A sigh. Impatient now. “Take your time, sir.” Another sigh, and Ethan could hear the keys of a keyboard clacking in the background.
Deep breath. “Sorry.” Another deep breath. Start from the beginning. “My, uh, my name’s Ethan Vernon. Seven and a half years ago—April 5 2011—my wife, Raleigh Vernon—” and when Ethan spoke her name, his voice cracked, his chest constricted and his hands got so clammy that he had to wipe them across his thighs to keep them dry “—disappeared. In an ambulance. There was . . .” He didn’t know how to explain it, the fall in the middle of the night, Raleigh’s lack of responsiveness, his frantic call to 9-1-1, the way Paul fucking Hyatt had—
“Sir? Mr. Vernon?” Direct, authoritative, and calming once again. The keyboard had stilled on the other end. “Sir, I need you to calm down.”
That was when Ethan realized he’d started sobbing. The frantic, I-can’t-breathe sobs of those early days. The sobbing that had kept him off work for a good two months and made everyday conversations nearly impossible. Although some of his colleagues and family speculated that he’d had a nervous breakdown, the qualified diagnosis was depression brought on by losing the only woman he’d ever truly loved.
“Shit,” Tate said, mostly under his breath as Ethan regained control of his emotions. “You said your wife’s Raleigh Vernon?”
Ethan nodded, then added, “Yes,” because he realized that the detective couldn’t very well hear his head nodding. “And the man that took her away that night was just on the WGN News. He’s dead.”
“Say again, Mr. Vernon,” Tate told him, and Ethan pictured the detective tilting his head to the side, frowning, and wondering why the heck he’d picked up his phone to a mess like this.
Chapter Four
Waiting for Detective Declan Tate to show up, Ethan tidied up the mess he’d made in the kitchen and sprung open his laptop. In the early days following Raleigh’s disappearance, he’d learned a thing or two about online investigative work. Which meant finding information about a well-known businessman and consultant like Paul Hyatt wasn’t all that difficult.
Hyatt was the President of an outfit called Hyatt, Ortiz & Associates. He touted himself a management consultant. Based on the photo—same one that Chad and Jasmine had flashed on Ethan’s television screen—Paul was in his mid-forties, liked expensive suits, fancy cufflinks, and had such dark facial hair that even after he shaved, his jaw maintained a shadow.
Except for the thick scar that ran the length of his jaw line, right side.
According to Hyatt’s biography, he’d served on the boards of some relatively high profile corporations. Five of the seven were heavy hitters in the bio-pharmaceutical industry, the kinds of places where Raleigh would have worked (although she’d never been employed by any of those firms). Still, the fact that Hyatt’s professional path crossed Raleigh’s was something of interest.
While Ethan thought back to some of the professional headwinds his wife had complained about—had her firm been pressured by bigger pharmaceutical companies?—the doorbell chimed. He didn’t bother to close the laptop and went straight to the front door to meet Detective Tate. A few years younger than Ethan, Tate stood a good six inches taller. Had to be six feet and four inches, at least. Like Ethan, he had a full head of hair, a crooked nose, and he kept his shoes polished. His suit told Ethan that Tate didn’t mind shopping off the clearance rack, which was unlike Ethan now that he had two and a half million in the bank.
Still, Ethan figured he would get along well with this new detective, so he offered him a San Pelligrino as he guided him through the house to the kitchen. Tate declined.
Once the two men shook hands, Tate apologized about Ethan’s wife.
“It’s been seven and a half years,” Ethan said, as if that made things a little easier. Except it didn’t, and the way his throat tightened and his words came out with a tight whine, he wondered if Tate believed him.
Ethan settled onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, but Tate opted to remain standing. And then the real conversation started.
“I went through Raleigh’s file, and I can tell you’ve been dragged through hell on this, Ethan.” At that, Tate seemed to remember something, so he placed his attaché on the counter and reached inside for a folder. “Got this copy from the original file.”
