The Hunt. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
other time.”
I said goodbye and cut the connection. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. I had no doubt Harding was busy, but I’d never known him to pass up a free meal. The issue was he didn’t want to be seen with me. I guess I couldn’t blame him. A reporter who hired me as his bodyguard for a couple of weeks not long ago ended up murdered on my watch. It wasn’t my fault, exactly, but plenty of people still blamed me, Harding among them.
Although I recalled that hadn’t kept him from running with the inside details of the reporter’s death I passed along when the truth came to light. It was OK. We both had jobs to do.
I was mapping out the distance to Mount Alexandria and Jessica Byrnes’s mom’s house when my phone rang. Caller ID blocked.
“Mr. Hayes? Darlene Bardwell. Have I reached you at a convenient time?”
“Depends what you’re trying to sell me.” I knew I should recognize the name but was unable to place her. Voice confident, with a tinge of huskiness, as if she talked a lot.
“Very good, very good. I’ve heard about your sense of humor. Truthfully, I was hoping I could invite you to lunch. To discuss a case you’re working on. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Case?”
“Jessica Byrnes? Her brother Bill is one of my constituents. He contacted me about his sister. When I talked to him he mentioned you.”
Bardwell. Of course. The congresswoman who’d been going after Reardoor.com and the other personals sites.
I cleared my throat. “We talked, yes,” I said, in my best imitation of a guy who gets calls from congresspersons any old time. “And I am trying to find Jessica. Without much luck right at the moment.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I understand how difficult these cases can be. Especially now, with everything going on . . .” Her voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell if the pause was rehearsed or if she was exuding real emotion.
“As you may know,” she continued, when I didn’t reply, “I sit on the House Special Committee on Human Trafficking. I wanted to speak to you in that capacity about Jessica. And to see if there’s any way my office could assist you. I know it’s late notice—any chance you’re free this afternoon?”
I thought for a second. I’d intended to head to Mount Alexandria to find Jessica’s mom and stepdad. On the other hand, I didn’t get calls like this very often.
“That could work. But what do you mean by assist?”
“Anything I can do to help. This hits home, with Bill in my district and all. His sister is a perfect example of the women we’re trying to help.”
“Have you talked to Columbus police? Or the FBI? They’re the ones who really need the help.”
“I’ve interacted with several stakeholders. The mayor, the chief, the sheriff. The special agent in charge for the region. Pretty much everyone.”
“I’m not sure what I could tell you that you don’t already know. And any assistance should really go to them first.”
“I understand that. And you have my word I’m not bigfooting them. But when I get involved in something, this is standard operating procedure. I try to cover all the bases.”
Standard operating procedure. The phrase I’d used with Bill Byrnes when he questioned why I needed to call his mother. An interesting coincidence. Maybe her way of calling my bluff. And what was there to lose, anyway? A congresswoman could probably help me, and I’d played fair by checking she wasn’t doing an end run around the professionals.
“All right. Where can I meet you?”
“Do you know TAT Ristorante di Famiglia? On James?”
I confessed that I did. We arranged a time.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayes. I look forward to it.”
“Call me Andy.”
“See you in a bit,” she said.
After I hung up I turned to my laptop and Googled Bardwell. I studied the results as I sipped my coffee. She was forty-one, blonde, hair worn in a professional bob, favored dark suits and pearl necklaces. A champion diver in college and a former Miss Ohio. Married, two kids, her husband an ex–TV anchor turned PR consultant. A Republican in her third term, antiabortion but with concerns about climate change. The perfect central Ohio middle-of-the-roader. Also, I noted with interest, on a couple of watch lists for a potential U.S. Senate run next year. Against a Democrat with some semi-serious baggage.
One thing was sure, I thought, clicking on her official bio picture to enlarge it. Whether she could help me or not, I could do worse for a lunch date.
13
I HAD A FEW HOURS BEFORE OUR MEETING and decided to head back to the hospital. It was the best visit so far because my dad was asleep for most of it. My mom barely acknowledged me, and Shelley did all the talking. It was with a sense of guilty relief that I made my excuses to leave for lunch with the congresswoman. The temperature had risen back into the upper forties, and I decided to wait outside the restaurant. Bardwell arrived six minutes late. She shook my hand firmly and thanked me for meeting her. She was as attractive as her bio and picture suggested. The man she was with was not nearly as good-looking.
“John Blanchett,” she said, making introductions. “John runs my Columbus office. He’s putting together an event we’re doing tomorrow night. Something I was hoping you could come to. A vigil for the victims. I thought it might be useful if he joined us today, maybe pick your brain.” She was peppy, with a take-charge attitude that went well with her Miss Ohio good looks. A person I was guessing was not used to taking no for an answer.
“Nice to meet you,” I said to Blanchett, chastising myself for the slight annoyance I felt at his presence. But in my defense, Bardwell was very pretty.
“You as well,” Blanchett said, his handshake strong and professional. “Do you still go by Woody?”
“Not for a long time. Andy’s fine.”
“And call me John. It’s good of you to be here.”
Indeed, I thought, casting a glance at the back of the congresswoman’s slim figure as we went inside. The maître d’ paid appropriate homage to a politician who might be running for the Senate, and we were seated quickly in the closest purple booth. Blanchett beamed. Bardwell unleashed a strategically humble-yet-grateful smile. I tried not to look like a security guard.
“Thanks again for meeting with us,” Bardwell said after waters and menus were delivered.
“You’re welcome. I’m still not sure how I can help.”
“Perhaps you could tell us a little more about your investigation.”
“So far there’s not much to report.” As I spoke, Blanchett pulled a small, black leather notebook from the left breast pocket of his coat, opened it, and looked at me inquiringly. I nodded, and as he took notes I gave them the basics about Jessica, Mount Alexandria, Jessica’s record, and her disappearance from the court intervention program. I mentioned my canvassing of East Main and the Rest EZ and the parole/probation officer.
When I finished, Bardwell said, “But still no idea where Jessica could be? Or do you think—”
I waited a moment before replying. “Do I think she’s dead? I have no idea. I hope not. For Bill’s sake, if nothing else. And her son.” Bardwell looked at me quizzically, and I explained about Robbie.
“How sad,” she said. “But what a noble gesture by her brother.”
“Yes,” I said, recalling Theresa’s immediate suspicion of Bill and what he might have done to his sister. “The thing is, Jessica’s been gone a while. That doesn’t bode well. Best case, she’s