Unveiling the Past

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Farber snorted. “Actually, it’s probably because you don’t have siblings.”

  Sean turned a puzzled look on the man. “What does my only-child status have to do with it?”

  “You never competed for attention. Never pestered a younger brother or sister.” Farber hooked his linked hands behind his head and rocked in his chair. “My brother and me fought like cats and dogs when we were growing up. We hurt each other sometimes, too.” He released a throaty chuckle and leaned forward, tapping the computer screen. “The age difference between the twins and the older cousin—three years—is about right for rivalry. And an eleven-year-old is big enough to do some damage but still young enough to not fully comprehend the consequences of his actions. I think we need to look deeper into the relationship between the twins and this Stony Dunsbrook.”

  “It’s an interesting theory. One that deserves a second look.”

  “Sure is. Says in the notes that the cousin was the last one to see the twins alive. And didn’t you tell me the cousin’s family moved across the country after the twins’ funeral?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” That little tidbit should have created enough suspicion to support further investigation. How in the world did he not see it? Something else tiptoed through the back of his mind. Scowling, he clicked through a few notes on his computer.

  “What’re you doing?” Farber’s tone held a note of derision.

  “Something in the autopsy seemed strange.” He found his highlighted notes and angled the screen so Farber could see it. “Here it is. The boys were found with dirt stains on their clothes, and they had dirt particles in their lungs, stomach, and mouth, as if they’d eaten dirt, but their faces and hair were clean.” Sean raised one eyebrow. “I can’t imagine little boys digging in the dirt or eating dirt clumps and not leaving residue on their faces.”

  Farber rocked his chair, his arms folded over his chest and a smug grin on his face. “So somebody washed them up.”

  Sean nodded. An idea was taking shape, and it wasn’t pretty. “It’s not easy to accuse a child, but you’re right. We have to find out more about the last afternoon of the boys’ lives, and that means talking to their cousin.”

  Farber snorted. “Stony Dunsbrook might’ve been a child when the twins died, but he’s not a child now. He’d be close to fifty. So I don’t feel too bad about asking him some questions.”

  Sean turned the screen and scrolled down the page. He found the cousin’s parents’ address in Stockton, California. After all these years, they might not be living there anymore. They might not be living at all. But it would give them a starting point. “Do you want to make the first contact, or do you want me to?”

  Farber stomped around the desks and propped his hands on Sean’s desktop, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, by all means, let me. Being a hound in hot pursuit of prey is my favorite part of this job.”

  Fort Smith, Arkansas

  Meghan

  Uncovering clues, seeing the puzzle pieces fall into place, was Meghan’s favorite part of her job. But so far not even one puzzle piece had made itself known.

  Did Sheila’s presence intimidate the two employees who’d once worked closely with Anson Menke into withholding information? Or were Greg and Meghan so unaccustomed to working together they couldn’t find the right questions to ask? Either way, the meeting was a flop.

  After an hour of listening to the bank employees hem and haw and skirt questions, Greg thanked the men for their time and ushered Meghan and Sheila out of the room. The moment Greg closed the door behind them, Sheila whirled on him.

  “Why are we leaving? They didn’t tell us anything. They have to know more than they’re saying. Go back in there and make them talk.”

  Meghan put her arm around Sheila’s shoulders. “Sheila, we’re investigators, not interrogators. We can’t make them talk.”

  Sheila shrugged loose and held her hand toward the closed door. “Then ask again. And again and again”—she bounced her hand, emphasizing each again—“until they say something that helps.”

  Greg scowled at her for a few seconds, then took off for the lobby. Meghan and Sheila trotted after him. Sheila muttered under her breath all the way to the car. Inside, she gripped the headrest on Greg’s seat and shook it.

  “I can’t believe this. You aren’t even trying.”

  Greg turned around and fixed Sheila with the kind of look Mom used to give teenage Meghan during rare arguments. “Miss Menke, I understand you have a personal connection to this case, and I’m not unsympathetic. But you have not been trained in investigative work, so you have no business telling me whether or not I’m doing my job.”

