Back in Lindy’s kitchen, she wiped her eyes with a tissue and said, “I can’t believe this.”
“So what happened, did Eddie call the police?”
She snorted. “Yeah, he called Keir’s buddy, Scooter. Also a member of the Keystone Fellowship.”
“Fuck,” I said.
“I feel sick. I’m such an idiot. It never crossed my mind that Joel would’ve put a tracker on my car.” But he had; the tracker was currently in her trash can, smashed to bits. “So all those times I went to the flower shop, thinking this was the one safe place where I could talk to Nadine—I was wrong.”
“Can I make you some tea?” I said gently, and Lindy nodded.
I filled a teakettle with water from the sink and put it on what I assumed was the burner of her glass-top stove.
“I do have some good news, about Nadine. She’s okay.”
“What do you mean? Did you talk to her?”
I found a store of tea bags in a kitchen cabinet and selected Moroccan Mint. “I saw her. This morning.”
Lindy drew in a sharp breath. “Where? Where is she? Is she all right? And Katie?”
“Yes. They’re in Canada. Safe. The whole situation is pretty delicate, but it seems like Keir’s ex-wife helped them get away from Joel. Aiden’s supposed to join them but there’s an issue with a passport. So I’m not entirely sure where he is.”
She began to cry again. “Does she hate me?”
“Lindy, no, why would you think that?”
“She could’ve asked me for help—I just—I wanted nothing more than to help her get away from him. She must not trust me at all.”
A thin stream of steam came from the teakettle, and I lifted it off the burner just before it began to whistle. “No, it isn’t like that. Rebecca used to be a member of the Fellowship. She understood it in a different way than either of us could. And, besides. She used the fake camera you gave her on me,” I said. I lifted the hem of my shirt to show her the stun gun’s bite.
Lindy let a small laugh escape. “Ouch.”
“Yes.”
“What did it feel like?”
“Terrible. But the point is, she kept that, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. I don’t know if that makes you feel any better or not.”
She wiped her eyes with the tissue again. “What do we do now?”
I poured hot water over tea bags in two mugs. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”
“Do you think Joel did something to him? To Keir?”
“I don’t know. After talking to Nadine, I definitely believe that she believes he’s capable of it. But there’s still something here that I’m not seeing yet and I feel like Aiden is at the center of it.”
Lindy sipped her tea. “If Joel did hurt Keir, what’s to stop him from trying to come here? Or my kids—” She stopped, her face seizing up in fear.
* * *
Lindy’s kids, Molly and Finn, were delighted to be pulled out of school with no apparent warning, then alarmed to see their mother in public without makeup. “Jeez, what happened? Is it Grandma?” Molly said, sliding into my backseat.
“No, honey,” Lindy said. She reached backward to clasp her daughter’s knee. “It’s kind of a long story, and maybe it’s nothing. But we’re going to stay with Uncle Connor.”
“Yes!” Finn said. He was the younger of the two, a high school freshman with curly hair that he wore a little too long. “Do you think he’ll let me go on the pole?”
Lindy glanced at me. “Finn wants to be a fireman someday too.”
“There’s nothing to do at his house though,” Molly said. “He doesn’t even have internet!”
“No, but he’s exactly who you’d want to be with if you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Well, I am.”
“Of what?”
“Nothing you have to worry about, baby.”
I saw Molly’s eyes narrow at me in my rearview mirror. She clearly believed that her internet-less future was all my doing. “She’s that lady who came to the door the other day.”
“Yes.”
“Who is she and why are we going to Connor’s house?”
“This is my friend Roxane,” her mother explained.
“Since when do you have a friend?”
Lindy sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Have either of you talked to your cousin Aiden lately?”
Both kids shook their heads. Molly said, “This is the weirdest day.”
I said, “Tell me about it.”
* * *
After Lindy and her kids were safely ensconced at her brother’s place, I drove out to Keir Metcalf’s house. The Escalade was still in the driveway, but the door was closed now. Most interestingly, an unmarked car sat at the end of the driveway and I could see Scooter’s silvery, gelled-up hair in the beams of my headlights as I drove by.
I drove by the Keystone Fellowship compound and found a similar sight—a tan unmarked car just outside the gates.
Joel Creedle’s house was dark, no vehicle in the driveway.
Rebecca Newsome’s place had a vehicle out front, but I didn’t pay it any mind because I was on her street for Arlene French’s house.
I still chose to pull a baseball cap low over my eyes before I got out of my SUV.
“Oh yes, dear, here’s everything,” Arlene said, using a slippered foot to nudge a milk crate out from under a plastic bench in her enclosed side porch. “I’ve been going over once every few days to get it since she passed—I just don’t think it’s right to let it pile up like that.”
“That’s kind of you.” I lifted the crate onto a hip and tried not to wince. “But you know what, I think you should leave it from now on. Until you talk to Maggie about what she wants to do with it.”
* * *
“You’re going to be feeling that for a few days,” Tom said after I’d told him about the stun-gun camera. “Those are no joke. Well, I mean, a camera-shaped Taser might be, but I’m sure the pain from it isn’t.”
