Silent Witness (7 page)
Have you ever tried looking up the name of a lawyer in the yellow pages of the phone book? In a small community, that's probably exactly what you should do. But in a big city, like Salt Lake City, it's an exercise in futility. Gordon Dixon wasn't in the yellow pages. I know because I spent the better part of half-an-hour standing at a public counter in the district court clerk's office scouring the pages trying to find him, growing more and more frustrated by the minute. I used my cell phone and called the Salt Lake County Lawyer Referral service. Nothing there either.
In the end I was left with two less than magnanimous thoughts. The first was that in any large city the yellow pages were a living testimonial to the excessive number of graduates being produced by American law schools. The second was that there was more than one way to locate a missing lawyer.
I left the court house and drove a few short blocks to the Utah Secretary of State's Office. In the business licensing division I discovered an LLC registered to Gordon Dixon & Associates, 5140 South Main Street, Murray, Utah. The only other member of the LLC was an individual identified as Joan Dixon. Maybe Joan Dixon was Mrs. Gordon Dixon. Maybe Joan Dixon was the same woman I saw seated at the defense table next to the defendant and Gordon Dixon. I drove to the Murray office for a look-see.
Dixon's office was located in an older one-story brick building that, at one time, must have been a bank. One side of the building had a covered canopy with a drive-through window. The bank had obviously moved on to fancier digs. Dixon shared the building with a title insurance company. The outside sign simply read Law Office.
When I entered the lobby it became clear that the title company occupied most of the building. Dixon's law practice leased space only slightly larger than a broom closet. The lights were off and the curtains drawn. I peeked in through the glass door. The space consisted of a small secretarial area and an equally small private office behind that. If Dixon had any associates they weren't working here. This place had the feeling of a small mom-and-pop store front kind of law practice.
I approached the receptionist at the title company. Her work station looked across the lobby into Dixon's office. She looked up from her computer screen and smiled. “Good morning, sir. How can I help you?”
Not wanting to arouse suspicion, I introduced myself as someone needing legal assistance. “Good morning. I'm looking for Mr. Dixon. Have you seen him today?”
“They were in early this morning but the office has been closed since around noon. I don't know where they are.”
“Maybe you can help me,” I said. I gave her my most embarrassed look. “I was arrested a couple of nights ago for DUI. A friend recommended that I ask Mr. Dixon to represent me. It's just that I don't know much about him.”
The friendly smile disappeared. Suddenly she was looking at me like I was the local pedophile who had just moved into her zip code. “I really don't know anything about Mr. Dixon's law practice.” Her tone had grown markedly cooler.
“Does his office seem busyâthat's usually a sign of a good lawyer?”
“It never seems busy to me. In fact, some days I never see anybody go in. I wonder how they make the rent.”
I wondered that, too.
“I take it Mr. Dixon doesn't own the building,” I said.
“No. My boss, the man who owns the title company also owns the building. Mr. Dixon leases space from him.” I thanked her and left.
***
From Dixon's office, I drove to the University of Utah campus. I wanted to find out as much about Robin Joiner as I could and figured that university records would be a good place to start. If Joiner was alive, she was either being held by the Bradshaw's or she was hiding somewhere. The nagging question I kept asking myself was why Joiner hadn't contacted authorities. Family members would be a good starting place although if she was frightened, she probably wouldn't go homeâtoo obvious a place for somebody to find her.
My first stop was the Registrar's Office in the administration building. I tried to convince the associate registrar that I was doing routine follow up on a missing person's case. She didn't buy it. I got the answer I expectedâno subpoena, no academic records, no matter how routine the investigation sounded. That sent me immediately to Plan B.
I headed off to the social and behavioral sciences building where I contacted one of my former criminology professors. Dr. Richard Bond was an academic mentor from whom I had taken classes twenty years ago. He was now the chairman of the Sociology Department, a position he had held for the past half dozen years. It was late in the afternoon when I caught up with him. Bond was working alone in his office, the department secretary apparently gone for the day. When I tapped on his office door, he glanced up from his computer screen and looked at me over the top of wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.
