Frowning, Cohen thought about it as he sat at his desk. Why was the name so familiar? Familiar not only to him, but to everyone here? If he'd never been arrested and no one could remember using him as a witness?
He bolted upright as the answer suddenly came to him. After tapping the keyboard of his computer, he scanned the basic information that came up on his screen. His hunch confirmed, he rose from his seat to find the detective he had to talk to.
At his desk, Pete was having more luck. He'd finished collecting the information on the early period of Richard's life, none of which was difficult to find. Feeling rather proud, he was heading over to fill Jennifer in when her phone rang. She held up a finger for Pete to wait until she was finished.
"Swansboro Police Department," Jennifer said, "Officer Romanello speaking."
She heard a throat clear on the other end.
"This is Detective Cohen from Denver."
Jennifer sat up. "Oh . . . hey. Did you find anything?"
"Sort of. After your call, I kept thinking how familiar the name Richard Franklin sounded, so I asked around the department before it finally hit me where I'd heard it before." He paused. "After that, one of the other detectives here told me something rather interesting. It concerned a case he investigated four years ago about a missing person."
Jennifer reached for her pen. "Jessica Franklin?"
Pete glanced at Jennifer when he heard Jessica's name.
"No. Not about Jessica."
"Then who are you talking about?"
"Richard Franklin. The guy you called me about."
Jennifer paused. "What are you trying to say?"
"Richard Franklin," Detective Cohen said slowly. "He's the missing person."
"But he's here."
"I understand that. But four years ago, he vanished. He didn't show up at work one day, and after a week or so, his secretary finally contacted us. I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation. From all appearances, he said it looked like the guy suddenly took off. Clothes were on the bed, and the drawers looked rifled through. Two suitcases were missing-his secretary told us they were the ones he always used on business-and his car was gone, too. He'd made a cash withdrawal from an ATM the last day that anyone saw him."
"He ran?"
"Seemed so."
"Why?"
"That's what the detective couldn't figure out. From the interviews with Franklin's acquaintances, no one could figure it out. They said he wasn't the type who would simply take off and leave his business behind. No one could understand it."
"And there wasn't any legal trouble?"
"None that the detective could find. There weren't any lawsuits pending, and as I told you before, he wasn't in any trouble with us. It's like he simply decided to start over."
It was the same thought Jennifer had had when she'd seen his credit report, she remembered.
"Why didn't his family report it?"
"Well, that's the thing. There really wasn't any family to speak of. His father was deceased, he had no siblings, and his mother was in a nursing home and suffering from dementia."
Jennifer considered the implications. "Do you have any information you could send me on the case?"
"Sure. I've already pulled the file. I can FedEx it tomorrow after I make copies."
"Is there any way you could fax it over?"
"It's a thick file," he said. "It'll take at least an hour to get it all to you."
"Please," she said. "I'm probably going to be here all night, anyway."
"Yeah," he said. "I can do that. Give me your fax number again."
Beyond the window above the kitchen table in Henry's beach house, the ocean was glowing orange, as if a fire had been set beneath the surface. As the last traces of the day began to vanish, the kitchen slowly grew dimmer. The overhead light buzzed with a fluorescent hum.
Mike moved close to Julie as she watched Singer on the beach. He was lying in the sand, ears up, head swiveling occasionally from side to side.
"Are you ready to eat yet?" he asked.
"I'm not hungry."
Mike nodded. "How's Singer doing?"
"He's fine."
"No one's out there, you know," Mike said. "Singer would let us know."
Julie nodded, then leaned into Mike as he slipped his arm around her.
Morrison left his office, striding toward Jennifer and Pete.
"It's Andrea Radley's blood all right. Just got off the phone with the lab and they confirmed it. No doubt about it."
Jennifer barely heard him; instead, she was staring at the first page that had come through the fax from Denver.
"And Johnson found a witness," Morrison went on. "Turns out that one of the bartenders at Mosquito Grove remembered Andrea from the other night. Gave a perfect description of Richard Franklin. Said the guy was a real jerk."
Jennifer was still staring at the first page from the fax, ignoring the other pages as they came through.
"He's not Richard Franklin," she said quietly.
Morrison and Pete looked at her.
"What are you talking about?" Morrison asked.
"The suspect," she said quietly. "His name isn't Richard Franklin. The real Richard Franklin has been missing for three years. Here," she said, handing over the first page of the fax. It was a photograph of the missing person, and despite the fuzziness of the faxed picture, the bald head and heavy features made it was clear to her that it wasn't the man they'd been looking for. "This just came in from Denver. This is the real Richard Franklin."
Morrison and Pete looked at the picture.
Pete blinked in confusion. "This is Richard Franklin?" he asked.
"Yes."
Pete continued to stare at the picture. "But they don't look alike."
Morrison met Jennifer's eyes. "You're saying that this guy took over his identity?"
Jennifer nodded.
"Then who the hell are we looking for?" Morrison asked.
Jennifer glanced toward the windows at the far end of the department. "I have no idea."
