“At least we know one thing. It doesn’t seem the key was stolen and copied from the office, then. Not if the door has remained open for the last three months,” Angela said.
“Ragnar went to the cemetery’s office. And while she’s not official, he took Megan with him. She read between the lines, so to speak, as they talked with the people there, and it made it easy for Ragnar to say that he wasn’t accusing anyone of anything. They were just stopping by on the way to lunch, hoping that maybe someone could help.”
The Law triplets—Colleen, Patrick, and Megan—each had something a little bit extra. More than just the ability to speak with the dead. Colleen could hear a whisper a mile away. Megan, who never entered law enforcement and was happy with her day job, had an uncanny ability to read between the lines of what a person was saying—just as she could read between the lines of a book.
Patrick could read things in the human mind, which was why he had begun his collegiate education majoring in psychology and psychiatry, using his talents with the Philadelphia Police Department before becoming entangled in a case with the Krewe. After that, he entered the academy to become a part of it.
“Thanks, Patrick. How is it going with the videos?”
“Interesting. We’re making our way through. It was a beautiful service, as I guess you’ve seen already. The singers were damned good. But there were a ton of people there. We’re going bit by bit. We’ll see.”
“What about the writer? The guy who did the article on the cemetery. I understand he was there.”
“Yes, he was. I had to look him up online. Got a picture of the man. Young fellow, early thirties. While others were watching the singers or the priest, he was watching Benjamin Robertson.”
“I want to get him into headquarters. We’re on our way back. I’m going to run to the lab, but I’d like to talk to him soon. Apparently, he called Benjamin Robertson again after the bodies were discovered,” Jackson said.
They heard a chair scrape.
“We’ve got an address. I’ll go on over and see if he’s home,” Mark said. “Colleen can keep at these videos with Patrick.”
“Wherever I’m most useful,” Colleen murmured.
“Thanks,” Jackson said.
“Colleen.” Angela motioned for him to bring the phone closer. “If you guys take a break, will you start digging up information on an architect for me? The man who designed the tomb. A Gervais Conte.”
“Will do,” Colleen promised.
“Thanks. Jackson, my phone is ringing—”
“Got it.”
She had it sitting on top of her bag as she drove.
He frowned, seeing the name on the screen.
It was Debbie Nolan. He glanced at Angela and held up the phone so she could see. She nodded with a frown, and he answered the phone quickly.
“Jackson Crow.”
“Help! Oh, my God, help!” Debbie cried.
Chapter 4
Jackson had suggested to Angela that she could stay and interview Jefferson Moore, but she had said that would have to wait. She felt that she might be the calming factor for Debbie Nolan.
While they arrived as quickly as possible at the young woman’s home, they weren’t the first on the scene. Although he’d had some difficulty understanding Debbie on the phone since she had been so hysterical, Jackson had ascertained that Officer Whittaker had disappeared.
They knew Owen Whittaker. They often worked with local police on problem situations. There was no way the man would be derelict in his duty, which meant that someone had forced him to leave. But that also meant he might still be alive. If so, he was most probably in danger. Someone needed to get there fast. Jackson had seen to it that the closest police presence was called in, and they arrived on the scene almost instantly.
He and Angela met an Officer Channing as they reached the yard. The man was grim, seemed concerned, and had been searching in front of the house, thrashing through the bushes, when they arrived. But he knew them—many of the local officers knew the Krewe members.
“Miss Nolan is in the house, still tearing it apart, room to room,” he told them. “My partner and I haven’t been able to calm her down, but we’ve checked out his car. He’s not in it. We even forced the trunk, but he wasn’t stuffed into that either. Someone pulled the wiring on the security system. It wasn’t a great one to begin with, but Miss Nolan was smart enough to have a camera covering the front at the very least. No alarm was triggered, and the door wasn’t forced. Whoever came and whisked Officer Whittaker away had to be someone he knew or expected.”
The man had spoken all of that in a rush. Then he winced and added, “I’m worried, Special Agent Crow. I’ve worked with Whittaker for years. He’s as solid and ethical a man as you can get. He didn’t just walk off the job.”
“We know, Officer Channing. No one thinks he shirked his duties. We will get to the bottom of what happened,” Angela promised. “Excuse me. I’ll try to calm Debbie down and find out if she can tell us anything.”
“Miss Nolan said she was in her bedroom folding clothes, felt hungry, and came out to the living room to ask if Officer Whittaker wanted something to eat. He had been on the sofa when she went to see to her laundry. She’d suggested that he watch a game on television—I guess they had talked, and she knew that he loved sports. Anyway, he wasn’t there. The television was blaring, but she hadn’t paid any attention to it. She looked through the house and then panicked, thinking that someone was still inside after doing something to her protector, and worried they’d be after her next.”
“That must be when she called us,” Jackson said. “As Angela said, we know Whittaker. He’s a fine man. We need to find him pronto.”
Channing nodded. “Right. Yes, thank you. We cleared the house and the yard. No one’s here.”
“We’re going to need a crime scene unit,” Jackson said.
“I’ll see to Debbie,” Angela said again. “If you’ll excuse me. Oh, and, Officer Channing? Thank you.”
He nodded, his eyes a little damp with misery. But she knew that he appreciated her words. Jackson nodded to her, too. They both knew the importance of everyone believing in the humanity of any situation.
They had to find Whittaker. That was their priority right now. He was one of theirs.
Angela went into the house.
Debbie Nolan kept a neat and pleasant home. The living room in her little townhouse had soft beige walls, an entertainment center, and a comfortable seating area with a sofa and several upholstered chairs that faced the television. Angela could imagine Owen Whittaker relaxed on the couch, watching a beloved game in comfort, close to the woman he had been sent to guard.
She walked through a large archway to the dining room and from there to the kitchen, where again, everything was nicely kept in middle-class comfort, tidiness, and appeal. Debbie was nowhere to be found—and neither was the second police officer.
“Debbie?”
A stairway led to two bedrooms on either side of the small landing. Debbie was seated on the bed, her head in her hands. The officer leaned against a bureau, looking exhausted.
He stood straight when he saw Angela and indicated to Debbie where she sat on the bed, sunk low in despair.