I chose the first thing on the menu that looked good, then the waiter collected them and left, but not before smiling back at Natalie.
Susan asked Natalie a question, and I leaned over to Ellmann.
“Think you might be able to help me later?”
“That depends.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I just need to see some security camera footage.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“Yes.”
“And which security cameras would those be?”
“The ones outside First National Bank. It’s where Dillon attacked Vandreen. The attack would have been recorded by at least one camera. I’m sure the police pulled the footage during the investigation.”
“No promises.”
“I’ll take it.”
“And what are you two whispering about?” Susan asked, grinning.
“Work stuff,” Ellmann said.
“Oh, Zoe, are you a cop, too?” she asked.
“No. I’m a bond enforcement agent. But Ellmann helps me out sometimes.”
“His name’s Alex,” Natalie said crisply.
I was pretty sure she didn’t like me. Great. She could take a number.
“Nat, please,” Ellmann said.
The waiter returned with unnecessary refills and lingered, talking with Natalie longer than necessary. When he finally left, Ellmann shot a dark glance at his back. Vince was already staring daggers at the kid.
“So, what’s a bond enforcement agent?” Susan asked.
“On TV we’re called bounty hunters.”
“Oh, how exciting! You both have such important jobs.”
Natalie scoffed. “She’s not even a real cop.”
“She’s an important part of the criminal justice system,” Ellmann put in, annoyed at his sister.
Actually, Ellmann just seemed annoyed. Usually Ellmann is very even tempered. He doesn’t normally react emotionally or make emotional decisions, even though he has very strong emotions and is very passionate. He’s very rational and practical. Tonight, everything seemed to be rubbing him the wrong way. I wasn’t sure what the problem was.
“Now you, son,” Vince said. “You’re the one with the big-time career, working for the FBI on your big case.”
“I’m not working for the FBI,” Ellmann said. “I’m working with them.”
“Same difference,” Vince said.
“What’s the big case?” Natalie asked.
“A Fort Collins socialite and benefactor was murdered. Her case is connected to a string of similar murders across the state and a couple others.”
“Is that why the FBI’s involved?” Susan asked. “Because she was someone important?”
“Everyone’s important,” Ellmann said, his tone a little short. “And no, it isn’t because of the Marks case. It’s because the cases are spread out over multiple states.”
“Wait,” Natalie said. “Marks? Caroline Marks?”
Ellmann and I both turned to look at her. He nodded.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Caroline Marks is a huge art collector. Her collection is worthy of the best museums. She particularly favors Russian art. It’s too bad she’s dead. I wonder what will happen to her collection.”
I saw something flash on Ellmann’s face before he pulled his cop face on. It happened too quickly for me to know what it was.
The conversation moved away from mine and Ellmann’s work, which was fine with me. And fine with Ellmann, too, given his current disposition. When our food came, Susan was talking about how she and Vince met. While the waiter passed out plates, I leaned over to Ellmann again.
“Are you okay?”
He looked up at me, then he put his arm on the back of my chair and touched my hair, stroking it away from my face. He smiled and nodded.
“Yeah. It’s been a long day.”
I understood then. I mean, I really understood. There was no way I could have spent a day in the car with my family and two people I’d never met before.
I put my hand on his leg and squeezed encouragingly.
“By the way,” he said softly, “I had someone run that plate you gave me. The only Cadillac with those letters in that order is a silver sedan registered to Aaron Shelton. Only address they came up with is a post office box. Best we can figure, it’s an alias.”
We dug into our food and the talking slowed. I was also busy thinking. Aaron Shelton was probably an alias. Danielle Dillon was probably using at least one alias. Someone had probably been following me. There was more going on than I understood right now, which might not have been saying much since I understood almost nothing.
I still thought a big piece of it hinged on Jeremiah Vandreen. Why would Dillon attack him? I was curious to know why she was running, but I thought it very telling she’d taken the risk to visit Vandreen. When I’d asked Vandreen what Dillon had said during the attack, I’d struck a nerve. He’d kicked me out of his office shortly after that; he didn’t want to talk about Dillon. That raised two questions. One, what had she said? And two, why was he lying about it?
Vandreen sure was doing a lot of lying. He’d told his wife one story, the police another, and me a third. I was betting only bits and pieces of each were true and that none of those pieces actually added up to the whole truth. I needed to see that camera footage.
Also, Mrs. Vandreen had been in a hurry to get rid of me when I’d told her about her husband’s lie. Why? What was she hiding?
In looking back on our brief talk, I thought Mrs. Vandreen was likely a demure woman, very prim and proper. She didn’t strike me as the strong or independent type. She might have simply been offended I’d called her husband a liar. Or, she might have been hurt to learn he’d lied to her. But I didn’t think I saw offense or hurt in her. What I thought I saw was fear. Strange that she would be afraid and her husband agitated (which he used to mask fear) when I started asking questions about Danielle Dillon and the reason she attacked Vandreen. What were they afraid of? Who were they afraid of? Were they afraid of the same person?