Leaning forward, Ethan watched the detective produce two pieces of paper. The first was a color image of Paul Hyatt, the very one Ethan had just seen on the Hyatt, Ortiz website and, earlier, on the television. Hyatt’s bio pic. The second paper interested Ethan a little more: it was a photocopy of the artist rendering from the night Raleigh was taken.
“Three EMT renderings,” Tate said. “And this one looks a lot like Hyatt.”
Taking the photocopy, Ethan couldn’t believe his eyes. He stared at the image and allowed a shocked nod. “It’s him. One hundred percent. The scar, it proves it. It’s him.”
Tate sighed. “Except Hyatt’s dead.”
Ethan snapped his attention to the detective. The defeated sigh to his tone suggested the two of them wouldn’t become racquetball besties after all.
“Can’t exactly question a dead man about a case that’s been cold for three-quarters of a decade,” Tate said. “Can we?”
“No, no, no,” Ethan said, raising a finger. “He’s got a business partner. A wife. Colleagues at companies that would’ve had an interest in my wife’s work. These are all people who—”
“Your wife’s been declared dead, Mr. Vernon,” Tate said, his voice direct, authoritative, not quite so calming anymore. “There’s a reason the courts have to wait seven years to give the nod to produce a death certificate.”
Ethan hadn’t been expecting that one, but it annoyed him all the same. “Yeah, and what’s that reason, Declan?”
Tate didn’t like that he’d addressed him by his first name rather than “Detective.” “Seven years goes by, and either she’s legitimately dead, or she…” He let that linger.
“Or she what?” His face felt hot, his cheeks and forehead so warm that he could feel the perspiration beading at his hairline.
Tate stepped back and shrugged. He sighed again. Direct. Authoritative. And calming, once again. “She’s not coming back, Mr. Vernon. All due respect, your wife is likely deceased. We’d have found her by now if she were alive. All the alerts we issued, you couldn’t smuggle Raleigh Vernon into a Chuck-E-Cheese without my or my predecessor’s phone ringing.”
Ethan pointed into the reading room, waving his finger in the general direction of the flat-screen television, which was now broadcasting the Blackhawks game. “That man was involved in my wife’s abduction.”
“There’s a resemblance, sure.” He crunched his face, his forehead wrinkling, and his hard eyes softening with pity. “Mr. Vernon, the FBI was involved with this one. I’m sorry, but there’s not a whole heck of a lot we can do at this stage.”
Closing his eyes, Ethan couldn’t help but hunch his shoulders and shake his head. “This is insane, Detective Tate.”
“If I understand correctly, the insurance company finally paid—”
“Insurance?” Ethan snapped his open palm against the quartz countertop so hard that the sting spread halfway up his forearm. “This isn’t about money! I’d pay twice the insurance payout, a million times that amount if it meant getting her back!”
“Mr. Vernon—”
“Screw the money!” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead, not wanting that perspiration to roll down his face. He was pissed. “I’m talking about an innocent woman’s life! The money means nothing without her!” And then he started sobbing again. Covering his face, he let the tears pour out of his eyes and pool on the countertop.
Once Ethan calmed down, he felt Tate’s hand on his shoulder. The detective gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vernon. I’ll make some calls, but outside of that, there’s not a whole lot that can happen with this information.”
Once his hands fell away from his face, Etha
n opened his mouth to say something—to object to the detective’s lack of initiative—but nothing came out. His words would not have gone far anyway, so he settled for a hopeless nod.
Tate left his business card and the two images behind—the color print of Paul Hyatt’s website pic and the nearly exact pencil-drawn replica that the composite artist had drawn—and then he let himself out of the Vernon house.
Chapter Five
Hyatt’s widow decided to have the funeral following a second visitation on Saturday afternoon for those who couldn’t attend the one on Friday. According to the online obituary in Thursday’s Lake Forest Observer, the Hyatt family welcomed anyone who knew Paul, from business acquaintances to his closest friends at the marina, and everyone else in between. When he read that paragraph, Ethan declared himself as one from the “everyone else in between” crowd.
The Reid Sanderson Funeral Home was located in Lake Forest inside an old, converted house on Green Bay Road, a few blocks from the country club where Paul Hyatt and hundreds of others like him were surely cigar-smoking members. The building could have been an old fire hall at one point, or a farmhouse, something substantial yet welcoming without being a mansion.
