Proof Positive: A Joe Gunther Novel (Joe Gunther Series) (12 page)

“Good,” Kunkle said patiently. “That was the right choice. Keep going.”

“Okay,” she said, feeling her face redden as she continued. “He asked me if I’d scream—no, I mean, he said something about not screaming. Anyhow, I got the message because that’s when he told me that he had someone in with my mother, and then he … moved his hand.”

Willy shifted his head so slightly that it barely moved, but Sandy sensed in the gesture his complete knowledge about everything that had happened.

“He put his hand on my breast,” she said, her modesty overwhelmed by the sense of Kunkle’s clairvoyance.

“On top of or under your clothes?” he asked.

She pressed her lips together before answering, “On top at first, then underneath. But he didn’t do anything. He just rested it there. I was so scared.”

Sam removed a tissue from her jacket pocket and handed it over so that Sandy could catch the tears that were traveling down her cheeks.

“Thank you. I was so sure I was about to be raped, and that Mom was already dead. I was angry for not having locked my door, or done a better job of protecting my house. It was all a little crazy, thinking things that made no sense.”

“That’s very common,” Sam said.

Willy confirmed, “We hear that a lot. What did he do or say then?” he asked.

“He pulled the blanket off me—all the way down—so I was just lying there, and he put his hand inside my nightgown, like I said, but all he asked about was the show.”

“Details, Sandy.”

“Right. He said something like, ‘I’m going to ask you again: Who brought you the photographs?’”

“Again?” Kunkle almost interrupted, “Because he was the same man who came to your office?”

“Yes. The voice was the same. He was whispering, but I’m sure of it.”

“What did he look like?” Sammie asked.

Sandy blinked. “He had on a mask.”

“I’m sorry. I meant when he was at the museum—earlier.”

“A baseball cap, beard, dark glasses, medium height. His jacket made him look kind of beefy, but it was hard to tell.”

Sammie leaned back in her chair. Whoever it had been, he knew how to run himself. What Sandy had rattled off were accessories—not human characteristics. And Sam didn’t doubt for a moment that the beard had either been fake or was now down the drain somewhere, accompanied by some shaving cream.

“What did you tell him, Sandy?” Willy was asking.

“The truth. At the office, I was happy to follow policy, but at home? Being threatened that way? I wasn’t going to risk my life and Mom’s, both. I told him that one of our students approached her faculty advisor, and that—between the two of them—they’d written an application to have the work displayed at the museum.”

“You gave him the names?”

“I didn’t have the student’s,” she said. “That was the agreement between him or her and the advisor. I was told it was because of the anonymous standing of the photographer, who I gathered was still alive and pretty eccentric. The student didn’t want attention diverted away from the artist, and wanted the anonymity to be across the board. But the advisor was Nancy Filson. She’s in the art department.”

Sandy hung her head before admitting, “I did give him her name.” She looked up suddenly and added quickly, “But I called her right after he left, and told her what happened. I told her to get away, to hide, that she didn’t want happening to her what I’d gone through.”

Willy frowned and placed his palm flat on the table, leaning toward her. “The guy in the mask just walked away after you told him about Filson?”

Her face flushed and she reached out to grab his hand pleadingly, her earlier comforting numbness stripped away by the question. “He didn’t know how well I knew her. He didn’t know we were friends. I pretended to barely recall her name. He’d threatened me that if I ever told anyone, he’d be back to get me and my mom.” Her voice escalated. “I didn’t know what to do,” she cried. “It was either me and Mom right then, or Nancy later. It was an impossible choice.”

“That makes you an incredibly brave woman,” Sam stated, adding, “How did Nancy react when you told her?”

Sandy calmed a little, blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes. “She thought I was kidding at first—for a second, at least. Then she heard how emotional I was. She told me to go to the police, which I did, and she agreed that she’d be careful.” Again, her voice grew anxious. “I told her it would take more than that. I told her how scared I’d been—what that man had done to me.”

Sammie heard what she interpreted to be a deeper meaning there. She reached out and touched Sandy’s shoulder to get her full attention. “What
did
he do to you? Finish telling us what happened.”

