Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (20 page)

CHAPTER 44

T
he phone on
Adam’s
office desk rang. “Detective Iverson,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Hello, Adam. It’s Jason Shannon. I don’t want to be a nuisance, but any news yet about Jennifer?”

“No, Sir, nothing yet, but we’re working hard on it.”

“Well, this morning I remembered something that might help. Her car has something called OnStar. I think they offer a service for finding your car if you forget where you parked.”

Adam sat up in his chair. Even if Mrs. Shannon weren’t still in her van, forensics might comb out helpful evidence. The location itself might even be significant, if abandoned at or near the crime scene. With zero clues at the moment, Adam salivated for any new lead.

“I pulled the OnStar file from her desk drawer.” Jason studied the papers as he spoke. “This contract shows her account number, her password and OnStar’s contact number.”

“Right, Sir. I’d appreciate all three.” Adam’s pen flew across the paper as he copied the information in bold handwriting.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Shannon, for calling about this. I’ll get right on it.”

Adam cradled the receiver against his ear, jabbed the phone’s disconnect button and punched in OnStar’s number. At their menu’s prompt, he pressed the button for “Urgent Situations.”

“Hello, this is Detective Adam Iverson of Fairfax County Police in McLean, Virginia. We’re trying to locate the driver and vehicle of your member, Jennifer Shannon.” He read them her member number and password.

“Sir, I’ve copied that. Let me transfer you to a special operator who can help you.”

Adam tapped his fingers impatiently.

“Hello, Detective,” the voice answered. “I’m Brad Billings. How can I help you?”

Adam identified himself again. “We have a missing adult female, last seen driving her vehicle yesterday. Her husband just advised us she subscribes to OnStar. Locating her vehicle could mean locating her. Can you help us?”

“Has a missing person report already been filed?”

“Yes, yesterday.”

“Good. Okay, we cooperate with law enforcement, but at the same time are legally bound to protect our members’ privacy. To do both, we have procedures for police requests like yours, Detective. Basically, we need to verify key pieces of information: that you’re who you say you are, that a missing person report exists, and so on. Then if we find something, we have more procedures for giving you that info. But if we don’t find anything, we may not get to that.”

Adam stiffened, “How long will this run-around take?” he asked impatiently. “We may have an abduction here, we may have a serial... ”

“Detective, we understand your urgency and will process this quickly. Give me your full name, badge number, precinct, city and state so we can verify. Your headquarters will put us through to you when we call back. You should hear from me in ten minutes or less and we’ll get to work. Meantime, FAX me your missing person report. Here’s the number....”

Sighing, Adam provided the information they requested, hung up and strolled down the hall to send the required report to OnStar.

Unbidden, the vision of Hannah’s face floated into his mind. In four years on the force, he’d seen his grim share of frightened family members struggling to absorb terrible news about their loved ones. All policemen dreaded that messenger role. He imagined Hannah’s winning smile crumbling in despair at receiving news of her mother’s death. Rising frustration at his inability to unravel this mystery again swept over him. Hell, solving crimes was his job! Of all he’d encountered, why was this one the toughest?

Back in his office, the sharp ring of his phone jarred him back to the present. Impatiently, he snapped the receiver off the cradle.

“Iverson here.”

“This is Brad Billings of OnStar again, Detective. I have Jennifer Shannon’s screen on my computer. Let’s see, do you know how our system works?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“OnStar offers services through two different links that reach a member’s vehicle; one is a cell phone feature and the other a global positioning satellite locator or GPS.”

“Same way Lo-Jack tracks stolen vehicles?”

“The location technology is similar, although they use a different radio frequency, but unlike OnStar, that’s all they do. Both technologies bounce a signal up to a satellite, telling it to locate the receiver they’ve installed in a particular vehicle. Now, let ’s see if I can locate our member’s van.”

Computer keyboard clicks sounded in Adam’s ear, as the pen in his hand hovered restlessly over his notebook. This could be the breakthrough he needed... this could be it!

Listening with anticipation as Brad’s voice returned to the line, Adam registered a look of disbelief before shouting into the phone, “ What? Are you sure?”

Brad repeated, “That’s right, Detective. Our system is excellent, but not foolproof. We can’t locate this car right now. Conditions on the ground can influence the GPS’s ability to tell us a location, because the satellite can only communicate with what the satellite can reach. Usually we’re successful, but sometimes not. A little like that well-known cell phone phrase, ‘can you hear me now?’ For example, the GPS signal may not respond if the vehicle is shielded.”

“Shielded?”