“You ever use a Taser on someone?” I was on the motel bed, a makeshift compress of ice wrapped in a washcloth on my side while I sorted through the mountain of Rebecca’s mail.
“Not on duty. But at the academy, we all had to take turns getting stunned, getting maced. Oh, and shot by a rubber bullet. I’m not sure if this will make you feel better or worse, but I’d prefer the rubber bullet or the Mace.”
“That does not make me feel any better.” Much of the mail was sheets of those crumpled-up Arby’s coupons that nobody wants, and bulk-mail postcards for carpet cleaning.
“Happy to help,” Tom said, and I smiled.
“If you happened upon a car with the door open and the keys inside, but no driver—what would you think?”
“That the driver fled the scene of the accident.”
“No accident. It’s in the driveway of the owner’s house.”
“That’s different, then.”
“So?”
“Is the owner a little old lady or some big, burly guy?”
“Not that it strictly matters, I don’t think, but more along the lines of a burly guy.”
“Evidence of a struggle?”
“No.”
“And I take it the guy can’t be reached by phone, and isn’t in the house?”
“Correct. His phone is actually in the car, too. So he left his phone and his keys. But—he took his gun.”
“Or someone did.”
I swept a stack of expired coupons back into the milk crate. “That’s a good point. The owner might not have been the one that left the car like that. But who did?”
“I’m guessing we’re not talking hypotheticals here.”
“I want to come home.”
“So do it.”
“I can’t. My case isn’t solved. It’s actually getting progressively more unsolved the longer I work on it.”
“You always think that at some point. Usually right before you figure it out.”
“I
don’t think that’s true at all.”
“Come home. Tomorrow.”
“Maybe.”
“Your client’s mother died here, not up there. Maybe there’s something left unexplored in this neck of the woods.”
Speaking of my client, I realized that she’d ignored my attempts to reach her for another full day. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Listen, Roxane.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to say about the other day I’m not sure I can take it right now, post-tasing. I know that this is all me. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Just come home. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I’d gone through about half of the mail and was sick of it already, so I hastily shoved some of it onto the floor with enough force to fan it out.
I immediately saw a flat Priority Mail envelope addressed to Aiden Brant, c/o Rebecca Newsome.
If I had known that would work, I would’ve tried it first.
I tore the envelope open—what’s a bit of mail fraud between friends—and pulled out Aiden’s passport and two pamphlets about international travel.
The date on the postage sticker indicated that the package had been shipped two days before Rebecca fell.
So the passport had probably been sitting in Arlene’s porch since even before Rebecca had died, and Aiden had been waiting for it for no reason.
I set the small blue booklet on the nightstand and decided to go through the rest of the mail while I was at it, energized by the small success. What if Rebecca had gotten a letter marked “CLUE” or something? If not, at least I could organize her bills into some semblance of order for Maggie to deal with whenever she felt up to it. Then I separated the remaining envelopes into three piles: bills, junk, and miscellaneous. I avoided the urge to commit additional mail fraud until I came across an envelope from Motor City Towing, postmarked a few days earlier.
This letter is to inform you, your CHEVY LUMINA, License number EV55YJ (OH), has been impounded and towed from 104 LAFAYETTE ST by MOTOR CITY TOWING to 156 DAVISON STREET. The cost of the Tow is $125; administration fee $50, and storage accumulates on the vehicle at $15 a day until claimed …
I had a sinking feeling in my gut. When I’d realized that Aiden’s car was no longer parked at the St. Clair Club, I had assumed that it was because he’d left. That was why I checked in Rebecca’s garage for him multiple times—I figured he would come back here eventually. But this told me that the car had actually been towed, leaving Aiden stranded in Detroit without a vehicle.
Hiding out in Rebecca’s garage had seemed like a bad situation for him to be in, but now it looked like a best-case scenario.
CHAPTER 30
I left another voice mail for my client while I had a breakfast of yogurt and toast in the cramped motel lobby—I’d slept too late to get any mini muffins, apparently. With a lidless cup of tea sloshing around in my cupholder, I drove up to Detroit again to see about the car.
The tow pound was on a corner lot of Davison Street on a block that also offered a decrepit railroad track and the citywide juvenile detention center. The sign advertised TOWING • AUTO PARTS • USED CARS, which made me wonder if all of their business came from the same unlucky vehicle owners. It was a dirty place outside and in; the small office smelled like motor oil and burned coffee and hungover, angry people, two of whom were currently arguing with the impassive man behind the counter.
“We parked right beside the sign,” a woman was saying, her eyes hidden behind mirrored aviators. “The sign that said the parking-zone number. Why would there be a sign right there if you can’t park there?”
“Look, lady,” the employee said, “I don’t decide who gets towed. I just tell you, it’s one twenty-five, cash only.”
The woman’s companion flung out his arms in disgust. “And I just tell you, we don’t have any cash.”
The employee pointed at an ATM in one corner. “Cash.”
“The transaction fee is fifteen dollars!”
It seemed that the two of them were arguing two separate points, both of which did appear to be valid. But I needed the employee’s help, so I paid the fee and put the cash in my pocket while the hungover couple continued to argue with him for a while.
