Someone had come to see where he lived.
Not Henry or Mabel, either. He knew their cars as well. Who was it, then? He rubbed his forehead.
The police? Yes, he could imagine Julie calling them. She'd been completely irrational yesterday. Scared and angry. And now she was trying to take control by changing the rules of the game.
But which officer had she called? Not Pete Gandy. He was sure of that. But how about the other one, the new one? What had Gandy said about her? That her father was a police officer in New York?
He thought about it.
Officer Romanello hadn't believed his account about the altercation in the bar. He could read that in her eyes, in the way she'd watched him. And she was a woman.
Yes, he decided, it must have been her. But would Gandy be supporting her in this? No, not yet, he thought. And he would take care to make sure that Gandy wouldn't. Officer Gandy was an idiot. He would be as easy to handle as Officer Dugan had been.
One part of the problem solved. Now, as for Julie . . .
Richard's thoughts were interrupted by a scream coming from Andrea's direction. When he went into the hallway, Andrea was standing still, staring with wide eyes, her hand over her mouth.
She hadn't opened the door on the right, the one that led to the bathroom. She was staring into the room on the left.
The darkroom.
She turned to look at Richard as if seeing him for the first time.
"Oh my God," she said. "Oh my God . . ."
Richard brought his finger to his lips, his eyes locked on her. "Shh . . ."
When she saw the look on his face, Andrea took a step backward.
"You shouldn't have opened that door," Richard said. "I told you where the bathroom was, but you didn't listen."
"Richard? The pictures . . ."
He took a step toward her. "This is so . . . disappointing."
"Richard?" she whispered again, backing away.
Jennifer made it back with a few minutes to spare. Thankfully, Pete Gandy hadn't arrived yet, and she went to his desk, knowing she didn't have much time. She jotted the number of the main office for the bridge project on a scrap of paper, then put the arrest record back in the file where it belonged. No need for Pete to see what she'd been up to just yet.
She dialed the number, and a secretary answered; after Jennifer explained who she was, she asked to speak to Jake Blansen and was put on hold.
It was the man Mike had mentioned before.
As she was waiting, Jennifer reminded herself to tread carefully; the last thing she wanted was for Richard to find out what she was doing. Nor did she want Mr. Blansen to call and complain to her chief or tell her she'd need a subpoena to get this type of information. Neither of those were options, so instead she decided to stretch the truth just a bit, under the ruse of verifying the arrest report.
Jake Blansen came on the line, his voice husky and southern cured, as if he had smoked unfiltered cigarettes for fifty years. Jennifer identified herself as an officer in Swansboro, went through the customary small talk, and then segued into a brief recap of the incident.
"I can't believe I misplaced the information regarding the arrest, and since I'm just starting, I don't want to get into any more trouble than I'm already in. Nor do I want Mr. Franklin to think that we don't have our act together. We want to have the record complete, in case he comes back in."
She played the sheepish officer to the hilt, and though it was a shaky house of cards at best, Mr. Blansen didn't seem to notice or care.
"I don't know how much I can help you," he said without hesitating, the words coming out in a slow drawl. "I'm just the foreman. You probably need to talk to corporate. They're the ones that have that kind of information on the consultants. They're in Ohio, but the secretary can get you the number."
"Oh, I see. Well, maybe you can help me."
"I don't see how."
"You worked with Richard Franklin, didn't you? What's he like?"
For a long moment, Jake Blansen was silent. Then:
"Is this for real?"
"Excuse me?"
"You. This. Losing the incident report. Being with the police. All of it."
"Yes, of course. If you'd like, I can give you my extension and you can call me back. Or I could come out there."
Jake Blansen drew a deep breath. "He's dangerous," he said in a low voice. "The company hired him because he keeps costs down, but he does it by scrimping on safety. I've had men hurt out here because of him."
"How so?"
