Where's Ellen? (Mystery) (MPP A JOE MCFARLAND / GINNY HARRIS MYSTERY Book 1) (4 page)

CHAPTER 6

A
bout one hour before the normal end of their shift, Joe and Ginny decided to take a drive back to the Sanders’ house to check in on the fire department’s search. Nodding to each other, Ginny left first. Carrying her pocketbook as if she were going to the restroom, after checking to make sure that no one was watching, she made a quick right turn into the stairwell and walked downstairs. A minute later, Joe grabbed his coffee cup and headed for what looked like a coffee refill, only to similarly jog right and head down the stairs. A quick walk across the parking lot to their car and they were headed back to the Sanders’ house, with Joe, as usual, behind the steering wheel. In their line of work, Joe and Ginny were constantly in and out of PD headquarters; they didn’t need any approval to leave. But they wanted to avoid the chief seeing them this time and casually asking them where they were going. They didn’t want to have to lie to the chief, but they sure didn’t want to tell him that they were following up on the Ellen Sanders case. Better to just avoid him.

“Joe, you know that the chief told us to back off this case. He was loud and clear.”

“Yeah, I know. But if we only did what he told us to do, we’d never get anything accomplished. Besides, we’re not doing anything on the case. Our tour is about over. We’re merely two concerned citizens trying to see what’s going on with the search for Mrs. Sanders.”

“Yeah, and if you believe that, I have a bridge over the Ohio River I’d like to sell to you.”

“Very funny,” responded Joe. “This whole thing with the FBI really pisses me off. Who the hell do they think they are? God’s gift to humanity?”

“Yeah, their sudden involvement, especially this early, seems weird. But I don’t get your reaction. It upsets me.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Joe, I would hope by now you realize that I care about you. And I don’t like to see you this upset. I really care about you. And more than just as a partner on the job.”

“And I do about you, Ginny. You’re the best friend I’ve got.” Joe glanced over at Ginny who was looking right up into his face. He quickly refocused his eyes back on the road. Joe couldn’t believe that he had blurted this out. He knew that his feelings for Ginny had been growing for the past year or so, but he had been sure that he was able to control them. Now he couldn’t even control his mouth. Up until this discussion, the most personal thing he had said to Ginny during the past six months had been “nice shirt.” A quick look in the rear view mirror, and Joe confirmed the pink glow of his cheeks; he couldn’t remember the last time that he had blushed — probably in high school.

Seeing Joe’s discomfort with the turn this discussion had taken, Ginny tried to lighten it up. As she had done several times in the past when she recognized Joe’s discomfort or frustration level rising, Ginny hoped that her playing verbal sparring partner would feel like friendship to Joe. Close friendship. “Who are you kidding, Joe? I’m the
only
friend you have.”

“Well, yeah, there’s that, too,” responded Joe, relieved that this discussion had ended — at least for the time being.

For the next few minutes, silence prevailed in the car, with each of the partners lost in their own thoughts. Ginny thought back to what it must have been like for Joe eight years ago. He had been a detective with the Chicago Police Department when his wife and 6-year-old son were killed by a drunk driver. His grief had turned to depression and heavy drinking, he had explained to Ginny late one night on a dead-end stakeout. Eventually, his downward spiral got so deep he was dismissed from the Chicago police force. With the help of counseling, he had gradually regained his balance and stayed sober. But he realized that he had to leave the center of all that sadness and anger. He sold his small house in Chicago and moved to a quiet patch of Ohio — Jasper Creek, chosen because he knew no one there, had never even heard of it before, and no one would know him or his past.

At first, he had explained to Ginny, things seemed to be going almost too well. He lived off the proceeds from the sale of his house, along with the proceeds from a life insurance policy on his wife, and rented a small apartment in Jasper Creek. He read, he went hiking and hunting in Wayne National Forest, where the Appalachians spilled over into the southeast corner of the state. But in less than two years, boredom crept over the distraction these pastimes had offered as a way through the ache of grief. He had to do something more meaningful. With no family, he had to find a way to need, and be needed by, others. He joined the Jasper Creek Police Department.

