Outside in the sunlight, he walked to the nearest newsstand and bought a paper. Quickly scanning it for some lurid headline, Dan was pleased to find that the most newsworthy local story involved a fight at a local night club. There was nothing to indicate any actions toward an individual in a house in the suburbs. Going back to the parking garage, he got his car and drove home. Today, he was rewarding himself by coming in very late if at all.
On the way he tuned in the radio to hear the ball scores. Scanning the stations, he came across one that was broadcasting the news.
“…and police have said that the victim’s husband is not a person of interest at this time. He came home early this morning from an overnight business trip, discovered his wife’s mutilated body in their bedroom, and immediately called the police. An anonymous source says that there were multiple stab wounds to the chest of the victim. Police are asking citizens to report any suspicious activity at or around 32 Memford Street last night between the hours of nine and ten to their hotline. Once again…”
Dan clicked off the radio, pulled the car to the side of the road, and shut off the engine. The supermarket parking lot was eight blocks away from the crime scene. In the process of following Slate through the twisting path he took, Dan failed to keep track of the street names. It was entirely possible that Slate had gone to the Memford address, and the suspicious use of bleach and the burning of his clothes could tie him in directly to the crime. However, there was nothing in Slate’s extensive profile that would indicate such behavior or even the possibility that he might be capable of doing something like this.
Suddenly his cell phone rang.
“Hello,” he answered. “Ron…what do you mean Borley called? I’m not supposed to meet with him until tomorrow…antsy…yah, I guess I could swing by his office this morning. I need to go home and change first…email the results to my home computer and I’ll print out a copy…Slate still sleeping?...no reason, I just figured he had a tiring night…no, I don’t mean anything by that…no, everything’s okay…I’m on my way home now…oh, do me a favor…print out Slate’s total profile for me so I can get it when I come back…no…no reason, I’d just like to read it again…no, I tell you there’s no reason, just do it…yah…see you later…wait a second. What time did Borley say he’d be in…I better hurry.”
Dan knew that he had made Ron suspicious because he had handled that conversation so poorly, but that couldn’t be helped. Now, he had to go home and change into his diving clothes, so to speak, because he figured he was about to start swimming in that ocean of money he had promised everyone.
CHAPTER 12
Dan showered and changed, then he ran off a copy of the figures Ron had emailed. He arrived at Borley’s office just in time. The next hour proved to be the start of digging that gold mine, since Borley was very impressed; so much so that he went to the front of the building and conducted the random test as he had before only this time with reworked pictures. This time the results matched Slate’s perfectly, and the big man was sold. By the time Dan got back to his own office, his phone was ringing constantly with other agencies trying to get into a good deal.
“Lisa,” Dan said as he walked through the door; “start setting up appointments for everybody who calls. Give the biggest agencies top priority then work your way down. And they come here, I don’t go to them.”
Two minutes later, Louis walked in and took his familiar seat.
“Success?’ he asked in his one word sentences.
“Overwhelming,” Dan answered in a mimicking tone.
“How much?” Louis asked.
“Lake Michigan size,” Dan answered trying to keep his responses in line with the original “ocean of money” promise. “Working toward the Gulf of Mexico . In a month, we should be swimming in the Atlantic Ocean of cash.”
For the first time, Louis smiled.
“I’m kind of busy today,” Dan said; “trying to strike while the iron is hot so to speak. So if you’ve used up all your single word questions for today, I have work to do.”
He remembered when just a short time ago he would never dare talk to Louis that way, but things were different now. Louis stopped smiling and got up to leave the office, stopping at the door to give his usual cryptic remark.
“Don’t screw it up,” he said. This time the meaning was very clear.
Dan immediately left his office and took the elevator down to the big room where he saw Ron at the copier.
“Just finishing up printing what you asked for,” the young man said.
“Give it to me,” Dan replied abruptly. Then realizing he might have been too crude, he added, “Sorry, but I’ve got a million things waiting for me upstairs. I’ll make it up to you later. Lunch. Okay?”
He even forced a smile so as not to worry the young man. Back upstairs, he started to pour over the information looking for some sort of clue that might let him know if Slate was really an average person; or, had he somehow managed to fool the information gathering system over the years. Looking at page after page of details, Dan began to think that Slate’s midnight foray was just something harmless and didn’t really have anything to do with the address in the police report. Finally, he stopped to take a break, exhausted from the intensive data they had been able to collect on Andrew Slate. He wasn’t ready to quit just yet, but he needed to turn his attention to something trivial to refresh his mind. Turning on the television set in his office in order to get the latest news, he stopped in his tracks.
“This is Jeff Thomas of On The Spot News reporting from just outside 32 Memford Street where last night a vicious murder took place…”
As the reporter droned on, all Dan could see on the screen in the background was the very house that Slate had staked out and entered the night before. Even with the yellow police tape cordoning off the media from a closer view, this was definitely the front of the house. In panning the scene, the news cameras even showed the bushes where Dan had hid.
Clicking off the set, he returned to the papers on his desk. There had to be something here, a tiny error that had slipped past the aggregation process…something that Slate had fabricated and which had been accepted as true. Dan began again sifting through the pages, taking each minute detail and checking it against all of the others. Dates and times all appeared to add up, but something bothered Dan although he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then something struck him, something almost insignificant.
Slate’s parents lived in the outskirts of Omaha , Nebraska , while his older sister lived in Juneau , Alaska
Picking up his phone, Dan called Ron.
“Ron, I need a favor. Could you run profiles on Wyatt S. Slate of Omaha , Nebraska ; his wife, Catherine G. Slate, maiden name Trywer; and Judith R. Slate, her married name is Grovsner…G-R-O-V-S-N-E-R…of Juneau , Alaska
In half an hour, Ron walked into Dan’s office with three packed folders in his hands.
“Sit down,” Dan said. “I want you to start looking at Wyatt’s folder carefully. You’re looking at charges he made to a credit card for any transportation outside the state in the last eight years. Plane, train, bus, rented car…anything.”
“I could have done this a hundred times faster on the computer downstairs,” Ron said wondering what was going on.
“Humor me,” Dan said showing a gravity to his expression. “I’ll do the sister.”
Deciding not to protest further, Ron started through the pages while Dan did the same. An hour later both men were bleary-eyed.
“Find anything yet,” Dan asked.
“Nothing,” Ron answered. “You mind telling me why we’re doing this.”
“Just keep looking,” Dan urged.
Another hour passed before Ron closed the back flap of the folder.
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