Blind Spot

  “Possibly true.”

  “Either way, Burke started looking into the case, and once he did, he dove in, went looking for cold cases and never came back out.”

  “So your bosses—old and new—weren’t happy with Burke’s divided attention?” Sad, but understandable from a strictly professional point of view.

  “Not happy in the least,” Franco said. “When Henshaw arrived, he laid down the law, and soon after, Burke stopped talking about the missing girls’ cases.”

  Declan doubted he’d stopped working them though. He and Tanner hadn’t had a chance to look at Burke’s personal files, but he was pretty sure what they would find when they did. “So he just walked away?”

  “He acted like he did, but I know Steven. Once he had his mind fixed on something, there was no stopping him. He probably spent his pathetic free time on it.”

  Pathetic? “Doesn’t sound like you liked your partner very much.”

  “We’re just two different agents. I follow orders. Focus where the focus needs to be.”

  “And Burke?”

  “He was an idealist—always hunting for the truth. Wanting to play Superman. To be honest, I half admired him for it, but we had a job to do. Together. Steven lost track of that.”

  But Burke longed to see justice done—Declan got that. Like Chuck, he admired it too, as long as it didn’t detract from assigned work.

  On that vein, Declan decided he needed to return to the possible link to the terrorist plan he was trying to uncover—the catalyst that sent Steven on board the Hiram. “Do you know anything about a woman Steven had been meeting at a coffee shop shortly before he took off?”

  “Nope. Had no clue Steven even had a woman in his life.”

  “I don’t know if it was that kind of relationship.”

  “Of course not.” Chuck chuckled, tossing his empty chili dog wrapper in the trash can as they strolled past a park. “He was probably trying to save her too.”

  “Save her from what?”

  “Who knows? An angry husband, crippling debt, a shady past, whatever.” He stopped and turned. “Look, I didn’t keep tabs on Steven’s personal life—basically because he didn’t have one. I got along with the guy well enough when we were on the job, but I didn’t like the intensity of his focus on things that weren’t within our scope of work. I don’t know about any woman, don’t know why Steven took personal leave, and sure as shooting don’t know what he was doing on a merchant ship, but I can tell you it had nothing to do with our job.”

  Soon after his declaration, it seemed Chuck’s willingness to talk dried up. Claiming he had errands to run, he walked away, cutting through the park.

  “Well, he was cheery,” Tanner said as they watched him leave.

  “At least we learned more about Burke.”

  “Yeah. Funny how Chuck made it out to seem like negative stuff, but in all honesty, I only admire Burke more.”

  Of course she would. Burke too seemed to have been devoted to helping the helpless. But Declan felt strongly that they needed to figure out the identity of the woman Steven was meeting, which coffee shop they met at, and why Steven felt she needed help. “Let’s pay a visit to Frank’s.”

  “Sounds good. You’ve got Burke’s picture?”

  “Right here.” He patted his shirt pocket. Once someone recognized him, hopefully they could provide a description of the woman too.

  Hopefully.

  He could use a little bit of hope right about now, the shock of Coach Grant’s death still haunting him.

  18

  Well,” Parker said forty minutes after starting to process Haywood’s car. “The car is parked in the same spot as when we arrived, but it’s clearly been driven overnight. It rained right around one, and there’s dried mud caked in the tires. I’ve already tagged and bagged Haywood’s keys, so I’ll run them for prints. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find another set of prints or a partial . . .”

  None of them wanted to believe Haywood capable of fraud, let alone murder.

  “And the notebook you pulled from the car?” Griffin had spent the majority of the time watching Parker and Avery work, watching the dogs search the expansive grounds, and keeping an eye out for any sign of Lowell and Emmitt’s return from what was becoming an incredibly long horseback ride. A little too conveniently long in his opinion.

  “Right. The notebook.” Parker pulled it from the evidence bag with gloved hands. “I found it shoved in a makeshift compartment underneath the driver’s seat.” He opened it to show a printed-out Excel spreadsheet folded inside. “It appears to be a record of the money skimmed from Haywood’s clients.”

  Griffin swallowed. “Seriously?”

  “It’s a printout, so there’s no proof it was Haywood’s doing, but the notebook appears to be his, based on the handwriting inside.”

  “We should hand it over to Thatcher. It might help his investigation,” Griffin said.

  “I agree.” Parker slipped it back into the clear plastic bag. “Should I call him and ask him to meet up with us at CCI this evening?”

  Griffin nodded. “Definitely.” His gaze shifted back to the tires. “Any guess on the source of the mud in the tires?”

  “I’d have to examine it under the scope to give you a solid read, but I can tell you it is a gravelly reddish-brown soil, like what you find in Loch Raven’s watershed near the Cockeysville Marble formation. I’d need to compare it to known samples to be certain, check its carbon content and such, but that’s my best off-the-cuff guess.”

  “That covers a wide area—Merryman’s Woods out to Warren Road—and that’s just one section of it. Though that section is the closest to the inn and far more secluded than most of the trailheads,” Griffin said.

  “I think I’ll send the K9 units over to take a sniff. Hopefully we’ll get a lead.”