The lot next door to the funeral home had been demolished to accommodate a parking lot, but even that wide-open space was still insufficient for Paul Hyatt’s visitation; the overflow of vehicles had spilled on to the grass and the busy street where the sign prohibited parking.
As he drove past the funeral home, Ethan noticed couples in suits crossing the street, leaving their cars parked in the KFC lot.
“I bet you were a saint, Paul,” Ethan muttered, the words squeezing out through his gritted teeth.
He drove a couple of blocks and parked his Jaguar at the middle school, where a handful of others had as well. It meant a slightly longer stroll back to the funeral home, but with this country’s so-called obesity epidemic, Ethan reasoned that it was wise to set a good example; maybe he would inspire a fat kid, who knows.
As he strolled up to the Reid Sanderson Funeral Home, Ethan felt his hands begin to get clammy the closer he got. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t the monster here; Paul Hyatt knew his wife. Somehow, some way, Hyatt had known Raleigh well enough to be involved in her disappearance and, possibly, death—because Detective Tate had been right about something, and that was if the courts were comfortable declaring Raleigh dead, chances were pretty damn good that she was, in fact, dead.
Ethan climbed the front stairs behind a family of three. The boy glanced back at Ethan, his face as serious as his eyes. And when Ethan smiled, the kid turned his attention back to the line in front of him.
While Ethan waited his turn to reach the main viewing room, the various flat-screen televisions along the walls displayed images of a healthier, happier, and more-alive Paul Hyatt. The only thing about the man in the photos that made Ethan question whether he was indeed the EMT who took his wife away was the perma-smile on Hyatt’s face. That night, Hyatt hadn’t smiled once; it was game-face, a hundred percent. Even the image on the Hyatt, Ortiz website didn’t come with that megawatt smile on the screens.
Ethan observed that many of the photos featured Paul on a boat, and not always the same boat. He was never caught with a bottle of beer in his hand; seemed Paul was more of a scotch drinker. Paul also enjoyed little league. In a dozen or so photos, he was wearing the red Coach ball cap. In at least half of those photos, he was posing with championship trophies.
The images sure made Hyatt out to be a great guy, an all-American dream-achiever. The kind of man who would make a great neighbor. But then again, the majority of Ethan’s experience with neighbors included a senile old woman and a house full of crack-smoking squatters.
Before he knew it, Ethan’s palms were drenched and he was next in line to enter the visitation room where Paul’s young wife was standing next to a closed casket. For a young woman, Hyatt’s wife appeared incredibly pulled together. She had shoulder-length dark hair, big eyes behind her black veil, and a big chest; she wore her black mourner’s dress like it was a weapon.
“Sir, please,” one of the funeral home ushers said with a soft, somber voice that belonged on the radio.
Offering a thankful nod, Ethan entered the visitation room. Only six people separated him from Hyatt’s widow. When the family in front of him reached her, the woman lowered herself carefully and hugged the little boy. Ethan watched a tear slip out of her eye, the black of her mascara streaking a line down her cheek. Mrs. Hyatt was a good, gracious widow.
When it was his turn, Ethan said he was sorry for her loss.
“How did you know Paul?” she asked him, tilting her head, her forehead wrinkling as she considered Ethan. Up close like this, Ethan could see that behind her veil, Mrs. Hyatt was a few years younger than he was.
Shaking his head, Ethan said what was on his mind. “Your husband knew my wife.”
That comment took the widow by surprise. Her facial expression changed from empathy to curiosity. And not the kind of curiosity she shared with some of her late husband’s coworker, inviting them to tell her about the time they crashed the golf cart or jammed the photocopier at the office while copying their bare asses. The curiosity she afforded Ethan was more of an offended one.
“Pardon me, you said my husband knew your wife?”
“Yes, he was one of the last people to see her alive,” Ethan explained, keeping his voice low as he gulped back the dry lump in his throat. “Maybe you can help me, Mrs. Hyatt. Maybe—”
Once her eyes shifted away, Ethan knew. He realized his one-on-one time with the widow was quickly reaching an end.
