Chapter Nineteen
Bailey closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, racking his brain for a new perspective on the clippings taped all over the wall of his office. Two months now since Drake’s murder. This case promised to take longer than most. He thrived on a challenge, but he thrived more on victory.
He picked up the tattered tennis ball on his desk and tossed it against the wall; it bounced in a triangle, onto the floor then back to his hand again. Back onto the wall, the floor, and into his hand again. Wall, Floor, Hand. Wall. Floor. Hand. It was just like this case, reviewing the evidence over and over again without getting anywhere.
The ball landed in his hand once again and his fist closed around it, stopping the rhythm as he stood up and looked again at the folder his assistant had delivered a few minutes prior. The photographs he’d pulled from it lay on top of the table; Doug Torres and Jerry Weinman stared up at him from their glistening replicas on the thin sheets. How were they connected? And where was Jerry hiding out? There had been a warrant out for his arrest for two weeks now, and still no trace.
The next photo: Philip Drake. Barely out of architecture school, he had designed a building for Doug Torres—a building that had sadly collapsed due to insufficient support. But he’d just discovered that information from the files his secretary had laid on his desk that morning. He put Torres’s picture underneath Drake’s, moving aside Johnny’s, Katherine’s, and Wesley’s.
Johnny had been a young engineer on the job, Johnny along with Jerry. Bailey adjusted the two photographs beneath Doug’s. Were they hired directly by Doug or was it just coincidence? And what did all this have to do with Drake’s death? Anything at all?
He rubbed his eyes again and picked up his coffee mug. His brain was already screeching at every thought and it was only 10:00 a.m.
“Oh, you’re here, Mr. Bailey. I didn’t see you come in.” His new secretary, her eyes hidden behind thick horn-rimmed spectacles, startled from her filing when he came out of his office.
“Of course I’m here,” Bailey said, taken a bit off guard. “I get here every morning at seven. I thought you knew that.”
“Well, I do know that, Mr. Bailey. ”
The Italian forced himself to be patient. It always took her forever to say what she wanted and sometimes he’d almost rather not wait to hear the finale.
“It’s about your messages, sir.”
“Yes? What about my messages? You do take them, right?”
“Of course, Mr. Bailey. I take all your messages. I have them all written down, always.”
“Good.” He’d started to walk towards the break room before he realized that she still hadn’t gotten out what she’d started to say. He stopped and turned back to her. “Brenda?”
“Yes, Mr. Bailey?”
“Did you have a message or something to tell me?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Bailey, I meant to tell you about that.”
“Please tell me about it now.” He forced a smile through gritted teeth. Was it so hard to find competent secretaries nowadays?
“It was Mr. Grant, sir.”
The Italian’s eyebrows raised and he straightened a little, perked to attention, his irritable mood forgotten. “Wesley Grant?”
“Yes. He called late last night and left a message for you. One of the night staff wrote it down here.”
Bailey’s heart skipped a beat. He forced a normal tone as he said, “Can I see it please?”
“Of course, Mr. Bailey, that’s what I was trying to show you.”
Yeah, an hour ago, he thought sarcastically. “Thank you. I’d like to see it now.”
She fumbled through a short stack of papers on her arms before triumphantly pulling out a lined paper with the edges torn from where they’d lain in a notebook.
“Thank you.” He walked back to his office and looked down at the jagged note: Call Wesley Grant as soon as possible. Sounded urgent. The upper corner marked the time as 2:13 a.m. Two in the morning . . . he knew Wesley liked to party, but that late it must be important.
He gritted his teeth and let out something close to a growl as he thought about Brenda; he leafed through his notebook for Wesley’s number, picked up the phone and dialed.
“Grant residence.” A professional, clipped voice answered the phone.
“Bailey here, police. Is Wesley in?”
“I’m sorry, sir, he is not.”
“Do you know where I can reach him?”
“I would try either Mike Donovan or Miss Hale. If that doesn’t work, perhaps the gentleman’s recreation club, his apartment in town, or his office. Usually his office is a last resort though. Did that help you at all, sir? Sir?”
Bailey rolled his eyes as he scribbled down all the possible numbers. “Yes, that helped. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir. Good luck.”
Bailey crashed the phone down, only to pick it back up and automatically dial a number.
“Green? Bailey here. How’s the stakeout going?”
Green’s voice sounded tired over the line. “This broad is exhausting. The lights are on all the time; people come and go; it’s hard to keep track of everything. She’s actually pretty nice though, underneath it all. I think I might’ve misjudged her when I first met her.”
“Great. Now you’re falling for her too?”
“No, of course not. Just stating facts.”
“Well, then give me some facts I need to know. Have you seen Wesley Grant around since, uh, two in the morning?”
“Yes, I believe he’s there now.”
“Believe?”
“Yes. Not one hundred percent sure. About a fifty-fifty chance, I’d say.”
“Explain how this works.”
“Well, Wesley showed up earlier this morning and went into the building, I’m assuming to her apartment . . . a bit later Morgan shows up as well. Johnny just left about ten minutes ago—haven’t seen Wesley yet though . . . why, what’s up?”
“I need to talk to him. If you see Grant, don’t let him leave! I’m coming over now.”