"Nothing," mumbled Davy. He took a look around and saw the lack of free tables. It was either us or hitting the road.
"I bet you knew that guy, the murderer," I said, leaning in and dropping my voice as I spoke. "That's crazy, right? Almost getting away with murder on base."
"Yeah, crazy." Davy looked past me, probably trying to work out how he could get away from us. Solomon angled his chair to cut Davy off.
"I said to Solomon, I don't know if I feel safe on base. You know, I have her old job, right? That girl, Jillian?"
"Uh..."
"Well, I said. It's too spooky having a dead girl's job and working right where it happened." I gaped at him in mock shock. "I heard a rumor she was into some weird shit."
"Honey, that's just gossip," said Solomon, a warning tone to his voice, as he patted my arm.
"And Tate got wind of it and bam!"
"I don't think. I... uh," Davy stammered.
"You think it's all rubbish? Me too." I nodded quickly. "You must have known them, right? You'd know better than anyone."
"I really don't want to..."
"Speak ill of the dead?" I interrupted. "Totally get it."
"No, I uh..."
"Feel really bad? Me too! It’s a tragedy!"
"No!” Davy slammed his mug onto the table. “Tate didn't do it, okay?"
I gaped in mock surprise. If I kept this up, my mouth might become permanently slack. "Really? How'd you know that?" I pressed.
"I just know, okay? And Jillian was a nice girl, but she wasn't into Tate, not like that."
"Really? Then how come he beat her to death?" I goaded.
"He didn't. I saw him that night. He didn't hurt her."
"You should totally tell someone," I said.
Solomon nodded. "You want to talk about it, man? You look like you've got a lot on your mind."
"Not really," said Davy. "I just know Nate's innocent. He's a good guy. I tried to tell Captain Somper Nate couldn’t have done it, but he told me to back off."
"Captain Somper is in charge of the gym. You met him already, I think," Solomon explained for my benefit, then, "Why would Somper do that? If you have evidence, you should come forward."
"Somper said it would be my word against a bunch of evidence. All that CSI shit, you know. Pardon my language. Nate had blood on his clothes, yeah? Somper said it would look like I was lying to help a friend, and I'd get charged as an accomplice or for perjury, and my career would be over."
Solomon and I exchanged glances.
"We won't say a thing," I assured him.
Davy shrugged. "Somper said it would blow over soon."
"He sure of that?" asked Solomon. "Tate's been charged with murder."
"But he's gonna get off?" Davy didn't seem too sure as he rubbed a hand over his buzz cut. "I tried to see Tate, but he doesn't want visitors."
Solomon frowned, almost imperceptibly, except I was getting pretty attuned to his emotions now. Something about what Davy said concerned him, but he said nothing, just took a swallow of his beer.
"Listen, sorry to crash your night off," said Solomon, getting to his feet. "It's late. I better get my wife home."
"Can I drive?" I asked, simultaneously rising and grabbing my jacket.
"No, honey. One glass of wine and you're on the wrong side of the road."
"He's joking," I told Davy. "It only happened once." I didn't even get a response, not even a smirk. "Well, good night. It was nice to meet you."
Davy looked up and nodded, returning his stare to the splinter he was picking at from the table.
I followed Solomon to the car. He nodded at Flaherty, who promptly took off.
"I wish we recorded that," I said, sliding into the passenger seat.
Solomon pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and held it up. "I did," he told me.
"Smarty-pants. What got you all worried back there?" I asked as we slid into the car.
Solomon didn’t speak while he pulled into the traffic, following in Flaherty’s direction. "Tate hasn't told anyone he doesn't want visitors," he told me, "but no one's been by."
"So, maybe it's an admin error, or maybe no one wants to come by?"
"Except you just heard Davy. He tried to visit and was denied, apparently at Tate's request. Meanwhile, Tate's sitting in jail, thinking everyone assumes he's guilty."
"I bet he's not a happy bunny."
"That's not what worries me most though. Davy says Somper tried to suppress evidence that could help Tate, before he even knew what that evidence was, by the sound of it. Why would he do that to his friend?"
