In the photos of him she found online, he had wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and a beard. She memorized his features, then checked some other information sites. It didn’t appear that he was married, or that he had children. He lived in a blond-brick house on Hillsdale Lane in Garland, east of the station.
She looked up a number for CBS 11 and called. When a receptionist answered, Jo asked for Atchison and was told he was tied up, but that she could leave a message on his voicemail. She waited until the woman transferred the call, and then she hung up. That gave her one answer she was looking for—Atchison was currently at the station. She didn’t know what hours news producers kept, but she suspected he’d be there most of the day, possibly into the evening. She’d try to talk to him there, and if that didn’t work, she’d keep a low profile for the day and talk to him when he went home. At least she hoped she would.
Melanie was sure to tell the police everything she’d told Jo, which meant that the police might be watching the station, wondering if Jo would show up to talk to him. They’d likely watch the station entrance, but they wouldn’t have resources to look everywhere.
Jo looked up the address. CBS 11 was located in the CBS Tower, a tall, cement-and-reflective-glass building on North Central Expressway. Other office buildings, a hotel, and an apartment complex stood nearby. She studied the area using the street view. Above a breezeway, a walkway connected the station offices from a parking garage, which was probably where Atchison’s vehicle would be. That presented a potential problem. If she had to wait for him to leave, how would she spot his vehicle? She checked the area from every angle visible, then formulated a plan. If Atchison used the parking garage, he could exit onto either the North Central Expressway, or onto Coit Road. The hotel sat across from the tower, where she could see the breezeway. If she spotted Atchison, she could follow.
Her Escape was a problem, though. She debated leaving it and renting another vehicle. But what if Holton—or worse yet, anyone else who might be after her—were monitoring her credit card activity? They’d know what vehicle she rented. She shook her head in disgust. It was a risk to keep driving the SUV, and a risk to rent a vehicle. After careful consideration, she settled on the SUV. That way, she wouldn’t have to waste time at a car rental agency, and she could focus on talking to Atchison.
Next, she searched online for a Walmart, finding one a few miles away. She started the SUV and exited the garage, taking a series of right turns to circle the building, but she didn’t see any cars tailing her. On the way to the store, she kept a watchful eye for any surveillance or law enforcement. She parked among the other vehicles in the lot, then went inside the Walmart and bought black tape, snacks, and water. After using the bathroom, she returned to the SUV, and when no one was watching, she altered a number and a letter on the license plate. Upon close inspection, it wouldn’t fool anybody, but if a squad car passed as she was driving, they might not notice the tape.
When she finished, she headed to the CBS Tower, keeping to the speed limit and following traffic rules, careful to not draw any attention to her vehicle. On the way, she saw a squad car approaching in the opposite lane. She turned her head as it drove by, then looked in the rearview mirror. It slowed, but then kept on.
Jo made a right onto a side street and meandered north, not seeing any more law enforcement vehicles. Once on US-75, she hit a snag in traffic, and several minutes later, she neared the CBS Tower. She exited the highway and approached on Coit Road, parking in the nearby hotel lot as she’d planned. She quickly spotted a sedan with someone inside parked down the street. It stayed put, and she guessed it was an unmarked vehicle.
She kept an eye on it, and the CBS Tower, as she called CBS 11 once more, asking for Atchison. He was still there, still busy, and she was offered his voicemail again. She declined and ended the call.
Across the street, the sedan remained in place. Jo stayed low and used the binoculars to study the vehicle. A man she didn’t recognize sat behind the wheel, a bored look on his face as he eyed the area. After watching for a few minutes, she knew he was a plainclothes detective, on surveillance. Looking for her? Trees shielded her vehicle, and she was sure he hadn’t noticed her. She hunkered down, ready for a long wait. Cars entered and exited the CBS Tower parking garage, and she was able to get good views of the drivers with the binoculars. Shadows grew longer as the sun lowered in the sky. Then a black BMW emerged from the parking garage, headed toward Coit Road. A man with blond hair and a beard was driving.
Atchison.
The BMW turned on Coit, and the sedan followed. Jo waited until a few cars had passed, then got onto Coit as well and followed. The sedan was several cars ahead, and Jo kept it in sight as it made its way onto US-75, soon exiting on Centennial Boulevard. She couldn’t see the BMW but assumed the sedan was tailing it.
They went east—Atchison was probably heading home. She was able to confirm that when the sedan turned into a quiet neighborhood full of single-story houses. Jo kept back a safe distance as the sedan parked at the end of Hillsdale Lane. She turned down an alley and made her way to the other end of the block, then turned, killed her headlights, and pulled up to the curb.