Thirty-seven
"Thoughts?" Morrison said.
An hour later, with most of the officers present, Morrison couldn't hide his anger and frustration. With Jennifer and Pete, he'd scoured the items retrieved from the house in the hope that they might yield the suspect's true identity, but they'd turned up nothing. Neither had another examination of his phone record.
"What about fingerprints? They might help," Burris offered.
"We're checking for a match. But unless he's been arrested in North Carolina, it won't help. I've talked to the police chief in Colorado and he's agreed to push the data through, but there's no guarantee that the suspect had even been in Denver, either."
"But he took over Richard Franklin's identity," Jennifer protested.
"There's no proof that he was the one responsible for the disappearance. For all we know, he stumbled across the information and took advantage of it."
"But . . ."
Morrison raised his hands. "Just keeping our options open. I'm not saying he wasn't involved, but we have to consider everything. Besides, that's not the issue here. The issue is Andrea Radley-what he's done, and what he's capable of doing. What do we know for sure? Romanello? You seem to have the best handle on him."
Jennifer rattled off what she knew.
"He's educated. Most likely a degree in engineering, so that means he went to college. He likes photography and seems to have an eye for it, which means he's been doing it for some time. He had a wife named Jessica once, though we don't know anything more about her. He's probably a sociopath; he's been stalking Julie since the beginning of their acquaintance and seems to confuse her with his wife. They look a lot alike, and he's even called her by his wife's name. And because of the complexity of what he's pulled off over the past few years, I'm fairly certain he's been in trouble with the law before. I think he's probably on the run, which means he's had experience in hiding from the police."
> Morrison nodded. "Pete? Your take?"
Pete thought for a moment. "He's stronger than he looks. He can bench almost as much as me."
The other officers glanced at him. "I saw him in the gym," he said defensively.
Morrison shook his head and exhaled, as if wondering why he'd bothered to ask. "Okay, here's what we do. Burris-get down to Blanchard and see if they have any photographs of this guy. We don't have much time, but I want them on the evening news tonight, if possible. I'll call the station managers and explain the situation. I also want this guy's picture in the paper, so let's get a reporter down here so we can control the information. I want the rest of you trying to figure out where this guy is. Call every hotel and motel in Swansboro and Jacksonville to see if anyone matching his description checked in today. I know it's a long shot, but we can't ignore the possibility that he's right under our nose. If anything comes up, I want you to go in pairs to check it out. And after that, I need all of you here tonight after the news shows. The calls will come flooding in and we'll need everyone available to answer them. The most important thing is to find out if they've seen him today. Not yesterday, not last week. Then, try to weed out the crazies and we'll see where we are."
Morrison looked around. "Everyone clear?"
There were murmurs of assent all around.
"Then let's go to it."
Knowing they would be searching for him in the Swansboro area, Richard had driven two hours northeast and checked into a run-down motel right off the highway, the kind of place where the customers paid in cash and no identification was required to check in.
Now he was lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. They can look, he thought, but they won't find me.
He wondered if the police had learned that he wasn't really Richard Franklin. Even if they had, he knew it didn't matter; they couldn't connect him to Franklin's disappearance or learn his former identity. The hard part had been finding the right kind of man, a man without a family, even with the computers at the various libraries he'd visited while on the run from the law. Culling the professional association lists by using the Internet had been tedious and time-consuming, but he'd stayed at it, diligent in his pursuit, looking for exactly the right man as he'd moved from one town to the next. He'd had no other choice given the circumstances, and he could still remember the sense of relief and satisfaction when he'd finally found the one he needed.
He'd driven across three states on his trip to Denver, across the Mississippi and through the badlands, then spent three weeks learning the man's routines. He'd watched the real Richard Franklin as he watched Julie now. He'd learned that Franklin was short and balding, obviously gay, and that he spent most of his time alone. Occasionally, Franklin worked late at the office, and one night he watched Franklin moving toward his car in a darkened parking lot, head down as he sorted through the keys.
Franklin didn't hear him approach, and he placed a gun to Franklin's head.
"Do exactly what I say," he whispered, "and I'll let you live."
It had been a lie, of course, but the lie had served its purpose. Franklin had done everything that he had asked him to do and had answered all of his questions. Franklin had gone to the ATM and had packed a suitcase. Franklin had even allowed himself to be tied and blindfolded, in the hope that his cooperation would be rewarded.
He'd driven Franklin to the mountains and told him to lie down on the side of the road. He remembered the begging, and how Franklin's bladder had emptied in fear when he'd heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.
He had almost laughed at the man's weakness, his smallness, thinking how different they were. The man was nothing: a tiny, inconsequential nothing. Had he been in that situation, he would have fought or tried to get away. But Franklin began to cry, and three hours later, he was buried in a grave that would never be discovered.
Without anyone pressing the search, he'd known that Franklin's file would be buried in the pile of other missing persons and quickly forgotten. As long as Richard Franklin was missing, not dead, the identity had been easy to assume. Since then, he'd trained himself not to answer to his real name or even to turn when he heard it from across the room, and when he spoke it now, it sounded foreign to him.
