Flaw-Abiding Citizen (The Worst Detective Ever Book 6)

by Christy Barritt

  “And this Ted Montel guy?” I questioned.

  “He’s been leading the charge against this environmental group,” Sammy said. “Some of the leaders of Earth Mother absolutely hate him.”

  That was . . . interesting. Possibly not relevant, but interesting nonetheless. “Was he injured when the bomb exploded?”

  Sammy shook his head. “No, Ted wasn’t home. No one was hurt. But someone clearly sent a message.”

  “I’d say.”

  I chewed on that thought for a while, but only came to one conclusion: I was more confused than ever.

  Could I be reading too much into all of this? Assuming that events were connected when in reality they weren’t?

  I had no idea.

  As I walked out into the parking lot ten minutes later, I stopped cold.

  An old blue Ford F150 was parked there.

  It had been a long time since I’d seen that truck.

  It was my dad’s.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My next thought slammed with velocity into my mind. What if this was a trap? A setup?

  I glanced around the parking lot, but I didn’t see anyone. I only felt the brisk wind sweeping around me.

  The air was charged with something out of the ordinary—the promise of an impending storm. In fact, one storm that had been lingering had finally moved out to sea and another one had moved in to take its place. I’d heard that on a local news report playing on an overhead TV during lunch.

  I stepped closer to the vehicle.

  Are you sure it’s his truck, Joey? taunted an inner voice that sounded a lot like Samuel L. Jackson.

  I nodded. Yes, it was definitely my dad’s.

  There was a dent in his fender from where I’d backed into a holly tree in my front yard when I was eighteen. A bumper sticker that simply said “Fishing.” A scratch near the bumper was from a grill that had fallen over during a tailgate party. Yeah, that one had been my fault also.

  This truck held memories of hauling freshly cut Christmas trees and camping on autumn weekends and driving to church on Sunday mornings wearing my very best clothes.

  With a touch of hesitation, I walked to the window. I halfway expected to see my dad inside. Or a man with a gun who’d been hiding and waiting to lure me out.

  The cab was empty.

  I released my breath. There was no cause for alarm.

  So I should proceed.

  I gripped the handle and jerked it toward me.

  It didn’t budge.

  The door was locked.

  Cupping my hands against the glare of the sun, I peered inside, hoping desperately to see a clue somewhere in that interior.

  I saw nothing except . . . an exotic-looking tooth of some sort hanging from a leather string on the rearview mirror.

  What in the world?

  “Can I help you?” a deep voice said behind me.

  I jumped and twirled around, expecting to see Currie with a gun or the National Instigator reporter with a camera or . . . I had no idea. But I expected someone who’d exclaim a great big evil gotcha!

  Ivan stood there instead.

  I studied him a minute—his white hair, skeletal build, confused eyes. Did he have something to do with my dad’s disappearance?

  The man looked harmless . . . a helpful trait for any serial killer, I supposed.

  I licked my lips. “This is my dad’s.”

  He nodded, propping his hand against the back of the truck. “I know.”

  “Why . . . how . . . ” None of this made sense. Despite the fact that confusion was a common theme in my life, I was really confused this time.

  “Lew told me I could drive it for him.”

  I shook my head, feeling as if I’d been transported into an alternate universe. Only this one didn’t have Thor or Flash or any other cool superheroes.

  “You knew my dad?” I asked.

  “Of course. He always came out to eat with us.”

  “He was a Romeo?” Someone might as well have told me that my dad had posed shirtless for GQ. It was so weird to think about my dad being anything other than a dad.

  “Yes, he was one of us. I thought you knew.”

  I’d reprimand Ivan later about catcalling another member’s daughter. I was certain that broke some kind of internal rule.

  As my thoughts snapped in place, some of my confusion disappeared, replaced with an urgent hunger. “Ivan, I’m going to need more information here. When did my dad give his truck to you? What did he say? Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “Okay, now, slow down.” He raised a hand, acting like he’d encountered a wild mountain lion stalking helpless new prey. “I had no idea that driving his truck was a big deal.”

  “You do realize he’s been missing for eight months.” I tried not to sound irritated. I really did. But it was so hard.

  “Not missing. He went . . . away.”

  I stared at Ivan, wondering where this man had been for the last five months since I started investigating. This was the kind of information I needed, and it had been right in front of me. Kind of. Except I hadn’t met Ivan until today.

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  Ivan shrugged. “He didn’t tell me.”

  “What did he tell you, then?” My impatience was getting the best of me, and I knew it. I’d apologize later—and remind him about that catcall.

  “Lew said he needed to get away for a while, and he wasn’t telling many people. Said he needed to clear his head.”

  Clear his head? What did that mean? My dad was a tough-it-out kind of guy, not given to psychological mumbo jumbo or clearing his head. He was a worker bee who delighted in getting things done.

  “Was he acting normal before he left?”

  Ivan scratched his head. “Not particularly. I mean, I figured he was having woman troubles. Isn’t that why most men act weird?”

  I didn’t have time to go into that. “Can you be any more specific about how he was acting?”