  Griffin conversed with Corporal James Howe, and then he and the other K9 unit headed over to the Merryman trailhead.

  Meanwhile, Griffin headed back inside to find out who had been staying in the room closest to the Markums.

  He met Jax in the hall. “Have you learned who was staying two rooms down from the Markums?” he asked.

  Jax’s smile was grim—he looked beat. “As a matter of fact, I do know, and they are waiting to talk to you.”

  He nodded toward a nervous-looking Jenn and Jeremy Barrit sitting at a nearby table. “When Jason interviewed them earlier, they told him they’d seen the Markums arguing with Haywood last night. When he then learned they were the occupants of the room two doors down from the Markums, he decided to save them for you.”

  “Thanks, Jax. I’ll talk with them now.”

  He strode over to the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Barrit, would you join me in the kitchen, please?”

  They stood and followed him into the stone-tiled room with wood-beam ceilings and a roaring fire in the hearth.

  “Please take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the table.

  They did so, Jenn clinging to Jeremy’s hand as she scooted her chair close to his.

  After introductions, Griffin asked, “Could you tell me about the conversation you overheard between Haywood and the Markums last night?”

  Mrs. Barrit looked to her husband, and he nodded.

  She cleared her throat. “When we went back to our room to change before going out to the fire pit, we saw the Markums rushing out of the side entrance door looking very upset.”

  “Do you remember the time, Mrs. Barrit?”

  “It was pretty close to ten o’clock.”

  About the time he had heard Haywood and the Markums arguing in the hallway.

  “We changed quickly and headed out our patio door. Haywood came out of his patio door two doors down at the same time, crossed right in front of us as if we weren’t there.”

  She turned to her husband and sniffled. “That is not like Haywood—he is usually kind and attentive.” She sniffled again, but at her husband’s encouraging smile, she continued. “My husband clai
ms I am a busybody, and maybe I am, but after he ignored us, I just couldn’t resist wanting to see what he was doing. He called to the Markums, who were standing in the parking lot, and they appeared to start arguing. I couldn’t really hear what they were saying, but no one looked happy, and Haywood looked . . . agitated.”

  “Agitated? How?” Griffin asked, wondering if Haywood had ducked into his room to grab something before following the Markums out via his patio door. It would explain how he’d missed Haywood in the hallway.

  “He was gesturing with his arms, and his body language was, I don’t know . . . very off.”

  Jeremy took his wife’s hand as she started to sniffle again, looking as if she was about to cry. “At that point I felt we were snooping somewhere we didn’t belong, so I insisted we head to the fire pit.”

  He and Finley had chatted with the Barrits last night by the fire, right around that time. If only the Barrits had said something then and there . . .

  But how could they have known the possible importance of what they had seen? It was typical that people were hesitant to get involved in others’ business. But most of Haywood’s clients knew Griffin was a detective. Mentioning it to him would have been a logical choice.

  As he was considering his next question, Mrs. Barrit’s eyes widened and she put her hand to her mouth. Did she have more?

  She looked to her husband, appearing a bit flustered. “I just thought of something. Sometime in the middle of the night I woke up to what sounded like shuffling.”

  “Do you know where it came from?”

  “It seemed like it was down the hall, toward the outside door. The Markums were the only ones down that direction.”

  “Could you describe the shuffling noise?”

  “It sounded like someone was moving something around. I don’t know . . .” She shook her head. “I was half asleep, was probably awake for less than a minute.” She leaned onto her husband’s chest. “If I’d known . . .” Tears pooled in her brown eyes.

  “There’s no way we could have known, Jenn,” Jeremy said.

  “Your husband is right,” Griffin said. “You couldn’t have known.” But he did wonder what might have been prevented if she had investigated. Actually, though, they might now be dealing with another body. There was no way to know.

  “There’s more.” Mrs. Barrit sighed. “A little while later I woke up again. I heard something like a door opening and closing, and then footsteps. It was muffled. I just rolled back over. And that’s all I remember.”

  Griffin couldn’t imagine what else they could tell him, so he decided it was time to drop his own bombshell. “Were you aware that Haywood—or someone at the firm—has been stealing money from your accounts?”

  Mrs. Barrit gasped. Mr. Barrit lunged forward in his seat. “What?”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Before he could add anything else, a commotion sounded outside the kitchen door.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Griffin said, heading for the heated voices on the other side of the door. He exited to find Jax holding off an extremely agitated Lowell Brentwood and a rather solemn looking Emmitt Powell.

  Both were still dressed in riding gear—crisp white shirts, black jackets, tan pants, and tall brown riding boots. Brentwood’s black felt-covered helmet was in the cradle of his left elbow, while Emmitt Powell’s was in the cradle of his right.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lowell roared. “I hear you’ve been harassing my clients all morning.”

  Jeremy Barrit exited the kitchen behind Griffin, striding around him to meet Lowell head on. “The detective said Haywood or someone at the firm has been stealing our money!”

  Lowell’s cheeks flushed crimson, and he glared at Griffin. “You told him what?”

  “I told him the truth. Maybe it’s about time you did as well.”

  Lowell’s jaw twitched. “What are you implying?”