He'd taken care of the real Richard Franklin, just as he'd taken care of his mother and father. And the boys in the foster home. And his roommate in college. And Jessica.
His eyes narrowed.
Now it was time to take care of Mike.
Mabel was sitting with Andrea when her parents arrived from Boone. They'd driven though their fears and tears for six hours, and Mabel left the room so they could be alone with their daughter.
Moving to the waiting room, she thought about Mike and Julie, hoping they were safe. After seeing Andrea's wounds when the doctors had changed her bandages, she knew with certainty that Richard Franklin was a monster and that Mike and Julie were in far more danger than they realized.
Topsail wasn't far enough away. No, they had to get as far away from Swansboro as they could and stay away as long as it took. She had to convince them somehow.
Throughout the evening, the Swansboro Police Department was a hive of activity.
After pounding the phones, they'd come across twelve possible suspects who'd checked into hotels. With the help of the Onslow County Sheriff's Department, they investigated their leads one by one without luck.
J. D. Blanchard had a good photograph of the suspect, and Burris made copies before distributing them to the television stations. The report ran at the top of each news broadcast, making the public aware of the man suspected in the assault of Andrea Radley and letting them know that he was considered extremely dangerous. A description of the car, complete with license plate number, was also listed in the report.
As Morrison predicted, the calls flooded in within minutes of the airings.
The entire department was on hand to answer them; notes were jotted and names were taken, the crazies were weeded out.
By two A.M., the department had talked to more than two hundred people.
But none had seen the suspect that day. Nor had anyone spotted the car.
Exhausted, Richard thought of Jessica as he was finally trailing off to sleep.
She'd been a waitress at a restaurant he'd gone to, and though she wasn't the one who'd served him, his eyes had been drawn to her as he ate.
She'd seen him staring and smiled briefly, holding his gaze; he'd gone back to the restaurant as it was closing and waited for her.
It was as if she'd been expecting him; the way the streetlights played on her features as they walked the late night streets of Boston . . . how she'd stared at him across the table at dinner . . . the following weekend at Cape Cod, where they had strolled on the beach and had a picnic in the sand . . . or a picnic and a hot-air balloon ride . . . Jessica and Julie . . . so much alike . . . his thoughts of them combining into one . . . images joining together . . . Julie . . . her tears as she watched Phantom of the Opera . . . the sensual touch of her fingers as she cut his hair . . . her empathy when he lied about his mother dying unexpectedly . . . how proud she seemed when she introduced him to her friends at the bar . . .
God, he loved her. He would always love her.
A moment later, his breaths were deep and steady.
Thirty-eight
The following morning, a light mist hovered over the Intracoastal Waterway, burning off slowly as the sun rose above the treetops. A prism of light cut through the window of the police station, zeroing in on Jennifer's third cup of coffee of the morning.
They were looking for a ghost, she thought.
They had nothing, absolutely nothing, to go on, and the waiting was the worst part. Jennifer had come into the office after only a couple of hours of sleep, but she regretted the decision. There was nothing she could think of to do.
The fingerprints hadn't helped; though Morrison had decided to use the FBI database as well, they were backlogged with cases from around
the country, and he'd been informed it could take at least a week to process.
The calls were still coming in, of course, and she was answering the phone with regularity. The news had aired again early in the morning-and was scheduled to run again at noon-but as with the night before, she wasn't getting the information she needed. Too many calls were coming in from frightened citizens who simply wanted to be reassured, or from others falsely claiming that the suspect was in their backyard. Most of the other officers had come in around the same time she had and were out investigating the claims. As the only officer still left at the station, she doubted whether any of them would pan out, but the officers had no choice but to follow up on all the leads.
It was the downside to using the media for help, she thought. Though good information was possible, bad information was guaranteed, and it siphoned off the resources needed to do the job.
Then again, what job? she wondered. The only thing they had to go on were the photographs from the briefcase, and she still couldn't figure out why she was so transfixed by them. She'd gone through them a dozen times, but as soon as she put the stack aside, she felt the urge to reach for it again.
Thumbing through, she saw the same images. Jessica in the garden. Jessica on a patio. Jessica sitting. Jessica standing. Jessica smiling. Jessica looking serious.
Jennifer set aside the photos in disgust. Nothing.
A moment later, the phone rang again. After listening, Jennifer began to respond.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure it's safe for you to go to the hardware store. . . ."
By the time Mabel left Wilmington-after staying awake most of the night-she was feeling slightly better about Andrea. Though she hadn't opened her eyes, there'd been some movement in her hand just before dawn, and the doctors reiterated to her parents what a good sign that was.
Knowing there was nothing else she could do, she got in the car and drove back to Swansboro. The morning sun made her eyes ache, and she had trouble staying focused on the road.
Her worries about Mike and Julie's safety had only intensified during the night. I'll take a nap first, she told herself, then I'll head out to the beach to talk to them.