Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(76)
Throwing caution to the wind, Gina had sent another email to Deep Throat. Some sources had to be nurtured and coddled. The time for that was over.
Empire Review is no longer supporting my efforts to pursue the REL News investigation. They claim the evidence that Cathy Ryan and Paula Stephenson were murdered is not strong enough. I have not given up and for the time being will continue on my own. If you have information that will help me, I need it NOW. I’m trusting you and expect the same in return. It’s critically important that we meet.
If Deep Throat didn’t respond, she could always go back to Meg Williamson, Gina decided.
She had also spent time laying the groundwork for her discreet inquiry into the background of Marian Callow. Jack Callow’s obituary had been in the New York Times. Survivors included his beloved wife, Marian, and two sons, Philip and Thomas. No mention of any surviving parents or siblings, she noted. Jack and Marian had been living in Short Hills, New Jersey, at the time of his passing.
Jack was sixty-three. His sons were probably late twenties to early thirties. They could be anywhere. Whitepages.com was no help. Most people in that age group don’t bother with landline phone numbers. Gina’s source inside New Jersey’s Department of Motor Vehicles had recently retired. If the boys had New Jersey driver’s licenses, he would have been able to help her find them.
Telling herself the worst he could do was hang up on her, she had called a friend of Ted’s who was an investment banker at Goldman Sachs. After exchanging a few awkward pleasantries that included no mention of Ted, she asked a favor. He called her back twenty minutes later. Former employee Jack Callow’s personnel file included two emergency contacts, a Marian and a Philip Callow. He gave her both numbers.
A late afternoon run in Central Park had helped clear her head. Gina was tempted to ask Lisa about meeting for dinner but decided against it. She was already feeling the effects of her early start this morning. Tomorrow was going to be a long day that would begin with her alarm set for 5:30 a.m. She went into the bedroom and replaced the clothes she had used in Durham with fresh items. After a dish of pasta and a Chardonnay, she called it a night.
83
Corn, beef cattle, corn, dairy cows, corn, and then more cornfields was the view that greeted Gina as she sped west along pancake-flat Interstate 80. Her flights had been on time and she had been able to doze a little on the way to O’Hare. There had been no wait at the car rental counter. Now she was enjoying the seventy-mile-per-hour speed limits, a rarity in the Northeast. She glanced every few minutes at her phone to assure herself the Waze app was working. It was. The silent message was, just keep going straight.
It was a mixed blessing that Paula Stephenson’s mother had not gone through the boxes sent from Durham. It would be more work for Gina to sift through them, but it reduced the chance that any key evidence had been thrown away. What exactly was she hoping to find? She didn’t really know. If Paula was communicating with somebody about increasing her REL News settlement, Gina was crossing her fingers that at least some trail still remained.
She exited off the highway and came to a sign welcoming her to Xavier, population 1,499. A mile later she came to a downtown area comprised of a diner, several granaries, two gas stations, and a small grocery store. While stopped at what appeared to be the lone traffic light, she looked at a two-story office building to her left. Two doctors, two lawyers, one dentist, one accountant, and one insurance office peacefully coexisted under one roof.
Gina glanced at her phone. It was a few minutes before five o’clock. She decided she would drive the remaining three-quarters of a mile to locate the house before doubling back to the diner for a cup of coffee. She wanted to be alert when she spoke to Paula’s mother.
The downtown area ended almost as quickly as it began. Small houses, most in need of paint jobs, were spaced widely apart on each side of the road. Pickup trucks of varying sizes rested on the unpaved driveways.
The voice from the navigation system announced, “You have reached your destination.” Gina slowed to a halt and glanced to her right. A small home that looked like an oversized packing box was set back about seventy-five feet from the road. Three uneven steps led up to a covered porch that spanned the front width of the house. The front lawn, if the term applied, looked as if it had not seen a mower in months. To the right of the front door the number “8” was hanging straight while the number “2” dangled at an odd angle. An ancient pickup truck, rust protruding from its crooked back fender, was hibernating at the top of the gravel driveway.
The door opened and a stocky woman with straight gray hair stepped out onto the porch.
“Are you Gina?” she yelled as Gina lowered the passenger’s-side window.
“Yes,” Gina answered as she shut off the engine.
“You’re early,” the woman shouted back. Before Gina could apologize, the woman continued. “Give me about ten minutes,” she said as she disappeared back into the house.
There goes my cup of coffee, Gina thought to herself, as she pressed the button to put the window back up.
Fifteen minutes later Lucinda Stephenson walked down the driveway, pulled open the passenger’s front door, and slung herself into the seat. She pulled the door shut and with effort scrambled to extend the seatbelt over her substantial frame. Her straight graying hair hung loosely to her shoulders. Despite the chilly weather, she had no topcoat. She wore a faded Cornhuskers sweatshirt adorned with the University of Nebraska logo. Soiled blue jeans and worn black sneakers completed the ensemble. Whatever tasks had taken fifteen minutes inside her home, applying makeup was not one of them.