“That wasn’t me,” I say quickly. “I’m just a private investigator, contracted to find Casey Cox. I saw the report on the news.”
“Just like us. You know how we look when the media calls to ask us about something this huge, and we don’t know anything about it?”
“I recommend you call Chief Gates in Shreveport to complain. That’s not how he wants things done. But I came to you as soon as I heard. Ask him about me. He’ll vouch for me.”
“I’ve already called him,” he says. “First thing I did. But the damage is done.”
“Well, maybe it can be undone when this case is wrapped up. I was hoping to talk to the detective who’s working on the Cole Whittington case,” I say. “I’m investigating the possible connection.”
“She’s coming,” he says. “But if you do anything else in my jurisdiction without notifying us, you and me are gonna have a problem. You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
A few minutes later a female detective comes down. She has a shock of bright orange hair—a color not known in real human follicles—and she looks about fifty. She has lines on her face that testify to the years of detective work she’s done, and an air of confidence as she reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m Detective Powers. And you are?”
“Dylan Roberts,” I say, and show her my credentials, then go over the situation again. She leads me back to her office and I follow her as we talk.
She’s not as angry as the captain. “Yeah, we were treating the whole Whittington case as a suicide,” she says. “Guy’s been depressed, he’s being accused of molesting a child, his kids are taken from them, he has to leave his wife so he can get them back. Stands to reason that he might decide to remove himself from the picture. After all, it was a one-car accident, and he drove off a cliff.”
“Did the news reports change all that?”
“Well yeah, because we didn’t know that a fugitive from a murder rap was working with Whittington and stalking him. She’d already been with him during one suicide attempt.”
I look at her. “How do you know that?”
“Apparently he came back and told his mother that he’d been sitting on a bridge, thinking about jumping, and Cox had talked him down. You know, that girl sounds a little crazy in her head. Who knows why she’d be talking him down one minute, then running him off a cliff the next? Sounds like it’s a game to her.”
“Are there witnesses to Cole’s crash?” I ask carefully.
“No, but we’ve given the case another look, reopened it, and we’re calling it a possible homicide now. He’d been to court that morning and the kids had been returned to the wife, and with all the negative reports about his accusers, it seems like things should have turned around for him. I mean, of all the days to commit suicide, that was probably not the most likely one.”
“Would it be possible for me to see the car?”
“Which one? Cole Whittington’s car?” she asks.
“Right. Were there other cars?”
“I thought you might have been talking about Casey Cox’s car. We found it parked on a bridge, smashed on both sides. It looks like she had a wreck there and abandoned it. Titled under the name Miranda Henley.”
I try to look surprised.
“There were witnesses to that wreck, but no one could tell for sure what was happening.”
“Did she hit another vehicle?”
“Looks like it, though it drove away. Witnesses say she got into another car and left the scene. We’ve gotten different accounts about the make and model of the car she got into.”
I’m so glad I didn’t drive my own car here. “So did you examine her car to see if it had any evidence of ramming into Whittington’s car and running him off the road? Did you look at tire tracks at the cliff where he went off? Did they match hers?”
“Both are negative,” she says. “No evidence of her car striking his, although whoever she rammed on that bridge, their gray paint is all over her car. Seems like it was a van or something, from where the sideswiping took place.”
She offers to take me to the place where they have the Cole Whittington car, but first she takes me by the spot where he went off the cliff.
Knowing what I know, that it was probably a truck that’s missing from the Trendalls’ house, I study the tire tracks.
“They’re not from Whittington’s car,” she says before I can point that out. “Probably they’re from a vehicle that sits higher up than a car, and they’re big, like those of a full-size pickup truck. We don’t know if these tracks are connected to his crash or if they were already there.”
I look at how far the embankment is from the tire tracks. Then I study the rock that Cole’s car would have bounced off, then rolled over, before dropping to a jolting stop. “Was he dead on impact?”
“Probably not, but he bled out. The side and the top of his car were smashed in. When we found him, he still had his seat belt on.”
“Seat belt on? A guy who wanted to commit suicide wouldn’t have put on his seat belt.”
“That did give us pause, but we figured it was habit. Now we know better.”
When we’re done, she drives me to the garage where Cole’s car has been towed.
She takes me in through an open bay. I see the mangled metal in which Cole Whittington was found, and I walk around the car, examining it. He would’ve been traveling north, so the cliff was to his right. A car that ran him off the road would have been ramming him on the left. I find some white scrapes around the height of the door handle, but much of the rest of the car is crunched up like a wad of paper.
“This right here,” I say. “It looks like whoever ran him off the road sideswiped him right here. It’s a white vehicle, probably a truck. It’s too high to be a car.”
“Casey was driving an Accord, right?”
“Yeah, black,” I say. “This couldn’t have been her car.”
The detective nods. “Yeah, and as beaten up as her car was, it didn’t have any paint on it the color of Whittington’s car. But she could have been in a different vehicle. The girl’s resourceful, I understand.”
