Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  Noah’s heart began a slow climb up his throat and he strained to take a full breath.

  “After I hung up, I started thinking about the name. Several of the corporations involved with that apartment building were named after Texas rivers: Frio, Salado, Blanco, Llano. And then this agency named Comal Realty. The thing is besides being an odd coincidence, all those rivers are west of here. Closer to Austin and the hill country. If you wanted to name a business in Houston after a river, wouldn’t you pick one closer, like San Jacinto or Brazos or even Neches?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why hadn’t he noticed? The cashier’s check for the tax payments came from Medina Properties. Wasn’t that a river near San Antonio? Noah forced himself to speak calmly. “Did you identify yourself?”

  “Only as Royce Elkins Realty.”

  Not good, but better than some creep knowing her name. “And no one has called you back?”

  “Well, I had one odd call. Some guy asked about a property we have listed on Brier View Drive.”

  “Don’t people call in about that kind of thing all the time?” Why else did realtors put ads in the paper?

  “It’s a beautiful property, right off the bayou. But the owner’s a privacy nut, doesn’t want his neighbors to know he’s selling, so the ad didn’t give any particulars. Just said call for information. I started describing it and he cut me off. Wanted to know if there was anyone else in the office he could talk to.”

  “Was your boss there?” There were still men who preferred to do business with another man so the call wasn’t that odd.

  “Yes, but he was in a meeting with a client.”

  Okay, calm down. She wasn’t alone and the guy knew it. “And that’s what you told him, right?”

  “Not exactly. I asked him to leave his number and said Royce would call first thing in the morning. He laughed and hung up on me.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “An hour or so. About ten minutes after I left the message.”

  The volume knob on his voice shot to high. “Why’d you wait so long to call me?”

  “I didn’t want to phone till Royce left. He took the client to look at another property.”

  So she was alone in the office?

  “There’s one other thing I’ve been thinking about. Did you ever read the stuff I sent you about Tom Meyers’ client?”

  Shit. He’d been too busy trying to solve this case. Plus he didn’t like Meyers and especially didn’t like being maneuvered into doing something to help the guy. A clear case of his ego getting in the way when he knew Meyers wouldn’t have called him if it wasn’t important.

  Luckily, Lauren barreled on without waiting. “His client was the son of a prominent Austin businessman. He was accused, along with one of his frat brothers, of raping and strangling a prostitute. Tom proved his client was out-of-town at the time so charges were dismissed and it all fell on the frat brother—Jeffery Landers—who was released two weeks ago. The client’s name is Richard Bachman, Jr. Bachman is a lake up near Dallas, but it comes off the Trinity so I guess it qualifies as a river.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Noah set down the phone and tore through his notes. Where was the information from that banker who signed off on the first loan? Papers scattered across his desk.

  Conner hung up on his last call and hovered, waiting. They’d been partners long enough for him to know something important was going down.

  There it was. In his pocket spiral. He ran a finger down his notes. What was the guy’s name? Yes, the corporations were all rivers. And the officers were… Oh, shit! Bradly R. Bachman, Junior and Senior. What had the guy said? Junior had dropped out of school. He was totally useless.

  Because that was the same description Luis from Sleeman Cement had given about the construction foreman. Had Bradly R. Bachman, Senior tried to keep his son busy by giving him a job at the apartment?

  Did the R stand for Richard? As in Dick. Big Dick?

  He glanced at the clock over the Lieu’s office. Almost four o’clock. Rush hour traffic was already underway. “Go right now. Lock the office door. Turn out the lights. Wait in the bathroom if you need to. Stay out of sight. Your office is on Memorial Drive, right? It’ll take me at least forty-five minutes—“

  “Lefty Bob,” Conner interrupted.

  “What?” Noah tried to make the leap in his mind.

  “He’s working a case on that side of town. He could be there in ten minutes.”

  Noah’s heart slowed down. That would work. “Did you hear Conner? I’ll send Lefty Bob to pick you up. He’s a big guy, dark hair. Don’t unlock the door until you see his badge and identification. It’ll say Roberto Hernandez.”

  What the fuck had just happened?

  Medina Realty was not listed anywhere. That number never rang unless it was a robo call. Some machine going down a list of numbers in order with no idea who or what they’d reach.

  That bitch had not only known the name of the agency, she’d known the property.

  And no one in their right mind would want to purchase that property. Not after it had been featured prominently on the news. Along with its multitude of occupants.

  Something was up and he had to find out what, and he had to do it fast.

  The call didn’t seem to be police related. A Google search led to a webpage for an actual company with two agents. Laurel Newcomb must be the woman who left the message. She seemed to be a real person with a Facebook page showing friends and photos going back several years.

  Much too cute to be an undercover cop. She’d be his type if she were a few years younger. Although he was willing to make an exception if necessary

  Laurel. The name felt good on his tongue. From the Greek if he wasn’t mistaken. Meaning strength or courage. Not that either one of those would do her any good.

  He’d wasted fifteen minutes panicking when he checked the message. His blood pressure had skyrocketed to dangerous levels and his shirt soaked through with sweat before he came to his senses. He had everything he needed to take care of the situation.