  “He just seemed distracted. You know, like women make you.” He leaned closer. “You’re one of them, so I thought you’d understand.”

  I leaned against the truck. My sense of humor was as gone as an advertiser’s support for a product after a scandal. “Do you know who this mystery woman might be?”

  Ivan shook his head. “Nope. He wasn’t all fun and games when we tried to rib him about her, so we stopped.”

  Was it because he’d seen my mom? A sick feeling gurgled in my stomach at the thought.

  “May I see inside the truck?” I felt even sicker as I asked the question. I wasn’t sure what I feared I might find, but my nerves were raw and on edge.

  “Of course.” Ivan unlocked the front door, opened it, and waited for me to slide inside.

  The first thing I noticed was my father’s scent. His cologne—Old Spice—hung in the air still. I ran my hand over the dash, imagining him sitting here. Examined the worn areas on the steering wheel where he’d always placed his hands—at nine and three o’clock.

  Man, did I ever miss my father. I needed him in my life. Desperately. Just one hug from him and everything felt better. It was a superpower only a dad possessed. And I missed it so much that my soul hurt.

  My gaze fell on the tooth hanging from the rearview mirror. I touched the smooth curve of the fang-like incisor.

  It was the only thing out of place.

  The necklace was kind of scary and not anything like my dad.

  “Did you put this here?” I asked Ivan.

  He shook his head. “Nope, that was your father’s. He asked me to leave it there.”

  “To leave it here?” I repeated. “What is it?”

  “A crocodile, I think.”

  “Do you know the story behind it?”

  He shrugged apologetically. “No idea.”

  I went through the glove compartment, looked under the seat, and checked anywhere I could find.

  There was nothing.

  Against my better inst
incts—make that my better desires—I pulled out my phone.

  I had to let Jackson know about this update, whether I wanted to or not.

  Because my father’s life was more important than my hurt feelings.

  To my surprise, Jackson didn’t come to the Fatty Shack parking lot to check out my dad’s truck.

  He sent someone else instead. Detective Gardner.

  The fact left me feeling a little stupefied . . . and also made me wonder if Jackson was beginning to think that we were a bad idea also.

  That thought shouldn’t bother me because I was the one who’d put distance between us. Yet it was bothering me, because my emotions were obviously driving the car right now.

  My dad would say that was a surefire way to follow a road leading to destruction.

  Detective Gardner got the information from me, talked to Ivan, took some pictures. Another officer checked for fingerprints.

  They wouldn’t find anything.

  But the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about was that tooth. A crocodile tooth.

  Why in the world would my dad have put it there?

  And why would he have told Ivan not to take it down? It was almost like leaving it in plain sight was important.

  I rubbed my temples as Gardner wrapped things up.

  None of this was making sense right now.

  I just needed to get home and process things. Maybe take some driving lessons. Let Jesus take the wheel.

  To my surprise, Zane was already back at the condo and sitting on the couch eating carrots and hummus when I walked in.

  It was too soon for him to be back from his earlier showing. They could take hours.

  “It didn’t go well?” I asked.

  He shrugged and jammed a carrot into his dip. “Went okay. The couple had to leave though. The woman’s sister went into labor or something. They want to reschedule.”

  “At least they want to reschedule.” I tried to sound comforting, but I really didn’t have the energy. My own problems were consuming me.

  “At least.”

  I glanced at the wall beside me and flinched. “You hung it up.”

  The painting that Crista had given me. It was now on my wall, for all to see. Wasn’t that just . . . great?

  “I was trying to be helpful. I guess you went out shopping for some new décor?” He popped another carrot into his mouth.

  I shook my head, remembering that conversation with Crista. “No, someone gave it to me.”

  “I’ve been staring at it, and I still can’t figure out what it is. Though it looks vaguely familiar.”

  I stared at those gray crisscrossed lines myself. “I have no idea. Abstract art doesn’t have to be anything, right? It could just convey an emotion.”

  “Like confusion?”

  I nodded and looked away from the painting. Maybe the painting was my problem—its vibe was compounding my already crossed wires. “Exactly.”

  Zane shoved an empty container away. “Oh, and there was a paper at the front door when I got here.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “It’s on the table. I didn’t want the wind to blow it away.”

  I grabbed it. Normally, I’d be concerned about fingerprints, but there wouldn’t be any. I’d gotten enough of these bad boys to know that.

  I quickly unfolded the paper.

  It was just like I thought. Another note from my super-stalker fan club.

  This one was different from their usual fare. There was a name and only a name.

  Anita Briggs.

  Who was Anita? And why were they giving me her name?

  And the even bigger question was, how did this Anita lady fit into the abstract painting of my life, the one I called Confusion.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Did you find out anything about her yet?” I stared over Zane’s shoulder at the computer screen.

  I’d search myself, but my hands were trembling too badly, and I kept mistyping words. Words like “Anita” and “Briggs.”

  Instead I sat beside Zane on the couch as he held my laptop.