I don’t comment on that. “So have you searched for the truck?”
“We’re working on that right now. Maybe when we find it, it’ll lead us to Casey Cox. Do you have any information that could help us with that?”
“No, but from the reports I’ve heard, Whittington’s accusers should be looked at.” I hesitate, then go on. “The media had just put out some negative information about them, and they were probably getting a little desperate.”
“Yeah, we’ll look at them. But in my experience the most obvious conclusion is the one we should draw first.”
“In my experience, that works just fine until people start staging and framing. The most obvious conclusion is often the one that the killers want you to draw.”
She bristles. “That’s why we’ve just reopened the case. We’re working on it. But we’re really good at what we do.”
“I don’t doubt that at all,” I say. “I’m just thinking that as I’ve worked on the Cox case, I’ve developed a pretty sound profile of her. This doesn’t look like her. She seems more measured, less emotional.”
“Are you getting that from the girl she rescued in Shady Grove? Or the best friend she stabbed to death in Shreveport?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer. “I just don’t want my investigation to get muddied up by this if Cox is not really involved.” I thank her for her time and tell her I’ll be in touch later to check on the investigation and see if she’s learned anything about Casey. When she asks for my phone number, I give her my old one, the one that is taped to the bottom of a truck. I’ll have to replace it soon anyway. I know better than to give her the new one, in case Keegan comes along. But I’ve gotten all I need to know from her for now.
57
CASEY
I can’t tear myself away from the television. When local news goes off, I switch to cable and
see that they’re treating Cole’s case like an active murder investigation. You would think that the police had locked down the city of Dallas and were hunting for me in every home and business.
I can’t believe my life has come to this. When Dylan calls to tell me what he’s learned, I’m more sure than ever that the Trendalls are responsible for Cole’s death. I know they’re hiding that truck somewhere, and I try to give him the address of Ava’s abuser’s house, but I’m not sure I’ve got it right. I’d written it on the papers the Trendalls took from my car.
“It was Cottonella, I think. It had a chain-link fence around the front and back yards. And there was a junkyard a couple of miles from the Bouncy House Heaven. Maybe it’s there.”
He takes it all down and says he’ll get back to me.
On Fox News, they’ve assembled three attorneys who are discussing what detectives might be looking for in order to find me and stop my killing spree.
Then they bring in a psychologist who discusses my state of mind, what I was thinking when I helped the girl in Shady Grove, how I might be bipolar or schizophrenic, following the orders of voices in my head.
I force myself to turn off the TV, and I sit there a moment, my knee pulled up to my chest. I bury my face and cover my head as the chattering goes on. I am hearing voices. They are making me crazy.
A knock sounds on the door, making me jump.
“Housekeeping,” someone says.
I jump up and go to the door. Without opening it, I call through, “I don’t need service today.”
The woman thanks me and goes about her business.
I pace back and forth across the living area of the suite, trying to decide what to do. I picture my mother watching television, shocked to see this new accusation coming against me, wondering how I got involved in this one. The media will be even more rabid. Hannah probably can’t even take Emma into the backyard. I don’t dare call her again. I can’t jeopardize her safety more than I already have.
I turn the TV back on, flip channels until I see myself. It’s a local channel, and they have breaking news. The correspondent is standing outside the Dallas Police Department, talking rapid-fire.
“Sources at the police department have indicated that they have leads on the whereabouts of fugitive murderer Casey Cox, and they believe her capture is imminent.”
I suck in a breath and dash to the window to peer out through the heavy drapes. There’s not much activity in the parking lot below, but I fully expect a convoy of police cars to arrive at any moment.
I limp to the bathroom and check my brown wig, throw all my things and Dylan’s into our bags. I have to let him know I’m leaving. It’s not safe for him to come back here.
My shoulder and ankle are better, but they still hurt as I walk purposefully to Dylan’s car, load the bags into the backseat, and pull out of the parking lot. I call Dylan’s burner phone as I drive away.
He answers quickly. “Hey.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Dylan,” I cut in. “I had to leave the hotel. There was a news alert on the local channel that said they have leads on my whereabouts and expect to capture me today.”
“Well . . . I did see some local media out front when we got back from looking at Cole’s car, but the detective didn’t seem to know anything about a lead. I really think they would have told me, although they were pretty miffed that Keegan and Rollins hadn’t looped them in.”
“Are you sure your car isn’t being tracked? I’m driving it.”
“I searched it for a device. If they were tracking it, don’t you think they would’ve come last night?”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know where to go.”
“Stay in Wichita Falls until I get back. I’m looking for the truck. It wasn’t at the junkyard.”
“Have you found the house?”
“No, not yet. You said Cottonella Street, right? There isn’t a Cottonella. Are you sure you’re remembering it right?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, can you tell me how to get there?”
“I followed from the Trendalls’ house. They got back on that main road, Roosevelt, I think, and there was . . . I think I remember a bank near where they turned left. A green bank. Or maybe it wasn’t a bank . . .”
“That’s not very helpful. Let me keep trying these streets on the GPS.”
