“What about his client files? Does he keep them at the office?”
She nodded. “In the bottom drawer of his desk. You’ll need a key. I’ll get it for you.”
Polly scampered down the hall. When she returned, she was dressed in a different nightgown than the one she’d worn a few minutes before. She grabbed her cup of tea, swallowed a mouthful, and then spat the liquid back into the cup.
“My word,” she said. “This is awful. Who puts this much honey in a cup of tea?”
I seemed to be in The Twilight Zone.
“Polly, is everything all right?” I asked. “Did you find your husband’s keys?”
She blinked at me and said, “His keys?”
“Yes. You just went to get them for me.”
She reeled back, glaring at me like I was an intruder. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house? How did you get in here?”
The front door opened, and a man around my age rushed to Polly’s side. In his hand was a small tub of butter-pecan ice cream.
Nothing made sense.
The man was bald, taller than most, and had the girth of a football player.
“Mom?” he said. “What happened?”
“I ... I don’t know. What are you doing here?”
“You called me.”
“I did? Oh. I must have forgot.”
He turned toward me. “What is going on here?”
I thumbed toward the back of the room. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He nodded, helped his mother sit down, and then covered her with a purple afghan that had been folded over the couch. We walked about fifteen feet away, far enough to whisper without her hearing the conversation, but close enough for him to watch over her.
“I’m Detective Germaine,” I said.
“I’m Robbie,” he said.
“Is there something wrong with your mother?”
“Ahh, yeah. She has dementia.”
“How long has she had it?”
“She’s Stage 5. That’s what the doctor says, anyway. Some days she still seems fine. Other days she struggles to remember things that happened five minutes ago. I’ve been talking to my dad about moving her to a care facility, but he’s not ready to let her go yet.”
“What does your father do about your mother when he’s at work all day?”
“He works part-time now, and next month he’s retiring. When he’s not here, a home-health nurse I hired looks after her.”
“What’s her name?”
“His name is Lance Woods.”
I tipped my head toward the butter pecan. “What’s with the ice cream?”
“It’s her favorite. Why are you here?”
Down the hall, Silas called my name.
“Can you excuse me for a minute?” I asked.
“I’d like to know what’s going on first.”
“Give me one minute, and I’ll explain everything, all right?”
Harvey entered the room.
“This is Robbie Sanders, Andy’s son,” I said. “He just arrived.”
“Why don’t I ... ahh ... talk to him while you talk to Silas?” Harvey said.
I nodded.
Lance raised his voice and said, “Why won’t anyone tell me what the hell is going on?”
“No need to use foul language, son,” Polly said.
Robbie apologized, and I left Harvey to deal with him.
I entered the study, looked at Silas, and said, “What is it?”
“The timing’s off,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Polly said she was gone for a short time tonight between eight thirty and nine, which meant the murder would have taken place in a thirty-minute window.”
“And?”
“It’s nine forty-five now, which suggests he’d still be in algor mortis, but he isn’t. He’s in rigor. Some of the muscles in his body have already stiffened.”
He waved me over.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
He pointed at Andy’s eyelids and then at the neck and jaw area. Silas was right. Andy was in the early stages of rigor mortis.
“You know what this means, right?” Silas asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It means Polly didn’t leave to get ice cream when she said she did.”
Andy was removed from the house to be autopsied, Silas left, and Harvey was overseeing the forensics team on evidence-gathering. I was in the kitchen with Robbie, who had just returned from taking his mother to bed after the sedative he’d given her kicked in. Robbie leaned against the kitchen wall, crossed his arms in front of him, and huffed a heavy sigh.
“How are you doing?” I asked. “You’re dealing with a lot right now.”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m numb, I guess. I don’t understand it, any of it. My dad was a nice, decent man. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“I believe it has something to do with a client who hired him,” I said.
“What client? Who is it?”
“I’ll explain my theory in a minute. First, I hoped to ask you some questions.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“How did you end up coming over here tonight? And why did you bring ice cream?”
“My mom called me about an hour ago. She said she’d been talking to my dad in his study, and she was upset because he was asleep and wasn’t talking back. It made no sense, so I decided to come over and see what was going on.”
I wondered if the dementia she suffered from made her think Andy’s head resting on the desk was him sleeping.
“What about the ice cream?”
“I bought the ice cream because I always bring it when I visit. It’s my mother’s favorite, and something we’ve done together for years.”
“She told us she went out to get ice cream earlier.”
He shook his head. “There’s no way. She doesn’t drive anymore. She must have been confused.”
“If your mother didn’t leave the house tonight, she may have been here when your father was murdered. She may have witnessed it.”
“Even if she was, and even if she did see someone in the house, I doubt she’ll remember. The way her brain works now, when she retells an event, it’s like fragments of a story. Some of it’s true, and the rest she fills in with whatever happens to be in her imagination at the time. The hardest part is that she believes whatever version of the story she creates, and there’s no telling her otherwise. Today she’ll tell you one version. Tomorrow she’ll tell you another.”