From this vantage point, she could see the front of Atchison’s house but not the sedan. The sun had vanished, leaving gray sky that quickly turned black. A light went on in Atchison’s living room window. Once the darkness was complete, Jo exited the SUV and crept down the alley until she could see the sedan, still at the other end of Hillsdale Lane. Seconds later, she saw movement, although the driver remained in the car. A bluish light periodically shone out the windows. He was on his phone.
Jo sneaked back toward the SUV, then ran another block, crossed Hillsdale Lane, and went into another alley. She carefully approached Atchison’s backyard, hearing little traffic and no people or pets. She hid next to a dumpster and watched the house, which was surrounded by a chain-link fence. It was too dark to see if Atchison had surveillance equipment installed. There was no doghouse, nor any other signs he might own pets. She couldn’t go to the front door, otherwise the police surveillance detective would see her. That meant trying the back door. She’d see if it was unlocked, and if so, she’d sneak inside. Otherwise, she would knock and see what Atchison did.
After a few more minutes of stillness, she stole to the gate. It opened quietly, and she stepped into the yard. A rectangle of light from sliding-glass doors barely illuminated a covered porch. She sidled along the fence toward the house, crossed the porch, and stepped up to the doors.
As she reached for the handle, Atchison appeared, aiming a Glock right at her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jo held up her hands and spoke quickly. “Don’t shoot. My name is Jo Gunning, and I need to talk to you about Trent Fontenot.”
She didn’t know how much he could hear through the glass doors. Her heart thumped, the noise heavy in her ears, drowning out everything else. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced past her. Sweat trickled into Jo’s eyes, but she didn’t wipe it away. He stared at her, the pistol still raised.
“Move and I shoot,” he said, his voice muffled.
She understood and stayed put. He approached, sliding open the door. He carried the Glock well—it was clear he knew how to use it. Jo continued talking fast, wondering if he’d already called the police.
“My name’s Jo Gunning,” she repeated. “I’m here about Trent. I just want to talk about him. I don’t have a gun.”
“Empty your pockets.”
Jo carefully took out her phone, cash, and credit card, as well as the knife. “I’m going to put them on the ground,” she said.
He nodded, and she carefully bent down and placed everything on the concrete. She turned her pockets inside out, then twisted slightly to let him see that she had nothing in her back pockets. Then she carefully raised her pant legs, showing him she didn’t have an ankle holster or any other weapons strapped there. She lifted her shirt as well. All the while, she kept talking.
“Did the police tell you about me?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you call them now?”
The pistol quivered in his hand. He was unsure what to do, and he looked scared—but not just at her presence. His gaze kept flitting to the yard, into the darkness. As the seconds ticked by, Jo found herself wondering about the police. If Atchison had called them, the detective in the sedan, or a squad car, should’ve shown up by now. Maybe she had a chance.
“You heard about the robbery at National Bank?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Yes,” he said, stretching the word out.
“I was there. I don’t buy that it was just a robbery. They were after something, and I wonder if it’s what Trent had in a safety deposit box there.”
“How do you know about him?” he snapped.
“I talked to another employee,” she said. “I think somebody was after what Trent had in that box, and that’s why he was murdered.” She was speculating, but he didn’t contradict her.
“Why didn’t you come to the front door?”
She nodded. “You’re under surveillance. A detective’s parked on the street.”
He swore softly. “Just them?”
That puzzled her. “Who else would it be?”
Atchison glared at her. “Why should I believe you? Who are you with?”
“I’m acting alone.” She still had her hands where he could see them, away from her sides. “Think about it. If there was someone with me, they’d have shot you by now.” He gulped but didn’t say anything, so she went on. “Because I was in that bank, I may be in danger, and my family as well. I only want a few minutes of your time. You know I talked to Trent’s girlfriend, right?”
He took a second, then nodded. The police had to have told him that, which explained why he knew about her.
“Melanie said Trent was working on a big story, and that he had to be careful,” she said. “Was that story putting him in danger?” Atchison hesitated. “Just five minutes,” she urged him. “Please.”
He continued to stare at her, then finally spoke. “Come inside, slowly. Keep those hands where I can see them.”
Jo left her belongings on the porch and stepped to the door. He backed up, the Glock still aimed right at her. He motioned for her to sit at a square table in a breakfast nook, while he stood by a refrigerator where he couldn’t be seen from the sliding glass doors, nor from the kitchen window, where he’d closed the blinds. She rested her hands on her thighs and looked at him. The kitchen was sterile, nothing on the counters, only a hint of something recently cooked in the air.
“Start talking,” he said.
“You’re suspicious of something as well,” she began, glancing to the yard. “How did you know I was outside? Cameras?”
He nodded. “They detected the motion and sent an alert to my phone.”
“But you didn’t call the police.”
Atchison shook his head. “They can’t help me.”
