The Guardian (36 page)

"Ow," he heard in the darkness, "not so hard . . . you're hurting me. . . . Ow!"

The sound brought him back.

"Shh," he whispered, but he didn't relax his hands. In the dim light from the window, he could just make out a shadow of fear in Andrea's eyes. He felt a surge of desire.

Though her shift started at eight, Jennifer was seated at the computer by six on Wednesday morning, the copy of the original arrest report on Mike Harris beside her. At the top of the report were the basics: Richard Franklin's name, address, phone number, place of work, and so forth, and she skimmed that part before reading the description of the altercation itself. As she'd suspected, there was nothing helpful there about Richard's background, but it felt like the right thing to do. She needed something to help get the ball rolling.Her father, thank God, had been helpful the night before. After getting home, she'd called him to get his impressions, and when she had finished, her father had pretty much confirmed her thoughts, vague though they were, as to what might happen in the future. "It could go either way," her father said, "so you gotta find out whether he's really nuts or just acting that way."

She still wasn't sure where to begin, since the information on Richard Franklin was sketchy and the hours she had to look into him weren't exactly standard business hours. The personnel department at the bridge project didn't open until later, and though that seemed the most obvious place to begin, her father had suggested she start with the landlord instead. "They're used to evening calls, so it's okay to call after hours. Maybe you can pull up a Social Security number and driver's license number, as well as references. They usually require those on rental applications."

And that was exactly what she had done. After getting the name of the owner of the property through an acquaintance who worked for the county, she spoke to the owner, a man who sounded no older than thirty. The house, she learned, had been owned by his grandparents; the rent was always paid on time through his corporation, and Richard Franklin had put up both a security deposit and the first and last months' rent in advance. The owner himself had never met Richard; he hadn't even visited the property in over a year. A local real estate company was in charge of management, and he gave her that number.

Next, she had called the manager, and after a bit of cajoling, he'd faxed over the rental application. His references listed his local employer and the head of personnel; no one from Ohio or Colorado. She did manage to get his Social Security and driver's license numbers, and as she sat at Pete Gandy's desk, she typed those into the computer.

She spent the next hour searching for information, beginning with North Carolina. Richard Franklin apparently had no criminal record in the state, nor had he been arrested. Though his driver's license had been issued in Ohio, it was too early to check with the Department of Motor Vehicles there. Ditto with Colorado.

Then, using her laptop, she plugged into the high-speed phone line and checked the Internet. Using standard search engines, she found about a zillion references to his name and quite a few personal Web pages on Richard Franklin, but not the Richard Franklin she wanted.

After that, she started running into roadblocks. To get information in Colorado and Ohio concerning a possible record would take at least a day and the cooperation of another department, since police records were maintained locally. Not so hard if she was an officer, but not really kosher for someone in training. Besides, they would have to call her back, and if they rang while she was out-which no doubt she would be, since she was riding with Pete Gandy today-she'd have to explain to the chief why she had a call in to the Denver and Columbus Police Departments, and she might be off the case entirely, if not out of a job.

Then again, she wondered whether his past was what he claimed it was.

Was he really from Denver originally? Julie thought so, but who really knew? Her father had said as much last night: "New in town and kind of psycho? I don't know that I'd put a lot of stock in anything he said to this lady. If he's been good at skirting the law so far, I'm sure he's just as good at skirting the truth about his past."

Though it was illegal, Jennifer decided to check his credit record. She knew there were three major credit-reporting agencies, and most offered a free report annually. Using the rental application as a guideline, she typed in the information required-no doubt the same information that the management company had used when renting him the home. Name, Social Security number, latest address, previous address, bank account number-she hit paydirt.

Richard Franklin's records were spelled out in plain detail over a number of pages.

The only recent inquiry had been made by the management company for the house rental-no surprise there-but what struck her was that none of the records seemed to make much sense. Especially for a gainfully employed engineer.

There were no credit cards currently registered or in use, no open auto loan, no personal credit lines. A quick scroll through the record showed that every account on the credit report had been closed.

Studying the record in more detail, she saw that there was one major default from a bank in Denver, four years earlier. It was listed under real estate, and from the size of it, she assumed it was a mortgage on a home.

