Beneath Forbidden Ground (9 page)

“How come we never heard about this before?” Murtaugh’s voice showed a degree of irritation.

“I’ll tell you the story on that when we meet back in the office. I should be back after lunch too.”

“Well, okay then. Happy hunting.”

It was still raining when Scallion exited the 290 expressway, then remained on the north frontage road leading away from the city. After two blocks, he circled under the expressway, merging into traffic on the opposite frontage road. The offices of Staff Finders sat in the middle of the first block, facing the expressway. Locating a visitor’s parking slot, he hurried inside to escape the elements.

Flicking the rain from his umbrella, he left it by the front door, then approached the receptionist, a beaming young blond who couldn’t’ve been more than twenty.

“I see it still hasn’t let up,” she said with a cheerful smile revealing perfect teeth.

“Afraid not. This is one of those Houston Monday morning specials.” Scallion returned the smile, more restrained than hers. He let his eyes wander for a second, sizing up the small lobby. It was neat, professional, but not too gaudy. He tugged on his coat again, displaying his insignia. “Detective Pete Scallion, Harris County Cold Case unit. I’d like to speak to the office manager.”

The girl’s grin dissolved, apparently caught off guard by the badge and the request. “Certainly, sir. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

After sitting for a few minutes in a lobby chair, he started to reach for a magazine lying on a table near by, when a door leading into the area opened.

“Detective?” A relatively short, attractive black woman stood holding the door open. “Come on back.”

Rising to her request, Scallion shook hands with the woman, then followed her into a hallway.

“I’m Lucinda Hughes, manager of the West Houston office” she said, looking back and up at the detective, who towered over her. She shot a couple of curious gazes in his direction while they walked.

“Pete Scallion,” he answered. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Hughes.”

“No problem. Here, we’ll talk in my office.” Leading him in, she closed the door behind them, then took her seat, while he settled in across from her desk. She stared a second with a questioning gaze. “What was that last name again?”

“Scallion.”

“Like the little green onion things?”

He grinned. Her tone wasn’t offensive, only curious. “That’s right.”

“Well, we don’t get many visitors from law enforcement here,” she said with a bright smile. Her dark eyes seemed to laugh right along. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for a career change?”

“There are days when that might be true, but I don’t think this is one of ‘em. I’m afraid this is official business, Ms. Hughes.”

She held up her hand showing her ring finger. “It’s Mrs. Hughes, but please call me Luci.”

“Deal. And I’m Pete.” Scallion relaxed, knowing he might finally have an interview he would actually enjoy.

“Well, since that’s settled, what can I do for you?”

“I guess before I get too far into it, it would help to know if Staff Finders keeps good records.”

She frowned. “Records in regard to what?”

“Records of people who have visited your office for job openings.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly, “As long as they complete an application, they are in our files. How far back are we talking about?”

“Ten years.” Scallion looked at his notes to be sure. “On or about February twenty-first or twenty-second, in ninety-one.”

Luci’s eyes widened. “That’s pretty far back.”

Scallion’s hopes faded. “Does that mean you don’t have information dating back to then?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that. What exactly are you looking for?”

“We have reason to believe a young lady by the name of Tammy...actually Tamara Crews, may have visited your office about that time. She went missing within a day or two of those dates. We’ve recently re-opened her case to try and track what might have happened to her. Of course, even if she were here, the chances are good it had nothing to do with her disappearance. We’re just trying to check every possibility,”

“I see.” The office manager leaned forward, picking up a pen. “What was that name again?”

“Tamara Crews, middle name Lancaster.”

“How about a birth date and social?”

He read them off to her while she wrote, then stared across. “So, can you help?”

“Possibly. Every person who’s walked through those doors in the fifteen years this office has been open, and, as I said, filled out an application, theoretically should be in our system.”

“Theoretically?”

“It’s just that for several years, all the names were placed on micro-film, and stored at our main office in Dallas. Then in the early nineties, when we became a little more tech-savvy, we began transferring all the information to our main frame, starting with the earliest names and coming forward.” Luci paused for a second. “Now, there may have been a few names that didn’t make the transfer, either because the programmer couldn’t read them, or the film didn’t hold up. But we should have most of them.”

