He tried to grab hold of hope, but the promise of a new heart, a new spirit, a gift offered, was overwhelmed by a palpable darkness, one that felt almost visceral and alive, a consuming presence sliding into his heart, rising above the moment and muscling its way into his soul.
Joshua ended his prayer.
Wiped away his tears.
It was too late for redemption.
He left to pick up the shoebox.
78
Corsica and I were almost to the offices of Hathaway and Erikson, LLC.
Everything was cycling around inside my head: the abductions, the murders, the unsolved missing persons cases. All seemingly intertwined, yet separate. Depending on how you looked at it, they were all one case, or more than a dozen.
How all that worked, I wasn’t quite sure.
Corsica spoke up, interrupting my thoughts. “I heard about you and Taci.”
“What?”
“You and Taci. I heard what happened.”
“Oh.”
“People talk. You know. You two have been together for a while. I…Well, we heard it from one of the doctors who works over there at the medical center.”
“I see.”
I pulled onto the road that would take us to the acquisitions firm. As far as I was concerned, we couldn’t get there quickly enough.
“It’s hard,” Annise said. “Going through something like that.”
I could hardly believe she was talking to me like this. We’d never before spoken about anything remotely personal and I really had no idea how to respond.
She went on. “Just wanted you to know, I feel for you. I know you cared about her.”
I pulled into the parking lot.
“Thanks.”
“You don’t have to hate someone for loving something else more than you. You know?”
I was about to say that I didn’t hate Taci, that I would never hate her, but I stopped myself short. I figured Annise must certainly know that. “Thanks,” I said again.
“Okay.” And then the conversation I never would have expected was over.
Though I might not have liked Annise very much, might never like her very much, as we left the car, I realized I was ashamed that I’d never tried to understand her. But she had just now, in her own way, tried to understand me.
Inside the building, we showed the receptionist our IDs and when we requested to speak to someone about their corporate flights to out-of-state accounts, she directed us to the senior vice president, a woman named Faye Palmer.
Palmer’s corner office was stylish and yet simple. The window peeked out over a parklike employee break area outside. Everything about Palmer seemed to say “high-level corporate VP”: designer pants suit, stylish hair, a pleasant yet brisk and professional demeanor.
She got right down to business. “So, how exactly can I help you, Detectives?”
I told her forthrightly about the flights, asked her for the names of the people who’d been aboard them.
She tapped a finger against her desk but gave no indication that she was going to grant the request. “And you’re certain that someone on these flights is involved in some way in these crimes?”
“By no means.” Corsica’s voice was unequivocal. “We’re simply pursuing every possible lead.”
After evaluating that, Palmer nodded and went to her file cabinet. It took her a little while, but at last she produced a manila folder-I just couldn’t seem to get away from those things this week. She shuffled through the sheets, then pulled out three.
I could tell she was about to glance them over, but then without doing so, handed the pages to me.
She must have noticed my surprise that she didn’t look at them. “I don’t want my perception of any of my employees to be shaded,” she explained, “even marginally, with unfounded suspicion. I’m sure you’ll let me know if you find anything regarding any of them.”
“I’m sure we will,” Corsica answered.
We thanked Palmer for her help and excused ourselves from her office.
I could barely contain my curiosity as we returned to the reception area.
Finally, when we were alone and in a corner of the room, I held up the papers, and Corsica and I examined the names.
79
Three names appeared on all three lists: Janelle Warner, Andre Demell, and Richard Basque.
Just three names.
The violent nature of the crimes made it highly unlikely that a woman would be the killer. Yes, we would speak with Janelle, but I wanted to start with the two men on our list.
“Which one first?” I asked Corsica. “Demell or Basque?”
“Let’s go with Mr. Demell.”
We asked the receptionist to try his office number, but when she consulted her appointment book, she informed us that he would be out most of today meeting with some of their clients.
“But he is here in town?” I said.
“Yes.”
We set up an appointment for four thirty.
Janelle Warner would meet with us at one fifteen.
“What about Richard Basque? Is he in?”
The receptionist sighed and I got the impression she was growing tired of helping us, which didn’t bother me one bit as long as she got us the meetings we needed.
She rang Basque’s office, spoke for a moment on the phone, and then announced that he would be out in a minute. Somewhat impolitely she flicked her hand toward the chairs in the reception area. “You can have a seat if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Corsica told her with a slight touch of attitude. “If it’s only going to be a minute.”
I folded up the flight manifests and slid them into my pocket.
And thought of the best way to frame the questions I was going to ask Mr. Basque.
80
12:25 p.m.
4 hours until the gloaming
Basque stepped through the doorway.
Caucasian. Late twenties or early thirties. Perceptive, turquoise eyes. Handsome. Dressed