"I don't even need to answer that," I said. "I know what you're thinking. Whatever's happened, this Somper is part of it." Something dawned on me as I thought about the tall blond man Solomon had walked out with at the gym the night he kissed me. "You think Somper has anything to do with you getting jumped? Because you asked questions at the gym?"
Solomon's jaw set in a stiff line. His eyes darkened.
"I was afraid of that," I said.
Chapter Fourteen
Before Roxanne Connor was a kidnap victim, she lived with her parents in a neat duplex on the erroneously named Magnolia Lane. There wasn't a single magnolia in sight, but the yards were neat and trim and many houses featured mature landscaping. The area had a worn sort of quality about it, like the repaint jobs didn't happen quite as often as needed, or people were too busy trying to afford living, than to actually enjoy it.
After yesterday’s meeting with Jason Davy, I was buoyed by the thought that finally we were getting somewhere. With Roxanne’s seeming disappearance from the face of the earth, the next best thing was to check out her parents. Solomon decided I was the one for the job, being, as he put it, “cuter.” I pulled up outside the duplex, seeing as I was here on semi-legitimate business. I got out and nodded in Fletcher's direction. He parked down the street for surveillance, and sent word to me that Roxanne's mother was finally on her own. The plan was to talk to the parents and take a look in Roxanne’s room. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but with Roxanne kidnapped, there had to be some kind of clue as to why. She had to know something about her sister’s murder.
Something troubled me: I wasn't sure if the Connors knew Roxanne was missing yet, even though it had been a couple of days since witnessing her attack. Fletcher thought not, given that no police cars had been by, despite swinging by my temporary office to briefly investigate. I called Garrett for an update, but he said they hit a dead end, especially since the cameras in that street turned out to be dummy boxes. That just left one anonymous eyewitness’ testimony: mine. He did tell me the Connors hadn't filed a missing person report, which puzzled me further. My parents would have had the whole town looking for me if they thought I was missing. Instead, the neat little house was quiet: no questioning police officers, no news vans. With a sinking feeling, I knew it wasn't looking good for Roxanne.
The hip-high garden gate squeaked as I opened it, letting it fall shut with a groan of unoiled hinges as I walked along the path, noting the absence of children's toys. It was unlike their neighbor's yard, which had two bikes, one pink and one blue, and a soccer set. To my left, there was a small Honda parked on the single-car driveway. An ancient basketball hoop was nailed above the garage door. Taking the three steps to the house, I banged the lion’s head knocker, waiting as footsteps approached.
Anne Connor was a thickset woman with red-rimmed eyes and pale skin. She wore a neat, twin cardigan over a floral top and a blue, knee-length skirt, the colors all muted as befitted a woman in mourning.
"Hi. I'm so sorry to bother you," I started, reminding myself not to feel guilty for the intrusion. "I'm a friend of Roxanne's."
"She isn't here," said the woman wearily, looking over her shoulder as if Roxanne might appear any moment. "She'll be back soon, I think."
I frowned. How could she not know she was missing?
"Right," I agreed, moving into my ruse. "I'm a friend from work. She bor
rowed a book of mine and I really need it back. It's not the book, you see, it's that I left my, uh, doctor's note in it and if I don't take it into work, I'll get into trouble. Roxanne said it would be okay to grab it from her room, seeing as she wasn't going to be back for a while." I stepped up the tempo of my lie with a pleading note in my voice.
"Oh, well, I guess." Mrs. Connor opened the door and I stepped through, taking in the floral arrangements everywhere. The scent of roses and lilies hung heavy and cloying in the air. “Doctor’s notes are important. My husband is still in a cast for his broken leg.”
"I’m sorry to hear that and I'm so sorry for your loss," I said as I looked at the array of cards. For the first time, it hit me that Jillian was a real person; that her people grieved for her. "Roxanne told me what happened."
"It's been very hard on Roxy," said Mrs. Connor. "She idolized Jillian."
"I know. She speaks about her all the time," I lied, looking for the stairs. "Is it straight up? I'll only be a minute. I don't want to intrude."
