Page 76 of Don't Say a Word
I couldn’t help but think about the Bradford case. The Silent Witness program wouldn’t release any recordings without a court order, but therewasa public recording about Ben Bradford because it came through the 911 system or directly to Phoenix PD.
Had Elijah reported a crime through Silent Witness? Did it have anything to do with his job... or something he witnessed at school? If he had used the Silent Witness program, not even Rick could access the information without jumping through hoops, and then he’d only receive non-identifying details.
I considered the original Bradford call. The investigators at the time said they suspected it came from a softball player because Bradford coached softball as well as football. The call came in September, which would suggest that the student had been there both the spring before—during softball season—and the current year. That would make her at least a sophomore when she phoned in, and based on her voice, I couldn’t imagine she was much older.
I doubted I’d learn much, but it wouldn’t hurt to grab the yearbook for those two years. Elijah would have one; I wanted both.
I texted Angie.
Can you get me two yearbooks? Your freshman year and the year before that?
She didn’t answer immediately, but she was likely in class.Hopefullyin class.
I then looked through Elijah’s photos on his cloud account.
There were thousands.
The settings indicated that his phone uploaded photos to the cloud, and I sorted them by most recent first.
Immediately, I saw something very weird. There were no pictures from Friday, the day he died, but there were several pictures that week of people exiting the Cactus Shop at night. I looked at the times, and they all had been taken after 8:00 p.m. on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I needed to go back to the store to figure out where he had been standing when he took the pictures. There were dozens of photos, but I didn’t recognize anyone. The youngest person looked fourteen, the oldest sixty. Men and women, all ethnicities. Almost all solo. Many of the people were repeat customers—one attractive, clean-cut Hispanic male in his mid-twenties was at the store at least twice a week. Over the six weeks Elijah had been taking these photos, starting the second week of July, there were nineteen pictures of this same person.
No one he photographed left the store with bags. It was something I noted on Tuesday when I stopped by, but I hadn’t really thought much about it after talking to Rick.
The Friday a week before Elijah died, he took a photo of a license plate and the Tesla it was attached to.
Some of the pictures were taken outside a different Cactus Stop. I looked at geolocation—he hadn’t turned it off—and they were taken at the store off Nineteenth and Camelback, the samestore that had been involved in my first big PI investigation eight years ago.
Before July, there were only pictures of friends and family. Hundreds of pictures from what appeared to be a family reunion, then end-of-school-year pictures, the occasional screenshot of something he felt was important to save—confirmation of submitting college applications, a confirmation of a payment made, things like that.
When he was a junior, most of his photos were selfies. I didn’t recognize most of the kids but there were several with Elijah, Angie, and a tall boy I didn’t recognize but—based on his arm over Angie’s shoulder—suspected was Chris Vallejo. These were taken outside a movie theater, on campus, in the stands of the gym. A couple videos of a girl with a wicked volleyball serve, possibly Angie’s friend Gina. Dozens of Elijah with Andy and Peter. Pictures of Elijah and his mom, or just his mom while she cooked or was reading or on her birthday when she blew out a candle.
Alina Martinez would want these. But first, I would find out what happened to her son.
My cell phone rang. I grabbed it.
“Hello.”
“It’s Rick. Jessica Oliver is the lead on financial crimes, said she’d be willing to meet after shift today.”
“Great, where? When?”
“She can be at Flannigan’s between 4:45 and 5:00?”
“I’ll be there.” I had been a bartender at Flannigan’s nine years ago while working to get my PI business off the ground; it was convenient for cops who lived north of downtown because it was on the way to all major freeways. “Give her my number if she needs to cancel. You going to be there?”
“Working,” he said. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
I looked at my watch. I was now running late, but if I left in the next fifteen minutes I’d be at the prison before 11:30 a.m. Iwanted to know who owned that Tesla. It was the only vehicle Elijah had photographed, which told me it was important.
I called my friend Harry Jorgenson. Harry was sixty and the definition of a crotchety old man. He reminded me of Mr. Wilson in the old comic strips—or in the movie played by Walter Matthau.
Harry worked at a Motor Vehicles Department annex. There were dozens of semi-private MVD’s where drivers could get their license, change title, and register their vehicle, among other things. They charged more for convenience and speed, because getting an appointment in the MVD took forever, and there were always lines. I’d met Harry shortly after I separated from the Army while in line at the VA. He had given thirty years to the Army. Over the years he had helped me with some sensitive situations. Like me, Harry was willing to bend—or break—the law if it helped someone in dire need.
He didn’t answer. I could ask Rick or Josie, but Phoenix PD tracked everything done on their computers, and if there ended up being a criminal investigation, it could jeopardize the case. Better to go through the back door.
I left Harry a message. “Hey, it’s Margo. Call me.”
