on Westbrook and handed me the phone.
I read it with a strange sense of déjà vu prickling at the nape of my neck.
Nathan Westbrook, a decorated police detective, had disappeared under the radar fourteen months ago. No suspicious circumstances. He simply hadn’t shown up at work one day. He hadn’t called in sick. He hadn’t booked any vacation days. His lieutenant had sent a unit round to his place that afternoon – following several unanswered attempts to contact Westbrook through his landline and cell numbers – only to find him not at home. The next day, a subsequent search of the premises had shown no evidence of foul play, but signs that Westbrook had emptied his closet and drawers, and packed for a trip. Neither his police ID nor any other personal effects (such as his driver’s license and his passport) were found in his home. No mention to his next of kin (namely his widowed mother living in a home in upstate New York) that he was anywhere other than where he ought to be. His on-the-job partner had spent the next week running checks to see if Westbrook’s credit cards popped up on the system. They hadn’t.
Detective Nathan Westbrook had vanished without trace.
Until now.
“Where was he this last year?” I wondered out loud.
“By all accounts, off the grid.”
“I know, but why? Why did he just vanish without warning?”
“Maybe he had gambling debts and went into hiding. People disappear for any number of reasons, Gabe.”
I made a dissatisfied pout. “So how did he come to play a part in Cornsilk’s disfigurement? Officially, Westbrook disappeared before The Undertaker Case. Months before Cornsilk was blown up in Jackson. We know Cornsilk’s intentions are to wreak revenge on those he believes wronged him. Where does Westbrook fit into all that?”
“And you’re asking me? You know more about The Undertaker and Cornsilk than anyone, Gabe. What if Cornsilk knew Westbrook previously and was settling an old score?”
“I guess.” But it didn’t feel right. My Uh-Oh Radar was picking up ghosts and sounding a silent alarm.
I was about to air more doubts when the room phone rang.
Rae looked at me. I looked at Rae.
The last time I’d been in a hotel room with the phone ringing unexpectedly it had turned out to be a serial killer on the other end of the line.
I pressed the receiver to my ear.
“Hello? Agents? You guys there?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Danny, on the front desk. Listen, there’s something you guys should know. Mr. Westbrook rented out a safe deposit box. I have a key, if you’re interested.”
We returned to the lobby. I’d noticed the safe deposit boxes in the back office – a row of six gray metal compartment lockboxes, like the kind used to take mail deposits in apartment blocks – but hadn’t thought anything of it.
“I’d forgotten all about it,” the kid said as he went to open the box with a master key.
I took it from him and shooed him outside. Waited for him and his disappointment to disappear before levering open the metal door. “No saying there’s anything in here.”
But there was.
Not Westbrook’s wallet. Not his passport or his cell phone.
It looked like a clear plastic envelope with something like a postcard tucked inside.
I reached in, held it by a corner, and slowly pulled it out.
The white rectangle of card had handwritten words on it. Faded black ink. Even fainter, the printed word Kodak running in repeat rows diagonally.
“What is it?” Rae asked over my shoulder.
“Looks like an old photograph.”
Curious, I turned it over.
And that’s when the day went from disaster to devastation.
29
___________________________
The conscious mind is slave to the body. We think we are in control of our physicality. That our thoughts influence the nervous system. That we pull the strings.
I read it with a strange sense of déjà vu prickling at the nape of my neck.
Nathan Westbrook, a decorated police detective, had disappeared under the radar fourteen months ago. No suspicious circumstances. He simply hadn’t shown up at work one day. He hadn’t called in sick. He hadn’t booked any vacation days. His lieutenant had sent a unit round to his place that afternoon – following several unanswered attempts to contact Westbrook through his landline and cell numbers – only to find him not at home. The next day, a subsequent search of the premises had shown no evidence of foul play, but signs that Westbrook had emptied his closet and drawers, and packed for a trip. Neither his police ID nor any other personal effects (such as his driver’s license and his passport) were found in his home. No mention to his next of kin (namely his widowed mother living in a home in upstate New York) that he was anywhere other than where he ought to be. His on-the-job partner had spent the next week running checks to see if Westbrook’s credit cards popped up on the system. They hadn’t.
Detective Nathan Westbrook had vanished without trace.
Until now.
“Where was he this last year?” I wondered out loud.
“By all accounts, off the grid.”
“I know, but why? Why did he just vanish without warning?”
“Maybe he had gambling debts and went into hiding. People disappear for any number of reasons, Gabe.”
I made a dissatisfied pout. “So how did he come to play a part in Cornsilk’s disfigurement? Officially, Westbrook disappeared before The Undertaker Case. Months before Cornsilk was blown up in Jackson. We know Cornsilk’s intentions are to wreak revenge on those he believes wronged him. Where does Westbrook fit into all that?”
“And you’re asking me? You know more about The Undertaker and Cornsilk than anyone, Gabe. What if Cornsilk knew Westbrook previously and was settling an old score?”
“I guess.” But it didn’t feel right. My Uh-Oh Radar was picking up ghosts and sounding a silent alarm.
I was about to air more doubts when the room phone rang.
Rae looked at me. I looked at Rae.
The last time I’d been in a hotel room with the phone ringing unexpectedly it had turned out to be a serial killer on the other end of the line.
I pressed the receiver to my ear.
“Hello? Agents? You guys there?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Danny, on the front desk. Listen, there’s something you guys should know. Mr. Westbrook rented out a safe deposit box. I have a key, if you’re interested.”
We returned to the lobby. I’d noticed the safe deposit boxes in the back office – a row of six gray metal compartment lockboxes, like the kind used to take mail deposits in apartment blocks – but hadn’t thought anything of it.
“I’d forgotten all about it,” the kid said as he went to open the box with a master key.
I took it from him and shooed him outside. Waited for him and his disappointment to disappear before levering open the metal door. “No saying there’s anything in here.”
But there was.
Not Westbrook’s wallet. Not his passport or his cell phone.
It looked like a clear plastic envelope with something like a postcard tucked inside.
I reached in, held it by a corner, and slowly pulled it out.
The white rectangle of card had handwritten words on it. Faded black ink. Even fainter, the printed word Kodak running in repeat rows diagonally.
“What is it?” Rae asked over my shoulder.
“Looks like an old photograph.”
Curious, I turned it over.
And that’s when the day went from disaster to devastation.
29
___________________________
The conscious mind is slave to the body. We think we are in control of our physicality. That our thoughts influence the nervous system. That we pull the strings.
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