A Field of Red (15 page)

Frank continued through the files, making notes as he went.

Glenda Martin was the wife—heavily into art and the local art scene. She worked with the local arts group and a small art gallery in one of the downtown buildings, using the space to support local artists. Glenda wanted to turn Cooper’s Mill into “another Yellow Springs;” evidently, Yellow Springs was another nearby town with a bustling art scene. Glenda Martin had been involved in establishing a local arts group and was an active volunteer with the local farmers market.

The Martins had met at Ohio State, and Frank was mildly disappointed to find out that Glenda was not a cheerleader. In fact, she had majored in Economics. They had been friends in college and stayed in touch while Nick was in the military, reconnecting when he returned to their shared home town. A year later, they were married. She’d been an early employee of the construction company, helping Nick to keep his finances in order, until he could hire a full-time CFO. She still taught occasional semesters at Wright Brothers Community College, “when her schedule allowed it,” the notes said. Frank wasn’t sure what that meant.

Sergeant Graves, the first policeman on the scene, had noted in her file that “the mother had been the most upset, visibly distraught” that first morning of the case after learning that her daughter and the daughter of her housekeeper had gone missing. In Frank’s experience, people either reacted genuinely or grossly overreacted, playing it up and making sure that everyone around them knew how they felt. The over-actors gave all the classic, outward signs of being genuinely upset, but they piled it on too much, giving themselves away. According to Graves, she’d been holding it together, but on the verge of excusing herself, breaking into tears several times during the discussion.

In these types of situations, women often reacted with tears and desperate sadness, whereas men reacted angrily or insisted that they wanted to help. Sometimes, the men seemed like they just wanted something at which to direct their anger. In more cases than Frank wanted to remember, he had taken the brunt of their anger. The woman crying on his shoulder and the man yelling at him. Both unsure of what to do next, both unable to direct their emotion into anything helpful. Both feeling helpless, frustrated, angry.

There was little else on Glenda.

Frank read carefully several more files, flipping through them and quickly scanning for anything out of the ordinary. He finished the first box, reading various reports on people connected to the case.

The first file in the second box was on Ms. Nora Gutierrez. She had been hired by the Martins in 2004 and had been with them since. When the Martins bought their current home two years later, they had purposefully chosen a home with a live-in suite above the garage for Ms. Gutierrez and her young daughter, Maya, who was one year younger than the Martins’ own daughter. Ms. Gutierrez’ employment records and immigration status were in order, and her financial report was short and completely unremarkable. She was well-paid by the Martins and apparently happy.

Frank scanned several more folder and was grabbing for another file when Deputy Peters came back into the coffee shop, stepping inside and shaking off the rain like a dog. Frank noticed the rain had stopped.

“Hi, Mr. Harper,” Peters said, setting his wet hat down on the table. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Frank nodded. “Grab a drink and join me.”

Peters left, and Frank moved the files away from the damp hat. Drops of rain ran down the blue fabric and created tiny pools of water on the metallic table. Each one looked like a perfect circle.

After a minute, Peters returned and sat, sipping his coffee. “That’s one good cup of coffee.”

Frank nodded.

“But the other place is good, too,” Peters said in a conspiratorial tone, his voice lowering. “There are two coffee shops downtown. This one is the ‘new’ one, and some folks don’t even seem to know the name of the place. They just call it the ‘new’ coffee shop.”

Peters sat back and looked around the interior of the place. Frank, unsure if there was more story to come or not, waited, one hand inside the next folder, ready to flip it open on the table in front of him. When Peters didn’t say anything for a while, Frank sighed and spoke up.

“I didn’t see another coffee shop. What do they call the old place?”

Peters seemed genuinely confused for a moment, then smiled. “Most people just call it the ‘old’ coffee shop.”

Frank smiled down at the next folder. Why did he even ask?

“So,” Frank began, “what do you think of the Martins?”

“Oh, they’re salt of the earth,” Peters said, setting down the mug of coffee. “Everyone in town knows them, mostly because of Nick’s school records in high school. Most people like them, as far as I know. I’ve known a few people that worked for Martin Construction, short jobs and such, and all of them said he was good to work for. And Mrs. Martin, she’s on a bunch of boards down here downtown and is always coming up with some wacky art event.”

“Anything suspicious?” Frank asked. “What about enemies?”

Peters shook his head.

 “No, nothing like that. Nick Martin has made a few enemies since getting on the Council. He voted down a couple of pay increases for the city employees, folks he works with. There could be some hurt feelings there, but nothing that could…I don’t see anybody getting that angry about it. Plus, all of those people have been checked out.”

Frank nodded.

“That’s assuming that you and Chief King and Nick know all the disgruntled citizens who might hold a grudge and need to be checked out. Anyone let go as a result of the budget issues or anyone quit?”

Peters shook his head.

 “We’re looking for someone who hates Nick Martin enough to risk going to jail for the opportunity to make Nick’s life miserable,” Frank said, mostly to himself.  “Or someone who needs money and is under the erroneous impression that the Martin’s have it.”

Peters nodded. “Sounds like you’ve been through the financials.”

“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “And they’re not pretty.”

“Nope,” Peters agreed. “The economy has been tough on folks around here. A bunch of downtown and local businesses closed in 2010 and earlier this year. We’re just hoping more can stick it out. It would be a shame to see these downtown buildings boarded up and empty.”

Frank looked down at his scribbled notes. “Did the girls have a reputation for running off? It’s still possible they skipped town.”

“Nah, too young,” Peters said. “They are seven and eight. They couldn’t have gotten to Troy or Vandalia without someone calling it in.”

Frank looked up. “Where?”

