by T. R. Ragan
The police had brought Mr. Montana in for questioning, and, of course, Ben had done his own thorough investigation, but everything had pointed to Vernon Doherty and his long list of criminal activity.
Two recent discoveries had changed all of that.
One, Sophie Cole used to steal cars. And two, she didn’t have a car the night she’d stormed out of the house, but somehow she’d managed to get all the way to Auburn.
One quick search in the right database was all it had taken for Ben to discover that Caleb Montana had a son named Lucas, whose driving record at the time was less than stellar, including joyriding and underage driving; in both cases his parents had been forced to pay a hefty fine.
Which brought him to his meeting with Lucas Montana, a twenty-five-year-old rookie insurance salesman in Folsom.
Traffic was light, and it didn’t take Ben long to get where he needed to go.
The young man greeted him on time, with a fresh haircut, suit, and tie—the whole nine yards. Ben took the seat Lucas gestured to in front of a neatly organized desk and pulled out the accident report from ten years ago, which included an eight-by-ten glossy of the stolen Ford Pinto—a twisted hunk of burning metal.
Smile gone, Lucas leaned forward to take a better look at both the report and the picture. When he finally looked at Ben, he said, “So I guess you’re not here to buy insurance.”
“Sorry, kid.”
Lucas sighed as he loosened his tie. “What do you want?”
Ben gestured toward the picture. “I was in the passenger seat of that car when it went up in flames.”
The kid’s full attention fell to the side of Ben’s face, where thick scars covered part of his jaw and most of his neck. He was used to people staring. It didn’t bother him. The kid looked a little nervous, which spoke volumes.
“I’m sorry,” Lucas said, elbows on his desk, palms up.
“You lived in Elk Grove with your parents at the time,” Ben said. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“I live with my girlfriend not too far from here, but I’m not sure why that would be any of your business.”
“Just a few more questions, and I’ll get out of your hair. I promise.”
The kid looked more than a little jumpy but seemed to be doing his best to appear calm.
“The accident happened after midnight on Friday night,” Ben said, “which in reality was Saturday morning.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Your dad reported the car missing on Saturday at approximately ten in the morning.”
Lucas shrugged. “Okay.”
“But the car was actually stolen around, let’s say, eight o’clock on Friday—wasn’t it?”
“How would I know?”
“Because your dad was working the night shift, and he had carpooled with coworkers.” Ben aimed a finger at the kid. “You took the car joyriding that night with friends in Sacramento—didn’t you?”
“Joyriding?” Lucas asked. “I don’t even know what that is, but so what if I did? What are you getting at?”
The kid was lying. “What I’m getting at, Lucas, is that you didn’t have your license yet, but you took the car to Sacramento to party with your friends. At some point during the evening, your dad’s Ford Pinto was stolen. But when you found out the next morning that your dad had returned from his trip and reported the car stolen from Elk Grove, you were off the hook—weren’t you? Your parents never knew you took the car to begin with.”
Lucas straightened in his chair, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “It’s been years. I don’t remember where I was or what happened that particular night.”
“I think you do. I’m a crime reporter with the Sacramento Tribune. We both know that too much time has passed, and even if you fess up now, you won’t be in trouble with the law. I’m investigating a cold case that has nothing to do with you, but has everything to do with that Ford Pinto. If you tell me the truth right now, I won’t publicize your name as one of the people I talked to in my write-up about this case. If you refuse, I’ll mention your name, and people with questions will come calling.”
A tall gray-haired man leaned his head into Lucas’s office. “Everything all right?”
Lucas’s face reddened.
“Everything’s fine,” Ben answered. “You’ve got an exceptional young man working for you. I think he’s convinced me that I need whole life to go with my car insurance.”
The man tapped his hand against the wall and smiled. “Okay, I’ll leave you two alone.”
“I took the car,” Lucas said with a sigh. “Dad and Mom never knew.”
“Did you leave the key in the car?”
He swallowed. “I don’t remember. Probably. How can I be sure you won’t use my name in your story?”
“I’m a man of my word.” Ben stood and gathered his file, then grabbed a couple of Lucas’s business cards and held them up. “I’ll make sure to send some business your way.”
As Ben exited the building, his heart raced. Now that he knew Lucas had borrowed his dad’s car and brought it to Sacramento on the same night Sophie had disappeared, it made sense that Sophie had stormed out of the house after arguing with Jessie, happened upon a Ford Pinto with the key possibly still in the ignition, hopped in, and driven to Auburn.
He was still missing pieces to the puzzle, though. How did Vernon end up with the key to the car? Or was it all one big coincidence, and he happened to steal an already stolen car? But Leanne Baxter had stated that Ben had left the Wild West with Sophie and Vernon, that the three of them had left at the same time. Only two of them were in the car when Vernon slammed into a tree. He was right back to square one: What happened to Sophie?