  “I don’t know. Here’s one listing for an Anita Briggs, and who knows if it’s the same person.” Zane clicked on it. “It says she was dating some man named Wilson Burrows.”

  “Who is Wilson Burrows?”

  “He’s a self-proclaimed media mogul. And by that, I mean that he owns a few online magazines and . . . oh, well, look at that. He owns Blasters.com.”

  “That new site that’s kind of like Amazon?”

  “That’s the one. He doesn’t look like a nice guy, does he?” Zane turned the screen toward me.

  The man there didn’t give off a friendly vibe. He was tall with dark hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. His blue eyes looked cold, and his suit and jewelry looked expensive enough that he may have had to sell his soul to buy it.

  “Okay, but what about Anita? I need to know more about her. Is there any more information? A picture?”

  He kept searching. “All I see are mentions about her being Wilson’s longtime girlfriend.”

  “There are really no photos?” I mean, everyone had photos out there, right? Selfies. Stealthies. Candids. Oopsies. There were so many types.

  “I don’t know. They’re all from a distance.” He turned the screen toward me again. “See.”

  The pictures were hard to see. They were not only from a distance, but the woman wore sunglasses and a floppy hat—or some variety of that—in each photo. Her hair was pulled back, so I couldn’t even tell what color it was.

  “A guy like that probably likes having his picture taken,” I said. “Especially with a beautiful woman. There has to be more photos out there.”

  “I’ll keep looking.”

  “And I need more than she’s just his girlfriend. Is that all that’s out there?” I nibbled on my fingernail as I nibbled also on the thought. Her name hadn’t been left on accident. How was she significant?

  “I assure you—I’m looking as fast as I can.”

  I frowned and raked a hand through my hair. “Sorry. It’s just been one of those days. One of those weeks.”

  “I get that.” Zane tapped a few more keys. “Here’s a little more information on Anita. She’s a former model. She’s in her fifties. And she’s from Georgia.”

  The truth swirled around in my brain somewhere, trying to find a good spot for landing, but I kept denying it clearance.

  “Oh, here’s a better photo!” Zane glanced back at me.

  As he did, I saw the picture.

  It was just as I’d feared. Anita Briggs was my mom.

  Even though I didn’t want to, I called Detective Gardner about the note.

  Thirty minutes later, Jackson showed up at my door.

  Seriously, I was beyond perplexed by all their poor portrayal of the Parent Trap movie. They were not twins, and I was not their mother.

  “Now you’re here?” I asked, standing at my door. “I called Gardner, assuming he was my contact now.”

  “I needed to stay with Ripley . . . among other things.”

  His face gave me little clue as to what that meant. No, his eyes remained steady, his lips straight, and his body language rigid.

  I knew what things were. Investigation type of things. Things that I wasn’t privy to.

  I mentally growled.

  “Who’s with Ripley now?” I asked.

  “Crista.”

  My eyes narrowed when he said her name. Why did she rub me wrong?

  Let me count the ways: possessive of Jackson, confrontational, gloating, a mean girl like Rachel McAdams from thus-named movie.

  “What’s wrong?” Jackson asked.

  I nodded to my wall, realizing I needed to explain myself before I looked petty. “She painted that for me.”

  Wrinkles formed on Jackson’s forehead as he stepped closer to it. “What is it?”

  “That’s what everyone would like to know.”

  He glanced at me, his eyes narrowing. “She just s
topped by and dropped it off?”

  “That’s correct. I don’t even know how she knew my address.” Unless Winston had told her. It was the only thing that made sense.

  “I certainly didn’t tell her.” Jackson paused, and I could see him thinking.

  Every time I saw him, I felt like my heart was breaking into a million pieces, and right now was no exception.

  We were halfway acting like things were normal, and things by no means were normal.

  Nothing was normal, and maybe nothing would ever be normal again.

  The thought caused another swell of sadness in me.

  “Look, Joey,” Jackson started, lowering his voice. “I know you need space. But I also know we’re going to need to interact at times. It’s my job. So why don’t we just keep things professional?”

  “That sounds fine.” It didn’t sound fine, because I felt like I was getting the short end of the stick here. But I needed to set that aside for my dad’s sake.

  “Certainly we’re both capable of separating our personal and professional lives.”

  “Totally. I mean, I’m the queen of compartmentalizing.” I mentally snorted at the thought. I couldn’t even compartmentalize my silverware half the time.

  Jackson stared at me another minute, and I could sense his thoughts turning and processing.

  “You said there was something I needed to see?” he finally said.

  “Here’s the note.” I handed him the paper.

  He glanced at the words before looking back up at me and nodding. “You said Anita is your mom?”

  I nodded, still flabbergasted. “She must have changed her name. She was—maybe is—dating Wilson Burrows, a guy who is apparently very wealthy.”

  “It’s something to go on at least.”

  I shrugged, hating how melancholy I felt. “I guess you’ll look into it.”

  “I will.” He shifted, that familiar tenderness sweetening his voice. “And Ivan Anderson was driving your dad’s truck this whole time? I can’t believe no one spotted him on the road. We looked for it.”