She may not have seemed very strong or independent, but Mrs. Vandreen was currently raising four children, all of them very young. That was hard work. Maybe she’d just been irritated I’d come around and pestered her. I could remember when my brother was two. There had been days when I wished the worst thing he’d done was eat sand.
Then it hit me.
I sucked in a sharp breath as I sat up, my food forgotten. I was vaguely aware that everyone else around the table had stopped talking to stare at me.
“What’s wrong?” Ellmann asked, watching me.
I turned to him.
“Vandreen does foster care,” I said, as if this answered his question.
He looked at me for a beat. “Okay, and?”
“They have a boy who’s probably about two or three years old. His name is Rusty.”
“Rusty, as in Rusty Conrad?”
“How is it that Dillon, Vandreen, and the Conrads are all connected?”
“Ever heard of coincidence?” Natalie asked sarcastically.
“There’s no such thing,” Ellmann and I said at the same time.
I wasn’t sure I liked Natalie.
I picked up my fork and turned back to my dinner. The conversation around the table resumed, but I was distracted. All I could think about was Danielle Dillon and how Rusty Conrad fit in. After ten minutes, Ellmann leaned over.
“Just go,” he whispered.
I looked at him. He smiled, nodded, and kissed my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I told him.
“I understand.”
Ellmann really is a pretty good guy.
I pushed my chair back. Everyone looked over at me.
“I didn’t realize we were keeping you from something,” Vince said. And I was pretty sure I didn’t like him.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the group at large. “I’ve gotta go. It was nice meeting all of you.”
I hurried t
oward the door. As I was passing the hostess stand, I saw our waiter returning some menus to the hostess. I stopped.
“Oh, hey!” I said quickly. “You know that pretty girl at my table you keep drooling over? Her brother, the giant, is a cop, and I’m pretty sure if you keep it up he’ll find some reason to arrest you. Thought you should know!”
I turned and shot through the door for the truck.
__________
I retraced the route to Vandreen’s house and parked at the curb. There were lights on when I arrived, and I hoped I wasn’t interrupting dinner. I rang the bell and waited. It took several minutes before someone answered.
Jeremiah Vandreen was not happy to see me. That was fine. The feeling was mutual.
“You lied to me, Mr. Vandreen.”
He’d shed his jacket and tie, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. I also noticed the tail of his shirt was untucked on the right side.
“My wife said you were here this afternoon, asking questions. What did she tell you?”
I pulled the screen door open and stepped into the house. Vandreen planted himself in front of me, but I went in anyway, crowding him. We came nearly nose to nose and stood that way for a long moment before he finally took a step back.
“First harassment and now trespassing,” he said. “My attorney will have a field day with this.”
“Why don’t you just call the police? It will save me the time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I intend to report you. I know why you lied about Danielle Dillon.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He pointed an index finger at my nose, and I saw his knuckles were red, bloody.
I felt my own anger beginning to bubble in my gut.
“Game’s over. I know.”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he hissed, that familiar fire burning inside his eyes.
“I know why Danielle Dillon attacked you that day. I know what goes on in this house.”
“Jerry, what’s going—”
Mrs. Vandreen came around the corner and stopped at seeing me standing in her living room with her husband. Her face was red and puffy from crying, her left eye was swollen, and her hair and clothes were disheveled. She was holding a towel that I guessed was full of ice. Now I wished the only thing I’d interrupted had been dinner.
Anger boiled inside me now. My father had been an incredibly abusive man, perhaps the worst on record. I saw in Vandreen now so much of what I remembered seeing in him.
“Jerry,” Mrs. Vandreen began, her voice hoarse, timid. “Should I call the police?”
“No,” he said, his voice the same low, dangerous tone. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Call the police, Mrs. Vandreen,” I said. “Then go upstairs with the kids. Turn on the TV.”
She was crying again, and I could see her trembling from across the room. She didn’t know what to do. Fear was all she knew in that moment.
“Don’t listen to her, Marci!” Vandreen shouted, his voice ugly and terrifying, as he took several angry steps toward her.
It was the same voice my father had always used. As I child, I’d always stood in front of my father, between him and my brother. Now, I cut across the room and stood in front of Vandreen, between him and his wife. Unfortunately for Vandreen, I wasn’t a terrified, defenseless little kid anymore. And my violent past had left me prone to violence myself.
“Do as I say!” He pointed a finger at his chest. “I’m your husband; you do as I say!”
Mrs. Vandreen cowered against the wall, trembling and sobbing.
“You need to leave the room now, Mrs. Vandreen.”
He glared down, his eyes burning into me.
“Please!” she cried. “Please, just do as he says! He’ll hurt you!”
“Go upstairs, Marci,” I said. “Call 911.”
She sobbed, rooted in place for another long minute. Vandreen glowered at his wife over my shoulder, hate rolling off him in tangible waves. Then he made an attempt to move around me, and I cut him off. His fists clenched, and he practically snarled at me. Mrs. Vandreen cried out and finally bolted from the room. Behind me, I heard her on the stairs.
“I’m going to teach you some respect,” Vandreen fumed. “This is my house. I’m in charge here.” That same predatory look I’d seen in his office was glowing in his eyes now.
