The Guardian (46 page)

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.

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.

Richard woke and showered, then hopped back into the stolen Trans Am. Two hours later, after buying a cup of coffee and a few magazines from a convenience store along the way, he pulled into Swansboro, feeling as if he'd come home.He was dressed in Dockers and a polo shirt; with his light hair and glasses, even he didn't quite recognize himself when he peeked in the rearview mirror. He looked like any other family man heading to the beach for the weekend.

He wondered what Julie was doing at that very moment. Showering? Eating breakfast? And was she thinking of him, even as he was thinking of her? He smiled as he dropped a series of quarters into two newspaper racks out front. While the Jacksonville paper was a daily, the Swansboro paper came out twice a week.

After the convenience store, he made his way to a small park and perched on a bench near the swing sets, then opened the newspaper. He didn't want his presence in the park to alarm any parents; people were paranoid these days about adults hanging around in parks, but he supposed he understood that, even in a small town.

His picture was on the front page of the paper, and he took his time in reading the article. It offered basic information, but not much else-he had no doubt the reporter had gathered the information directly from the police department-and listed a hot line number for people to call if they had any information. When he finished reading it, he scanned the rest of the paper, looking for anything about the stolen car. Nothing. Then he settled in to read the article again, his eyes glancing up every few minutes.

He would wait all day if he had to; he knew the one he was looking for, the one who would lead him to Julie and Mike.

When Pete approached Jennifer's desk, she thought he looked as tired as she felt."Anything?" she asked.

He shook his head, stifling a yawn. "Another false alarm. How about you?"

"Not much. There was another waitress at the Mosquito Grove who remembered seeing Andrea and Richard together. We also heard from the hospital in Wilmington. Andrea's not out of the woods yet, but the doctors are hopeful." She paused. "I forgot to ask this morning, but did you ever end up talking to the detective or Julie's mother?"

"Not yet."

"Why don't you give me the numbers while you grab some coffee? I'll check 'em out."

"Why? We already know why he went down there."

"I don't know what else to do."

Jennifer finally spoke to Julie's mother, but Pete had been right for once. The call told her nothing that she hadn't already assumed. Yes, the mother had said, a man who said he was an old friend of Julie's had come by. A week later, he'd brought a friend with him. The friend had matched the description of the suspect.The call to the private investigator had gone unanswered again.

Still no word on fingerprints.

Without new information, she was back to where she'd been before, and she was frustrated. Was he still in town? She didn't know. What would he do next? She didn't know. Was he still after Julie? She thought so but wasn't absolutely sure. There was always the possibility that because the police were after him, he would simply leave town and start over, the way he'd done in the past.

The problem was that for all intents and purposes, he'd become Richard Franklin. There was nothing personal in the house whatsoever, with the exception of his clothing, his cameras, and the photographs. And the photographs told her nothing, except that he was a good photographer. They could have been taken anywhere, at any time, and because Richard developed them, there wasn't so much as a lab they could trace them back to. . . .

Jennifer's thoughts suddenly froze as she felt the answer begin to click into place.

Anywhere, at any time?

Good at photography?

Expensive camera gear?

His own lab to develop them?

This wasn't just a hobby for him, she thought. Okay, she already knew that. What else? She stared at the stack of photos on her desk. This is something he's been doing for a long time. Years, even. Which meant . . .

He might have been using the cameras before he became the man known as Richard Franklin.

"Pete," she suddenly called out, "are his cameras in the evidence room, or are they still with forensics?"

"Franklin's? Yeah. We put them in yesterday. . . ."

Jennifer jumped up from her chair and started toward the evidence room.

"Where are you going?"

"I think I might know a way to find out who this guy is."

A moment later, Pete was struggling to keep up with her as she made her way through the station.

"What's going on?" Pete demanded.Julie was signing out the photography gear at the counter as the officer in charge of the evidence locker watched her.

"The cameras," she said, "the lenses. This stuff is expensive, right? And like you said, the pictures could have been taken anytime. Even with these cameras, right?"

Pete shrugged. "I guess so."

"Don't you see what that means?" she asked. "I mean, if he's had these cameras all along?"

"No, I don't get it. What?"

By then, the officer had placed a Tupperware container on the counter, and Julie reached for it. Too distracted to answer, she picked it up and carried it back to her desk.

A minute later, Pete Gandy watched in confused fascination as she studied the back of the camera.

"Do you have a small screwdriver?" she asked.

"What for?"

"I need to remove this piece."

"Why?"

"I'm looking for the serial number."

"Why?" he asked again.

Jennifer was too busy looking through her drawers to answer. "Damn!" she said.

"They might have one in maintenance," Pete offered, still unsure why she needed the serial numbers.

She looked up excitedly. "You're a genius!"

"I am?"

Fifteen minutes later she had the list of serial numbers she needed. She gave half the numbers to Pete and took the other half to her desk, trying not to get her hopes up.She called information and got the numbers for the camera manufacturers, then dialed the first one. After she explained that she needed to verify the name and address of the owner, the person on the other end typed in the number.

"It belongs to a Richard P. Franklin. . . ."

Jennifer hung up and tried the next one. Then the next. On her fourth call, however, a different name was offered.

"The camera is registered to Robert Bonham of Boston, Massachusetts. Do you need the address?"

Jennifer's hands were shaking as she jotted down the information.

Morrison looked it over. "How certain are you that this is him?""The name was listed on four different pieces of equipment, and according to their records, it had never been reported as stolen. I'm willing to bet this is our guy."

"What do you need from me?"

"In case there's any problem with the Boston Police Department, I'd like you to get involved."

Morrison nodded. "Done."

Jennifer didn't run into any problems. The first detective she reached was able to give her the information she needed.

"Robert Bonham is wanted for questioning in the disappearance of his wife, Jessica Bonham, four years ago," he said.

Knowing that staying in one place would arouse suspicion, Richard grabbed his things and moved from one bench to another.He wondered what she was doing inside, but then again, it didn't really matter. He'd learned long ago to be patient, and after glancing toward the windows, he raised the paper again. He'd read every article three or four times, some more than that. He knew when and where movies were playing, he knew that the community center was offering free computer classes for seniors, but the paper shielded his face from curious townspeople.

He wasn't worried about being discovered; though he knew they were looking for him, no one would think to look for him here. Even if anyone did, between the newspaper and his altered appearance, he was certain that no one would recognize him.

His car was parked around the corner, in a grocery store parking lot, and he could get to it easily if he had to. It was, he knew, only a matter of time now.