“Well, if it isn't Sam Kincaid,” he said, smiling. He stood and extended a hand. “Come in and sit down.” We chatted about careers and family for a few minutes before he brought the conversation back to the business at hand. “It's awfully nice to see you, Sam, but I suspect your visit today is a bit more than a social call. Am I correct?”
“It is, Doc. I need your help tracking down a student.” I explained what I needed and why.
“I take it you're on my door step because you don't have a subpoena and the Registrar's Office turned you away.”
“You haven't lost a step, Doc.” That brought a smile.
“Okay, let's see what we can find.” He closed the file he was working on, opened another, plugged in Joiner's name, and the records appeared. “It's amazing the amount of information that's available with a couple of key strokes. I've been here long enough to remember the old days when everything was a paper file. Not anymore. Like a lot of other businesses, higher ed has gone paperless,” he said. “I'm not sure what you're looking for, Sam, and I'm not going to make you hard copies, so why don't you just write down what you need.”
The records search produced what Joiner had listed as a home address in Mesquite, Nevada, a small gaming town an hour north of Las Vegas. She'd listed her mother, Betty Joiner, at the Mesquite address, as the person to contact in case of an emergency. Joiner already held a bachelor's degree in social work from the university and was currently enrolled in the Graduate School of Social Work in pursuit of a master's degree. The local address was the same apartment near the university that had been broken into and trashed. I wondered what brought Joiner to Utah. I didn't see a local connection.
“Can you pull up her current class schedule and maybe the name of her academic advisor?”
In seconds I had her class scheduleâthree grad courses, all in social work. “I can't help you on the academic advisor. We don't put that information into the records system. You'll need to get that directly from somebody in social work.”
“Fair enough. You've been a great help.”
“Glad to do it. And remember, Sam, always protect your sources. You didn't get those records from me.” With that admonishment he ushered me out the door.
As I left the campus I drove past the social work building and into the adjacent parking lot where social work students would probably park. Kate had mentioned that Joiner drove an older Honda Civic. I found one with Nevada plates. It was registered to Joiner.
I walked around the car being careful not to touch anything. I was sure that Kate would want a forensics team to process the car for prints. She might even opt to leave the car in the parking lot and establish surveillance on it. The car had been broken into and searched. The front passenger window had been smashed and glass was scattered all over the front seat and on the ground next to the door. The glove box was open, and the visors above the windshield were pulled down. Whoever broke in was looking for something, but what?
***
Kincaid wasn't the only person watching the Honda. Albert Bradshaw watched the gray Chevrolet Impala move slowly through the parking lot until it stopped a couple of stalls away from the Civic. The Impala had cop written all over it, and so did the guy who got out of it.
Bradshaw slid lower into the bucket seat of the stolen Dodge Neon and removed the nine millimeter Glock from the waste band of his pants. He reached under a towel on the passenger side floor board and placed the short barreled shotgun on the seat next to him. The cop didn't touch anything on the Honda but he looked it over carefully. When he finished, he looked around the parking lot, and for just an instant, Bradshaw was certain that their eyes locked. Bradshaw looked away and held his breath. In the next instant the guy was back in his car and talking on his police radio.
Bradshaw choked down a growing sense of panic. Had the cop made him? He couldn't afford to sit still and wait. What if the pig was on his radio calling for back up? He started the Neon and eased it out of the parking stall in the direction of the nearest exit. He drove slowly, watching through the rearview mirror to see if the Impala followed. Albert had made one decision: If the cop tried to follow him, the cop was a dead man. At first, the Impala didn't move and Albert started to relax. When he looked a second time, the Impala was moving.
***
Ever have that feeling that someone or something is watching you? That's how I felt standing outside the Honda. I glanced around, and, at first, I didn't see anything. Then, for just a second, my eyes locked on somebody who was looking in my direction. The guy was sitting alone in what looked like a late model Dodge or Plymouth Neon.
I walked casually back to my car and reached for the radio. I'd decided to call for backup. I no sooner had the radio in-hand, when the white Neon began to move. It was too far for my middle-aged eyes to make out the plate number or to get much of a look at the driver.