“Troy, five miles north of here, on the highway. Vandalia is south. Now, if they had been teenagers…”

“This would be an entirely different case,” Frank agreed. “Any extended family for either girl who might have taken them on vacation or somewhere harmless? Just forgot to mention it to anyone?”

Peters shook his head again.

Frank nodded. “It would have been extremely unlikely, but it’s best to check off every possibility.”

Peters nodded and sipped his coffee. He reached and took out a small notepad and pen from his pocket and flipped it open, jotting down some words.

“I like that,” Deputy Peters said. ‘Check off the possibilities.’”

Frank looked at the notepad and saw those words written down. “You taking notes?”

Peters looked up. “Chief King does t all the time. And you’re miles ahead of that other guy. He hasn’t said anything that I thought was worth writing down.”

Frank nodded. “Cut him some slack.”

“You haven’t met him,” Peters answered.

“That’s true.”

Frank flipped open the next file and began reading about the business associate, Matt Lassiter. He’d come to the area a few years ago from out west. He was originally from California, Modesto, but had settled into the Midwest and become a critical partner in much of Martin Construction’s success. Lassiter had been hit hard by the economic downturn as well, seeing his net worth fall steeply over the past two years. He had been part owner in a strip mall in some town named Piqua but had recently sold the property. And he and Nick Martin were the sole owners of the Holly Toys building project, splitting the finances 50/50.

Frank looked up at Peters.

“What do you know about Lassiter?”

“Oh, not much,” Peters said. “He was at one of the first interviews with the Martins. He’s a family friend, and they’re close, as far as I can tell. He’s from California, you know,” Peters said conspiratorially.

Frank looked up.

“Yes?”

Peters was making a face. “Yup, he’s from California,” he said, stressing and stretching the name of the state.

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I mean,” Peters said.

Frank shook his head. “Actually, I don’t.”

Peters leaned forward. “He’s…a little light,” he shared quietly. “In the loafers.”

Frank got it.

“Oh, you think he’s gay.”

Peters’ eyes went wide, and he looked around.

“Okay, okay, don’t shout it!”

Frank shook his head.

“There’s a whole big world out there, Deputy,” Frank said wearily. “You should embrace it. First, being from California doesn’t make him gay. You might want to get a new euphemism for that. And second, gay doesn’t make him a kidnapper.”

“But he’s different,” Peters argued. “He has a different lifestyle, and that means—”

“It means exactly nothing,” Frank cut him off. “Shit, lots of people have different lives and lifestyles. You and I are different, based on our interests, or background, or upbringing. I like jazz music. Coltrane, Ellington, Benny Golson, Booker Ervin. Have you heard of those guys?”

Peters only stared at Frank, then looked down at the table, as if the case files and folders were suddenly fascinating.

“You would do well to look at the facts in the case,” Frank chided loudly. Other patrons looked up at them. “And the facts only. Some things are pertinent, and some things don’t matter. It’s easy to get caught up in the details, and even easier to get distracted by them. Now, again, what do you know about Matthew Lassiter?”

Peters squirmed in his seat for a moment, and Frank suddenly felt like a teacher chastising a student. After a long second, Peters looked up.

“There’s no need to cuss.”

Frank stared at him. “What?”

“My mom said that people only cuss when they run out of things to say.”

“Deputy, I don’t give a shit about what your mom used to say,” Frank said good-naturedly. “The only thing I’m worried about right now is finding these girls. Now, stay on task. Matthew Lassiter.”

Peters looked at him for a long moment and then began talking.

“Matthew Lassiter seems like a close personal friend of the family,” Deputy Peters said slowly. “I’d originally thought something was going on between him and Mrs. Martin, but then after I figured out—well, I ruled that out,” Peters said, eyeing Frank. “She didn’t seem—well, they were close, but then I got the impression that they were just friends. But he was there for them, sitting in on the interviews when we allowed it. I’ve always gotten a good vibe off of him,” Peters said.

“Even though he’s gay?” Frank said, not bothering to take the edge off his mocking tone.

Deputy Peters nodded, sheepish.

“Good,” Frank said. “You need to remember to be objective. It can be difficult, but try not to project your bias into the mix too much. His being gay or black or Jewish or bald doesn’t matter, unless you come up with something else, some other piece of evidence that MAKES it matter.”

Peters nodded as he took notes. It felt strange to Frank, having someone treat him like a source of actual information. It had been so long.

“Maybe he’s involved in a group that makes you curious about his associates,” Frank continued. “Or maybe it’s harmless and unconnected. Check it out, then dismiss it if you can. Eyes open, that’s what my old partner used to say.”

Frank set the file down and smiled, as Peters jotted down “Eyes open” on his little pad. Ben Stone would’ve been happy, knowing one of his sayings was getting passed down to the next generation. Stone was always coming up with shit like that. He should’ve been a motivational speaker. And he should have avoided dark alleys in Coral Gables.

Frank flipped through the last two—one was on the other major business partner, Jimmy Weil. The file was short, mostly concerning the lawsuit between him and the Martin Construction company over that failed strip mall. Frank read though it quickly, making a note to ask Chief King about it for more detailed financial records on Weil and Lassiter and the other partners.

The last file was on the three “silent” partners. It all seemed very straightforward—they invested in the company, taking varying degrees of involvement in the company’s direction or focus. One of the silent partners wasn’t even in the state. He was a dentist in St. Louis.

“What about these other partners?” Frank asked.

“Nothing much. They’re all losing money in the real estate market, hand over fist. All in the same boat. But it all seems legitimate,” Peters said and then grew silent. It looked like he had something he wanted to say.