  Sheila slumped against the seat. She folded her arms over her chest and scowled out the side window, but tears glittered in her eyes. How much of Sheila’s anger stemmed from the recent loss of her mother? Meghan was ready to cut the girl some slack, but Greg apparently didn’t see the need.

  “If you really want to help, try to remember everything you can about the weeks leading up to your father’s disappearance and share that information with us. Otherwise, you really need to stay out of our way.”

  Sheila didn’t answer. She didn’t move, except to blink rapidly.

  Meghan held up her hand. “Greg, I think you’ve made your point. Let’s go see if we can check into the hotel now. You and I can meet up after dinner and go over our notes again, find a better direction to take with the bank reps.”

  Greg sent one more glowering look into the back seat, then faced the steering wheel. “All right.” His lips remained in a grim line during the drive to the hotel. Although they were still an hour early, their rooms were ready, so the clerk allowed them access. Greg walked the women to their room. Meghan unlocked the door, and Sheila darted inside. Meghan started after her, but Greg stopped her.

  “Listen, DeFord, you better come to an agreement with her or I’ll be hauling her back to Little Rock in the morning.”

  Meghan cringed, imagining the scene if he followed through on the threat. “What am I supposed to do? Captain Ratzlaff gave her permission to be here.”

  “Cap didn’t give her permission to ramrod the investigation. He threw the lead position in your lap, remember? So it’s up to you to keep her reined in. You know as well as I do that those men clammed up because they didn’t want to say anything incriminating in front of Menke’s daughter. They’re trying to protect her. It’s chivalrous, but that won’t help us. Or her, for that matter.”

  Meghan nodded, misery flooding her. She’d suspected the men were trying to protect Sheila’s feelings, too. But how could she tell Sheila without crushing her? No matter what Sheila had said in the captain’s office about wanting the truth, what she really wanted deep down was validation that her father hadn’t embezzled money and disappeared with it. Because no girl wanted to think negative things about her father.

  The recent truth Meghan had discovered about her own father left her heart bruised and aching. She didn’t want to inflict that kind of pain on Sheila if she could avoid it. If only Sean were here. He’d know how to confront Sheila kindly and diplomatically.

  Greg tapped his little room-card envelope on the wall, impatience marring his brow. “Well? Are you going to talk to her?”

  “I’ll do my best, okay?”

  “I hope so.” Greg set off up the hall, waving his card over his shoulder. “I’m in room 114. When you’re ready for dinner, come get me.”

  Meghan took a deep breath, sent up a prayer for guidance, and entered what would be her home away from home for the next few days. Sheila’s duffle bag was on the closest bed to the door, so Meghan plopped her bag on the end of the second bed. She looked around the simple, quiet room. “Sheila?”

  “What?” The reply came from behind a closed door—probably the bathroom. Her voice sounded nasally, as if she’d been crying.

 
Meghan closed her eyes and sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Could you come out, please? I need to talk to you.” Oh, how she missed her husband.

  Seventeen

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Kevin

  Kevin’s favorite part of acquisition was negotiating, but usually he didn’t have spectators. Diane had brought her mother along for their meeting, which initially took him by surprise, but he’d largely ignored the older woman’s quiet presence. She didn’t matter. Not to him, anyway.

  But what did Diane think, seeing him in action with the building’s owner while the owner’s agent and banker sat as if tongue tied and let the two of them verbally duke it out? He wanted to impress Diane, the girl with the high IQ who’d refused to kowtow to him all those years ago. He wanted her to label him as successful. Why? He wasn’t sure, but he wanted her approval.

  The building’s current owner, Rodney Phelps, shook his head and glared at Kevin across the folding table set up in the lobby for their meeting. “I set a fair market price, and you know it. This piece of real estate is in the heart of the city, and it’s an amazing old building—a unique piece of architecture.”