“If she was here, I don’t understand why the killer would shoot your father and spare your mother.”
“Maybe he didn’t know she was here. She could have been sleeping.”
“Wouldn’t a gunshot wake her up?”
“Some of the drugs she takes knock her out. She always naps after lunch, and her room is on the opposite end of the house, a good distance from Dad’s study.”
“I was supposed to meet your dad at five o’clock today at his office. He didn’t show up.”
“Did he call you or send a text to let you know why he wasn’t there?”
I shook my head.
“He’d never miss a meeting with a client and not get in touch to explain why,” he said. “He wouldn’t blow you off without a good reason.”
“What’s your mother’s daily routine on the days your father works?”
“Dad spends the first part of the day with Mom, and then Lance arrives after lunch, which is around one o’clock. Once Lance gets here, Dad goes into the office for four hours and then returns home about six to have dinner with Mom before she heads to bed.”
“So, Lance would have been here today.”
“Yeah, he would have.”
“Do you have his number?” I asked.
“I can text it to you.”
Robbie sent over Lance’s details, and I filled him in on Jack and Lark and why I felt there was a connection to Jack’s death and his father’s.
“Were you and your dad close?” I asked.
“I’d like to think we were.”
“Did he talk to you about the cases he worked on?”
“He wouldn’t violate his clients’ privacy, even to family, so no. He also didn’t discuss the details of the information he found out unless he was face-to-face with the person who hired him.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“He could be a bit paranoid at times. With a text message or an email, there was always a chance someone else might see it. With phone calls, someone could eavesdrop. He preferred meeting in person, at the office.”
“Your mother said your father keeps his client files locked in the bottom drawer at his office.”
“He does.”
“She also said I need a key to access it. Any idea where he keeps it?”
“Yep, on his key ring. When he’s home, he keeps it in a bowl on the desk in his study. I’d get it for you, but I’m not ready to go in there yet.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I can get the key.”
“The smallest one on the key ring opens the desk drawer, and the other one with a gray band around it unlocks the office.”
I nodded, he looked up, and we locked eyes. He was suffering an immense amount of pain—pain he was trying to push down so it didn’t bubble to the surface. I’d been there, felt what he was feeling. Standing here now, it was hard to witness.
“I ... uhh ... I need to call my wife,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “I understand.”
I walked down the hall and entered the study. There was a metal bowl resting on top of the desk just like Robbie said there would be. The bowl was empty.
“Hey, Harvey,” I said.
He eyed me and said, “Yeah?”
“Who bagged the keys that were sitting in this bowl? I don’t want them entered into evidence yet. I need them.”
“Far as I know, there were no keys in the bowl. It’s been empty since I got here.”
“What about Polly?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“Did she come back in here after I took her into the living room?”
He shook his head. “No, why?”
“When we were talking earlier, she told me she would get Andy’s office keys for me. If she didn’t come in here, it means she doesn’t have them.”
It wasn’t hard to guesstimate who did, though.
“The keys aren’t all that’s missing, then,” Harvey said. “When I arrived here, Polly asked me what I did with Andy’s laptop. She said he always kept it on the desk. It’s not here either.”
“What about a cell phone?”
“Nope.”
Missing keys.
Missing phone.
Missing laptop.
And missing time I should have spent somewhere else.
“Georgiana,” Harvey said, “are you listening?”
I wanted to say I had been, but I hadn’t.
He’d continued to talk while I zoned out, a fault I’d had ever since I was a child. Whenever I needed to figure something out, I tuned everyone out. There could be twenty people in a room, and it didn’t matter. My thoughts were so loud, they washed them all out.
At the moment, my thoughts were saying I needed to leave.
I needed to get to Andy’s office.
Even though I already knew I was too late.
Andy’s office door was open when I arrived, which meant I was indeed too late. The killer had already been there, taken what he wanted out of Andy’s desk, and hit the road. My theory was proved when I found the bottom drawer of Andy’s desk open and half of his client files scattered all over the floor. It appeared the killer picked the files out of the drawer and tossed them to the ground until he found the folder he needed.
I gathered the files, stacked them on the desk, and surveyed the rest of the office. The building in which Andy leased his space was made up of six individual offices, each with their own private door on the front. His office was small, no bigger than a standard-size bedroom. Aside from the desk, there were a few bookshelves filled with various books and an end table with a printer on top of it. Based on the sparseness of the room, I doubted I’d find any meaningful clues.
I turned my attention to a datebook resting on the side of the table. Several pages had been torn out of it. I thumbed through it and noticed the entire previous month was missing. It seemed a foolish thing to do. If that month’s appointments related to Jack, why not take the whole book instead of leaving me an exact timeline on which I should focus my attention?
“What an idiot,” I said out loud, “But hey, thanks for the clue, dude. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than nothing.”
