, doesn't it?"

He chuckled. "As you wish, Rob. You're in charge with this one."

I smiled and turned to Spike.

"Shall we take a trip, just us girls?” I asked her after checking the newspaper article again.

“What sort?”

“Let’s get closer to the horse's mouth. I’m thinking about a walk around her neighborhood. What do you say?”

She made a face, looking like she was about to object. I thought it was about Dylan so I quickly assured her we probably wouldn’t run into him, but her expression didn’t change.

“OK. I need to go to the lady's room for a minute. I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Strange,” I thought, catching the keys DeMarco threw at me. Since when was she telling me where she needed to go?

The minute she had asked for turned out to be more like ten. I was about to call her when she finally appeared through the parked cars.

“Let’s go,” she said, fastening her seatbelt. She didn’t seem to want to discuss the reason for her lateness, so I dropped it. Something was up and I decided I would deal with it in due time.

I drove down to the old Victorian neighborhood Fiona lived in, pulling up in front of her house.

“What now?” Spike asked.

“We take a walk. Didn’t I say that?”

We got out and Spike clung ungraciously to my arm, trying to steady herself on her slim heels.

“If I was in an Alzheimer’s episode, where would I go?” I asked aloud.

The street had no alleys and the houses had no fences. All the lawns were fairly identical, especially now in the winter, when children didn’t play outside.

No one reported a woman knocking on their door and the yards were clear. No bushes or dollhouses or other items people would put out on their front lawns, which left me with the street itself.

I looked the street up and down, trying to figure out how a 56-year old woman might get lost in a straight line. There were no alleys or side streets for a long stretch. The only thing noticeable in sight was a colorful storefront north of Fiona’s house, too far away for me to make out the writing on its windows.

“Let’s go this way,” I suggested to Spike. She made no comment, too preoccupied with not twisting her ankle.

We walked towards the store slower than I would’ve liked. I was starting to notice how its colorful appearance might've posed an attraction to a disoriented person. I would bet my entire paycheck that Fiona had often gone there during past episodes.

As we approached the store, I saw that it was a bakery judging by the display of various pastries in the brightly decorated windows.

It was open now but I suspected that at the time Fiona was presumed to have wandered off it would have been closed. “Still, worth a shot,” I thought and sent Spike in to inquire.

I stayed behind and looked at the rusty gate guarding the entrance to a small neighborhood park across the street from the bakery.

The gate was connected to a decaying chain link fence that ran at a strange angle from another fence limiting a private property. The angle created an unexpected widening of the sidewalk, invisible from Fiona’s house, in the middle of which stood a bronze statue that was some sort of abstract form of art. I approached the statue, paying attention to the traces of paint someone had tried to remove from the base of the statue, the only smooth surface on the entire thing.

“Perfect place for graffiti, isn’t it?” Spike said, from behind me. She had returned quickly.

I nodded.

“Too bad people don’t appreciate this form of art more,” Spike went on.

“Maybe that’s because these so called forms of art don’t always look like anything worth appreciating? Anyone can grab a can of spray paint and start defacing buildings and landmarks,” I argued. “Anyway, what did the bakery people have to say?”

“Nothing, really. They were closed that day. All day. And they don’t have a camera that captures the street. They say they don’t need it. It’s a nice neighborhood. Apart from the occasional act of vandalism.”

I smiled, glad that people still took pride in hating any form of unconventional art.

“Maybe if people could see these real artists, differentiate between them and…” Spike tried to change my mind but I cut her off, catching sight of something that could prove to be the key to solving our case.

“And that’s why people buy surveillance cams.”

Spike looked at me quizzically. I pointed out to her the round, fairly new, protective globe hiding the camera. It was mounted just above the gate of the private property adjacent to the park.

Her grin matched mine when she looked back at me.

“Let’s ring them,” she proposed.

“Not us. I’ll call Dylan, I bet he already spoke to the owners.”