The Forgotten (john puller)

by David Baldacci

  “She had no children. And her husband had passed on. And as I said, she thought very highly of you. Was quite proud. Called you the son she wished she’d had.”

  This statement hit Puller like a sucker punch to his kidneys. “Okay,” he said slowly, for he could think of nothing else to say.

  “She had various investments and her home. The real estate will need to go through probate. There are numerous legal steps that must be gone through before you will receive the property. It could take up to a year, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s not a problem. I don’t need the money.”

  “I have inventory lists of her personal possessions. I do that for all my clients. That way you’ll know exactly what you’ll be getting. I can give you a copy now if you’d like.”

  Puller shrugged but nodded and Mason produced several sheets of paper stapled together, which he handed to Puller.

  “They’re very recent,” said Mason. “We had just gone over her estate about a month ago.” “Did she give any reason why?”

  “No. But we usually met about once a year to make sure everything was up to date and that she didn’t want to make any changes in her estate planning.”

  “I see.”

  Puller ran his gaze over the pages. There were things like books, pictures, jewelry, some Hummel collectibles and the like on there. He didn’t really want any of it.

  Mason said, “I’ll take your contact info from you and keep you posted as we progress through the stages. Once the house is titled in your name you can do with it what you want. Live in it, rent it, or sell it.”

  “Fine, whatever.”

  “And her stock, bank, and bond portfolios were fairly substantial. She made some good investments over the years. I have records on all of that as well.”

  “Okay.”

  Mason studied him. “But then you don’t strike me as the sort to whom any of that much matters.”

  “I’ve never owned a home. And I’m not sure I know what a stock or bond looks like.”

  Mason smiled. “That’s actually refreshing.

  Most heirs I deal with want it all and the sooner the better.”

  “When was the last time you talked to my aunt?”

  Mason sat back and clasped his hands behind his head, revealing sweat patches under his arms although the room was cool. “Let me think. Thursday of last week, I suppose. She called me.” “How did she sound?”

  “Sound? She sounded normal.”

  “What was the call about?”

  “Just routine matters. She had a capital gains question she needed an answer for.”

  “So nothing that was bothering her?”

  Mason lowered his arms. “Not that I was aware of.”

  Puller had interviewed thousands of people over the years. Some were telling the truth, most had been lying. Liars gave telltale signs. Breathing sped up just a bit. Eye contact was lost. Arms retreated to the torso and clenched, like the formation of a little cocoon to hide the false statement, or at least the bearer thereof. A good interviewer could spot the liar nearly ninety percent of the time.

  Based on that, Puller was pretty sure that Mason had just lied to him, but he didn’t know to what degree.

  Puller said nothing. He was waiting for Mason to ask the question that he should have already asked if he had been telling the truth.

  Mason said, “Do you think your aunt was worried about something?”

  Puller didn’t answer right away. He was thinking about one of his aunt’s statements:

  People not being what they seemed.

  He wondered if Griffin Mason fit into that category.

  And he wished he had not shared the contents of his aunt’s letter with the police. But he couldn’t change that now.

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I hadn’t really communicated with her over the years.”

  Mason studied him closely and then shrugged. “Accidents happen, I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier to accept someone passing. But you can take some solace in the fact that Betsy thought so highly of you that she would leave you all her property.”

  “Would you happen to have a key to her house? And a copy of the will for me to take?” “Actually, I do. Betsy entrusted a set of keys to me when she had surgery a while back. I tried to give them back, but she insisted that I keep them.”

  Mason opened a drawer, took out a silver lockbox, opened it, rummaged through some keys in there, and pulled out a set of two.

  “Front door and rear doors. Give me a minute to make a copy of the will.”

  He ran the pages through a copier that was set against one wall of his office, then handed the still warm pages to Puller.

  Puller stood and slipped a card out of his pocket. “Here’s my contact info for down the road.”

  Mason took the card. “Are you going over to the house now?”

  “No. In the morning.”

  “Will you be staying in Paradise long?”

  “I don’t know,” said Puller. “I guess once you get to Paradise it’s hard to leave, right?”

  He walked out.

  CHAPTER 25

  Puller parked his Corvette about a block down from the house and walked the rest of the way. Despite what he had told Mason he had decided to check out his aunt’s place now. He kept a lookout for police cruisers. Even armed with keys and his aunt’s last will and testament, he wouldn’t put it past Hooper to bust his balls if he got the slightest chance.

  He walked up the driveway and glanced over at Cookie’s house. It was dark now and he envisioned the “young’un” partying into the wee hours in Paradise. He thought he heard Sadie yapping from inside the house, but kept walking.

  The yapping made Puller start missing AWOL, his cat.

  He used the key to open his aunt’s front door, went inside, and closed the door behind him. The house was dark. He didn’t want to arouse suspicion by turning on any interior lights, so he pulled his penlight from his pocket and started moving around. He had the interior of the place pretty much memorized from his earlier visit.