The night that Joe had related the most painful portions of his story to her, Ginny had laid her hand over his as they sat on that late-night stakeout. For her, it was a gesture of understanding and sympathy, not pity. She had hoped, then, that he knew how she’d offered that touch. He hadn’t said anything, but neither had he removed his hand. He had just stopped talking and looked at her in the darkness of the unmarked car. Ginny was touched that Joe had opened up to her, indicating a closeness and trust that Ginny had felt for Joe but, until that moment, wasn’t sure whether Joe felt toward her.

Was it any wonder that Joe had not made any real friends, much less had any romantic relationships, since then? Why set yourself up for such possible pain again?

Ginny also was sorely lacking in the romantic relationship department. Soon after her high school graduation, she had married her high school sweetheart. A pleasant fellow, Carl Harris became a mechanic at the local auto shop. The marriage soured almost as soon as Ginny became a police officer. It was only well after the divorce that Ginny realized that Carl’s masculinity had been challenged by his wife becoming a cop. The divorce was as amicable as a divorce could be. They had very few assets to fight over; there was no alimony and, fortunately in Ginny’s mind, no children. Soon after the divorce, Carl moved to Pittsburgh and he and Ginny had not been in contact since. Whether it was just bad luck or Ginny’s reluctance to form another emotionally risky relationship, she dated very little and had no serious relationships with anyone since her divorce. In fact, her working relationship with Joe was the closest relationship that Ginny had had with any man since her divorce.

Joe’s thoughts related to his feelings about Ginny. He clearly respected her as a detective and was often impressed by how well she dealt with all types of people — victims and their family members, witnesses and even the perps or suspected perps, as well as their colleagues in the PD and the prosecutor’s office. She also often was the first one to string together various clues and bits of information to reach a logical, and often correct, conclusion. But, at this point, his thoughts were of a more personal nature.

He recognized and accepted how their relationship had grown from partner to partner and friend to partner and best friend. But he struggled with his more romantic thoughts. Glancing over at Ginny, he couldn’t help but concentrate on the few cute freckles sprinkled across her nose. He found Ginny to be very attractive and smart, and he liked her upbeat and engaging personality. He had come to realize that she cared about him, and he had similar, albeit unstated, feelings for her. Each time he envisioned getting romantically involved with her, the baggage he was still carrying around from Chicago jumped to the forefront and redirected his thinking.
Will I ever get over, not forget but get over, what happened in Chicago so that I can get on with my life?
he would ask himself.

All of a sudden, Joe braked hard and swerved to the right, narrowly missing the tan Ford pickup that had stopped at the red traffic light in front of them. “Whew! That was close,” he said as he ignored the glaring look and the middle finger of the middle-aged driver.

Ginny forced her mind and then the conversation back to the present. “Yes, it sure is outrageous when some cars stop for a red light. But seriously, Joe. First thing this morning, you get all upset that they assigned this, and I quote you, ‘half-assed case’ to us. Now, a few hours later, you’re even more pissed that they took it away from us. I don’t get it.”

“It’s not that ‘they’ took it away from us; it’s that it was the high and mighty FBI who took it away from us. Now that the FBI is interested, I’m interested; there must be more to this than we, or I should say I, first thought.”

As they pulled up to the Sanders’ street, Joe flashed his badge to the firefighter blocking further entry. The firefighter got into the fire engine and moved it forward a few feet so that Joe could pass. Joe drove through and parked only a few feet from where the fire chief had set up his command post. Joe and Ginny got out of their car and walked over.

“Hello, Chief. Good to see you again. Find anything?” said Joe.

“All kinds of crap, from old tires to a refrigerator to some bones of a dead animal. But nothing useful so far. And we’ll be shutting down soon as dusk rolls in.”

“Gotcha. We’ll hang around for a while to check out the volunteers and bystanders. Never know, if there’s a perp, he or she could be among them, helping search, maybe being there when the body is found, maybe even finding it. Not that we know there’s a body in this case.”

It was now late afternoon, and the search teams were beginning to return to the starting point in front of the Sanders’ house. They reported in to the fire chief and returned the radios to the fire engines. Their disappointment at not finding anything useful was evident from their faces and their body language. So was their exhaustion, from the long, arduous and thirsty day. Both the fire chief and Steve thanked each person who had helped with the search.

