can see where that is. I don’t want to waste my time for a client who isn’t motivated.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jax,” said Daniel, “I guarantee I am motivated. I’ve got to find David—and I’ve got to find him soon.”
“Yes,” replied Jax, staring intently into Daniel’s eyes. Then, suddenly, he opened the folder, ran his finger down his list and spoke officially, “So, let’s see, a few more questions. I understand from Mr. Vickers that you can supply a photograph…”
“Yes,“ replied Daniel as he opened the album and removed the photograph that he had been carrying with him for the last day. “This is David at his high school graduation in 1997.”
“Hmm, yes, I see,” replied Jax as he glanced back up at Daniel. “Have you received any correspondence from David since then? Any letters? E-mails? Packages? Anything?”
“No,” replied Daniel, shaking his head, his shoulders dropping, “nothing in twelve years. He just seemed to have vanished.”
“He might be—I’m sorry to suggest this—but, he might be dead,” said Jax.
“I realize that,” answered Daniel, “and if he is, I want to know that. It’s not what I’m hoping for, but at least it would be closure.”
“I understand, sir,” said Jax, “and I certainly hope that I will be able to provide you with a more agreeable outcome.” He replaced the folder into his briefcase and closed it. “I believe I have all the information I need to get started, sir. If I need any additional information, I assume you will not object to my contacting you directly?”
“Of course not,” said Daniel, rising as Jax rose, “Here’s my card, the bottom number reaches my office directly and let me give you my cell phone number,” he said as he quickly jotted an additional set of numbers at the bottom of the card and handed the card to Jax.
“Thank you, sir,” he said and turned to leave.
“Let me walk you out, Mr. Jax,” said Daniel as he escorted the little man to the door. The two men exited the building and around the fountain.
“Lovely fountain,” said Jax as they passed the massive structure, “totally unexpected, I might add.”
“Yes,” agreed Daniel, laughing, “Some people consider it an eyesore, but I have mixed feelings. My father built it in honor of my mother. It was modeled on a fountain she had fallen in love with in Italy on my parents’ honeymoon. David always loved it too. It was probably the only thing he did love about Bridgewater Carpets.”
Chapter 13
Present time—Monday, late afternoon, December 17
Willard had been gone for a while, and Pamela was still at her desk, listening to the disc of the murder at KRDN. She had not gotten any further. Indeed, she was now uncertain about her earlier conviction that the faint vowel sound overlapping Ted Ballard’s speech that she thought was spoken by the murderer really was. At least she was uncertain about the gender conclusion she had drawn; the more she listened, the more she thought the short sound might be female. If this were the case, Willard’s deduction about the speaker being from the south could also be suspect, although it was probably more likely that whoever the killer was, he or she was southern—just by a process of elimination. They did, after all, live in the South, and most people here were Southerners. Would a Northerner travel all the way down here to murder a local disc jockey?
So many questions. She was getting no where. She glanced at her watch and realized it was after five o’clock. She had become so engrossed in her analysis that she had completely blocked out the sounds of the students going in and out of the lecture hall next door. Now, she realized that it must be around five and students were starting to exit into the hallway.
She continued replaying the recording. The more she listened, the more she realized her difficulties. With the recording she had made last year that captured the murder of Charlotte Clark in the
“Thank you, Mr. Jax,” said Daniel, “I guarantee I am motivated. I’ve got to find David—and I’ve got to find him soon.”
“Yes,” replied Jax, staring intently into Daniel’s eyes. Then, suddenly, he opened the folder, ran his finger down his list and spoke officially, “So, let’s see, a few more questions. I understand from Mr. Vickers that you can supply a photograph…”
“Yes,“ replied Daniel as he opened the album and removed the photograph that he had been carrying with him for the last day. “This is David at his high school graduation in 1997.”
“Hmm, yes, I see,” replied Jax as he glanced back up at Daniel. “Have you received any correspondence from David since then? Any letters? E-mails? Packages? Anything?”
“No,” replied Daniel, shaking his head, his shoulders dropping, “nothing in twelve years. He just seemed to have vanished.”
“He might be—I’m sorry to suggest this—but, he might be dead,” said Jax.
“I realize that,” answered Daniel, “and if he is, I want to know that. It’s not what I’m hoping for, but at least it would be closure.”
“I understand, sir,” said Jax, “and I certainly hope that I will be able to provide you with a more agreeable outcome.” He replaced the folder into his briefcase and closed it. “I believe I have all the information I need to get started, sir. If I need any additional information, I assume you will not object to my contacting you directly?”
“Of course not,” said Daniel, rising as Jax rose, “Here’s my card, the bottom number reaches my office directly and let me give you my cell phone number,” he said as he quickly jotted an additional set of numbers at the bottom of the card and handed the card to Jax.
“Thank you, sir,” he said and turned to leave.
“Let me walk you out, Mr. Jax,” said Daniel as he escorted the little man to the door. The two men exited the building and around the fountain.
“Lovely fountain,” said Jax as they passed the massive structure, “totally unexpected, I might add.”
“Yes,” agreed Daniel, laughing, “Some people consider it an eyesore, but I have mixed feelings. My father built it in honor of my mother. It was modeled on a fountain she had fallen in love with in Italy on my parents’ honeymoon. David always loved it too. It was probably the only thing he did love about Bridgewater Carpets.”
Chapter 13
Present time—Monday, late afternoon, December 17
Willard had been gone for a while, and Pamela was still at her desk, listening to the disc of the murder at KRDN. She had not gotten any further. Indeed, she was now uncertain about her earlier conviction that the faint vowel sound overlapping Ted Ballard’s speech that she thought was spoken by the murderer really was. At least she was uncertain about the gender conclusion she had drawn; the more she listened, the more she thought the short sound might be female. If this were the case, Willard’s deduction about the speaker being from the south could also be suspect, although it was probably more likely that whoever the killer was, he or she was southern—just by a process of elimination. They did, after all, live in the South, and most people here were Southerners. Would a Northerner travel all the way down here to murder a local disc jockey?
So many questions. She was getting no where. She glanced at her watch and realized it was after five o’clock. She had become so engrossed in her analysis that she had completely blocked out the sounds of the students going in and out of the lecture hall next door. Now, she realized that it must be around five and students were starting to exit into the hallway.
She continued replaying the recording. The more she listened, the more she realized her difficulties. With the recording she had made last year that captured the murder of Charlotte Clark in the
Similar Books