  He walked through the kitchen and entered his aunt’s bedroom. The bed was made. She had not gone to sleep that night, obviously. She had gone into the backyard, either voluntarily or not, and there her life had ended.

  A nightstand next to the bed was filled with books. His aunt had been a reader when Puller had known her all those years ago, and she had obviously kept up that habit. He scanned the titles with his light. Mostly mysteries and thrillers. His aunt did not strike him as the love story type. If she was going to cry, it would be for a legitimate reason as opposed to a manufactured one.

  Puller’s light skimmed over the top of the nightstand and then came back to it. He risked turning on a light because he wanted to get a clearer view.

  With the table lamp turned on he leaned down and saw that his first impression had been right. A small rectangular shape with a slight dust pattern around its edges. He picked up a Robert Crais paperback from the shelf below and laid it on the rectangle. It didn’t fit.

  Too small.

  He tried a Sue Grafton hardback.

  Too big.

  He opened the drawer and saw a small black journal inside. He lifted it out, opened it. The pages were blank. He placed the journal down on the rectangle. A perfect fit.

  There must have been another journal. And it seemed to be missing. And something told Puller that that journal would not have blank pages.

  They’d murdered his aunt and taken her journal because of something that was in it.

  Perhaps it would elaborate on what had been in her letter.

  People who were not what they seemed.

  Mysterious happenings in the night.

  Things that just did not seem right.

  He put the blank journal back, switched off the light, and left the room.

  He took a few minutes to check the bedrooms upstairs but found nothing of interest or help with his investigation. One closet was full of old clothes
. Some were men’s pants and shirts that had presumably belonged to his uncle Lloyd. The other closets were filled with empty hangers, old vacuums, boxes full of musty sheets and comforters, and the odds and ends that folks collected over a long life.

  On a shelf at the back of the closet he found several boxes. One was filled with jewelry that even to Puller’s inexperienced eye looked valuable. He went through the box methodically. There was also a collector’s book with old coins inserted in it. These looked valuable too. He wondered how long she had had all of this.

  He walked back downstairs through the kitchen and into the garage. The Camry sat there looking polished and ready to go, unaware that its owner would not be coming back for another ride. Puller scanned the exterior of the car with his light, looking for damage or unusual marks, but he saw none.

  The car looked to be in reasonable shape. He calculated that it was about five or six years old. His aunt might have bought it before she had developed all of the issues with her spine.

  He leaned up against the wall and started contemplating things, trying to fill in holes in his aunt’s recent actions.

  He was primarily thinking that if his aunt had seen something that had caused her death, it was either in the neighborhood or elsewhere. If elsewhere, she had had to get there somehow. And even though Cookie didn’t think that Betsy drove anymore, he was often gone at night and wouldn’t know if she only took her car out after dark.

  He opened the driver’s side door and sat down in the front seat. He noted that, though tight for him, the seat was set back far enough for a tall woman.

  Then he saw the special devices that had been fitted onto the car. They were controls set within arm’s reach to work both the brake and gas pedal.

  So his aunt could have driven this car despite her infirmities.

  He noted the sticker on the upper left side of the windshield. It was from a lube shop in Paradise. It listed the next date for service and the mileage the car should reach by that time. The date was from exactly thirty days ago. Puller looked at the mileage listed and then shined his light on the dashboard. He did a quick calculation, and also factored in his aunt’s death.

  In the roughly twenty-six days she could have driven it the car had gone an average of ten miles per day. He thought rapidly. Could his aunt with all of her back issues have driven hundreds of miles at a stretch? It was doubtful. But could she have driven shorter distances? That was more likely.

  What if she had driven the same distance every day? Ten miles a day, in fact. That sounded doable even with her back problems.

  So five out and five back. It at least gave Puller something to go on, something to check when there was so much that wasn’t clear. He could do that route on all points of the compass and see where he ended up.

  The next moment Puller quickly climbed out of the car and softly closed the door. He extinguished his light and pulled his Mu.

  Someone had just come in the front door of the house.

  Puller went through the garage door back into the kitchen, making hardly any noise. The other person in the house was not being nearly as quiet. That could be both good and problematic for him.

  He edged around the doorway leading into the family room. He heard squeaks from above. The person had to be upstairs. He wondered briefly if it could be the police, but surely they would have announced themselves. However, if it was Hooper, Puller might shortly find himself in a shootout with the hair-triggered cop. The last thing he needed right now was to be arrested for blowing away a police officer. Yet if anyone was going to get shot tonight he much preferred it not be him.

  His hand slipped to his trigger guard. When it moved to the trigger he had to be prepared to fire.

  And he would.

  And then he saw the person come down the stairs.

  And his military cop voice roared, “Down on the floor. Now. Or I will fire my weapon.”

  The person did not get down on the floor.

  She screamed and ran.

  CHAPTER 26

  She did not make it to the front door before Puller reached her. He wrenched her arm back, pulling her face-to-face with him.

  “Omigod, please, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.