Scallion glanced at the p. c. on the lady’s desk. “Does that mean you can pull them up right here?” He nodded toward the computer.

“Should be able to.” She leveled an appraising look at the detective, then grinned. “You know, my husband’s a dispatcher for Houston P. D., so I like to do my part to help law enforcement. Why don’t you pull your chair around here, and we’ll take a look.”

Lifting the upholstered wingback, he moved it to her side of the desk, amazed at the woman’s cooperation, a truly rare occurrence.

Her fingers flew on the keyboard as she accessed the files containing the records in question. They were found in a folder marked, “Roster Archives”. A click on her mouse produced the beginning of the list. “As I mentioned, they started with the earliest applicants, the ones in 1986, when this office opened. I say ‘they’ because I wasn’t with Staff Finders then. Joined the company in ninety-four, then was promoted to this branch in ninety-eight. The names are compiled by year, then month, then by the actual day. So if she was here on one of those days, we ought to be able to find her.”

Scallion was listening intently, while having a flash-back at the same time. Some eight months earlier, a sharp young auditor in a large downtown bank had retrieved a file from his computer, a file not exactly similar to this one, but important enough to be the initial clue in bringing down the corrupt politician. Could lightening strike twice? He leaned in to watch the screen.

“You said, around February twenty-one of nineteen ninety-one?”

“Yes. I believe that was a Thursday. Can you start on that Monday, in case I’m off by a few days? That would be the eighteenth.”

“Sure.” Placing the cursor on the side roll-down bar, she scrolled down through four and a half years of names, finally coming to rest on Monday, February 18, 1991. There were forty-two names displayed, none of which were Tammy, or Tamara Crews.

“Mondays are usually our busiest days for applicants,” Luci pointed out. “We’ll average around twenty-five per day.”

Moving on to Tuesday, no one with the last name of Crews was listed; the same for Wednesday. Scallion realized he was holding his breath as Thursday came into view. He almost missed it, but there she was, third from the top.

“That’s her, near the top,” he pointed, leaning in closer to see the name Tamara L. Crews.

“Yes, I forgot to mention, they’re listed alphabetically. Two A’s, no B’s then Tamara Crews, the first C.”

“I don’t see their birth dates, or social security numbers.”

“Right. To view those, we have to click on her name to produce them. An extra layer of confidentiality.” She clicked on the name, and the numbers were displayed.

“That’s her, all right,” Scallion said, feeling a familiar rush. But something he had seen on the other screen had him wondering. “Can you go back to the first screen?”

“Sure.” a click on the “back” symbol took them there.

“What’s that out-beside her name?”

“Oh, that means we were able to place her. At a company named Kritz Properties, or so it indicates.”

“Kritz....Kritz? Where have I heard that name?” It had been recently, he was sure.

Lucinda Hughes was deep in thought too. “Isn’t that a residential developer?”

He remembered—the billboard on I-10. Cypress Bridge; something like that.

“Yes, that’s it. I don’t suppose your records explain what she would be doing for Kritz?”

“Nope. Sorry. You’re looking at all our records show, at least that far back. Normally, what happens is, the applicants selected will report to that company either that day or soon after for orientation. Course, some companies are different. Hope this helps some.”

Scallion was busy assimilating what it could possibly mean. He knew his search would now take him to Kritz Properties, wherever the hell it was. Absentmindedly, he glanced back at the screen. And then he saw it. Another name, four down from Tamara Crews. Laura French—and next to her name—Kritz Properties.

His heart started pounding; his stomach was churning the way it always did on those rare occasions when he remembered why he was a detective. The only way he could describe it was exhilarating. He managed to calm himself slightly. “Luci, could you scroll on down to the other names on this date?”

She did so, but he already knew what it would show: Freda Juarez, and then Betty Lynn Thomas, the last name on the list, both tasked to the same company as the others.