“….in a covered situation, like a concrete parking garage, or sometimes certain carports or even a very thickly wooded area. The satellite beams down well enough through the atmosphere, but if the car’s receiver is shielded, not even GPS can perform magic.”

“Damn,” Adam muttered, blanching at the disheartening realization that her car could be in any one of hundreds of parking garages around the shopping malls, office complexes, apartment buildings, restaurants and hotels comprising the adjacent city of Tysons Corner.

Equally discouraging were the thousands upon thousands of single family homes with potentially “shielding” garages, never mind the naturally wooded character of this part of Fairfax County.

“Now there could be another explanation,” Brad resumed. “It’s like this: the car’s battery energizes the GPS response to the satellite, so when the battery’s dead, the GPS is, too. And,” more clicking of computer keys before he spoke again, “her car automatically shuts down the electrical system 48 hours after the vehicle is parked and turned off. The auto manufacturer designs it that way to preserve the battery. When the electrical shuts down, the OnStar GPS shuts down. When the ignition turns on again, OnStar GPS wakes up when the car wakes up.”

Adam slumped dejectedly in his chair. “She’s been missing less than that 48 hour cut-off, so GPS should still work and it’s a fairly new car so a dead battery isn’t likely. Did she use any other services very recently?”

“Well, there’s vehicle diagnostic advice if a member has car trouble, remote door unlock... ”

“Remote door unlock?” Adam recalled the irritating number of police calls from citizens who’d locked keys in their cars, usually with the motor running, asking for police help. Police cruisers used to routinely carry slim-jims, but no longer because of potentially unintended damage to the newer electronic door locks. Adam knew their current procedure involved calling a locksmith or AAA for stranded motorists. Compared to that, this OnStar service seemed sci-fi.

“That’s right,” Brad said, “The locked-out member calls our toll-free number with his name and password. OnStar beams up to the GPS satellite, which locates his car so we can electronically unlock the door via our cell network. Slick, isn’t it? The members really like that one.”

“So did she use the car advice or door unlock recently?”

“No, but this still might tell you something.”

“For instance?” Adam asked.

“No air bag deployment, as is typical in a high speed crash, which automatically calls OnStar. No voluntary request for help, directions, proximity of a gas station, or medical or roadside assistance. Hmmmm… she could have contacted Triple-A or a local gas station directly on a cell phone. You’ve probably already checked that out.”

“Yeah, we have.” Adam’s fatigue showed in his voice.

“Tough case?”

Adam sighed, “Yeah, but thanks for the earful. This info might help with a future case.”

Brad Billings stared at his desk photo of his little daughter’s grinning face. He’d had a panic of his own when she wandered away and disappeared for five awful minutes at Home Depot. He remembered how store clerks pitched in to help him search and one of them found her in a nearby aisle, playing hide-and-seek behind a display. How gratefully he valued their instant “good Samaritan” help. Maybe he could pass that good deed along.

“How long has your person been missing?” Brad asked.

Adam calculated rapidly. “About 24 hours.”

“Look, I have an idea. Since her car shuts down after 48 hours, you have 24 hours to go. I could do a periodic GPS check on it during that time in case it’s relocated from wherever it is now. After that, GPS can’t help unless the ignition is turned on again.”

“Great idea, Brad! That would really help. Thanks for going the extra mile to help us out.”

“If my GPS check is successful, you’ll hear from me. Since a missing person report is filed, we won’t have to take more time with a subpoena.”

“Thanks, again, Brad. I appreciate your doing this.”

Hanging up, Adam pushed back his chair, locked his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. After any crime, the longer elapsed time, the colder the trail. Every single lead invited thorough investigation. Would this be just another time-consuming futile exercise, or might OnStar actually locate the missing car in the next 24 hours?

Geez, he hoped so!

CHAPTER 45

“Y
ou cook.” Wr
estler spoke
this as a statement, not a question.

“I am an experienced cook.”

“Take this cleaning stuff to the kitchen.”

Her mind raced. When her useful activity ended, so did her future. Cooking a meal, if allowed, might well be her farewell chore. What then? Uneasy and exhausted, she trudged ahead of him down the hall, pulling the vacuum cleaner behind her.

“Fix dinner,” he ordered when she reached the kitchen. He snapped his fingers twice. The dog rushed forward, looking up at him expectantly.

“Door,” he said to the animal. It hurried to guard duty by the laundry room door. “When the food’s ready, hit the buzzer.” He left so quickly, locking the kitchen door behind him, that she still stood with one hand on the sweeper and a pail of rags and supplies in the other.