“You scare your wife, Jerry. You don’t scare me. Whatever you’re thinking about doing right now is a bad idea.” Then I thought about the state his wife was in and the four children living here. I knew well what it was like living with an abuser. Anger flooded me. “But I hope you do it anyway.”
He grunted and swung a fist. Earlier, at the gym, I’d been trying only to detain Cole, not hurt her. This was always true of my physical encounters; I held back so as not to hurt people. But not now. Not with Vandreen.
In one well-practiced move, I deflected the punch past me then delivered my own, sinking one fist into his side below his ribs and cracking another across his jaw. He stumbled backward and groaned, clutching at his side and gasping for air. When he forced himself upright, I could see pain mingling with anger in his face.
He came at me again, feigning with his right hand and punching with his left. I knocked them both away then hit him again. I felt his nose break under my knuckles, and bright red blood gushed from it like a faucet.
He cried out and lifted his hands to his face.
“Bitch!” he screamed.
“It’s different when they hit back, isn’t it? How’s it feel to be on the other end?”
“I’m going to kill you!” he shouted as he charged forward.
He ran forward with his arms outstretched, reaching for my neck.
“I’ve heard that before.”
I stepped to the side then reached up and grabbed his right wrist as it passed. Holding it with my right hand, I brought my left palm against the back of his arm, just above the elbow, ignoring the pain this elicited in my shoulder. There was an audible crunch as the bones broke and the ligaments tore. He cried out and jerked around, swinging wildly with his left fist. I knocked it away with my right arm then drove my heel into his gut.
He doubled over at the waist, trying to suck in a breath. I raised my foot again and brought it down against the side of his knee. It was forced in an unnatural direction, and he started to fall to the floor. I made another fist and hit him for the last time, catching him in the side of the head. He was unconscious before he hit the carpet.
I don’t think I’ll ever regret what I did to Jeremiah Vandreen, however cruel it might have been. His elbow was broken so badly he lost nearly fifty percent of the strength in his right arm. He is no longer able to play sports or do pushups, and his ability to beat the shit out of anyone is significantly impaired, which has been a hindrance in prison, he’s found. A series of surgeries on his knee brought back much of the function, but he still walks with a limp.
I went to the kitchen and found a roll of paper towels on the counter. I tore off a wad and wiped the blood off my right hand. I picked up the phone and dialed 911. Pinching the phone between my shoulder and my chin, I continued wiping my hands as I spoke to the operator. I was surprised to hear someone from the same address had already called. The police were on the way. I asked the operator to also send an ambulance and hung up.
The police arrived, followed by EMS and later DHS. I’d fully expected to be arrested until they could sort out what was what, but that never happened. That might have had something to do with Officer Frye being the first officer on scene. Or it could have been that all the responding officers got a good look at Mrs. Vandreen and her four foster children.
Whatever the reason, the police just took my statement and dozens of photos of my clothes and hands. EMS loaded Vandreen onto a gurney and wheeled him out. A social worker brought Mrs. Vandreen and the kids out of the house. Before she left, I spoke to Mrs. Vandreen. She stood beside the social worker’s van, holdi
ng the kid I’d seen eat sand that afternoon.
“This is Rusty Conrad, isn’t it?” I asked, nodding at the boy.
She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, then she nodded. “Yes.”
“I need to know about Danielle Dillon.”
She smoothed Rusty’s hair with a shaking hand. “She came here once. A couple weeks before she attacked Jerry at the bank. Somehow she’d figured out this was where they’d sent Rusty. She also knew about Jerry. She wanted to know if he ever … hurt Rusty.”
She stopped then.
“Did he?” I pressed. But I already knew the answer.
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“And you told Danielle that?”
She sniffed and took a breath, wiping at her eyes. “I didn’t have to. She knew. She already knew.”
She knew the same way I did. She knew because she could read it in Marci Vandreen’s face. She knew because she could pick out the Jeremiah Vandreens of the world from a mile away.
Now I knew why she had gone to see Vandreen. She’d figured out what kind of man they’d put Rusty with. People who have been abused turn out one of three ways. One, they become abusers themselves. Two, they remain victims their entire lives. Three, they fight back. I didn’t know Danielle Dillon, but I was beginning to get a picture of her. She was the third type. And when she learned of Rusty’s abuse, she fought back. That’s why she came out of hiding. That’s what was worth the risk.
Now I needed to figure out who Rusty Conrad was to her.
11
It was after ten when I got home. Things like that with the police always take forever. Of course, I was grateful to go home at all.
Ellmann was at the kitchen table, bent over crime scene photos. He was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, and he’d been to the gym. He’d probably gone to burn off steam after spending the day with his family more than anything else. Guaranteed his gym visit had gone better than mine.
The entire table was buried under files, police reports, notes, statements, forensic reports, and photos. He glanced up at me when he heard me come in, then he looked up again, setting the photos down and staring.
I could only imagine what I looked like. My knuckles were split, red, and bruised. I had blood on my clothes. And I wasn’t making any attempt to hide what I was feeling, which was mostly negative. Plus, my face still bore the damage of the earlier part of my day, or so the police had mentioned.
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 13