He must have shown the excitement on his face as he slumped back in his chair, because the woman was staring at him with a concerned look on hers.

“Are you okay, Pete?” she asked.

“Yes, Luci. Couldn’t be better.”

9

Hurrying back to the office, Scallion was waiting for Murtaugh when he returned from his Huntsville interview. The map was again stretched-out across the conference table when he ushered his senior partner into the room.

“You sure as hell seem excited about something,” Murtaugh said, taking a seat. “What’s up?”

“A connection, Denny. But first, did Thomas’ dad have any information?”

“Whatta you think?” Murtaugh’s disposition wasn’t getting any better.

“I don’t think it’ll matter.” Scallion tried to ignore the reaction. He threw a copy of the roster he’d asked Luci Hughes to print out for him on to the table. It showed the date at the top of the page, and each of the four girls’ names were circled.

“This is how they all came together on the twenty-first of February. Now, we know they all reported to their regular jobs on Friday, the twenty-second, or at least the three that had jobs did. They must’ve received their assignments the day before, finished their jobs Friday, then went to see about whatever Kritz Properties had in store for them.”

Murtaugh was staring with his mouth open. “Kritz Properties? That’s Luther Kritz. I know that dirt-bag. A real sleeze wheeler-dealer.”

It was Scallion’s turn to stare. “Oh, yeah. What do you know about him?”

“It was around fifteen years ago, before I moved into homicide. My partner and I investigated an assault charge against him. He was a contractor. Got in a fight with one of his subs about something. The charges were dropped, but I could tell this guy was nothing but trouble—a real hard ass. I heard later he finally hit it big with his first housing development.” The detective scratched his chin. “What was the name of that...”

“Cypress Bridge, or something like that? I saw a billboard hyping a new development with a name similar to that out on I-10 last week. His picture was on it.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Way out on the western edge of the county, as I recall.” Murtaugh looked at Scallion. “Are you putting Kritz and these girls together? That’s a pretty big jump.”

“Not necessarily Kritz himself. Could be somebody else in his organization. But think about it, Denny, the only time those four woman were together on that Friday was after they arrived at Kritz’s late in the day. Something had to have happened; either they saw something, or maybe heard something.”

Murtaugh nodded slowly, mulling it over. “Say,” he said, interrupting his own thoughts, “you were going to tell me why your source hadn’t spoken up before.”

Scallion described his conversation with Chip Luna, and the reasons he offered. “He was just a kid back then. Wasn’t sure about what to do.”

“If he’d only made one friggin’ phone call over the last few years, we would’ve gotten a jump on this case,” Murtaugh growled.

Preferring to move ahead rather than dissect the past, Scallion studied the faded map once more. He traced with his finger the supposed route Laura French’s car would have taken if his theory was correct. Starting at the approximate location of the oil change shop, he moved it the short distance to her place of work. From there, his finger took the shortest path to the 290 expressway, then outward in a northwest direction until he came to a sudden halt. He realized he didn’t know the location of where she was to report.

“I’ve got an idea, Denny. Let’s call Kritz’s company, get the name and address of their development out in this area, any that were underway in ninety-one. Probably Cypress Bridge.” He waved his hand in a circle around 290. “We can ask them the best way off of the expressway to get to it. Hopefully, that would’ve been the route she took also. I’d like to follow her path to that site, then to where her car was found, see if the mileage checks out.”

“Makes sense.” Murtaugh glanced through the conference room window. “Looks like the rain’s finally lettin’ up, and we’ve got four hours of daylight left. Who’s driving?”

With Scallion behind the wheel, and armed with the address they needed, and the recommended route to Cypress Bridge Acres, the company’s only project in the general vicinity, information obtained from a rather snooty, disagreeable employee, the two detectives drove into the Quick-Lube shop on West Little York Road. It was just before 3:00 p. m. The anticipation Scallion felt about what they were doing was similar to a blind date, as well as he could recall; hoping for the best, but prepared for a disappointment. He couldn’t gauge his partner’s mood, but at least the man had agreed to the journey.