“Please, Mrs. Hyatt, just a few minutes of your time, I’m begging—”
The hands that clasped Ethan’s biceps interrupted his plea. He tried to pull himself free, but the two men dragging him out of the funeral home were pretty strong. Managing to watch Hyatt’s widow’s stare after him, Ethan swore he recognized something in her face. Not just curiosity anymore, but maybe even a little understanding now.
She knows, doesn’t she?
“Damn riff-raff,” one of the funeral home bouncers said as the other opened the side door.
When Ethan finally noticed the stares from the others waiting in line, he said something really stupid. He told them it was a closed casket, as if that might be spoiling the fun the way he’d once told moviegoers waiting in line to see the Titanic that the ship ends up sinking.
At least Hyatt gets a funeral, something Raleigh couldn’t have.
Now that the bouncers had dragged him outside, they threw him down onto the grass.
“Won’t end this good for you next time,” one of them threatened.
From the walkway, Ethan waited for the two muscle heads to return inside before picking himself up and returning to his Jaguar.
She knows something. Hyatt’s widow knows, and people who know always come around.
Chapter Six
Saturday night, Ethan barely slept. His mind kept returning to the scene of Paul Hyatt’s fatal accident—the Ford pick-up with its angry grill, the smashed-up Jaguar SUV on its side against that bus shelter. He wondered, in particular, about Paul Hyatt—the man in all of those photos at the funeral home, the husband to a beautiful brunette with makeup smeared down her cheeks as she mourned next to her husband’s closed casket.
After what had happened to his own wife, conspiracy theories weren’t exactly foreign to Ethan—in fact, he’d entertained some of the wildest over the past seven and a half years—so once it was light outside, he donned his workout gear and climbed onto the cross-trainer in the spare room next door. While staring out the window at the street below, he noticed a few regular vehicles come and go, like the neighbor’s overpriced Porsche, and a Jeep Cherokee he saw occasionally, but didn’t know where that person lived on the street. Or maybe, he’d realized long ago, that person used Cobalt as a shortcut to Aldine. It didn’t matter; even at this hour, there was enough traffic to provide fo
r a visual distraction from the hard cardio workout.
Another distraction was Hyatt’s experience with the biopharma industry. Ethan couldn’t help but wonder whether that experienced connected him, in some way, to Raleigh and, if so, how?
Before that night, Raleigh had worked for a small research company called ParkerPharma. As the most non-scientific person in the world—for instance, it had taken a couple of dates in their college days for Raleigh to explain why water turning to ice wasn’t a chemical reaction to cold, but a physical change, and why that was important—Ethan understood why his wife had given up speaking to him about the specifics of her work. To her, and virtually all of her science-ish colleagues, Ethan was scientifically unworthy, someone who didn’t understand their language or appreciate the marvels of their field.
But something Ethan had known was that ParkerPharma, and Raleigh in particular, had discovered a safe way to help opiate addicts kick addiction rather easily and inexpensively. Her company achieved that miracle through a drug that caused a true chemical reaction—not just a physical change, like with water—that neither damaged the addict’s brain nor caused harm to the body. In fact, the way Raleigh had explained it, her drug’s chemical reaction effectively eliminated test rats’ physiological cravings for opiates altogether. The emotional side, which was what often led the addiction in the first place, was another matter altogether, something that required a shrink instead of a pharmaceutical product.
And that discovery, unfortunately, was the extent of Ethan’s knowledge of what she’d been doing at ParkerPharma before she disappeared.
On the surface, it seemed to Ethan that Paul Hyatt had a professional connection to his wife. But he knew better than to jump to conclusions. See, Hyatt had occupied positions on the boards of five heavy hitting bio-pharmaceutical companies, but all five of those companies were more interested in manufacturing commercially viable drugs. In comparison, ParkerPharma’s interests were in research and development, the early stage arena of experimental drugs like the one Raleigh had discovered.
The Last Night (The Last Series Book 2) Page 2