  His private playhouse didn’t look like much from the curb. But why should it? No one drove down the dead end street. A four car garage with an equipment shed attached was nestled behind an abandoned mansion whose ownership would be tied up in court for years to come.

  The garage was four-star all the way, but the equipment shed was an add-on. No electricity, but lanterns worked fine. No running water, but a bucketful of bayou water was all he needed for washing his visitors.

  His name appeared on no document. There were no utilities to trace. Considering the nature of the old wooden building, one match would destroy any evidence should anyone come too close.

  He eased back behind the empty house and into the garage where his van waited.

  The white paneled van had served him well over the years and he took good care of her. She was fully equipped with everything he might need. Waiting comfortably behind her tinted windows was no problem.

  If he couldn’t get to the woman now, he’d follow her home.

  Royce Elkins Realty was located in a stand-alone building next to a quiet side street. On the opposite side, they shared a parking lot with a three-story brick structure with no windows facing that area.

  The late afternoon sun glared directly into the windows of the building he parked in front of and all the blinds were tightly closed.

  The first thing he noticed was the woman pictured on the agency website. Using the binoculars he kept on the front seat, he could see her through the glass panel on the front door.

  She talked on the phone. She worked on her computer. She walked to the file cabinet.

  He was right. She did have a cute ass.

  The second thing he noticed was a man who looked similar to the owner pictured on the company website. So her boss was in.

  The bitch had lied to him already.

  What else did she know? Given time, he could find out. All he needed was to get her alone.

&n
bsp; After twenty minutes, his attention waned. He watched a woman walk a poodle with a pink bow out of the dog grooming shop at the end of the block. He couldn’t stand dogs, but the woman had nice legs. A flurry of movement caught his eye.

  The owner and an elderly couple were leaving the realty office and he almost missed it. His father’s words echoed in the back of his brain. Loser. Lightweight. Can’t control yourself long enough to finish anything. Big disappointment.

  He slapped the steering wheel then yanked his hand back. He’d ruin everything if he hit the horn.

  He glanced back into the office and Laurel was still there, talking on the phone.

  The elderly couple inched down the sidewalk and toward the parking lot while the owner tried to pretend patience. The old woman clung to her husband’s arm. Squeezing her fat ass into the rear of the silver Infiniti took both men. Then the husband worked his way to the front passenger seat and eased inside.

  Some discussion must have followed—Seat belts? Destination? Air Conditioning? Radio Station?—because the car didn’t move for an excruciatingly long time.

  Meanwhile, Laurel had hung up the phone. When had that happened?

  The Infiniti backed out at one-mile-an-hour, then stopped at the edge of the driveway, waiting for nonexistent traffic to pass.

  Finally! He eased out of the van, being careful not to slam the door and attract attention. He casually strolled across the street when a beat-up Volvo approached from the opposite direction and turned into the lot.

  A hefty guy with a good start on a beer gut heaved out of the car. His sport coat flapped as he speed-walked across the lot, showing a gold badge attached to his belt.

  He couldn’t let the cop see his face, so he bent to tie his shoe.

  The cop skidded to a stop as he reached the sidewalk and eyed his white van.

  How the hell did the cops know about his van? He was in deep shit now.

  The fat cop swung toward him but he had already reached for a loose brick lining a flowerbed. He hurled the brick into the cop’s face.

  The blow stunned the man but didn’t take him down. He reached for the gun on his hip, but it tangled in his sport coat. By the time he got it loose, the distance had been closed.

  The cop was stronger than he looked. He struggled to regain control of the gun, but it was too late.

  Pulling that trigger was a thrill he’d never experienced before. So much power at his fingers. The gun bucked, but the sound was muffled by the press of their bodies. The cop stared into his eyes as if surprised. His ragged breath grew faint.

  Now what? He couldn’t stand in the middle of a parking lot holding a dying man.

  Weren’t cops supposed to stay in good shape? This guy weighed a ton. The cop began to sag and he dragged the body behind the flowerbed.

  A quick glance around the street said he was hidden from view so he took the opportunity to help himself to the guy’s badge and identification. Roberto Hernandez.

  Well, his own hair and eyes were dark and he was tan from spending time outside. If he kept his finger over the photo, he should be able to pass.

  While he was at it, he relieved the guy of his cash, too. That might confuse any investigation. Besides, to the victor belonged the spoils. And he was definitely the victor. No point in taking the detective’s gun. It was covered in blood.

  Besides, he already had his own.

  Fortune had smiled on him this morning when he’d put on a maroon shirt. Any blood splatters shouldn’t be easily visible.

  He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart, smoothed down his hair, and strolled toward Royce Elkins Realty with his back straight and head held high, only to find the door locked and the lights off.

  Where’d she gone? Her car had to be in the lot. There was no parking on the side street. He’d checked. If she’d passed, he’d have seen her.

  He cupped his hands and looked through the windowed door into the office. Enough of the afternoon sun filtered inside to make out her desk, a file cabinet, visitor chairs, a potted plant. A thin line of light seeped from under a closed door in the back.

  He pressed tighter against the cold glass and saw something sitting on the edge of her desk. Her purse.