"Yes. Second on the right," Mrs. Connor replied, sounding distracted. Her eyes were vacant. I wondered if she was under medication.
"I'll just get it," I said, softly, giving her a weak smile.
Mrs. Connor simply nodded, moving off to the living room, leaving me, a stranger, alone in her home. I watched as she dropped onto the armchair, her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on some spot on the wall, before I took the stairs quickly.
Roxanne's room was easy to find. She still had a childish, colorful nameplate on her door and I pushed it open. She wasn't quite as neat as her sister. There was enough space for a double bed and the covers were ruffled, like she didn't make a lot of effort to tidy up after rising. Clothes were on every surface, tossed across the bed, the chair, on the floor and hanging out of her wardrobe. I pushed the bedroom door closed and started to poke through her things, knowing that even though Mrs. Connor was clearly distracted, she would certainly notice if I spent too long in the room, looking for the mystery book.
Roxanne was the average twenty-something. Her money seemed to be spent on clothes and shoes, including some nicer work-wear pieces that I approved of, along with a lot of short, tight dresses. She had a bunch of plush teddies that looked like they were from her childhood and a bookcase crammed with romances and mysteries. I recognized a lot of them, since I'd read them too. She had an e-reader sitting on her nightstand. I opened the nightstand’s drawer, found a half-used pill packet, a blank notebook, a pink pen, a dried rose pressed between two sheets of paper, and a packet of candy. Despite the seemingly random items, they told me two things.
I looked around at the mess, taking in the freshly painted walls and the framed flower pictures, to the overpacked bookcase. In all the investigative scenarios I'd run through with Solomon during my training, he'd asked me the same question: What didn't fit?
My eyes alighted on the box of cake mix on the bookcase. What was that doing in a bedroom? I eased on my latex gloves, picked it up and the flap opened a little bit, the seal already broken. I slid it open all the way and frowned.
This definitely did not fit in Roxanne's chaotic bedroom.
Inserting thumb and forefinger, I took out the plastic wrapped package, opening it carefully, gasping at the contents. Except for a brief incident in high school when I smoked a joint and viewed the world in glorious Technicolor, I wasn't into drugs. I could be wrong, of course; the thick, cling-wrapped block in my hand might not have been heroin or cocaine, it might have been sugar, but I was fairly certain it wasn't. I upended the box and tipped out a roll of cash, which landed on an uncovered portion of carpet. Picking it up, I eased off the elastic band and counted two thousand dollars.
Spreading the strange contents of the cake box on the floor, I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a couple of pictures, e-mailing them to Solomon and Lucas.
My phone rang straight away. "Put everything back and get out of there," said Solomon. "Now!"
When Solomon tells you to run, you run.
"Gotcha." I was just replacing the box back onto the shelf when I heard footsteps in the hallway outside. I stuffed my gloves in my jeans pocket, grabbed the nearest book and pulled the door open, wiping the handle clean on both sides with my sleeve.
"Did you find it?" asked Mrs. Connor. She blinked a couple of times, like she tried to remember. “Your note?”
"Yes." I held up the book, pretending to flick through it. "Here it is! I really shouldn't use a doctor's note as a bookmark. Sorry it took me so long. Roxanne has so many books." I pulled the door closed, and behind my back, gave the handle another polish with my sleeve.
"Do you want to stay and wait for her?" Mrs. Connor asked me as I followed her downstairs.
"No, that's okay. I don't want to get under your feet."
"Well, okay." Mrs. Connor showed me to the door, without argument. She just shuffled along after me.
"I guess she went out with her boyfriend, what's his name," I trailed off, hoping Mrs. Connor would fill in the blanks, but she just frowned.
"Roxy isn't dating anyone right now," she said as she opened the front door for me. "I didn't get your name..."
"Ally," I lied. "Just say Ally dropped by. And again, I'm so sorry for your loss." I escaped to the car, beeping it open just as a large brown car turned onto the street. I had enough years of observing the local PD in close proximity to smell a cop when I saw one, and as it got closer, the driver did a double take at me opening the door. I lurched inside, gunned the engine and pulled out just as the brown car pulled up behind mine. I took one look at Maddox in the rear-view mirror and got the heck out of there before he could ask me what I was doing leaping into his investigation again. As I drove past Fletcher, I stuck my tongue out at him. He flipped me the finger. Good times.