After initially nodding a quick “hello” to Steve, Joe and Ginny observed each searcher and bystander as best they could. Joe and Ginny stood next to each other across the street from where the bystanders were standing behind a yellow tape marked “FIRE LINE — DO NOT CROSS.” Ginny, standing on Joe’s right, focused on the people directly in front of them and off to the right. Joe did the same, but to the left. Several times, without turning their heads toward each other, they’d single out an individual, speaking quietly. “Ginny, check that guy in the bright blue shirt to the far left.” “Joe, that firefighter at my 2 o’clock seems to be wandering around meaninglessly.” But in the end, nothing or no one stood out as suspicious enough to merit Joe and Ginny taking any action. With a shrug of her shoulders and a disappointed look on her face, Ginny indicated her sense that there was nothing to be gained by hanging around any longer. Joe gave Ginny a quick nod, and they both started walking to where the fire chief and Steve were standing.

“Sorry, Mr. Sanders, but we didn’t find anything helpful,” the chief was saying.

“Well, I appreciate all your efforts. And those of the others,” replied Steve.

“Don’t mention it. You’re very welcome. We all want to help any way that we can. Good luck; I’m sure things will turn out OK.”

Joe heard the fire chief’s words “Good luck” and knew how inadequate they were, even before he looked over at Steve and saw the blank look on his face. Was that look disbelief that the search was over already, with no results? Was it relief that no body had been found? Or was it a mask, hiding something, a mute affirmation that things were working well so far?

And then moments later, the table, the map and the remaining water bottles were back in the fire chief’s SUV, the two engines with some of the volunteer firefighters on board and the ambulance pulled away and all the other volunteers drove off. Joe and Ginny nodded to Steve and left without saying anything to him.

CHAPTER 7

E
xhausted, worried, frustrated and all alone, Steve slowly walked back up his driveway and into his house. He looked and acted like a lost puppy. He felt that he should be doing things to help find Ellen, but he was at a complete loss as to what those things could or should be. He checked for voice messages on the house phone and on his cell phone, and he checked for e-mails, but there was nothing related to Ellen’s disappearance. Steve called his boss to tell him what had been going on since early that morning and explained why he wasn’t at work that day and that he wouldn’t be in to work the next day.

“Oh, my God. Of course, Steve. I can’t begin to think what you must be going through. Take all the time you need and please let us know if we can do anything to help.”

“Thanks, Mark.”

“Let’s hope that Ellen turns up shortly and that she’s uninjured. Rest assured that everyone here will be thinking of and praying for you and Ellen.”

“Thanks,” mumbled Steve as he hung up the phone, slouched down into his favorite recliner and sat there staring at the wall.

A few minutes later, the doorbell pulled Steve out of his dazed numbness. He rushed to the door. “Yes?”

“Mr. Sanders? Mr. Steven Sanders?” asked Martin.

“Yes. And you are?”

“I’m Assistant Special Agent in Charge Martin and this is Special Agent Florio. We’re with the FBI.”

“FBI? You’re here about my wife. But you’re not … I mean it hasn’t been 24 hours ...” Steve stopped, then looked hard at them, afraid. “What? Do you have some news? How bad is it? Please!”

“No, we don’t have any news yet. Sorry. Yes, it’s normally the case that the FBI doesn’t get involved until the individual is missing at least 24 hours, but, given the circumstances here, we’re making an exception.”

“’Circumstances here?” asked Steve.

“May we come in and talk with you?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry. Please come in.” Steve led them to the same room and the same seats where he had sat with Joe and Ginny only a short while ago, although it seemed more like days ago to Steve. “What’s going on?”

“Regarding your question about ‘circumstances,’ ” said Martin, “although we weren’t issued the BOLO that the local police sent out, we quickly became aware of your wife’s disappearance.”

“How?”

“Shortly after 9-11, we implemented several system changes to help us be more proactive. We have arrangements with most of the larger cities across the country whereby they send us copies of all arrests they make, warrants they request and BOLOs they issue or receive. We then run all this against our databases of known and possible terrorists, wanted felons and everyone with security clearances.”

“And that’s how you found out that my wife is missing?” asked Steve.