At first, the Neon moved slowly, but as soon as I began to follow, the driver punched it. He raced through the lot, narrowly missing a group of students who had just unloaded from a university bus and were scattering to their respective cars. By the time I dodged the pedestrian traffic, the Neon had opened a good sized lead. The driver burst through a red light on Foothill Boulevard, causing a big SUV to lock its brakes and spin sideways in the intersection. The Neon almost struck a city bus as it sped southbound on Foothill.
Foothill Boulevard is a busy, four-lane road that runs through a neighborhood with a mix of residential and light business. Most of the retail stores are confined to strip malls. It quickly became apparent that my only hope of catching this guy was to drive him into other units that had been dispatched as backup. Within minutes, I had hooked up with two Salt Lake P.D. patrol cars and one from the sheriff's department. Unfortunately, the mystery man had done a vanishing act.
In no time, the area was crawling with cops. Kate showed, and so did her partner, Detective Vince Turner. It took almost a half hour before one of the patrol cars discovered the abandoned Neon on a residential street two blocks west of Foothill behind a large strip mall.
I got to the Neon a couple of minutes ahead of Kate. This was definitely the vehicle I'd seen in the U parking lot. Up close, it looked like it had recently been repainted by one of those companies that advertises paint jobs on the cheap.
The patrolman who found the Neon told me that the license plates were registered to a 2003 Ford Taurus belonging to a couple in Provo. The plates hadn't been reported stolen. When I looked inside, I saw a sawed off shotgun lying on the passenger front seat. I suggested that he run the Neon's VIN number through NCIC. The car came back stolen from a West Valley City shopping mall nearly a month ago.
When Kate arrived, she immediately organized a thorough search of the area around where the car was discovered. As I stood visiting with Vince Turner, Kate came up beside me and gave my arm a squeeze. “I hope you realize that you cause a lot of work for my department,” she said, smiling.
“Well, at least for the crime lab guys,” I said.
“I've got a team responding here right now, and when they're finished, they'll head over to the U and process Joiner's car. In the meantime, the University of Utah Police agreed to have somebody watch her car until we can get back there. You think we ought to tow the Honda or leave it out as bait?”
“That depends on whether you want to commit the time and resources to put the car under surveillance. Whoever I just ran off sure as hell won't be back.”
“If I was a betting woman, and I'm not, I'd give you odds that the prints we're going to find on this car and on Joiner's will match somebody from the Bradshaw family.”
“I suspect you're right. They might have taken the time to wipe down Joiner's car after breaking in, but not this guy. You can bet that he bailed out of here in a hurry.”
A search of the area failed to turn up a suspect. It didn't help that I couldn't provide much of a description. All I could say for sure was that the guy was a white, male, with dark hair, and probably under forty. Not much to go on.
With some personnel from my unit, Kate and I agreed to place Joiner's Honda under surveillance for the next several nights. It was a gamble, and one that might prove a waste of time. If it was someone from the Bradshaw family I had just encountered, he wouldn't return. On the other hand, maybe Robin Joiner would.
It was after seven when Kate and I got home. Baxter Shaw's Lincoln Town Car was parked in the driveway. Aunt June had invited Baxter for dinner, and Kate and I were late as usual.
We found them in the great room sipping a glass of Merlot in front of a roaring fire. Fall in Utah is my favorite time of year. At seven thousand feet above sea level, the nights, while chilly, are more than offset by warm daytime temperatures, and the autumn colors are spectacular especially the aspens that change from green to bright golden hues. The magnificent colors are, of course, a harbinger of the cold, snowy months to follow.
It was too early to tell if their relationship had legs. They were taking things slow and easy, probably a generational thing. I thought they made a cute couple. Every time I mentioned that to Aunt June, she turned a shade of crimson and tried to kick me in the shins.
Kate leaned over the couch and gave Baxter a peck on the cheek. “Sorry we're late. I hope you went ahead and ate.”
“We figured you might be late. It's hardly the first time. Baxter and I decided to enjoy our wine and wait for you kids,” said Aunt June.
“If we could just get the bad guys to cooperate, we'd be home every night by five,” I countered.
“I'm not going to hold my breath on that one,” said Aunt June. “We went ahead and fed Sara. She was starving. I tell you that girl has a hollow leg.”