Walking across the parking lot, Ben thought about his last conversation with Jessie. She didn’t trust him, and she had good reason. He had yet to tell her about his talk with Sophie’s old friend, Juliette. But he kept telling himself it was because he wanted to spare Jessie the pain of knowing the truth about Sophie. Sophie was bisexual. So what? The part that didn’t sit well was all the rest. If Juliette was to be believed, Sophie was trouble with a capital T. She stole cars, then lured men into her trap and robbed them.
He needed to come clean with Jessie, tell her everything he knew. He slid his phone from his pocket and dialed her number.
FORTY
After calling Marcus Hubbard in Woodland and leaving a message asking him to call her, Jessie drove to the police station where they were holding Arlo Gatley. He’d waived his right to be booked into the station in Yolo County.
She signed in at the front desk, asked to speak with Colin Grayson, and then took a seat and waited. A few minutes later Colin appeared. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to speak to my client Arlo Gatley about his missing daughter.”
“Jessie, that’s not a good idea.”
“I need to see him, Colin. I need to figure out what I’m going to do next. She suffers from schizophrenia. Without her father to look for her, she has no one.” She sighed. “This is important to me.”
He shifted his weight.
“Did you find something in Arlo’s house? Is that why he was arrested?”
“We found the necklace. The father of the twins came to the station last night and confirmed that it belonged to their daughter.”
Jessie anchored her hair behind her ear. She felt strangely betrayed by Arlo Gatley, an awkward man whom she’d been quick to defend against a world filled with bullies.
“Wait here,” Colin said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It wasn’t long before he returned. She could talk to Arlo, but the meeting would be recorded. After she agreed, she was stripped of her belongings. She knew the drill. Instead of being led to the window area, she was taken to a small room with a table and two chairs. She sat quietly and waited. Colin had disappeared.
A good thirty minutes passed before Arlo was escorted into the room, his hands
cuffed in front of him. He took the chair at the table across from her. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot.
He frowned. “They told me that the necklace they found in my house belonged to one of the twin girls found dead recently. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t do it,” Arlo told her.
“Didn’t do what?”
“Didn’t do any of the things they’re suggesting I might have done. I never saw those girls in my life. And I have no idea where my daughter is. I would never hurt anyone.”
“I trusted you,” Jessie said. “I fell for your stories about being bullied throughout your life. How does one person manage to be disliked by an entire neighborhood? You sit in your driveway for hours at a time staring at nothing. What is that about?”
“I miss my wife. There are days I can’t be myself around Zee, so I wait for the emotions to pass.”
Jessie stiffened. She was falling for it again. The sad face, along with the melancholy tone of his voice, made her the ultimate sucker. “You wouldn’t allow me to see the rest of your house.”
“I’m uncomfortable with other people in my space. I have nothing to hide. I just like my privacy—that’s all there is to it.”
“What about the screaming in the middle of the night? Mrs. Dixon said she used to be awakened by loud shrieks.”
“Zee has suffered from hallucinations all of her life. It’s taken years to get her on the right medication.”
The man had an answer for everything. “You’ve been secretive with me from the start, refusing to let me take a look through your house and then acting disinterested when I showed you the picture of your daughter that revealed a young man taking her photo.” She angled her head as she kept her gaze on his. “But you have an answer for everything—don’t you, Arlo?” She glanced at the two-way mirror and then back to Arlo and said, “I’ve got to go.”
His eyes watered. “What about Zee?”
She wondered if the tears were all part of the act. “I haven’t found her yet,” Jessie told him, “but I’m not going to give up.”
His shoulders relaxed.
She looked him in the eyes. “I need to know if you ever heard Zee mention a boy by the name of Forrest Bloom.”
Much too quickly he shook his head as if he couldn’t possibly fathom his daughter with a boy.
She let out a drawn-out sigh.
“They can’t keep me here—can they? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jessie exhaled. “I don’t know what’s going on, Arlo. My advice to you is to come clean and tell them everything you know.” She stood and gestured toward the officer, letting him know she was ready to go.
“Find Zee,” Arlo pleaded as she walked away.
Colin caught up to her at the front of the building as she collected her things. “If you have a minute, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your time spent with Arlo Gatley prior to today.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Humor me.”
She regretted coming at all. Seeing Arlo made her question herself all over again. Innocent or guilty? She had no idea. “Which way?”
Colin led her past a maze of cubicles and down a narrow hallway.
“Talk is being thrown around that Arlo may have killed his daughter.”
She didn’t know what to think about that.
“You do realize, don’t you, that your tendency to always root for the underdog could blind you to the truth?”
She stopped in her tracks. “And I hope you realize that your team tends to lean too quickly toward closing a case instead of actually solving it.”
Clearly annoyed, he kept walking.
She followed.
“After receiving tips from the neighbors,” Colin told her, “police have been stationed at the house. They’ll start digging up the backyard in a few hours.”
“Those neighbors have it out for the guy.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’s different, quirky, and he has big ears.”
“Come on,” Colin said, disbelieving.
