Janice, who seemed to me to be a lonely soul, had found real warmth and even joy when Brian entered her life. To lose it this way was an unspeakable tragedy. After a few more moments she sat up, and Bailey passed her some Kleenex. She dabbed at her eyes and asked, “Do you think this had something to do with the theft of Tommy’s screenplay?”
“I do,” I said. “Brian and Hayley were very close. I think Brian confided in Hayley and they faked her kidnapping. Possibly as payback.”
“But…it doesn’t fit. Money didn’t mean much to Brian. You had to know him, to really get it. He was all heart and soul. That’s why I believed him when he said he wanted to write. He had that…artistic, sensitive kind of temperament. I just don’t see him asking for money.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. But I did know there were a lot of things that didn’t make sense yet and I told her so. We talked a little longer and asked if she wanted us to call anyone for her.
“I-I’ll call. I’m having dinner with a friend. Don’t worry about me. Just-will you keep me informed of…everything?”
“Of course,” I said. “And if you think of anything-about Brian, or Tommy-please call. Any and all information would be helpful.” We gave her our cards. “Please know that if there’s a trial, we’ll help you fly out and find a place to stay so you can attend.”
A strange look skipped fleetingly across her face, but then Janice smiled tremulously. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”
I again promised to stay in touch and told her we’d do everything in our power to bring the killer to justice. It was no more comforting this time than it had been for Hayley’s parents.
In the cab, on our way to the airport, Bailey and I were quiet. Tired, emotionally wrung out, and, for the moment, stymied; there was nothing good to say. “I don’t make Averly as the mastermind,” I said.
“He definitely wasn’t at Russell’s house when the kidnapping e-mail came in. So I’d agree, at least based on what we’ve seen so far.”
“And he doesn’t feel like a mastermind. Too weaselly…you know?”
Bailey nodded. We dragged our carry-ons through the terminal and took seats near the boarding gate, then Bailey went to find us some food to take on the plane. It was only after we’d boarded the flight that I remembered what I’d wanted to do.
“Bailey, do you have Averly’s cell phone on you?”
“Yeah.” She patted the pocket of her jacket.
“Is it wrapped up?”
“It’s in a plastic bag. Why?”
“Let me see it.”
Bailey pulled out the bag and gave it to me. Carefully, to avoid smudging prints, I manipulated the bag so I could press the power button through the plastic. When it booted up, I found the phone icon and looked at “Recent Calls.”
“Look at all those calls to and from ‘unknown caller,’” I said.
Bailey frowned. “And they’re on the day of the kidnapping.” She scrolled back up the page. “Last one was yesterday.”
“The day Averly got arrested. We need to figure out who this ‘unknown’ caller is. How much time do you think we have before Averly gets his hands on a contraband phone?”
“Could be any minute. Especially if he promises big money.”
Which he might very well have if he collected the ransom money. Bailey pulled out her cell and made a call. She gave Averly’s phone number and asked to have the unknown caller identified as fast as possible. “And if you get the answer before I land, give the information to Lieutenant Hales immediately. I’m calling him now so he’ll expect you.” Bailey read off Graden’s cell phone number and ended the call.
The flight attendant gave the announcement to turn off “all cell phone devices,” so Bailey powered down and put Averly’s phone back into her pocket.
“I guess that’s all we can do now,” she said.
There were no Bloody Marys for either of us this time. With any luck, we were going to have to hit the ground running.
35
We didn’t talk during the flight. It was packed, so the case was strictly off-limits, and we were too tired for small talk, so the moment we were airborne, we both fell asleep. But in the last hour of the flight a baby-whose Benadryl had probably worn off-woke up and began to cry nonstop. I felt sorry for the little one, but I confess, the noise was getting to me. And from Bailey’s expression, I saw I wasn’t the only one. “Want to send over a shot of Jack Daniel’s?” I asked.
Bailey turned to face the window and closed her eyes.
Now fully, and unhappily, awake, I distracted myself by thinking about what our next moves should be. Apparently, Bailey did the same. The moment we cleared the Jetway, she leaned in and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “We’re getting a telephonic for Averly’s place.”
It was nearly six o’clock, so the only way to get a search warrant right now was telephonically. The only problem with that idea was that it meant we’d have no choice of judge. We’d get whichever one had pulled the after-hours duty. Though I thought we had enough probable cause to hit Averly’s apartment-and his car, for that matter-you just never knew when you’d get stuck with a judge who wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. I started framing the pitch in my head as we raced through the terminal and out to the parking lot.
While Bailey drove, I called in and asked for the duty judge. And got Judge Pastor. A lucky break, because he was both smart and quick on the uptake. With the phone on speaker, I gave him the rundown, and when I’d finished, he immediately said, “You’ve got it. Put Detective Keller on.” I held the phone closer to Bailey and the judge swore her in. By the time she drove up the ramp to the freeway, we had our warrant. I called the station and Bailey found Detective Harrellson.
“I need help. We’ve got a warrant for an apartment and a car.”
Harrellson knew better than to ask on a cell phone whose place we were about to hit. “Send me the address. I’ll get a team together.”
I e-mailed him Averly’s address and the license plate of his car. We got lucky and hit a pocket of light traffic, so it didn’t take us long to get there. I noticed that Jack Averly’s apartment wasn’t far from Brian’s place geographically. But otherwise it was a world away. Though Brian’s place had been impersonal, his building was alive with working people still dialed in to the world. Averly’s looked like a broken toy abandoned in a vacant lot. Worn down and used up. The lobby’s glass door was dingy, the paint on the splintered wood frame was peeling and bare in places, and the carpet runner was stained to the point where it was impossible to tell what color it had been originally. Even in shoes, walking on it was gross.
Averly’s apartment was even worse. Nothing more than a Dumpster with running water. A plastic ashtray overflowed onto the cheap particleboard coffee table with smoked-down roaches, and a baggie of weed lay on the floor next to a beanbag chair. Against the opposite wall, on top of an old, dusty television set, was a pizza box. The buzzing sound coming from inside it told me the flies were taking care of Averly’s leftovers. The bedroom was exactly that: a room with a bed-or rather a mattress-on the floor. Not even a dresser. He’d stacked some of his clothes in U.S. Postal Service plastic bins-the kind you see left next to mailboxes on the street-and the rest he’d just thrown around the room. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to it, just a matter of whim that likely depended on his state of sobriety. I left the bathroom and kitchen to the cops and didn’t even look. It was bound to be the stuff nightmares are made of. Not having to search places like that was a perk of being a DDA. I noticed the cops were happier than usual to glove and mask up before tossing this sty. And they only had to do the general combing for the big, obvious things that might link Averly to the kidnap and murders-like Hayley’s or Brian’s property, or the ransom money. I couldn’t even think about what the criminalists would have to endure when they dug for the fine-point search.