Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Book Two--Chapter 6

Ellmann and I were lying together in the dark. I could tell by his slow breathing he was dozing, near sleep. I was alternating between lying with my eyes closed, wishing myself to sleep, and staring at the ceiling, thinking about the dozens of questions bouncing around in my head. Ellmann rolled onto his side and pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my middle and laying his head on my good shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“I’m just wondering what’s more important than losing your house.”
“You said the grandmother was protecting Dillon.”
How would Danielle Dillon benefit from Grandma Porter losing her house? How did losing the house protect Danielle?
“That’s just a feeling,” I said. “And it doesn’t really track.”
“Don’t doubt your instincts. No one has instincts as good as yours.”
Much to his dismay, most of the time.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Book Two--Chapter 5

My evening plans had been to have dinner with Ellmann, grab Dix and take him to the pokey, then drop in on Danielle Dillon’s grandmother where I would discover some clue as to her current location. The only part that had gone according to plan was dinner. After Ellmann and I left Priscilla standing on the sidewalk outside Starbucks, he walked me to my truck and I drove home. I stripped my clothes off in the doorway and deposited them in the garbage can. After a shower, in which I scrubbed and washed everything twice, I found clean clothes and set out again.
If I’d had more time, I would have called it a day and picked up the search tomorrow. As it was, I’d already lost most of the day and had nothing to show for it. And I still believed Grandma would be the key I needed.
I had the sides of the top up on the Scout, and I cranked the music as I drove. I sang along with every song I knew, and some I didn’t. I didn’t want time to think. I knew if I had it, I’d compare myself to Priscilla. Really, I know there is no comparison. I mean, this is me I’m talking about here. And her. No comparison. But that didn’t stop me from comparing us all the same. And comparing us made me feel bad. I didn’t have time to feel bad. I had things to do.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Book Two--Chapter 4

After stopping at all the addresses listed for Dillon and turning up zilch, I drove back to the office. The front door was open until six, when the receptionist and Amerson went home, but I wanted to slip in and out. I parked in the back and let myself in through the rear entrance. I’m not an employee and don’t work full time, so I don’t have an office or my own desk. But there are several cubical workstations in one of the back rooms, set up with computers and phones for use by those of us who only drop by occasionally. Tonight, the room was empty.
I chose a seat and pulled out my notes. It was tedious work, but I went through each plate number I’d written down. My first step is always to see what name came back and if it’s known to be connected to the case. My next step is to make sure the plate came back to the same make and model I’d found it on. Stolen plates had blown open more than one case in the past, or so my mentor Blue had said. Lastly, I input everything into an Excel spreadsheet so I can more easily search for patterns later. When I’d done this, coming across no names that rang any bells or any stole plates, I printed the list.
I’d learned the Camaro and FJ were registered to an Eric Dunn. A quick property search told me Dunn owned the house, having purchased it five years before. I ran his name through the Sideline database and came up with several hits. A bit more searching told me Dunn was a defense attorney. That went a long way in explaining how he could afford his house.
I wasn’t sure I was making progress on finding Danielle Dillon, but I still needed to find Dix, too. I looked up the number to the Starbucks where he worked and used the landline to call. A girl answered, and I heard the espresso machine hissing and blenders whirling in the background.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Book Two--Chapter 3

“I got Fink,” I said to Amerson over the phone.
He asked and I briefly explained how I happened across Fink.
“See,” he said. “That’s exactly what we need for Danielle Dillon.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” I sure wasn’t. “Does Dillon have a vehicle registered with the DMV?”
I was sitting in the truck outside the detention center, Dillon’s file open on my lap, leaning against the steering wheel. I’d read through it, including the notes of those who had already tried locating her. All of her information was useless; it was like starting from scratch. With less than three days to do it.
“I don’t think so. There should be a note in her file.” I heard the tapping of a keyboard over the line.
“I don’t see one.”