She snorted. “He’s been bullied his entire life. His daughter has schizophrenia. People don’t like people who aren’t like them.” And yet even as she said it, she knew she needed to get real. If Arlo had been bullied all his life, it would make even more sense that he would want revenge on mankind.
The conversation stopped when Colin opened the door to the conference room. She looked at the men in suits sitting at the table.
From the looks of it, the FBI had been invited, too.
Fuck.
Jessie’s interview, which turned out to be more of an interrogation, lasted nearly two hours. She had just arrived back home and was about to return Ben Morrison’s call when her phone rang. It was Marcus Hubbard.
“Yes, this is Jessie Cole,” she confirmed when he asked. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“You said it was important.” His voice leaned toward unfriendly.
“I’m looking for a young man named Forrest Bloom,” Jessie said. “According to public records, Brody Bloom sold his property to you. I was hoping you might be able to tell me where I might be able to find Brody’s son, Forrest.”
“Did something happen to Brody?”
“I don’t know anything about his family,” Jessie said. “I just have a few questions for Forrest Bloom.”
“Is it about the farmhouse?” he asked.
“The farmhouse?” Jessie asked. “According to the appraisal report, he sold the property to you.”
“Brody Bloom sold me fifty acres of farmland. They kept everything else: the house, the barn, and approximately ten acres of surrounding property.”
“Forrest Bloom still lives there?” she asked.
“I have no idea. I only know his father owns everything but the fifty acres. I’m a busy man. If this doesn’t concern me or my property, then we’re done here.”
“Yes,” she said, her adrenaline racing. “Thanks for calling ba—”
The line was disconnected before she could finish.
Jessie looked at the time. It was a little past noon. If she took off right now, she could get to Woodland in twenty-five minutes, hopefully get a chance to talk to Forrest Bloom. If he wasn’t home, she would leave a note to have him contact her, and still return home before Bella’s mom dropped Olivia off after school.
She looked through the window over the kitchen sink and saw Higgins sleeping beneath the tree in the backyard. She’d left him with a bowl of fresh water, and the weather wasn’t too hot today. Seeing the cast on his leg reminded her that she needed to take him back to the vet and see when he could get it removed.
“Focus,” she reprimanded herself. She’d deal with Higgins tomorrow.
She took a breath. Today she needed to talk to Forrest Bloom. He might be the only person who could tell her where Zee might have gone. She looked at the notepad by the phone, where she’d written down Hubbard’s phone number. Using her laptop, she used a mapping device to locate the farmhouse where the Blooms might still live. After writing down the address, she logged the street and city into her map app on her cell and left the house.
FORTY-ONE
Ben sat at the top of the metal bleachers overlooking the soccer field where Abigail was practicing with her team. He looked at his watch. Practice should have ended ten minutes ago. He had an appointment with the coroner, and he didn’t want to be late. The coroner who had signed off on Vernon Doherty’s autopsy report had since passed away. But Melissa Erickson had been trained by her predecessor and was willing to go over the report with him.
The coach called the players into a huddle, one arm around the goalie, the other around his daughter’s shoulder. Eyes narrowed, Ben stood, his gaze locked on the coach as he made his way to solid ground and walked by the other parents waiting for their children to come off the field.
The coach’s thumb brushed against his daughter’s neck. She didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to n
otice. The coach flashed a wide smile at Abigail before the team straightened and said in unison, “Go, Pink Panthers!”
The coach was giving the girls high fives by the time Ben reached Abigail. “Come on. Time to go.”
Abigail gave him the side eye. “The coach wants to talk to me.”
“No time,” Ben told her. “Grab your things.”
The coach came between them and offered his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Henry Rogers, Emily’s father.”
Ben had no idea who Emily was, and he had no interest in talking to the man. Bright eyes, phony smile. Instant dislike.
“Dad,” his daughter reprimanded when he didn’t move to take his hand.
Ben sighed and shook the man’s hand. “Gotta go. Late for a meeting.” As Ben turned away, he gave his daughter a stern look, a warning she knew well, which got her moving again.
“You didn’t have to be so rude,” Abigail said the moment they were out of earshot.
“How long has he been your coach?”
“Ever since Mr. Jacobs had a stroke.”
“You need to be careful around him.”
She grabbed her things and then marched ahead to the car.
He slid open the van door.
Abigail angrily tossed her things into the back seat.
Once they were both in the van, he started the engine and waited for her to buckle her seat belt. Her face was red, and he wasn’t sure if it was from running around for the past hour or if she was truly angry. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Dad? You and Mom hardly speak anymore. You walk around in a weird daze half the time. And then you embarrass me in front of my friends and my coach. Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”
“What?” He backed out of the parking lot and then drove slowly to the exit. Abigail waved and smiled at her friends, trying to pretend that nothing was wrong.
He didn’t understand his daughter lately. His wife constantly reminded him that she was at that age. Hormones were raging. She’d be smiling one minute, moody the next. “Your mother and I are fine,” he tried to assure her. “We love each other, and we’re not getting divorced.”