Sandy stared her in the face, her cheeks damp, her eyes bloodshot. “He ran his hand down my body after I told him what he wanted—slowly—feeling everything. I tried to freeze, to not feel it, but it was horrible.”

“Did he do anything more?” Sam pressed her.

Sandy hesitated, said, “No,” and then curled up on herself, crying convulsively. Sammie leaned over to rub her back as she glanced at Willy and raised her eyebrows.

He rose and left the room, returning moments later with a box of tissues and a glass of water. He placed both before their witness and waited for Corcoran to regain her composure.

This she did after several more nose blows.

“We’re very sorry to put you through this again, Sandy,” he then said supportively. “But we need to get it all.”

“I understand,” she said from behind a wad of tissues.

“After he touched you that way,” Willy resumed, his manner dramatically softened from before, “what did he do or say?”

“Just that I was to keep my mouth shut and not tell anybody, or he’d be back and it ‘wouldn’t be so pleasant.’ Those were the words he used.”

“So it’s your feeling that he really bought the story that you could hardly remember Nancy Filson’s name?”

“Yes,” she said, revealing her face to show her conviction on this point. “He even got a little frustrated with me because of my so-called faulty memory. I’m positive he thought I barely knew her.”

Sammie slid a pad and pen across the table before her. “You did well, Sandy. Write down every address, phone number, Facebook page, e-mail, and anything else you have on Nancy. We need to get hold of her fast. Did you tell the local police the same thing you told us just now? In other words, might they be looking for Nancy, too?”

She shook her head. “No. I reported the assault and the fact that the man wanted to know about the show, but I didn’t mention Nancy. It was kind of chaotic when I first came here—I think there was a big accident across town or something—and by the time they got to finishing up with me, one of them had already called you. I think that’s how it worked. Anyhow, they pretty much stopped asking questions, saying that you were on your way.”

Neither Willy nor Sam had any trouble believing that. There wasn’t a cop working that hadn’t had nights when it seemed nothing more could go wrong—before it did. Times like that, you counted yourself lucky just to cover the bases, much less tend to the finer details.

Willy waited for Sandy to finish writing before asking, “Now, this part is really important: Where do you think Nancy is now?”

Sandy, however, looked at him helplessly. “I have no idea. I’ve tried calling her cell phone since I warned her, but all I get is her voice mail. And this morning, her office said that she never showed up for work.”

Sammie spoke with as much confidence as she could muster. “Well, of course. She’s following your directions. Keeping off the grid. What about other friends or family she might be staying with?”

“I don’t know. Nancy’s pretty private. I know she has family, but she’s never mentioned them by name, and she doesn’t seem to like people asking, or at least she changes the conversation. As for friends, I can’t say. We hang out, but on campus, mostly during lunch. I really don’t know what she does or who she sees when she’s not at work.”

“Sandy,” Willy asked her, keeping any criticism out of his voice. “When you warned her about the man, why didn’t you tell
her
to call the police, like she told you? I understand why you didn’t tell these guys—you explained that. But the police could’ve protected her. Now she could be anywhere.”

Sammie cut him a look, but Sandy took it in stride, responding, “I did. But she didn’t think the police would do anything if a crime hadn’t been committed. She said it was like a rule or something.”

Both cops got up, gathering their possessions. “Okay,” Willy addressed her, stifling his frustration and handing her his business card. “Well, a crime’s definitely been committed against you, so we’ll make sure the local police keep an eye on you, for protection. Those numbers are how to get hold of us, day or night, if you need to.”

He took a breath and added, “You did great work here, okay? I know cops that wouldn’t have kept their heads so well. Take credit for that. You deserve it.”

They said their farewells to both her and the officers waiting in the foyer, stressing to them that the man in the mask might return. But once they were alone in the parking lot, heading toward the car, Willy couldn’t resist concluding, “Don’t know if you’re taking odds, but I say her pal Nancy’s fucked, somethin’ royal.”

CHAPTER TEN

Joe had no notion of where he was. Somewhere near or in Port Richmond—where most of Tommy Bajek’s short life had been spent, before his unfortunate trip to Vermont. But as for a specific location, Joe was lost. You could put him most anywhere in the wilds of Vermont, and he could give you his approximate whereabouts. In an urban locale like Greater Philadelphia? He might as well have been standing in a desert. In the middle of the night.