"He puts off maintenance, things break, people get hurt. OSHA would have a field day here. One week, it was one of the cranes. The next week, it's a boiler in one of the barges. I even reported it to corporate, and they promised to look into it. But I guess he found out and he came after me."
"He attacked you?"
"No . . . but he threatened me. In an indirect way. He started off like we were buddies, you know? Asking about the wife and the kids, things like that. And then he told me how disappointed he was that I didn't trust him, and that if I wasn't more careful, he'd have to let me go. Like all of this was my fault, and he was doing me a big favor by trying to protect me. And he puts his arm over my shoulders and sort of mumbles that it would be a shame if there were any more accidents. . . . The way he said it gave me the feeling he was talking about me and my family specifically. He gave me the creeps, and to be honest, I was thrilled to see him go. I danced a jig the rest of the day. So did everyone else on the project."
"Wait . . . he left?"
"Yeah. He quit. Had some out-of-town emergency, and when he got back to town, he let us know he needed to take some time off for personal reasons. Haven't seen him since."
A minute later, after being transferred back to the secretary and getting the number in Ohio she needed, Jennifer hung up the phone and called the corporate headquarters. She got passed from one person to the next before she was finally told that the person who could help was out temporarily but would be back later that afternoon.
Jennifer jotted down the name of the man she should call-Casey Ferguson-and leaned back in her chair.
Richard was dangerous, he'd said. All right, but she already knew that. What else? Richard had quit his job a month ago; he'd told her and Pete something different. It wasn't something that would normally matter, but the timing didn't escape her.
He'd quit after coming back from the emergency. He'd quit after Julie had told him she didn't want to see him anymore.
A connection?
Across the room, she saw Pete Gandy walk through the door. He hadn't seen her sitting at his desk, and she was glad of that. She needed just a moment more.
Definitely too coincidental, she decided, especially after learning what she had earlier this morning about his past. But Julie, by her own admission, had seen Richard only a few times, and though he'd called her on numerous occasions, he'd never stayed on the phone long.
Jennifer glanced out the window, wondering.
What else had he been doing with his time since then?
Mike pulled his truck to a stop at the garage. The fog was finally beginning to thin. Julie was looking toward the floor of the truck, and he followed her gaze, coming to rest on the tips of her shoes. They were coated with a layer of dew from her lawn, and when Julie realized what she was looking at, she gave a halfhearted shrug as if to say, I guess we'll see what happens today.
Neither had slept well, and both had spent the morning moving sluggishly. The night before, Mike couldn't seem to get comfortable and he got up four times to get a glass of water. While he was up, he found himself drawn to the front window, where he stood for a long time, looking out. Julie, on the other hand, had spent the night dreaming. Though she couldn't remember any dreams in detail, she woke with a feeling of dread. That feeling lingered and returned in waves as she dressed and ate breakfast.
When Julie got out of the car, she felt no more in control than she'd felt earlier. Mike hugged and kisse
d her and offered to walk her across the street to the salon, but Julie declined. Singer, meanwhile, bounded down and headed toward the salon in search of his biscuit.
"I'll be fine," Julie reassured him. She sounded doubtful and knew it.
"I know," he said, sounding equally unsure. "I'll swing by in a little bit to see how you're doing, okay?"
"Okay."
As Mike headed into the garage, Julie took a deep breath and crossed the street. Downtown wasn't busy yet-the fog seemed to have set back everyone's clocks just a little-but halfway across she imagined that a car was suddenly speeding toward her, and she broke into a jog, trying to dart out of the way.
Nothing was there.
As soon as she reached the sidewalk, she adjusted her purse and looked again, trying to collect herself. Coffee, she thought, another cup of coffee and I'll be fine.
She swung into the diner. The waitress filled her cup from the pot on the warming burners. She added cream and sugar, spilling a bit on the counter, and as she reached for a napkin to wipe it up, she had the strange sensation that she was being watched by someone in the corner. Her stomach knotted as she turned in that direction, scanning a series of booths, some cluttered with the remains from earlier breakfasts.