There were a series of other late payments around that time. Visa. MasterCard. American Express. Phone bill. Electric bill. Water bill. Sears Card. All were registered as delinquent for a year but were eventually paid off.

Afterward, he'd closed the Visa and MasterCard accounts, as well as the American Express and Sears accounts.

Jennifer leaned back in her chair, thinking about it. Okay, she knew he'd lived in Denver at one point, and it seemed as if he'd run into some sort of financial trouble four years ago. Could be any number of explanations for that-lots of people weren't too good at managing money-and he'd mentioned to Julie that he'd been divorced. Maybe that had something to do with it.

She stared at the screen. But why weren't there any more recent entries?

He was probably using the corporation to pay his bills, just as he was doing with his rental, she thought. She made a note to check on it.

What else? Without a doubt, she knew she also had to find out more about Jessica. But without further information, there was absolutely nothing to go on.

Jennifer unplugged her laptop and stowed it in its padded case, wondering what to do next. Her best bet, she decided, was to wait until the personnel office opened so she could talk to the people there. Richard was a consulting engineer on a major project and working with a major company, so undoubtedly they had other references. Maybe one of them could shed light on what had happened four years ago. But that meant another hour of waiting.

Not knowing what else to do, she scanned the arrest report again before finally focusing on his address and thinking, Why not? She wasn't even sure what she was looking for, exactly; she just wanted to see where he lived in the hope that it might give her more of an impression of the man. Her computer tucked under her arm, she grabbed a cup of coffee on her way out the door and got into her car.

Because she was still learning her way around, she checked the map in the glove compartment before following the main road out of town, into the rural area of the county.

Ten minutes later, Jennifer turned onto the gravel road where Richard Franklin lived. She slowed the car as she approached the mailbox, looking for a number, trying to estimate where she was. After finding it, she picked up speed again, seeing she had a ways to go.

She was struck by how remote these homes were. Most sat on multiple acres, and she wondered why an engineer from a major city would choose to live out this way. It was convenient neither to town nor to his job, nor to anything else, for that matter. And the road kept getting worse.

As she drove farther, the homes grew older and more run-down. More than one looked abandoned. She passed the ruins of an old tobacco barn. The sides had toppled when the roof caved in and kudzu blanketed the structure, weaving through the boards. Behind it sat the remains of a tractor, rusting in the weeds.

Another few minutes, another mailbox number. She was getting close now.

Jennifer slowed the car. His house, she assumed, was the next one on the right, and she spotted it through the trees. Set back from the road, the home was two stories, not as neglected as the others, but the yard was horribly overgrown.

Still . . .

People who lived out this way probably did so because it was family property or because they had no other choice. Why would he have chosen a place like this?

Because he wanted to hide?

Or was hiding something?

She didn't stop the car; instead she drove past and made a U-turn half a mile up the road. The same questions cycled through her mind as she passed the house again and made her way back to the station.

Richard Franklin drew back from the curtains, frowning slightly.He had a visitor, but he didn't recognize the car. It wasn't Mike or Julie, he knew. Neither of them owned a Honda, and he was certain they wouldn't have come to look for him here. Nor was it anyone who lived out this way. The road ended a couple of miles up, and none of his neighbors owned a Honda.

But someone had come. He'd watched them creep up the road, driving way too slowly, knowing they were looking for something. The U-turn had confirmed his suspicions. If it had been a wrong turn or someone lost, they wouldn't have slowed in front of his house-and only his house-then sped up again.

No, someone had come to see where he lived.

"What are you staring at?" Andrea asked.

Richard let the curtain fall back in place and turned. "Nothing," he said.

The sheet had slipped down, exposing her breasts. He moved toward the bed and sat beside her. On her arms he could see bruises, and he ran a tender finger over them.

"Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

In the morning light, wearing only jeans, Richard looked exotic. Sensual. So what if he got a little rough last night?

Andrea pushed aside a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. "When we finally got around to sleeping, I did."

"Are you hungry?"

"A little. But I have to go to the bathroom first. Where is it again? I was kind of tipsy last night."

"It's the last door on the right."

Andrea scooted from the bed, taking the sheet as she went. Her legs felt wobbly as she moved out of the room. Richard watched her go, wishing she'd left the night before, then turned to the window again.

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.