“Come on, I’d rather spend fifteen dollars on another Uber to go to a normal ATM machine than pay that fucking fee.”
The couple stomped out of the office, the door slamming shut behind them with a cheerful chime.
“You wanna fight too?” the employee said. He was at least a foot taller than me, muscular under grease-stained grey coveralls with a name embroidered above the chest pocket: TAD. He spoke with an accent of a distant Eastern European variety.
“I just want to get this car.”
I handed over the letter.
Tad took the paper between two massive fingers. “You got ID?”
I thought for a second about how to get around that particular detail. “It’s not my car,” I said, “I’m just here to pick it up.”
He pointed to a sign. ID MATCHING REGISTRATION IS REQUIRED BEFORE VEHICLE WILL BE RELEASED TO YOU.
“Unfortunately, that won’t be possible,” I said, “you see, the owner of the car passed away.”
“And you are, what, the daughter of this Rebecca Newsome?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have some ID with this name.”
“No, my ID has my married name.”
Tad’s eyes flicked to my naked ring finger. He was pretty good. “Nice try.”
“Look,” I said, “if you don’t release this car to me, no one else is going to come get it. Then you’ll just end up storing it forever without seeing a penny. And if you think you’ll sell it at auction at some point, nobody’s going to want an almost twenty-year-old beater. Nor the parts from one.”
Tad ran a hand through his hair, thick and longish in a didn’t-bother-to-get-it-cut way rather than a sartorial choice. “Nah.”
“Nah?”
“I will not release the car to you.”
I sighed. “Not even after I pay the towing fee of, what did you say it was, two twenty-five?”
He scrunched up his nose. “One twenty-five, and, no.”
“I’m trying to help you out here.”
“I don’t think that’s what you doing.”
“I’m a private investigator, and I work for Rebecca’s daughter. How about that?” I flashed my license.
“And where is she?”
“Ohio,” I said. “Columbus. She has a new baby. She can’t drive all the way up here over this.”
“Let’s call her then.”
“Jesus, I had no idea tow pounds were so concerned with ethics.”
“The world is a messy place. I just try to keep my part nice and clean.”
I rattled off Maggie’s number as Tad dialed. But my client didn’t answer for him, either.
He replaced the grimy handset into the cradle. “Sorry, too bad.”
“Could I just look in the car?”
“Why?”
“My client’s, um, passport might be in the glove box. That’s all this is about. I just need the passport.”
Tad shook his head. “Honesty is the best policy.”
I sighed again. “When this car was towed, a sixteen-year-old kid from Toledo had been driving it. Now I don’t know where he is, only that he’s now without a car. I’m hoping something in the car can clue me in as to where he went.”
Tad thought about this, then nodded. “Okay. You can look. Five minutes.”
* * *
The Lumina was parked at the far edge of the lot, its rear bumper smushed against the rusty chain-link fence. The vehicles on either side of it were parked so close I couldn’t get either front-side door open and had to reach in to crank the window down. My new friend Tad escorted me to the back of the lot and stood in a muddy aisle with his arms crossed over his chest, watching with amusement as I contorted myself into the vehicle thr
ough the passenger-side window.
“Four minutes,” Tad said, tapping his wristwatch.
I opened the glove box first: paperwork, manual, a bottle of Tylenol.
The footwell of the passenger seat contained another of the embroidered shirts from the school, some fast-food wrappers, and a skateboard.
The backseat offered a black hoodie and a pair of Chuck Taylors that were held together with duct tape. I pushed down the armrest, hoping this particular GM allowed access to the trunk through the backseat like a car my father had.
It did.
I shifted my body so that one foot was on the floor and one knee balanced on the seat. Then I shined the flashlight from my phone into the trunk.
It was mostly empty, save for a case of Mountain Dew cans and a Walmart bag.
I stuck my arm through the gap and reached for it.
The Walmart bag contained six brand-new flash drives still in their packaging, and the empty package from a seventh.
I spread them out on the backseat.
Different brands, different storage capacities, but they were all red.
“Two minutes.”
I found the receipt from the purchase balled up in the hoodie pocket.
Ten days ago, Aiden had bought the twenty-four pack of Mountain Dew, a package of teriyaki beef jerky, and fifty bucks’ worth of flash drives at a Walmart near Ottawa Hills. The time stamp said 3:14 in the morning.
“What the fuck,” I muttered.
Tad said, “Okay, time’s up.”
After snapping photos of the flash-drive packages and the receipt, I leveraged my body through the window again—more difficult to do in reverse—and returned to the tow yard’s office with Tad.
* * *
The St. Clair Club was the last place I’d seen Aiden. I doubted he was just hanging out there, but I hoped someone inside might know something. However, I was wearing jeans. I stopped at the Madewell on Woodward Avenue and grabbed a pair of olive-green wide-leg trousers, a striped shirt, and some oxblood loafers off the sale rack. In the small fitting room, I undressed quickly, then paused to examine the place where the stun gun had gotten me. The red welt had turned into a proper bruise overnight, and I could tell I was going to be feeling this particular kiss for a while. But there wasn’t time to feel sorry for myself at the moment.
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