  No woman went anywhere without her purse.

  She was in there. He knew it. He tapped on the window but nothing happened. He knocked harder, rattling the glass in its frame. Had she met Hernandez before or was he just coming to question her? No way to know for sure. Best not to use his name.

  “It’s the police, Ms. Newcomb. I know you’re in there. Please open the door.”

  Several seconds passed before a door opened and light spilled into the room. He could only make out the woman’s silhouette as she leaned around the corner. “Detective Hernandez?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m right here.” He held the badge and ID against the window, making sure the photo was obscured by the agency name painted on the glass.

  “Noah said to expect you.”

  Job one as soon as he had her secured: find out who Noah was and how much he knew.

  She edged closer, examining first his ID and then him. The door was flimsy. He could kick it in if necessary, but he preferred that she come willingly, so he held still under her scrutiny.

  “Wait a second, let me get my purse.” She twisted toward her desk.

  He fought back a smile. They never went anywhere without their purse.

  Laurel was still digging in her purse for the office key when Detective Hernandez took her arm and tried to pull her away. “Give me a minute. I have to lock this door or my boss will be furious.”

  “I don’t like you out here on the street, exposed.”

  A car came around the corner and he twisted, turning his back to the street and blocking her from view.

  Wow. Noah must really be worried about her.

  The instant the lock clicked, Hernandez hustled her away. His hand was rough and calloused, and his grip a fraction too tight for comfort.

  He rushed her across the street to a white van. Not what she expected, but then Noah drove a pickup.

  A chip chip sounded as the door lock popped open, and he all but shoved her inside.

  Geez. She knew he was concerned for her safety, but he didn’t have to be so rough.

  The back of the van was neat and orderly, but held all types of equipment she didn’t recognize. Lefty Bob must be an amateur handyman. Wouldn’t that be nice in a friend? She had half a dozen things in her townhouse that needed to be fixed and she really wanted an arbor and porch swing for her patio.

  She glanced over to see if he had on a wedding ring. He didn’t, but he wore his watch on his left arm, not his right as she did. Some people did that, but it always felt awkward to her.

  Noah had told her the man was big, but she had no idea he meant huge. The guy wasn’t simply tall, he was muscular. He reminded her of a football player with all his pads on.

  She clicked her seatbelt and twisted toward him. “So where are you taking me?”

  “Didn’t Noah tell you?”

  Had he? “I don’t think so. Only someplace safe while he figures out what’s going on. I thought his office.”

  “No. Too many people there. We have a safe house where you’ll be comfortable until he can come.”

  That made sense.

  Noah glanced at his phone. It stared back at him, cold and silent. Sure, Lefty Bob drove like an old man, but how long did it take to get from Dairy Ashford to Memorial?

  He was supposed to call as soon as Laurel was safe in his car. Not wait until they got back to the station. He glared at the phone again. Daring it to ring.

  And it did.

  He grabbed it up without thinking and shouted, “Where have you been?”

  “Nebraska.”

  What? “Who is this?”

  “Lincoln Montgomery.”

  Shit. He’d yelled at the FBI. Way to go when he was asking them to help. “What’s up, Montgomery? We’re in a rush around here.�
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  “I’ve got the information you’ve been asking for.”

  About time. “Spill it.”

  “First, Stella Fitzgerald’s mother sent in a sample of her DNA. It’ll take a while, but I’ll let you know if it matches the body you’ve been calling Lucy.”

  That was good, but he already knew the woman was her mother, so the DNA was only a formality.

  “The dental records you sent for Felicia Vickers were a positive match.”

  Did that make him feel better or worse? The Vickers’s daughter was definitely dead, but they could quit searching now. If his neighbor Mrs. Powell was right, having a grave to visit was some comfort.

  So how did he feel about his part in dropping the investigation? Like that piece of gum you stepped on in the parking lot and never got rid of.

  “There’s one more thing.”

  He didn’t like the sound of Montgomery’s voice. Another shoe was about to drop.

  “Forensics found matches for two of the seven cases you sent over.”

  Damn the lazy Garrett Lewis. How many cases had he swept away because he couldn’t be bothered to investigate? If they’d spent more time looking into them at the time, would they have found a connection to the man in the white van?

  “One was in Ft. Worth and the other in Abilene. I’ve contacted the sheriffs in both counties. You’ll probably be hearing from them.”

  Son-of-a-bitch. the Sanitizer hadn’t taken a break for ten years. He’d just moved around the state.

  Why did he turn out to be right on the times he most wanted to be wrong?

  Noah disconnected, grabbed his phone and thumbed in Lefty Bob’s number. Again. Where the hell was the guy and why didn’t he answer?

  “Detective Hernandez?”

  “Call me Roberto.”

  Sure, he probably thought that sounded more professional than Lefty Bob.

  She could use a friend right now, and this guy wasn’t as friendly or warm as Noah and Conner. Maybe because he was on the job.

  But then so was Noah when he questioned her and the Hudsons’ maid Rosario. And when he helped her find a decent divorce attorney. He might have been off duty when he drove her to the prison to visit her dead friend’s brother, but he was when he used his influence to help the guy get into rehab instead of jail.