My cell phone rang a couple minutes later. I glanced at the screen flashing "Jerkoff" and pulled a face. I had a brief moment of thinking I should change it back to Maddox's real name before remembering exactly why the alert was there. That it was a reminder. I pulled over to answer.
"What the fuck?" His tone was icy.
"Hello to you, too."
"What were you doing at the Connors’ house?"
"Not following a lead on the case I'm not on."
Maddox sighed. "Did you get any clues from your not a case?"
"Depends. Why are you there?"
"Remember when I dropped by your office? Roxanne Connor's name already came up as a person of interest in my investigation. Funnily enough, there was an anonymous tip that she was kidnapped, which I haven't been able to verify. As you know."
"Okay. What are you investigating?"
"Money laundering," he told me.
"Interesting. What's Roxanne Connor got to do with that?" I asked, thinking about the wad of money in the cake mix box.
"I can't tell you. Your turn."
"Why? You told me nothing!" Mostly because I already knew everything he told me.
"I could have you arrested for interfering in a police investigation."
I thought about the time Maddox did something kinky with handcuffs and smiled. He could be quite creative when he tried. This wasn't one of those occasions. "Yeah," I scoffed. "And I'm gonna call my brothers, and they're going to call my uncles, who are then going to call my cousins." Yeah, I wasn't proud for pulling out the “I'm related to most of MPD” card, but when needs must.
"Jesus." He sucked in a breath, exhaling before saying, "I'm going to assume you were snooping, seeing as I can't think of any other reasonable explanation why you might be at the house where a murdered woman's sister lives, and who may or may not have been kidnapped. Funnily enough, your brother, Garrett got an anonymous tip that she was kidnapped. I may have mentioned it already. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?"
I chose to ignore that, seeing as it was almost certainly rhetorical. "I wasn't snooping."
"Nosing?"
"No."
"Sneaking?"
"No." Well
, I had been sure-footed, right?
"Tampering? Planting evidence?"
"No!"
"I give up. What were you doing at the Connors’?"
"Testing a theory."
Maddox sighed. "You're going to make me beg for it, aren't you? What kind of theory?"
"That not all cake batters are created equal." I took pity on him, adding, "I'm not a snoop, but if I were you, I'd have a poke around Roxanne's bedroom. Maybe take a look at a cake box on her bookshelf. It's kind of a single red sock, if you know what I mean."
"I get you.” Maddox’s tone softened. “What am I going to find?"
"Again, not that I looked, but you might find two thousand dollars in twenties and a block of something that isn't cake mix. Oh, and Roxanne was definitely kidnapped. You should be looking for her. Not that I know anything about that either. Her mother doesn’t seem worried."
"Thanks. Listen, about that photo..." Maddox started to say, but I hung up. I'd given Maddox a huge tip and had enough of being generous for one day. But I didn't tell him my suspicion that Roxanne had a boyfriend her family didn't know about: the pill packet and the rose, carefully preserved in paper, being my main clues. Fingers crossed, I intended to find the guy before Maddox did.
~
I stopped off for a sandwich, a coffee and a lemon surprise muffin on the way back to the base. By the time I drew into the parking lot in front of the Fort Charles apartment, I was still puzzled about what the surprise in the muffin was. Climbing out the car, I swung my purse over my shoulder. Halfway along the path, I encountered my least favorite cop. I stopped, doing a frantic left and right look. There was nowhere to hide. With a sigh, I plodded on.
I don't know how long he'd been waiting, but Maddox had his arms crossed as he reclined in his seat, and if looks could make me want to turn around, head into the nearest open office building and ask if there was a back exit, well, his did. I steeled myself and started walking. Maybe he wasn't waiting for me anyway. I should be so lucky.
Command Indecision (Lexi Graves Mysteries) Page 17