“Hey, what’s up, Jake? We’ve got a hot one.” Robert started to lean back in his chair, then caught himself just in time before the motion sent the chair falling backward to the floor.
“I heard. What do you have for me?” Jake leaned his hip against the bookshelf under the window. “Before I forget, Lorene wants you to come over on Sunday. It’s Elizabeth’s first birthday. You know how moms are; they want to invite everyone over for a party.”
“A year, has it been that long ago? It seems like Lorene was just pregnant and you had morning sickness.”
“I had the flu!” Jake protested, running his palm over his dark brown waves.
“Sure you did. You were sick in the morning and had to leave work.” Robert shook his head in mock disgust. “Or was that some excuse to go home to Lorene?”
“What do you have?” Jake pointed to the stack of leads.
“We have a lead from a gas station attendant. Apparently, he pumped gas for a family who looked like the one in the paper. We’ll need to go see him.”
“Sure, let me know when.” Jake stood. “Lorene expects your presence, with a present, on Sunday.” He grinned and saluted his partner, then whistled as he walked down the hallway.
Robert sighed, he was a little jealous of Jake’s relationship with Lorene. She gave Jake her love and support when he left for work and welcomed him home with a kiss. She worried about him and his job, but she was a strong woman. Her father, still in the Navy, was stationed in Washington, DC. He’d served in World War II. She knew what it meant to worry about a man going into battle. Not like Becca, who had been sheltered for most of her early life. Becca hadn’t dealt well with the stress of being a cop’s wife.
He shook the memory off and dialed the number on the lead. The person who answered, directed him to call Mr. Porter, the owner. “He was the one on duty that night,” the man informed him.
Robert dialed the new number; a woman answered the phone. “This is the Porter residence; may I help you?
Robert identified himself and the purpose of his call.
“Yes, Mr. Porter was on duty. He called and told the officer he’d sold gas to a family who might have been the one you are looking for.”
“Do you still have the receipts for the gas? Did they pay with a credit card or cash?” Robert asked.
There was some whispering and the phone changed hands, “Hello, this is Mr. Porter. The man paid with a credit card. I am sorry, but my wife sent the receipts in already. We do that every Monday morning. I am sure with your connections, you can call and get them sent to you right away.”
“Sure thing,” Robert muttered.
“What was that? I’m a little hard of hearing.”
“It was nothing. Do you mind if I come out and talk to you? I’d like a little more detailed information before I contact the credit card company.” Robert made an appointment for the next afternoon.
The town where the Porters lived was a little more than a wide spot in the road. Most of the inhabitants were employed somewhere along the Columbia River, in logging camps, the mills, Bonneville Dam, Cascade Locks, or the big aluminum plant.
There were piles of snow along the highway. Frozen waterfalls in white plumes adorned the cliffs to his right. The sun peeked through the clouds and the rays glinted off the waves of the Columbia River to his left. God’s presence shone approval on the day. Robert wished that somehow a whisper as to the whereabouts of the missing Stevens family would come to his ear.
The drive wasn’t a long one. It would have been nice if Jake could have come along. He’d been called out on one of his own cases.
Robert arrived at the address of the station owner. The Craftsman-style house, with a white picket fence surrounding the property, would have been Becca’s dream home. The flower beds were covered in bedding hay for the winter, and the walk to the porch was free of ice and snow. The smell of a woodburning stove was in the crisp air, as he pressed the doorbell button. He shook the lingering thought of his deceased wife from his thoughts
“You must be the police officer who called. I’m Mrs. Porter.” She was a short, plump woman, whose dress looked expensive. Not that Robert would know any designer. She looked professionally coiffured.
“I’m Detective Robert Collins. I called you yesterday about the gas receipts.” He held up his ID badge.
She unlocked the screen and motioned him in. As Robert entered the living room, he saw five young boys, age ten or so, all wearing visor caps of assorted styles and colors sitting around a card table in the front room. A light bulb attached to an extension cord hung from the ceiling light fixture. An altered lampshade attached to it focused the light over the table. The scene looked like something straight out of a James Cagney movie.
“Hey, boys, it’s the fuzz! Guess they heard we were gambling.” Mr. Porter shook his head in mock despair, but winked at Robert. “I guess the gig is up, guys.” He put his hands in the air. The boys followed suit, their eyes showed surprise and concern.
Robert looked over the card game and saw stacks of baseball cards, marbles, and other assorted things that boys collect. He shook his head and pulled out his cuffs. Just as he started to move forward, a voice with an Irish brogue spoke from behind him,
“Boys, I’ve got him covered. Head for the kitchen; there’s cookies and milk on the table. He won’t be bothering ya’ anymore.” Robert held up his hands in defeat, and the boys jumped from their chairs and ran out of the room, their laughter following them.
When Robert turned, Mrs. Porter was pointing a cookie-making press at him. He burst out laughing, and the couple joined him. These two were no typical grandpa and grandma. Mr. Porter stood, his hand outstretched, his tailored slacks topped a white, imported, silk shirt and Italian loafers. Even relaxed in their own home, with minor adjustments, they could have stepped out and gone to any classy restaurant in town.
“I love to listen to cops and robbers on the radio,” Mrs. Porter confided.
“I could tell; you have the accent down perfect,” Robert complimented her.
Mr. Porter moved to an overstuffed chair and motioned Robert to a seat across from him. Mrs. Porter left them but returned carrying a silver serving set loaded with sweets and coffee.
“I hope we haven’t added to your problems. We read about the other sightings of the missing family and waited to see if they were the real ones. When nothing seemed to be forthcoming in the newspaper, I called the station and gave them the information we had.” Mrs. Porter went on to say, “We feel so bad about not calling earlier.” She looked at her husband and he reached out and took her hand in his.
“I’m sure it won’t have hurt the investigation any,” Robert assured her. “Can you give me a description of the car and the family?” He poised his pen over his notebook.
“The car was a ’54 Ford station wagon, two-tone, red and white. They all got out to use the restrooms. The father stood taller than me as I pumped the gas. He had dark hair and was on the stocky side. His wife was a little shorter and on the heavy side.” He paused and stared at the ceiling a moment before continuing. “There were three girls. The older had short, dark hair like her mother’s, and the two younger ones wore their hair pulled back in rubber bands.”
“Ponytails,” Mrs. Porter put in.
“He charged the gas on his credit card.” Mr. Porter continued as if his wife had not spoken, “As I said, we mail the slips in on the following Monday, but you guys can get that information faster than I can.” He repeated the comment as if he’d not said it previously