“That’s correct. The computers matched the BOLO with her security clearance. Mr. Sanders, we know that in your wife’s role at Tycon Technologies, she works on and has access to classified military information,” said Martin.

“Well, sure. A few of her divisions develop and manufacture systems for the Navy and Air Force. I don’t know exactly what these things are, but Ellen has a Top Secret security clearance from the Department of Defense. Do you think that has something to do with her disappearance?”

“We don’t know yet,” responded Martin. “But we’re keeping an open mind to any and all possibilities at this point. Did your wife have any confidential work-related papers here at home?”

“Probably. I don’t know for sure, but she’s always lugging around reams of paper from work. But, if it’s not allowed, I’m sure she didn’t bring any classified papers home.”

“May we check? Where does she work at home?”

“Yes, sure.” And Steve led the two agents to Ellen’s home office. They made a cursory look-see but found nothing troubling. “Does she have a briefcase? A laptop? A cell phone?” asked Martin.

“Yes, they’re all are on the counter in the kitchen.” Steve led them to the kitchen and pointed to the briefcase.

“May we take these with us?” asked Martin. “I’d like our experts in the office to go through them.”

“OK.”

The FBI agents then asked Steve to retell the entire series of events of that morning. He did so, putting up with numerous interruptions by the agents asking at what time, why, with whom, and so on.

Martin, with a very occasional assist from Florio, asked Steve several questions about Ellen’s background, her friends and relatives, and where she had worked before Tycon Technologies. Many of their questions seemed to focus on Ellen’s security clearance and her work.

“One other thing,” said Martin.

“Yes?” responded Steve.

“We know that you initially called the local police and that they, in fact, visited you here.”

“Well, yes, that’s true. They …”

“We understand,” interrupted Martin. “But we urge you to have no further dealings with them unless it’s through us.”

“What do you mean? Why? I don’t understand,” responded Steve.

“This is a bit delicate,” said Florio. “But it is important enough that it has to be said.”

“OK. Say it,” said Steve.

Martin jumped in. “Don’t get us wrong. They’re fine people and they mean well, but they’re way over their heads in a case like this. Detectives McFarland and Harris are small-time detectives on a small-time police force in a small town. I’m sure that they’re perfectly capable of handling a burglary or a hit-and-run accident, but a missing person, perhaps except for a senior citizen wandering off, not to mention a possible kidnapping, is out of their league. This is the type of thing that the FBI has the special training and experience to handle.”

“Yes, but …,” Steve started to say before he was interrupted by Florio.

“In fact, we met with these two detectives and their chief earlier today, and we had the case officially turned over to us. This is very important. ‘An orchestra can only have one conductor’ or ‘too many cooks spoil the broth.’ Or pick your own metaphor.”

“The important thing,” added Martin, “is that we call all the shots so we don’t start tripping over each other and racing off in all directions. We agreed to keep the local police fully informed about this case and to request their help if and when we think it can be useful.”

“We just wanted to make sure that you were clear about these arrangements,” concluded Florio.

“I understand,” confirmed Steve.

“OK, then,” said Martin.

Getting ready to leave, with Ellen’s briefcase, laptop and cell phone held by Florio, Martin asked, “Do we have your permission to put wire taps on your home, work and cell phones in case it’s a kidnapping and the kidnappers call?”

“My God! So you do think it’s a kidnapping?”

“No. We don’t think anything yet. As I said earlier, we want to be ready for anything.”

“Oh, OK. That makes sense.”

“The wire taps?” prodded Martin.

“Oh, yes, of course,” responded Steve.

“OK. Thanks. The taps will be set up shortly. And just for your information, we’ll be getting a court order for a wiretap warrant so that we can monitor any calls to your wife’s cell and office phones as well.”

“That’s OK. You don’t need the warrant. I’m also giving you my approval to tap those phones.”

“Thanks. But we still need that warrant. We don’t need a warrant for your phones if you give us approval, but only your wife, not you, can approve our tapping her phones. A warrant will cover our not having her approval.”

“Oh, OK.”

As the FBI agents left, Steve stood by the front door watching them get into their car and drive off. Steve was still worried and even more bewildered than he had been before their visit.