  “Unique, yes, but the greater emphasis is on old.” Using his fingertip, Kevin tapped a paragraph in the proposed contract and looked at the owner over the top of his glasses. “The plumbing system isn’t up to code. The breaker box needs a major overhaul. Just those two things equal tens of thousands of dollars of expense right off the bat.”

  He turned to another page in the proposal document. “There’s no private parking, which drops its value substantially if the building is to be used to house various businesses. Where are the employees supposed to leave their vehicles?”

  Phelps huffed. “They can ride the bus or take a taxi. Buy a month pass for a public lot. It’s what a lot of people who work the Strip do.”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t very well suit someone who makes the apartment their permanent residence.” Kevin flipped several pages to a sheet bearing a series of grainy black-and-white photographs. “I agree with what you said earlier, that having a loft apartment is a distinctive feature, but the last updates were in 1985. No one wants a country kitchen or balloon shades on their windows anymore. Hiring an interior designer to bring the apartment up to date and ready for lease will put another major hit on the budget.” He slapped the file closed and leaned back, pinning the soft-bellied, jowl-cheeked man with a firm look. “Carve forty-five thousand off the asking price, and I’ll write you a check today.”

  A soft gasp came from the corner where Diane and her mother sat on folding chairs, but Kevin didn’t look to see who’d emitted it. The sound itself told him he’d made an impact by intimating that his bank account could cover the cost of the building. “Money talks, and people listen,” Dad had always said. Kevin smirked. Money talk was more effective than prayers, he’d wager.

  Phelps scowled. “All right, I admit the place needs some fixing up. So I’ll come down thirty. But I won’t be robbed.”

  “I’m the one being robbed if I pay what you’re asking. You’ve heard my offer. Take it or leave it.” Kevin glanced around the space, and longing twined through him. He wanted this property. If Phelps walked away, Kevin would kick himself all the way back to Arkansas, but he’d done his research. The building had sat empty for more than a year. The seller had to be on the verge of desperation. He also had to know the longer the building stayed on the market, the more it would deteriorate. Funny how empty buildings seemed to fall apart. The more deterioration, the less value it had. Kevin was doing the man a favor by taking the place off his hands before things got worse.

  He looked at Phelps again and raised one eyebrow. “Well?” If he got shot down in front of Diane, he’d never forgive himself.

  Phelps blew out a mighty breath and flung his hands in the air. “Fine. I’ll sign.” He pointed at Kevin. “But I still think it’s thievery.”

  Kevin removed his corporate checkbook from his briefcase and laid it open on the table. He pulled his favorite gold-plated pen from the interior pocket of his suit coat and gave it a twist. “Make it out to you or your corporation, Mr. Phelps?”

  By paying outright and not involving a lender, the transaction went smoothly and quickly. He signed his name at least a dozen times and forked over the biggest check he’d ever written, but when he escorted the three men to the door, he couldn’t keep a smile from his face. He’d won. And the long-ago girl he’d wanted to impress had witnessed the whole thing.

  He closed the door and turned to face the women. “Well, I think a celebration’s in order. Where’s the best place to get caviar and lobster on the Strip?”

  Hazel DeFord stood, shaking her finger at him. “Young man, if I eat caviar and lobster, I’ll fall asleep at the table from the gluttony and you’ll have to carry me home.”

  Diane stood, too, and angled a wry grin at him. “Haven’t you spent enough money?”

  He’d impressed her. He could tell. His smile grew. “Not yet. The money he carved off the price will still be spent, and then some. But it’ll be worth it in the end.” He sent a slow look around the lobby, admiring the marble touches, crystal chandeliers, and stained-glass sconces. This lobby would make a perfect coffee-and-pastries shop. People could duck in and enjoy a snack or drink before browsing the specialty shops that would occupy the large rooms previously used for offices. A chill attacked. The best kind of chill.

