“It’s possible,” Bayne said.
“What about LPRs?” Carillo said. “You’ve got license plate readers in the city and about twenty other Cleveland suburbs?”
“We have searched them for New York plates of all vehicles linked to either Greg Griffin or Brooke Bollman without results,” Bayne said. “We’re still searching, but to what end? The LPRs are not on every access point. So they can’t read every potential plate.”
“They just have to read the right one,” Carillo said.
Bayne looked at him.
“That’s a hope and a wish, isn’t it?”
Bayne’s hair was tied into a tight ponytail, accentuating her taut expression. She glanced to her sergeant, then the other county detective. Tapping her pen on a thick file folder, she looked at Carillo and Kozak then made a pronouncement.
“You know, we’ve looked extensively at your case, at the key facts and every aspect you’ve provided us,” Bayne said. “Given all the evidence against the husband, Greg, who stands to gain several hundred thousand dollars in insurance money—well, to be frank, we, and our prosecuting attorney, are wondering why you haven’t charged him.”
“We’ve gone over it all a hundred times,” Kozak said. “It’s all circumstantial. A charge would not hold up.”
“It seems apparent to us,” Bayne said, “that she was running from an abusive situation with an unfaithful spouse.”
“But at this point,” Kozak said, “we don’t have a solid piece of evidence linking him to her disappearance. And you cannot place him here at the time of her death. Nothing we have is conclusive. And, to be frank, it’s dangerous to form a conclusion then try to make the circumstances support it. We cannot rule out other avenues.”
“Really?” Bayne’s eyebrows climbed a little.
“I think,” Bayne’s sergeant said, intervening, “all of us need to keep working and following up.”
“Look, Detective Bayne,” Carillo said, “maybe there’s something we all missed along the line. Maybe it’s in New York. Maybe it’s in the area where she ran onto the freeway. Maybe we missed something there?”
Bayne gave him the beginnings of an eye roll.
“That area’s been thoroughly searched.” Bayne closed her laptop. “But you’re welcome to go poke in it again.”
So here they were, picking through the desolate region of vacant lots, with their heaps of earth, bricks, long-dead appliances, furniture, cast-off car tires, and mufflers, in an urban graveyard of long-forgotten dreams.
A sudden rattling of metal and glass sounded nearby.
Kozak waved to Carillo and they walked to it, passing around several mounds, coming to a figure in a long, heavy coat over torn jeans, boots, and a pulled-up hoodie, plucking cans from a pile, dropping them into a shopping cart.
Aware they were being watched, the figure stopped to look at Kozak, with Carillo behind her.
The can collector was a man. Deep lines were carved into his leathery weatherworn face, disappearing into a wild beard. His age could’ve been anywhere from thirty to sixty, Kozak thought.
“Can you help me?” she said.
Shaking his head, the man worked, cans clattering in his cart.
Kozak reached into her wallet, extended a twenty-dollar bill. The man glanced at it, ignoring her. Then she produced her phone, stepped closer. He took a step back.
“It’s okay,” she said, holding out the phone with Jennifer’s photos. “Please take a look at this woman. Have you seen her around here?”
He stepped closer to look. A breeze delivered the strong reek of alcohol. He looked and Kozak swiped, showing him more photos. But the man shook his head, stepped back, resumed his work.
Kozak thought for a moment, extended the twenty.
“This is yours.” She smiled. “Thank you for your time.”
He stopped, raised his arm, and pointed. Kozak and Carillo followed his direction to an underpass about a hundred yards away with a patch of blue at the summit, where a sloping retaining wall met the underbelly of the multilane overpass.
“She might know,” the man said.
“Up there?”
The man nodded.
Kozak and Carillo assessed what appeared from the distance to be a makeshift tent.
“All right, thank you,” Kozak said, holding out the twenty. “Please, this is yours.”
The man accepted the bill and the detectives trekked to the underpass. They trudged over a downed chain-link fence amid the rumbling of traffic on the elevated freeway before coming to two shopping carts at the base of the small encampment. Leaning forward, she started up the great, sloping retaining wall.
“You want us to climb up there?” Carillo said.
“Got to pursue all leads, partner. Stay there and guard the carts if you can’t make it.”
“Hang on. I’m right behind you.”
They ascended the incline, fast-food bags fluttering nearby, pushed by the whine, gusts, and flow of the traffic rushing above them. The air was heavy, the retaining wall stained with guano, sewage, water, and urine. They reached their destination, a collection of heavy blue plastic tarps forming a lean-to shelter. A thick foam mattress serving as a floor stuck out. Blankets fixed to a line of twine made for the curtained entrance.
The detectives stood a few yards away, Carillo catching his breath as pigeons cooed and the traffic thundered overhead.
“Hello?” Kozak called.
Nothing but the traffic and the crackling of the tarps lifting in the wind.
Kozak moved closer.
“Hi, if you’re in there, we need your help.”
Nothing.
Carillo nodded for Kozak to open the curtain but before she could, there was movement, then the blanket was drawn and a woman’s face appeared.
She might have been in her fifties, gray hair curled under a woolen cap, a coat over a clean plaid flannel shirt and turtleneck. She was alert, with sharp eyes behind glasses. Kozak caught the smell of something pleasant, like laundry detergent.
“What do you want?”
“Only your help.”
Her quick eyes took stock of Kozak and Carillo.
“You want me to help you?”
“Yes.”
“Help you with what?”
Kozak held out her phone with Jennifer’s photos.
“Have you ever seen this woman in this area recently?”