Frustration claws at me. “I’m coming back. I know I can find it, Dylan.”
“Casey, this is the very last place you should be!”
“It’s the place I have to be.”
“No, you can’t—”
I click the phone off. I trust Dylan, but I have to do this.
I drive the speed limit back to Dallas, afraid to go one mile over.
When I get to Dallas, I drive to the Trendalls’ house, then, as well as I can, retrace the path we took when I followed them that day. I see the bank on the left and turn there, then I come to a stop sign and try to remember if we turned left or right. I look up the road and see a church on the right, and it’s familiar so I turn in that direction, hoping there’ll be another landmark to remind me where else they turned. When I realize that I haven’t seen this area before, I go back to that stop sign and go the opposite way. This time I feel like I’m going in the right direction. The buildings are looking familiar. I remember the dry cleaner on the corner, the park across the street.
And then I get to the neighborhood, and I recognize it because of the house with a goblin in the front yard. I try to remember which way they went, where they turned, and then I see a woman out watering her lawn, and I remember that I saw her before. I turn next to her house. And there it is, the house with the grass grown high and a fence around the front yard and back. I’ve found it! It’s Cattonelle, not Cottonella.
I slow as I come to it. There isn’t a white truck in the driveway or the open garage. But I drive around to the side and . . . there it is.
The truck is parked on the back gravel driveway, just within the enclosed back fence. I pick up my phone and turn it back on so I can let Dylan know. But before I can call him, I see something that makes me slam on my brakes.
A child is hunched under the truck.
I catch my breath and lean to look out my passenger window. It’s little Ava on her hands and knees, hiding at the center of the truck’s undercarriage.
Urgency hits me like an electric jolt. I drive around the block and find a house that doesn’t have a car anywhere, so I park Dylan’s car on the street in front of it. I get out and limp back to the house that backs up to the chain-link fence, my mind racing, trying to make a plan. If I can get to Ava, I can get her out of that yard.
But then what? I can’t kidnap her.
I don’t cut through the yards. Instead, I keep walking the block as I call Dylan, each step on my ankle shooting pain up my leg.
He answers after half a ring. “Casey, why did you turn off your phone?”
“Because I didn’t want to be talked out of coming here,” I say in a low voice. “Dylan, I found the truck. It’s at that guy’s house. It’s Cattonelle Avenue, not Cottonella, and the house next door is 233.”
“Got it. Where are you?”
“I’m near his house. Dylan, Ava is hiding under the truck! We have to help her.”
He lets out a heavy breath. “I’m on my way. Just wait in the car. Please, Casey. I’ll be there soon.”
I tell him I’ll wait, but as I walk back to the car, I cross between yards just to see if Ava is all right. She’s still under the truck, but I hear a man’s voice from inside the house, thundering out, “Ava!”
I can’t leave her. I move closer to the fence and squat down. The truck is between me and the door where the man is standing, so he can’t see me. “Ava?” I say as quietly as I can and still be heard.
Startled, she bumps her head as she turns toward me.
“Stay there, honey,” I say, moving along the fence. “I have help coming.
” She’s been crying, and she sucks in sobs and doesn’t answer. “We’re going to get you out of here. It won’t be long.”
She doesn’t answer, but when she hears him yelling her name again, she covers her ears and squeezes her eyes shut.
I can’t leave her. She doesn’t realize he can see her under here if he comes outside to find her. She won’t be able to get away.
I make the decision before I’ve even had time to formulate a plan. I stay hunched down behind the cover of the truck as I go around the corner of the fence. There’s a gate there, and quietly, I open it. I know if I move the two feet to the truck he’ll see me, so I wait there, motioning for Ava to come. But she doesn’t move.
I’ll have to go in. I wait until I hear the screen door bounce shut, then I dash into the yard and move to the side of the truck. I squat down and reach out to her. “Come here, honey. I’ll get you away from here.”
Opening her eyes, she looks at me, then back toward the house.
“Come on, sweetie. Hurry.”
She scoots toward me, but she’s still just out of my reach. She’s trembling and drenched with sweat.
Suddenly I hear the screen door slam again, and she jerks back and covers her head.
I’m stuck now, unable to move without being seen. I wait for him to see her, and if he sees her, he’ll see my feet. I freeze . . . waiting.
My phone rings. I grope for it, trying to silence it . . .
But in a fraction of a second he’s there, holding a pistol aimed right at me.
He starts to laugh, revealing a missing front tooth. “Give me that phone.”
I have no choice. I stand up slowly and toss him the phone.
He bends to get it. I don’t know if he’s seen Ava yet. I hope she’s seen the open gate by now, and that she runs.
“I . . . I was looking for my dog . . . ,” I say.
He laughs out loud then and shoves my phone into his back pocket. Then he pulls out his own. With the pistol still aimed at me, he thumb dials a number, then says, “You won’t believe who’s trespassing in my yard. I think it’s that girl. Casey Cox.”
If I'm Found Page 22