It was close to the middle of the night now. They were parked slightly down the street from the Philadelphia equivalent of one of the social clubs Joe had seen in Newark a few years earlier, on a different case. It was a bar in some respects, with minimal signage—in Polish, in this case—and no doubt with all the proper paperwork, but crossing its threshold, straight off the street, would’ve gotten you only a room full of cold stares, and certainly not the tall one you might have been hoping to order. This was a members-only establishment and, to the cops’ advantage, Peter Kindler was a member.

“So, what’s Kindler’s story?” Lester asked, in part to pass the time as they waited. “Has he been undercover long?”

Elizabeth this time was working on a large, oddly shaped pretzel—thick, soft, white-cored, and heavily salted—which even Joe had passed on when she offered to treat them all. Phil DesAutels answered instead. “It’s not that kind of undercover—not like in movies. This branch of the Kielbasa Posse’s not a major felony outfit, like he was sayin’, so Pete can pretty much come and go as he likes. He fits in like that anyhow, pretty much wherever he goes. He’s an old-school guy, which probably means that he’s on the endangered list, as a cop.”

Joe nodded sympathetically. He was without question the oldest warhorse in the car, and knew too well how law enforcement had evolved in recent years. Personally, he had no idea what he’d do with himself if he could no longer wade in among other people’s troubles, sorting them out. He only hoped that he wouldn’t have to find out anytime soon.

“Here he comes,” Elizabeth announced, wiping bright yellow mustard from her lip, her eye on the bar’s front door. She fired up the car’s engine, leaving the headlights off, and pulled away from the curb slowly, heading for the far end of the block. There, under cover of near total darkness, they waited for Kindler to draw abreast, and—with the slightest of gestures—open the rear door and slip inside beside Lester.

“How’d it go?” the latter asked.

“Everybody on their best behavior,” Kindler said. “Even if they were poundin’ down the beer pretty good. It was hard keepin’ up.” He noticed what Elizabeth was still holding in her right hand. “You got more of those?”

She handed the remains of the pretzel to him. “Didn’t know when you’d be getting out. Feel free.” She fumbled in her lap and gave him a small container, as well. “Mustard,” she said.

Joe smiled to himself, wondering how McLarney and Kindler managed not to look like blimps, given eating habits that Joe could only envy.

“Any luck locating Bajek?” he asked as Kindler tore at the tough white dough and dipped a piece of it into the mustard.

Pete chewed and smiled happily. “Kinda. I think I got a girlfriend’s name, or at least someone he was hangin’ out with before he disappeared.”

“Meaning, they’re saying he did disappear?” Lester asked.

“Yeah,” Kindler told them. “At least nobody’s seen him lately. Course, Tommy’s not a standout in this crowd. Anyhow, the name I got is Natausha Greenblott. They call her Tausha for short.”

“That’s not Polish,” DesAutels blurted out.

Kindler looked at him. “Phil. I’m shocked. This is America, you lunkhead. You can screw who you want here.”

He laughed at his own joke, pulled out a pen and what turned out to be a gas station receipt, and wrote on it, handing it to Elizabeth. “That’s her address, near as I can figure. It’s probably an apartment building, and I didn’t get a number, so you’ll have to ask around, but that should do it.”

He lifted the remains of the pretzel as he popped open the door and prepared to leave. “I steal this?”

“Go for it, Pete,” she said, reading the note. “And thanks for the help.”

Joe echoed that as Kindler slipped out and slammed the door behind him.

Elizabeth addressed her remaining passengers: “It’s not far from here, surprise, surprise. We can roust her now, or wait till tomorrow. Preferences?”

“You good with now?” Joe asked in turn, seeing Lester shrug.

Elizabeth put the SUV into gear. “Hi-yo, Silver.”

*   *   *

Frank Niles got back into the car, removed his sunglasses and the goatee/mustache combination that he favored over the beard he’d worn at the museum, and tossed his ball cap onto the back seat. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Hate the way that itches.”

“You get a line on her?” Neil asked.