“Where’s this guy now?”
“We haven’t been able to locate him. Last known address is in Michigan.”
“Record?”
Dailey paused. “Assault and battery. Burglary. Armed robbery. Rape. Did a few stints in prison. But three years ago, the guy just disappeared.”
“Have you asked his mother where he is?”
“Not yet. As of today, the special agent in charge of the Chicago office is sending me to Gary to assist Special Agent Coursey.”
Now this generous sharing of information made sense.
“You came to us, knowing we’d want go and interview her.”
Special Agent Dailey smiled. “We’re all on the same side, right?”
“Fine. What’s her name and where is she?”
Dailey played coy. I stated the obvious.
“You want something.”
“The Behavioral Science Unit is facing cutbacks. Homeland Security is getting all of the funding. We’re going to be downsized. A major bust would go a long way to preventing that.”
“You want the collar.”
Dailey nodded. “We’re willing to share. But we’d like to be in on it. If I give you the woman’s name, and you find out where her son is, we’d like to assist in the arrest.”
“Won’t that only matter if state lines have been crossed?”
“We can still be there to smile pretty for the cameras.”
I mulled it over. “We could find her on our own.”
“Maybe. But it will be tough. You don’t have access to all of the information that we do. You’d need subpoenas to obtain records. All of that will take time.”
I glanced at Herb. He shrugged.
“Deal.” We shook hands on it. “What’s her name?”
“Her name is Lorna Hunt Ellison. She’s currently in the Indiana Women’s Prison in Indianapolis. Son’s name is Caleb.”
I wrote the info down, then hit the Eject button on my VCR.
“I got another tape this morning. It shows the death of the handwriting expert who helped with the Gingerbread Man case.”
Dailey raised an eyebrow. “You believe Diane Kork was killed on the first tape, correct?”
“We don’t have a body, but the tattoo matched. And someone burned down her house when I showed up. I find it hard to believe that’s coincidental.”
“So do we. And it’s also not a coincidence that the handwriting expert was killed. It appears that the Gingerbread Man’s partner is targeting people involved in that case. Who else had a hand in it?”
“Harry McGlade, obviously. And a guy named Phineas Troutt helped out. Some men from the medical examiner’s office, Phil Blasky and Max Hughes. A handful of uniforms from my district, who did legwork. Guys from the Evanston PD.”
“And us.” Agent Dailey frowned. “We’re on his list too.”
CHAPTER 27
INDIANAPOLIS WAS A three-hour drive. Herb and I made arrangements with the warden to visit with Lorna tomorrow afternoon. Indianapolis was also the hometown of Mike Mayer, who rented the Eclipse. We could check out his house after visiting Lorna.
I still hadn’t heard from Phin. Herb vehemently disliked Harry, and not even a free meal would convince him to sup with the PI. Racking my brain for someone else to bring was an exercise in futility. I didn’t have any friends. I hadn’t dated anyone in months. My life was police work.
I wondered, ironically, whom I would ask to stand up if I ever got married. I was in the same boat as McGlade in that respect.
Not that I’d ever have to face that situation.
“You gonna eat that?”
Herb pointed at the cranberry granola bar sticking out of my jacket pocket.
I flipped him the bar. He took a tiny exploratory bite.
“This is awful.”
“I know.”
“And so tiny.”
He finished it, then traded me a five-dollar bill for singles to go on what he called a Carb Quest – a trip to the vending machines.
“Want anything?”
“No.”
“I’ll drop by later.”
“Herb… let me know when you get the biopsy results.”
I gave the Detroit PD a call, and asked them to give me whatever they had on Caleb Ellison. They reiterated what Dailey had told me. Ellison was a career dirtbag who dropped off the face of the earth.
“Probably in a shallow grave someplace,” said the cop I spoke with. “No big loss.”
I asked him to fax over Caleb’s record, which turned out to be a Greatest Hits package of felony arrests. Presuming Caleb wasn’t in a shallow grave someplace, he was in his late thirties, two hundred pounds, with red hair and lots of tattoos.
I switched gears, and hunted and pecked my way through the reports I’d been neglecting, beginning with the fire from two days ago.
Three hours later I was bleary-eyed and falling asleep. The phone snapped me out of my stupor.
“Hi, Jack. It’s Phin.”
That was a relief. “Hey. Thanks for calling.”
“Where are we meeting?”
“At Mon Ami Gabi, a French steakhouse in Lincoln Park. Three o’clock. Reservations are under the name Buttshitz.”
“Unfortunate name.”
“It’s not real. Harry thinks he’s funny.”
“See you at three.”
He hung up. I yawned, stretched, checked my watch. Twelve thirty. Back to the thrill-a-minute fast lane of report writing.
The writing was so white-knuckle exhilarating that I actually did fall asleep. Someone nudged me out of slumber an undetermined time later.
“Jack. You asleep?”
I peeled my eyes open, focused on Herb. “Not anymore.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m heading home.”
I felt a brief flash of panic and checked my watch. Ten after three.
“Shit. I’m late.” I focused on Herb. “Why are you heading home so early?”
“I got my biopsy results.” His face split into a broad grin. “Benign. Bernice and I are going to celebrate.”
I cracked a huge grin and gave my partner a hug. “That’s great, Herb. Congrats. Tomorrow, early, we go to Indiana.”
I rushed past Herb, flew down the stairs, hopped in my Nova, stuck the cherry on top, and hit the siren.
Even with traffic parting for me, I didn’t get to Mon Ami until a quarter to four. I did a quick once-over in the rearview, threw the valet my keys, and entered the posh Beldon Stratford Hotel.
The restaurant occupied the left of the lobby, up some carpeted stairs. It was an upscale French steakhouse; probably a redundant description, considering there aren’t any budget French steakhouses. Small, intimate, with starched tablecloths and a wine cart worth more than a Mercedes. I sheepishly gave the tuxedo-clad hostess the reservation name, and she led me past a dozen or so tables, all occupied.
During the ride over, my mind filled with worst-case scenarios, most of them centered around Phin murdering Harry.
Color me surprised when I spotted their table and heard gales of laughter.
“Jackie!” Harry pointed at me, speaking much too loudly for the venue. “Come! Sit! Meet my beloved.”
I eyed Phin, who was looking pretty good in a charcoal jacket and a light-blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. He offered me a pleasant smile.
Harry stood up to greet me, an unprecedented move, and Phin stood as well. McGlade clasped my hand as if I’d just returned from war, his face glowing with happiness. He wore another wrinkled suit, but his shirt was starched, and the handkerchief in his breast pocket matched his tie.
Harry’s beloved didn’t stand up, but she flashed me a dazzling smile. I practically did a double take.
This woman was actually cute. Great skin, a delicate nose, full lips, high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, thick black hair in a bob cut.
“Jack Daniels, meet my fiancée, Holly Frakes.”
Holly offered a hand, her nails to die for. She had a strong, firm grip.
“So this is the famous Jack Daniels. Quite a difference from your TV counterpart. I love the suit.”