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Eight
I wasgrateful for the work Jenna had given me. Without it, I would’ve gone crazy.
I spent Sunday putting together all the information I’d gathered when looking for Meka, including my less-than-orthodox ‘interview’ with Meka’s ex-boyfriend Shawn. I doubted I had much of anything that the FBI didn’t already have, but I figured if I gave it to Jenna, she could determine whether or not to pass the information along.
It might also give her somewhere to look that she hadn’t thought of yet. With Shawn’s age, I had no doubt his social media accounts would provide a plethora of information. Whether or not any of it would be useful was anybody’s guess.
I’d taken her the information first thing this morning, then headed up to Cheyenne. The US Marshals hadn’t been too keen on talking to me over the phone, but that didn’t mean an in-person visit would yield the same results. During the hour drive, I called Clay – hands-free of course – to ask for a name. That name was the reason I’d been sitting outside an apartment building since noon.
Clay hadn’t been able to tell me much, and I hadn’t pressed him to give me anything but the name and where I could find him. I didn’t want to risk my friend’s career, but part of being in any sort of investigative field often meant calling in favors. Considering the help I’d be giving Jenna – and through her, Clay and his partner – I didn’t feel overly guilty for the request.
I’d done a little general internet searching while I waited, which had given me a wedding announcement from twenty-seven years ago and not much else. The fact that it was a Monday and I was sitting in front of an apartment instead of going into the local law enforcement office made me think that maybe Harry Franklin had retired.
Clay had sent over a picture, so when the silver-haired man in a cheap suit came out of the building, I recognized him. He looked a few years older than the picture, but still in his mid to late fifties, which meant it hadn’t been too long since he’d been with the Marshal service.
I hurried after him, careful to keep back a few feet until he ducked into a diner. I didn’t want a big public confrontation, but I didn’t want to corner him somewhere we’d be completely alone either. I doubted Clay would give me the name of someone who’d be a danger to me, but people did strange things when they felt threatened, and I had no way of knowing if asking about Jenna’s mother would come across as a threat.
He settled into a booth at the back of the diner and ordered some coffee. I waited until the waitress left before I slid into the empty space across from him.
“Mr. Franklin?”
The look he gave me was shrewd, careful. He knew I wasn’t here to sell him life insurance or whatever sort of things salespeople sold face-to-face. Straightforward would be the best approach, I decided on the spot. I just hoped my gut was right about that.
“My name’s Rona Quick, and I’m a private investigator.”
He stiffened but didn’t leave or tell me to get lost. Instead, he sipped his coffee and waited.
“I was hired to look into a woman who went by the name Helen Kingston, though you’d know her as Anna Newbury or Marcy Wakefield.”
His lips pressed together in a thin line, all pretense of casual vanishing. “Miss Quick, I’m going to advise you to walk out of here and forget those names. You tell whoever hired you that looking for that woman is pointless.”
I folded my hands in front of me, giving him my best polite smile. I paused to let the returning waitress take our orders and then vanish into the kitchen. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Franklin. I know that Marcy was the alias Anna was given when she entered WITSEC thirteen years ago. Before that, she’d used the names Helen Kingston and Helena King. When she was arrested years ago on multiple charges of child pornography – among other things – she gave up names in order to stay out of prison.”
“You shouldn’t know any of that,” he said.
I shrugged. “Probably not, but it became pretty common knowledge down in Fort Collins when Marcy came after one of her many children. Specifically, the daughter who was responsible for her first arrest. After that, she didn’t get any plea deals. She’s in prison for a long time.”
He took another drink of his coffee. “Then you should know that you need to contact the Department of Corrections to find her.”
“You misunderstand,” I said. “I’m not looking for her, but rather for the children she had while she was in WITSEC.”
The coffee cup clattered as he set it back on the saucer, a little liquid slopping over the top.
“That woman ruined my career when she took off,” he said. “Why should I get involved in anything to do with her?”
A few pieces fell into place, enough for me to feel comfortable making a logical leap. “Because you’re the Marshal who made a formal request for the higher-ups to do something about the fact that a known child abuser kept having kids.”
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, just sharply enough for me to know that my hunch was right on target.
“You had to have read her file.” I kept going without answering his question. “You knew what she’d done to the one daughter she hadn’t given away. When did you first find out that she was pregnant?”
He didn’t say anything at first, but I allowed the silence to keep growing. It was his move now. If I had to push more, I would, but it would be best if this was his choice.
Finally, he relented. “Three weeks after she arrived here, I found a pregnancy test in her bathroom. It wasn’t until later that I realized she’d left it there on purpose. I was hard on her when we first met, and I think she’d thought that knowing she was pregnant would soften me up.”
“But it didn’t.”
He shook his head. “But she used it to manipulate me for more lax monitoring. All she’d had to do was make a casual comment about knowing people who’d love a baby, and I was picturing all of the crime scene photos from her file.”