But no one was there.
She closed her eyes, on the verge of tears. She left the diner without saying good-bye.
It was early-the salon wouldn't be open for another hour or so, but she was sure Mabel was already in. Wednesdays were her days for taking inventory and placing orders, and when Julie pushed open the door, she saw Mabel dutifully scanning the shelves of shampoos and conditioners. When Mabel glanced over her shoulder at Julie, her face assumed a look of concern. She set aside the clipboard.
"What happened?" were the first words she said.
"I look that bad, huh?"
"Richard again?"
Julie bit her lip in answer, and Mabel immediately crossed the room and put her arms around her, squeezing tight.
Julie inhaled sharply, fighting for control. She didn't want to break down; aside from feeling scared, crying seemed to be the only thing she'd been doing lately.
And she was exhausted. So despite her efforts she felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, making them sting-and a moment later she was sobbing in Mabel's arms, her body shaking, her arms and legs so weak that she felt she would fall over if Mabel let go.
"There, there," Mabel murmured. "Shh . . . you're going to be okay. . . ."
Julie had no idea how long she cried, but by the end her nose was red and her mascara had run. When Mabel finally let her go, Julie sniffed and reached for a tissue.
She told Mabel about seeing Richard near her house. She told her everything he'd said and the way he'd looked; she recounted her call to Officer Romanello and their conversation in the kitchen.
Mabel's face expressed the depth of her concern and sympathy, but she said nothing. When Julie told her about Emma's phone call, Mabel shivered.
"I'll go give Andrea a call," Mabel offered quickly.
Julie watched Mabel cross the room and pick up the receiver. She offered a tentative smile that gradually gave way to a look of concern when it became obvious that Andrea wasn't answering.
"I'm sure she's already on her way in," Mabel said. "She'll probably be here in just a couple of minutes. Or maybe she's decided to take one of her personal days. You know how she is. Wednesdays are usually fairly slow, anyway."
To Julie, it sounded almost as if Mabel were trying to convince herself.
Jennifer spent part of the morning-when she was supposed to be finishing Pete's reports-surreptitiously making calls to utility companies. Her suspicions were confirmed. Each bill had been paid through Richard's corporation, RPF Industrial, Inc. All had been paid on time.
From there, she called the secretary of state's office in Denver, Colorado, and learned there was no company presently incorporated in that name, though there had been an RPF Industries, Inc. It had gone out of business a little more than three years ago. Acting on a hunch, she called the secretary of state's office in Columbus, Ohio, and she learned that Richard's Ohio corporation had been incorporated a little more than a month before he began working with J. D. Blanchard Engineering and only a week after RPF Industries had gone out of business in Colorado.
Calls to the bank where his corporation had its accounts in Columbus provided little information, except for the fact that Richard Franklin did not have a personal checking or savings account registered there.
At the desk, Jennifer pondered this new information. To her, it seemed obvious that Richard Franklin had folded one business only to start another with a similar name in another state and that afterwards he had made the decision to live his life with the lowest-possible profile he could. Both decisions had been made at least three years earlier. Strange, she thought. Not criminal, but strange.
Though she'd first assumed that it might have been because he'd been in trouble with the law-who else would go through this type of trouble to hide, and with all that was going on with Julie, it seemed obvious-she dismissed the notion. Low profile was one thing, invisible was another, and Richard Franklin could be found relatively easily by anyone willing to look for him, including the police. Simply look up his credit report and the address was right there. So why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?
It didn't make sense.
Jennifer checked the clock, hoping her call to J. D. Blanchard would shed some light on the subject.
Unfortunately, she still had another couple of hours to wait.
Pete Gandy entered the gym on his lunch break and saw Richard Franklin on the bench press. Richard worked through six reps-not as much weight as Pete Gandy could do, but not bad-then put the weight back on the bench.