I set the book on top of the files I’d gathered and scanned the office one last time, looking for anything else that seemed relevant before I called Harvey and let him know when the forensics team finished, they weren’t done for tonight. They needed to dust Andy’s office for prints.
On the second shelf of one of the bookcases, I spied a book turned on its side. I walked over to get a closer look, disappointed when it turned out to be a twenty-two-year-old handbook for private investigators. I was about to put it back when the office lights went out. I supposed the power could have gone out, but through the mini blinds on the opposite wall, the sign advertising the closed fast-food joint across the street was still aglow.
I palmed my gun and backed against the wall next to the bookcase. Then I waited.
I saw nothing.
I heard nothing.
And yet, someone was there.
Someone had killed the light.
A minute passed.
Then two.
And then loud, heavy, breathing emanated from the opposite side of the room.
“I assume you’re armed,” I said.
A gunshot ripped through the air. It missed me, but not by much. It was close, too close for my liking.
I stepped out and fired in the direction the breathing had come from.
“Looks like we both brought a little something extra to the party,” I said. “Where’s Lark?”
“Who are you?” a man asked. “Why are you following me?”
“Where is Lark?”
“Why are you here?”
His voice was low and muffled, almost like he was trying to disguise it.
“My name’s Detective Germaine. What’s yours?”
He grunted a laugh. “Snow White.”
Ooh, we had ourselves a live one.
“Guess that makes me the Evil Queen,” I said. “Find what you were looking for in Andy’s office, Snow?”
“Yup. Sure did.”
“It doesn’t matter, you know. Evidence. No evidence. You’re here now, which was your biggest mistake.”
“If you want me so bad, come and get me.”
What a great suggestion.
I was happy to oblige.
I aimed the gun toward the sound of his voice and squeezed the trigger, hoping to hit him just enough to wound him.
“You shoot like a girl,” he said. “Lousy.”
“It was a warning shot. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
Given the office was dark except for the faint glow emanating from the fast-food sign, it was a bold declaration. Too bold, I imagined.
“That’s what you’re planning to do, kill me?” he asked.
I’d stayed up every night this week thinking about it, so ... yes.
“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t mess with me.”
Of all the lame, tired, cliché phrases I’d heard in my life, the one he’d just uttered made it into my top five, pushing “ignorance is bliss” into the sixth spot. Ignorance wasn’t bliss. Knowledge was. And okay, yeah, maybe I didn’t know what was good for me. I lived for situations like these. Maybe because I didn’t value my life the way I once had. Or because fear didn’t own me the way it owned other people. Neither did death.
“What happens if I don’t
know what’s good for me?” I asked. “What then?”
“You’re about to find out.”
“Is Lark alive?”
“Maybe.”
“Is she still alive?” I asked. “Tell me!”
“What if she isn’t?”
Breathe, Georgiana.
Don’t put a bullet through his skull.
Not yet.
Keep him talking.
“You could have killed her, and yet you took her instead,” I said. “Why? Was kidnapping her your plan all along?”
“She saw me kill her father.”
It was possible he had just spilled a significant detail without realizing it. I now believed he’d gone to the house with the intention of killing Jack and not taking Lark. At some point, he saw her see him. He could have killed her on the spot. He didn’t. It gave me hope she was still alive. But if he was here, where the hell was she?
“To TP with love. What does the TP stand for, I wonder? Are they your initials? We found the money clip you dropped. I suppose you realized you’d lost it by now.”
“You assume it’s mine. What if it isn’t?”
“Why did you kill Jack?”
“Because sometimes there’s no other way.”
“What did he do to deserve death?” I asked.
“He was curious, just like you, and this is what happens to curious people.”
A second gunshot rang out. It went through the bookcase and nicked my arm. I bit my lip, stifling a scream. I heard a shuffling sound and assumed he’d abandoned his post and was coming for me. I readied my gun and vacated mine.
Instead of attacking me, he bolted in the opposite direction. I aimed at the sound and pulled the trigger. He howled in pain, and I smiled. Target acquired, although I wasn’t sure where he’d been hit.
I leapt forward, running a hand along the wall for the place I thought I’d find the light switch. I was wrong.
He darted out the office door. I chased after him. Once we were outside, it appeared he had been wounded somewhere in his upper body. It wasn’t enough to slow him down. He broke into a sprint, heading into a grove of trees.
“Stop!” I said. “Or I’ll shoot you again.”
He didn’t heed my warning.
He ducked inside a truck, threw it into reverse, and floored it, attempting to run me down. I leapt out of the way, my hands scraping the pavement as I tumbled to the ground. On impact, my gun bounced out of my hand, landing a couple of feet away from me. I lunged for it, and he shifted gears, and barreled toward me again. This time when I fired, the bullet burst through the windshield on the driver’s side. It was too dark to tell whether it hit him or not, but it was enough to make him rethink his plan of turning me into roadkill. He swerved away from me, his tires squealing as his truck bounced onto the road and sped in the opposite direction.
Little Girl Lost (Georgiana Germaine Book 1) Page 15