  Mrs. Barrit joined them in the hallway, and Griffin looked between the Barrits and Lowell. He understood the Barrits’ frustration, but there were bigger matters at hand. “I’m afraid that discussion will have to wait.” The real question was, why did he see no hint of concern on Lowell’s part regarding his dead partner and the presumed dead clients?

  “The heck it can,” Mr. Barrit said, getting in Lowell’s face.

  “I understand you’re upset.” Griffin stepped between them. “But are we forgetting about Haywood’s death and the fact that the Markums are missing?”

  Lowell exhaled. “Of course, and I couldn’t be sadder about Haywood. He was a mentor to me. I still can’t believe he committed suicide or that he stole from his clients.” Apparently he’d been quickly brought up to speed on the situation.

  And now he was more than happy to admit Haywood had stolen from his clients. As long as the blame rested on his deceased partner.

  “But the last thing my clients need is your harassment,” Lowell said. “They’ve been through quite enough.”

  “I realize you’ve been gone all morning on a ride”—which he still found to be awfully convenient timing—“but we’re in the middle of a criminal investigation. It is our job to interview those we feel are pertinent to the case. And that most especially includes the clients whom it appears Haywood stole from.”

  Lowell cocked his head. “Appears? You tell these people that Haywood stole from them, and you’re not even certain he did it? This is ridiculous! I can’t believe you’ve upset my clients over a hunch.”

  Interesting how quickly he switched to my clients when they’d clearly been Haywood’s.

  “We know the funds were taken,” Griffin said, his gaze fixed on Lowell. “We just aren’t positive by whom.”

  Lowell’s light blue eyes widened, his ruddy appearance reddening more. “What exactly are you implying now?”

  “Only that until the forensic accountant has finished his investigation of your accounts, we can’t be certain of anything.”

  “This is preposterous.” Lowell set his riding hat on the buffet table behind him and lifted his arms up in the air for what Griffin could only assume was dramatic effect.

  “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Barrit,” Griffin said. “You two are free to go.”

  “But what about the money they stole from us?” Jeremy Barrit asked.

  “As I said, a forensic accountant is investigating. I can assure you he’s the best, and we will be in touch as soon as he has news.”

  They didn’t look one hundred percent pleased that that was the most Griffin could offer, but at this point, unfortunately, it was.

  After a few angry words aimed at Lowell, Jeremy Barrit and his wife excused themselves.

  Griffin took time to read both men their rights before any further discussion occured. “Now,” he said, directing his attention to Lowell. “I can start by interviewing you or Mr. Powell. What’s your preference?”

  “My preference,” Lowell stammered, “is that you stop this madness. You are going to destroy my company.”

  “Your company?” Griffin said, glancing at Emmitt, who remained remarkably stoic. “You’re a partner in the firm,” he continued, returning his gaze back to Lowell, “and are you forgetting Emmitt standing right behind you?”

  “Emmitt is an employee, not a partner, and seeing how Haywood took his own life, it appears the company has fallen to me. He’s left me with a huge mess to clean up, if he hasn’t fully destroyed the firm.”

  “What makes you so sure the company is yours?” Griffin said.

  “Haywood and I agreed the day we became partners that even if we left our share of the company to someone else, we’d leave acting control of the company to one another.”

  “And are you certain Haywood didn’t change his mind?”

  “He stole from our clients. Apparently, I didn’t know him at all. So no, I’m not positive about anything other than the fact that his stealing is going to ruin the firm. I’m going to have to distance myself as much as possible from his name and start al
l over again. Haywood might as well have stabbed a knife in my back while he was falling on his own sword.”

  Griffin exhaled. The key was going to be getting underneath all Lowell’s posturing to uncover the truth. First thing they needed to discover, after they concluded their interviews, was who Haywood had left his share and control of the company to.

  Was it possible Lowell set Haywood up, killed the clients who were causing a fuss and could have destroyed everything he worked for, and then staged Haywood’s suicide? It would take a stone-cold man to take those actions—or a really desperate one. It was time they started digging deeper into Lowell Brentwood’s background.

  19

  Declan held the door for Tanner at Frank’s coffee shop.

  “Grab an open table,” the brunette waitress walking by said, a coffeepot in one hand, three plates in the other.

  Declan spotted an open table near the side windows, led Tanner to it, and pulled out the chair for her.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking a seat.

  Declan moved around and sat with his back toward the wall, facing the front entrance. The place was comfortable—cherrywood walls and wooden tables, Texas memorabilia, and the scent of pancake batter wafting from the open short-order kitchen. The bell rang every few minutes, signaling another order was up and ready.

  The brunette waitress grabbed an order, dropped it off, and then stopped at their table with coffeepot in hand. “I’m Darlene. I’ll be your waitress today. Would y’all like coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Declan said, flipping his overturned cup upright.

  “Me too.” Tanner did the same.

  “The special today is huevos rancheros.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but just coffee”—Declan flashed his badge—“and a question.”

  Darlene cocked her head.

  Declan pulled out Burke’s photo. “We were told this man came in here a lot.”

  She studied the photograph. “He used to.”

  “Up until about four months ago?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “I’m afraid he was murdered two months back.”