When Richard sat up, it took him just a moment to recognize Pete Gandy.
"Hey, Officer, how are you? Richard Franklin."
Pete Gandy approached him. "I'm fine. How are you feeling?"
"Getting better." Richard smiled. "I didn't know you worked out here."
"I've been a member for years."
"I was thinking of joining. I got a trial membership today." He paused. "You want to work in a set while I recover?"
"If you don't mind."
"Not at all."
A chance meeting, followed by small talk.
Then, a few minutes later: "Hey, Officer Gandy . . ."
"Call me Pete."
"Pete," Richard said. "I just realized there was something I forgot to tell you the other night, and you probably know about it. Just in case."
"Yeah?"
Richard explained. Then, as he was finishing: "Like I said, I wanted you to know. Just in case."
Walking away, he thought of Officer Dugan and his expression when Richard had opened his jacket. Idiot.
Thirty-two
Julie would always remember it as the last normal day she would know.
And that was in the general sense of the word, since nothing had seemed normal for weeks. Singer was strangely nervous at the shop; he paced restlessly between the chairs as Mabel and Julie worked. Customers came in, but none seemed particularly chatty. Julie supposed it was due to the fact that she didn't want to be there (she didn't want to be anywhere else, either, for that matter, unless it was someplace far, far away) and assumed her clients picked up on that, especially the women.
After the fog burned off the temperature soared, and to make things worse, halfway through the morning, the air conditioner stopped working, which only added to the oppressive feel of the place. Mabel propped the door open with a brick, but because there wasn't so much as a slight breeze, it didn't seem to do much, other than let the heat in. The ceiling fan was inadequate, and as the afternoon wore on, Julie was on the verge of breaking into a serious sweat. Her face had taken on a shiny glow, and she tugged irritably at the front of her blouse to fan her skin.
She hadn't cried since Mabel had held her, and by the time Mike stopped by, she'd composed he
rself enough to hide the fact that she'd broken down again. She hated that she'd succumbed this morning; she liked to imagine that she'd been handling this with a quiet dignity. It was one thing to show Mike what she was really feeling, it was another thing to let everyone else know, even if they were friends. Since the morning, Mabel had been casting furtive glances her way, as if ready on a moment's notice to charge across the room with arms held wide in case she needed to be held again. It was sweet, but in the end, all it did was remind her of why she was so upset in the first place.
And Andrea. She still hadn't shown up. After checking the appointment book, Mabel noticed that she had no appointments scheduled until later in the morning, so there were a couple of hours where she could still convince herself that Andrea was just taking the morning off.
But as the hours passed and Andrea's customers began to show up, Julie's worries grew.
Though she and Andrea weren't really friends, she hoped Andrea was okay. And she prayed she wasn't with Richard. She debated calling the police, but what would she say? That Andrea hadn't come in? She knew that the first question they would ask was whether her absence was unusual. And Andrea had always been flighty about coming to work.
When did Richard and Andrea get to know each other, anyway? During the haircut? There'd obviously been some sort of attraction on Andrea's part, but from what Julie observed, Richard hadn't seemed to respond. No, she thought, his eyes had kept angling toward me while I worked. He looked at me then the same way he looked at me as soon as Edna had walked away.
Andrea was with Richard, Emma had told Mike. I just saw him kiss her.
It wasn't more than a few hours after she'd seen him in the woods that Emma had called. Moreover, if they were together in Morehead City-a half-hour drive from Swansboro-he must have gone from their little visit to meet Andrea. And he did this, she thought, right after he told me that he loved me.
It made no sense at all.
Had Richard known that Emma was nearby? Though they'd met only once, she had no doubt that Richard would recognize Emma again, and she wondered if it was intended as some sort of message for Emma to report back. But if it was a message, she couldn't figure out what it might be. If he'd done it to lull her into a false sense of security, he was barking up the wrong tree. She wasn't about to fall for that one again.