I could tell they were enjoying the wine. The bottle was almost empty and Aunt June was acting giddy. Baxter was being his polite, reserved, southern self. We settled in the dining room to a good old-fashioned dinner of Aunt June's meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, a pear salad, and green beans. We Kincaids come from a long line of basic meat and potatoes eatersâno fancy continental cuisine or French soufflé, thank you very much. I did have to admit that since Kate and I began seeing each other, she'd pushed my culinary boundaries to new levels.
Kate opened a second bottle of Merlot for the wine drinkers, and I grabbed a cold Corona from the refrigerator. Before long I could tell that the second bottle of wine was well on its way to extinction. “Kate,” I said, “you should be ashamed of yourselfâcontributing to the delinquency of seniors like this.” That brought a smile from Kate and a giggle from Aunt June.
Baxter grunted. “Perhaps someone should remind this young man to drink his beer and mind his own business.” More tittering from Aunt June.
Sara joined us for dessert. I swear the kid can smell dessert a mile away. She has her Dad's sweet tooth. It was rewarded with hot French apple pie topped with, what else, French vanilla ice cream.
After dinner, Kate and I cleaned up while Aunt June and Baxter retired to the great room to cap the evening with a glass of port. I cleared the table while Kate rinsed and loaded the dishwasher. When I brought the last load of dishes into the kitchen, Kate was standing with her back to me rinsing the sink. I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist burying my face in the side of her neck. As I kissed her neck and cheek, she straightened and leaned back against me resting the back of her head on my shoulder. My hands caressed her breasts. She sighed. “I need a hug,” I whispered.
“Oh, yeah. Judging from that thing that's poking me, I'd say that you need a little more than a hug.”
“I think you're right.”
She turned, put her arms around my neck, and we began a deep, slow kiss, one that might have lasted for a long time had Sara not popped into the kitchen at that exact moment. “Daddy, you're kissing,” she teased.
“And you're nosy,” I said. “What do you need, baby?”
“Would you help me with my home-work?” I spent the next few minutes helping Sara with her math assignment. It wasn't going to be long before my limited math literacy would render me useless in helping herâmath tutor here we come. Tonight Sara settled into bed, without a fuss, and fell asleep quickly.
Kate had joined Baxter and Aunt June in the great room. The discussion quickly turned to my impending child custody hearing in Atlanta.
Baxter said, “Sam, your Aunt June was telling me earlier today about the problem with Sara. While I don't want to pry into your affairs, I think I can help you with this.”
“Any help would be greatly appreciated,” I replied.
“Before I moved to Utah, I had business interests all over the southeast including Georgia. When I heard about your problem, I took the liberty of calling the law firm in Atlanta that handled my business affairs.” He paused and reached into the pocket of his sports coat and produced a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it.
“Go on,” I said.
He handed me the slip of paper. “My old law firm put me in touch with this lady. They assured me that her reputation as a family law attorney in the Atlanta area is second to none. In fact, and pardon my language, they described Ms. Kittridge as a real ball-buster. She called me back late this afternoon and we had a delightful conversation. I think you should call her.”
I thanked Baxter and promised to call Allison Kittridge the next day. “And don't forget to call Jim Reilly tomorrow, too. He's expecting your call,” said Kate.
It was getting late and everybody was tired. We offered Baxter the guest bedroom but he declined. After he left, Aunt June bid us good night and toddled down the hall to her bedroom.
I checked on Sara and then Kate and I retired to my bedroom. We made love for a long time and then fell asleep tangled in each others arms. I woke early. It was a little after five. Kate was gone. She left a note on her pillow thanking me for a nice evening and promising to catch up later in the day. Until now, we had been cautious about sleep-overs. While Kate and Sara had grown close, I wasn't sure whether Sara was ready to find a woman in bed with her dad.
I got up quietly, dressed, left a note for Aunt June on the kitchen chalkboard, and headed to my office at the prison. Since the new executive director had arrived, I'd been spending less and less time in my office at department headquarters and more time in my office at the prison. I'm not sure whyâout of sight, out of mind perhaps.