  Puller let go of her arm, stepped back, but kept his Mil at a forty-five-degree angle, ready to aim it up at her if the necessity arose. He switched on a table lamp, partially illuminating the room.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded as he ran his gaze over her.

  She was about twenty-five, with blonde hair in a ponytail. She wore faded blue jean shorts cut high up her thighs, a tight-fitting lime green T- shirt, and flip-flops with “Corona” printed on the straps.

  “I’m Jane Ryon. Who the hell are you?”

  Her tone and words had grown more defiant when it appeared that he was not going to shoot her, but her fearful gaze held on his gun and she still seemed wobbly.

  “John Puller.” He held out his ID and badge. “CID agent with the Army.”

  “Good God, you’re Betsy’s nephew,” she exclaimed.

  “And you’re her caregiver. Or were her caregiver,” replied Puller.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I ask questions. Like I’m doing now. What are you doing here?”

  She opened up her bag so he could see inside. “I left some things in an upstairs bedroom. A jacket and some slacks. I thought I’d be back for them when I came to see Betsy again, but of course that didn’t happen.”

  Puller holstered his gun. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  “It’s okay. At least I know my heart is strong now. Otherwise I would’ve dropped from a coronary.”

  She was about five-five and in good shape. The definition in her legs and the extreme trimness of her frame made Puller deduce that she was a runner.

  “I’m really sorry about your aunt,” she said. “She was a nice person. Do they know how she died?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I came here on the day they found her body. I was actually coming to visit another client on this street. The police cars were here and then a hearse arrived. I talked to one of the cops. He said Betsy had been found in the backyard dead. That’s all I know. I thought maybe she had a heart attack or something.”

  “Her official cause of death was drowning.” “Drowning? I thought they said she was in the backyard. Did she actually drown in the bathtub?”

  “No, in the fountain out back.”

  “But it’s not that deep.”

  “Apparently she fell, hit her head, and slipped into the water unconscious.”

  “Oh my God, how awful is that?”

  “Well, if she was unconscious she would have felt no pain or panic, but it’s still not a pleasant way to go.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Next-door neighbor.”

  “Cookie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sure he’s really broken up. They were good friends. It was funny to see them together. He’s short and she’s tall. She reminded me of that lady from The Golden Girls TV show. I’d watch it on TV Land when I was a kid.”

  “Right,” said Puller.

  “She was her own person, and although sometimes she was hard to get along with, I admired her spunk.”

  “Yeah, spunk runs in the family,” replied Puller. “Cookie told me you help him too?”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve got a lot of clients in Paradise. Keeps me hopping.”

  “You a native?”

  “No. And I don’t technically live in Paradise. I’m in Fort Walton Beach, which is nearby. I came down here about five years ago from New Jersey. The winters are a lot nicer, meaning warmer.”

  “I bet. How was my aunt before she died?” “She had the typical aches and pains associated with someone of that age. She was on meds- again, no surprise there. She used a walker. She was tall, a lot taller than me, but her spine was curved. She had her good days and bad ones. Like all of us.”
/>   “Yeah, but she recently had a really bad day.” “Well, yeah.”

  “How were her spirits? Did she seem depressed, annoyed, worried?”

  “Not more than usual. I’ve been a caregiver for quite some time now, and I’ve found that older people’s emotions can run the gamut during the day. They tend to be in higher spirits in the morning. As night approaches they start to falter a bit. At least that’s been my experience.”

  “Did she drive? Or did you drive for her?”

  “I would run errands. To the store, the pharmacy, stuff like that.”

  “In her car?”

  “No. I’d use my own. The company I work for doesn’t allow us to drive our clients’ cars. Insurance thing.”

  “So did she drive, then?”

  “Not while I was here.”

  “Which was how often?”

  “Two-three times a week.”

  “Every week?”

  “Usually, yes.”

  “And did you stay over every time?”

  “No, hardly ever. She didn’t really require it.” “When would you leave?”

  “Around nine.”

  “So if she went out at night for a drive after you left you wouldn’t know about it?”

  “No. But why would she go out for a drive? I mean, where would she go?”

  “Asking the wrong person. I just got down here. Don’t really know the lay of the land yet. But if she did drive around and went, say, five miles out and five miles back, where might that take her?”

  Ryon mulled this over for a few moments. “Well, if she went south that would take her right into the Gulf. If she went north, it would take her into Choctawhatchee Bay. This part of the Emerald Coast is fairly long but pretty narrow, with water on both sides.”

  “East and west?”

  “West, that would come out around the jetty, although it’s all back roads there. If she stayed on Highway 98 it would angle northwest and take her to Destin.”

  “And east?”

  “Then you’d be heading toward Santa Rosa Beach, Seaside, and then, way past five miles, Panama City.”

  “Anything interesting along that way?”

  “Lots of beaches. The Emerald Coast stretches for about a hundred miles. You’ve got Eglin Air Force base to the west, and east of Panama City there’s Tyndal Air Force base.”