We left the house and checked the garage. A Toyota sport utility vehicle and a Lexus remained, as well as a collection of tools and more toys. Julie Weston and her daughter hadn’t left in one of the family cars. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have left alive.
We returned to John Weston and gave him the key.
“Find anything helpful?” he asked.
Joe and I exchanged a glance, then Joe said, “Just seeing the home is helpful, Mr. Weston.”
He looked at Joe blankly and didn’t respond. We left, promising to be in touch. When I pulled out of the driveway he was still sitting on the table. I wondered if he’d be there all day.
“Well,” Joe said as I drove, “that wasn’t much help. You think they’re alive now, because of one sentence written in a little girl’s diary. And, while I respect that hunch, it still isn’t any help in finding them.”
“No,” I admitted, “it isn’t.” I pulled onto Brecksville Road and headed north, back toward the city, following roughly the same path the Cuyahoga River takes as it winds its way toward the heart of downtown and into the Flats. The sun was out, and the digital thermometer on the rearview mirror said it was forty-seven degrees outside-not warm enough for me, but the warmest it had been in months. The winter was still clinging to us, refusing to give in to the spring. It had been a long, nasty one, with nearly a hundred inches of snowfall and consistently low temperatures that felt even colder with the frigid winds that whipped in off the lake. Around the first of March it had begun to wear at me. I was annoyed by the lingering traces of snow now, irate at each forecast of another storm, frustrated with the way the cold air squeezed my lungs on every run.
“Next move?” Joe said, interrupting my thoughts. I took my eyes off the van in front of me briefly and glanced at him, not understanding.
“You spacing out on me?” he said. “What do you think our next move should be?”
I returned my eyes to the road and shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve got some possibilities now, but no facts, nothing close to hard evidence. Seems to me we need to shake something up a little, see what we can stir up.”
“That sounds about right,” Joe said. “You’ve always favored the loose cannon approach in the past.”
I smiled. “When in doubt, shoot it out.”
“Brilliant slogan.” He shook his head. “So, who are we going to shake up? You want to find the Russians, take a bat to their car?”
“Have to save something for tomorrow,” I said. “I figured we’d start with Jeremiah Hubbard.”
“Take a bat to his car?”
“Only if he refuses to see us.”
Joe twisted in the seat, looking to see if I was serious. “You really want to talk to Hubbard today?”
“Why not? He-or his associates, if we want to be anal about it-were paying Weston to do something recently. That’s about the only thing close to a fact we have. Might as well take it and run with it.”
“You assume he’ll be so awed by our deductive abilities that he’ll confess ties to the Russian mob and let us make a citizen’s arrest?”
“It’s hard to say what his reaction will be,” I said. “But it’s even harder to imagine someone not being awed by our deductive abilities.”
Joe ran his hand through his short gray hair and let it keep going until it was on the back of his neck. He sighed and kneaded the flesh as if trying to drive out a pain that had lodged there.
“Shit,” he said. “It’s not like I’ve got any better ideas. Besides, I’ve always wanted to meet Hubbard.”
“You know where his office is?”
He nodded. “Right downtown. Has a wide window that looks out from the Terminal Tower, or something like that.”
“Beautiful. I’m sure he’d be happy to show us the view.”
“Man that rich? He’s got nothing but free time.”
A quick check in the phone book confirmed Joe’s memory; Hubbard’s offices were in the Terminal Tower downtown. It is unquestionably the city’s most famous building. Once the tallest building in the city-and second tallest in the world-it is now dwarfed by the Key Building. The Terminal Tower has a presence the city’s other skyscrapers lack, though, regardless of their size. Offices in the building went for exorbitant amounts, and I was sure Hubbard’s suite would be among the priciest.
Once downtown, I pulled into the Tower City garage and maneuvered the truck into a parking space that had obviously been designed for something more like a Geo Metro or a Honda Civic. Then we headed into the building. We found a directory in the lobby and determined the offices of Jeremiah Hubbard Enterprises were located on the thirty-second floor of the fifty-two-story building.
“Gosh,” Joe said, “I guess we should just run the stairs, huh?”
The elevator door opened with a chime, and I shrugged. “As long as the elevator’s right here, we might as well take it.”
We rode the elevator up, then walked down the corridor until we located Hubbard’s suite. I opened the outer door, and we stepped into an office with plush carpets, dark walnut furniture, and ornate brass lamps. A few paintings hung on the walls, and a small stone fountain bubbled softly to my left. The furniture and décor alone probably cost about what Joe and I would pay in ten years of rent. And it was only the secretary’s office.
An attractive, middle-aged blond woman looked up from her computer and smiled at us. She was wearing a phone headset, speaking to someone about appointments, and typing furiously but looked completely nonchalant. Multi-tasking at its finest. She lifted one hand from the keyboard and held up a finger to indicate she’d be with us in just a minute, then returned to her phone conversation and typing. Joe and I settled into a pair of burgundy leather armchairs that matched the walnut furniture nicely.
“This isn’t bad,” I said. “I mean, sure, there’s not the nostalgia of our office with the stadium seats, but other than that it’s pretty decent.”
“Maybe we should consider relocating,” Joe said.
“Maybe.”
The secretary finished her conversation, hit a button on the phone to disconnect her headset, and looked up at us once again.
“I apologize for the wait,” she said. “Do you gentlemen have an appointment?”
“No,” Joe said. “We were hoping to make a quick drop-in. It shouldn’t take long.”
“I see. And whom do you wish to drop in on?”
“Jeremiah Hubbard,” Joe said.
She gave us a gentle, polite smile. It was the kind of smile you might give a four-year-old if he said he wanted to fly an airplane. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Hubbard does not accept any meetings without an appointment. He’s an exceptionally busy man.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, “he must get tired of counting all that money. He’d probably love the diversion.”
“Mr. Hubbard will only accept diversions if they make an appointment beforehand,” the secretary said, keeping her smile. She had a great mouth-full but not overly prominent lips, and nice white teeth.
I laughed. “Well, could you at least ask him? I think he might be more inclined to talk to us than you’d guess. Tell him we’re here to talk about Wayne Weston.”
She raised her eyebrows slightly. Weston’s story had been all over the news for days, and the use of his name was probably going to raise quite a few eyebrows. I supposed I’d have to get used to it.
“Wayne Weston,” she said. “I see. One moment, please.”
She hit a few more buttons on the phone and turned her head slightly, then spoke softly for a few seconds and disconnected again. “Mr. Hubbard will be happy to meet with you,” she announced. “Follow me, please.”
I looked at Joe, and now I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t expected it would be quite that easy. The secretary stepped out from behind the desk and led us down another corridor, and I watched the movement of her hips and legs under the pretty-but-professional blue dress she was wearing. She seemed to be putting a little extra motion into the hips. I attempted to kid myself into believing it was for my benefit.