  He marched to the elevator and positioned his finger by the button. “Hazel, you haven’t seen the best part of this place—the only loft apartment on this block of Las Vegas Boulevard’s business district. Want to go up?”

  Her lips quirked, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. “If it boasts a country kitchen and balloon curtains, then certainly I want to see it.”

  Kevin burst out laughing. He’d stop looking past her if she proved to be this amusing at every encounter. He pushed the button. “There’s an amazing view, too. Ladies first.”

  The elevator creaked a bit getting started, but then the gears hummed like bees in a hive. It stopped at the fourth floor, and the doors slid open. Hazel stepped out onto the patterned carpet that reminded Kevin of a 1940s movie theater, and Diane followed her. Kevin came last but stepped past them and unlocked the apartment door.

  With a wide sweep of his arm, he invited them to cross the threshold. “Diane, while you give your mother the tour, why not throw some suggestions my way for updating this space.” He’d left his briefcase in the lobby, but he could make notes on his phone. “I don’t want it to be the only loft apartment on this block. I want it to be the best loft apartment on the entire Strip.”

  She put her hand on her hip and gave him a cocky grin. “Well, to start with, burn the balloon shades. They’re dust catchers.” She patted one of the droopy poofs of sheeny pink. Dust motes floated through the air, and a spider ran up the curtain and over the top of the rod. She cringed. “And homes for critters, I see.” She brushed her palms together and stepped away from the window.

  Kevin made a note on his phone—Hire exterminator. “Eliminate the homes for critters. Got it.” He repeatedly tossed his phone and caught it. “What else?”

  Diane wandered from the window to the center of the open space that served as a sitting area, dining room, and kitchen. She braced her palm on the wedge-shaped island separating the kitchen from the other side of the large room. “What would you think about capitalizing on the original building’s era and incorporating art deco elements? Like a patterned tile backsplash for the kitchen, plaster cornices, maybe even a focal wall with peacock-feather wallpaper?”

  Kevin made a face—peacock feathers? Before he could voice the thought, Hazel gasped and clasped her hands beneath her chin.

  “My, yes. Arch the doorway openings into the hallways, and perhaps add a mirrored sculpture of geometric shapes above the fireplace. You needn’t go overboa
rd, but the right touches would hearken back to the building’s glory days while still blending well with the modern elements today’s millennials want in their living spaces.”

  “Oh!” Diane’s face lit. “What about Tiffany sconces on either side of the hallway opening?”

  “Of course. Furnishing it with pieces that have low, clean lines, in solid colors that coordinate with the colors in a peacock’s tail, would make things so inviting.”

  Hazel and Diane jabbered, sharing ideas so rapidly Kevin couldn’t keep up. He finally waved his hands and laughed. “Ladies, ladies, please…I think I could forget about hiring a professional decorator and put the two of you on the job.”

  They paused and gawked at him, wearing identical “are you serious?” expressions. Then Hazel shrugged. “You’ve got the summer free, Margaret Diane. What do you think? Would you want to tackle the restoration of this loft apartment?”

  Diane tapped her finger against her chin. “I don’t know. Maybe. Would you help me?”

  “Of course. It could be fun.”

  Kevin had been joking, but in hindsight, maybe he’d hit upon a good idea. He knew from past experience she had great taste. He still remembered what she’d done to his room in the frat house.

  October 1984

  Little Rock, Arkansas

  “Look, if this is going to be your home for the next three years, you might as well make it homey, right?”

  Kevin crinkled his nose and threw a sock at Diane. “Homey-schmomey. All I need is a place to lay my head.”

  She pursed her face, peeled the sock from her shoulder, and dropped it on the end of his unmade bed. “That might be enough for you, but if I’m going to hang around, I at least want someplace to sit.”

  “This’ll suit.” He bounced his hand on the edge of the mattress, hoping she’d catch his meaning.

  She rolled her eyes and turned away. Yep, she’d caught it. But she wasn’t having it. At least not now.