Grateful for the mercy of another assignment, she clung to the hope that wowing him with this meal might mean he’d want her to cook again. Another meal equaled another day alive!

Though she’d cooked thousands of meals for her big family in her forty-one years of marriage, she’d truthfully described herself as an
e
xperienced
cook, not Julia Child. Nor had her very
life
ever hinged upon the success of a single meal, as this one might.

Unlike dinner parties she hosted at home, with carefully planned menus and ingredients bought specifically for them, today’s situation was a different challenge. Ingredients already in this kitchen determined the dinner’s possibilities and
her
outcome depended upon
that
outcome. Complicating this further, meal preparation excluded using sharp knives, which he’d removed.

Stowing the cleaning items in the laundry room, she examined the contents of the refrigerator, freezer and pantry shelves. Should she use the hamburger, or save it for the dog? If only she could lace the dog’s snack with sleeping pills… or put them into the man’s dinner, for that matter.

With that thought, she rummaged again under the sink for rat poison or other toxic ingredient. Oven cleaner, cleanser, 409, Windex—enough of it could make them sick but the awful taste nixed that idea. She stopped short. What if he forced her to taste the food first to ensure its safety? She’d be in the same traumatized state they were. Not a good plan.

In a novel she once read, a prisoner escaped by starting a fire and this kitchen was the ideal place. No matches, but paper towels could ignite on a stove burner to torch window shades. Fires create confusion. This old house would burn fast. Smoke and flames could attract outsiders to rescue her. Maybe the man and dog would be trapped in the flames. She could escape.

This proactive idea appealed to Jennifer. Any size fire guaranteed distraction, but how would the man react? Would he chase her while his house burned to the ground or ignore her while he put out the fire. She frowned. What if he ordered the dog to guard her while he extinguished the flames? Then he’d save the house and, afterward, punish her.

What if the man imprisoned others somewhere in this house? They’d be burned to death as well. The earring proved Tina’s presence here once. Perhaps she was still here! What if Jennifer were trapped in the flames herself? A horrible way to die! No, she’d try to think of something else…

A mountain of a man, Wrestler’s size suggested a huge appetite, with quantity more important than quality. She considered her narrowed meal options even with a well-stocked larder. Unable to picture him enjoying restaurant dining, she guessed he ate all meals here.

While mulling a menu, she slipped the dog another small piece of hamburger, hoping to repeat this during meal preparation. No longer growling, the animal now responded to her approach with guarded anticipation. He acted the way he looked: half-starved! Lacking a way to subdue or eliminate him, she needed the dog’s acceptance, even his cooperation, to get away.

She decided on meatloaf for four reasons. Cooked meat would still entice the dog, using all the hamburger prevented discovery of its reduced amount, the dish was tasty yet easy to prepare and plentiful in amount if her captor’s appetite matched his size.

Gathering the hamburger, two eggs and numerous seasonings, she mixed the ingredients, shaped two loaves in a baking pan and spread each with catsup before sliding them into a hot oven.

Unable to peel potatoes without a knife, she knew they’d mash with a fork if boiled until soft. She selected frozen green beans, adding bottled bacon bits and a can of diced tomatoes. For dessert, she poured canned peaches into another baking dish, sprinkled a mixture of brown sugar, flour and cinnamon over them and fitted this into the oven beside the meatloaf.

Setting the table with a paper towel placemat and napkin, she poured him a glass of water and added a bowl of apples as centerpiece. Would he care about the convenience of prepared food enough to want her to cook again? Probably not, but she had to try!

An hour after starting, she pressed the buzzer, indicating dinner was ready. He stalked into the kitchen, walked directly to the table and sat down. “Prepare two plates. Put mine on the table. Take yours downstairs,” he ordered gruffly.

“Do you want me to clean up afterward?” she looked at the counter as she spoke.

“No!” She must have hesitated a moment too long, the hot pad in her hand, because he shouted impatiently,
“Now!”
and rose to his feet as the dog rushed into the room at the sound of his raised voice.

Nerves frayed and hands shaking, she filled the man’s dinner and dessert plates quickly and put them on the table. Returning to the stove, she served herself, grabbed a fork and moved toward the basement door. Following right behind her, he opened the door so forcefully that for a moment she feared he would fling her down the stairs.

Balancing her plate in one hand, she grabbed the hand rail for support. As she started down the basement stairs, her downcast eyes fell upon the pencil-shaped scar on his left hand just as he closed and locked the door behind her. She stopped still on the third step down, clinging to the banister with one hand and frantically trying to quiet the plate trembling in her other hand.

Ten fingers and the angry scar. The younger brother!