Chapter 19: Haley

Monday, June 22th

I jogged up to the guest house, pacing on the driveway to cool down from my morning run. Since coming to Portland, I kept pushing myself to run faster, longer, and I felt stronger. I had a sudden flashback to running with Knox and almost laughed aloud at the memory of the morning I challenged him to a race.

We were nearly neck-and-neck when a dog unexpectedly popped into his path; instead of dodging it, he leapt over it like a hurdle. I was so shocked by his quick reflexes that he easily passed me and won. Grinning broadly, Knox scooped me up and threw me over his shoulder, refusing to put me down as I laughed the entire three-block walk to the loft.

Despite my determination to block out everyone I left behind in California, I often found myself wondering about them, Tyler and Kara included. I had really enjoyed Kara’s, albeit brief, friendship and was sad to give up yet one more of my precious few friends. Has she asked the guys where I am? And how would they explain my absence?

After a shower, I sat down to breakfast with my laptop and opened Dad’s file for the two years preceding his disappearance. Over time, I had read the fifty or so cases it contained, mainly out of curiosity, but I always focused on the information relating to the organization DuBois was active in. Parsing through the information over the past few weeks had yet to reveal anything that seemed particularly useful, but I was trying not to get discouraged.

I sighed and opened the folder with scanned copies of handwritten notes Dad made while undercover. Unfortunately, since they had never been incorporated into a formal report, they were somewhat disorganized. At least I’m not scheduled to work until late afternoon, I thought, trying not to feel daunted by the task before me.

Piecing Dad’s notes together chronologically, I started building a timeline. Prior to his disappearance, Dad pursued several avenues of information, vigilantly collecting the evidence necessary to take down DuBois and his organization. One of his regular activities involved following a known associate of DuBois and logging the details of his movements. Many of the locations seemed benign, but over time, Dad focused on occasions when the associate visited The Punching Bag.

The Punching Bag, I thought. Why does that sound familiar? I closed my eyes, scanning my memory. I could have sworn that I had seen the name before, in Dad’s file, in fact. Ignoring it for the moment, I continued skimming the notes, and it became clear that Dad suspected the gym was being used as a cover for drug distribution.

With a few pages left, I couldn’t stop thinking about the gym name. Besides, the rest of the notes seemed like more of the same. I noted my place and then clicked through a few of the other case files, skimming one or two before landing on a murder that occurred less than a year before Dad’s disappearance. Although the case was later assigned to another detective, it remained unsolved and there hadn’t been any updates in nearly a decade.

Everything about the victim, Danny Franco, from his appearance to his known associates, was catalogued in great detail. Franco worked as a mechanic and was a member of The Punching Bag, which he visited regularly, especially in the months leading up to his death. Ding ding, I thought, feeling satisfied.

The victim’s girlfriend was interviewed on several occasions after his death, and the only thing of note in her statements was the mention of a man who visited their apartment several times late at night to discuss business. Unfortunately, she supposedly didn’t know any particulars of their meetings, and her description of him was so vague it was laughable—“medium build, dark hair.” Did the mystery man have something to do with Franco’s death?

While nothing in the Franco file mentioned DuBois, the reference to The Punching Bag made me suspicious that the two were somehow linked. I glanced through the inventory and then the additional notes. 7643892. 7643892. Tapping my fingers on my knee, I repeated it to myself several times, knowing I had seen it recently.

I hastily reopened the file on DuBois. Scanning the documents for 7643892, I felt elated when I finally discovered a match—764-3892. Yet, in Franco’s file it was listed as a single string of numbers, 7643892.

I was trying not to get too excited over something seemingly minute, but between the gym name and now this identical seven-digit number, it left little doubt in my mind that Franco and DuBois were connected somehow. Was it a bank account? Considering Franco’s accounts were all listed on a separate inventory, it seemed unlikely. Seven digits was closer to a phone number, especially since at the time, area codes weren’t necessarily in common use. But perhaps it was something else entirely. Unfortunately, it had been such a minor point in the investigation that there was no further information.

I need to talk to Dad, I thought, concern and anger swirling through me at his lack of contact. I hadn’t heard from him since the Vegas trip in March, and every day that went by without a new text message only increased my anxiety. I was so fed up with the situation. No longer watched by the guys or within geographic proximity of DuBois or Douglas, I made up my mind—the next time Dad contacted me on the Batphone, I was going to demand that we meet. I had no idea where he was, or how long it would take to set up, but I refused to take no for an answer.

After lunch and trimming my bangs, I biked over to the coffee shop for my shift. I had already touched up my dark color once since coming to Portland, but it was going to need another coat of “Jet Blue Black” soon. The color had grown on me some, and while I still preferred my natural hue, glancing at my reflection felt less like looking at a stranger.

“You seem different today,” Noah said as I wiped down the counter at the coffee shop. There were a few lingering customers, but the shop was fairly deserted this time of day.

I shrugged but didn’t otherwise respond. I still missed the guys terribly, but my discovery this morning left me feeling more invigorated than I had in weeks. Now I just needed to talk to Dad.

“No, really, Brooke. It’s like there’s a fire burning in those eyes of yours that wasn’t there before. Hmm,” he tapped his chin with his finger, “you’re not getting back with your mysterious ex, are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. I had never elaborated on the specifics of my “breakup,” but Noah was caring and didn’t want to see me hurt again.

I rolled my eyes and laughed. “No, we haven’t spoken in months.” More like eight weeks and two days, but who’s counting?

“New man in your life?” he asked, batting his lashes hopefully, flirtatiously, before I swatted at him with my towel. I honestly couldn’t imagine dating anyone. My heart was still too full of memories of Chase, Knox, Theo, Jackson, Liam—and, yes, even Ethan—to even contemplate it.

Over the past few weeks, Noah and I had spent a lot of time together at work; I was grateful for such an easy-going and fun co-worker. He was an incorrigible flirt, but once I made it clear I wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship, he backed off.

“I’ve been watching this crazy show on Netflix, Making a Murderer. Have you heard of it?” I asked, changing the subject as I refilled the stack of coffee cups. Noah was studying criminal justice, and I had been trying to figure out a way to ask him questions related to my dad and DuBois without raising his suspicion. The last thing I wanted to do was get anyone else involved in this mess.

“Um, yeah. We saw a clip in one of my classes last semester and I knew I had to watch it. Have you finished it yet?”

“Not yet, so no spoilers,” I said sternly, prompting Noah to mime zipping his lips shut. “I do have some questions about it, though, since you’re the criminal justice expert and all.”

“Shoot.”

“So, clearly it’s possible to appeal an old case if you’re the accused, but what if no one has been accused? What happens with a case that’s gone cold and was never brought to trial?”

“Well, there would have to be enough evidence to charge someone with the crime, and the crime has to be within the statute of limitations; otherwise, you’re out of luck.”

“So the statute of limitations . . . it’s like a cut-off for charging someone with a crime?”

“Exactly.”

“Is there a time limit for charging someone with murder?”

“For the most part, no.”

“What about drugs?”

“Drugs are trickier because there are a number of factors that come into play—state versus federal laws, whether the offense is considered a felony or not, etcetera.”

“That doesn’t really seem fair,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound bitter. “If you do the crime, shouldn’t you do the time?”

“I agree, but the law has to balance a number of competing interests in the pursuit of justice.”

“That’s a rather philosophical attitude,” I said skeptically, weighing Noah’s answers in my mind. While I would love to nail DuBois for every terrible thing he had done, apparently Dad needed to find recent evidence against him or somehow prove he’d committed murder to put him away for good.