Bounty Hunter Ransom
Page 11
“Would you just tell me what you’re talking about?”
She opened her mouth to tell him off when a chunk of limestone from directly over her head exploded outward, just as a popping noise sounded from the woods on the other side of the wrought-iron fence.
Aubrey didn’t fully comprehend what was going on until Beau yelled “Down!” He leaped over the wall, taking her with him, and threw her onto the patio, though he came along with her, twisting at the last minute to take the brunt of the fall onto his body.
Someone was shooting at them.
Beau’s hard body pressed her down into the sharp flagstones. She heard a louder reverberation and realized Beau was shooting back. Good heavens, where had his gun come from? They’d spent the previous day together and she’d never noticed him carrying a gun, but apparently he was.
The double doors opened, and Aubrey recognized the string of rapid Spanish as belonging to Beronica. Then Beronica screamed.
Beau rolled sideways, releasing Aubrey. “Get inside. Crawl, don’t stand up. Call the cops, and stay away from the windows.”
“Where are you going?”
Before she could ask again, he was gone. Oh, heavens, he was going to look for trouble. Why couldn’t he just come inside with her and wait for the cops? But no, he had to play hero.
Aubrey got to her hands and knees and crawled, as directed, to the patio door. Beronica helped her inside, still spewing Spanish.
“Beronica, por favor, en el Inglés,” Aubrey said, drawing on her pitiful skills in Spanish. “Yo no comprendo el Español.”
“Who that man?” Beronica asked.
Aubrey answered as she went to the kitchen to dial 911. “He’s a friend. Amigo. A private investigator, sort of. He wants to help find Sara.” She could see that Beronica didn’t quite understand. “An investigator—like Magnum, P.I.?”
At that Beronica nodded. “Sí, Magnum. He shoots the gun?”
“Yes, but someone else is shooting the gun, too.”
BEAU SCALED the iron fence close to the house, then worked his way from tree to tree back to the area from which he thought the shots had come. All the while, his mind teemed with more questions than answers.
The bullet could have been intended for either him or Aubrey—it had whizzed past his ear on the way to the wall just inches above Aubrey’s head. But no one had known he was on the property, so he had to conclude Aubrey was the likely target.
Who would want to kill Aubrey, and why? Cory the bartender came to mind first. After Beau’s visit earlier, Craig had gone to check up on Cory Silvan at his last known address. He wasn’t there, and it appeared he’d packed up and left in a hurry. Something had sure spooked him. Maybe he thought Aubrey would sic the cops on him for what he did last night. Or maybe he was on the defensive for some other reason—like murder and kidnapping.
If he thought Aubrey knew more than she did, he might want to eliminate her. But how would Cory have known she was here? Beau wished he knew more about this reward. Had Aubrey been on TV? That could bring out any number of crazies, Cory among them.
Beau found the spot where the shooter had hidden himself, behind a massive live oak tree. He was probably long gone, but the guy had gotten careless and left a couple of 9-millimeter shell casings on the ground.
Last night’s rain had left the ground soft enough to reveal one partial footprint. Stepping on leaves and stones and bark to avoid leaving prints of his own, Beau examined the print. It was pretty indistinct, probably not good enough to make a definitive match. All Beau could tell was that it had been made by a man-sized athletic shoe.
He decided to collect the shell casings. If he left it to Lyle, the clod would probably get his own prints all over them, like he’d done with Patti’s car, rendering the evidence useless. Beau would have to see if he could find the bullet on the patio, too. He used a twig to retrieve the two casings so as not to damage any evidence. He had nothing to put them in, however, so he placed them gently in the breast pocket of his black T-shirt.
The bullet from Beau’s gun was lodged in the live oak tree. He was gratified to see that his aim had been accurate, though he wished he’d hit the bastard. As a purely self-protective gesture, he used his pocketknife to dig the bullet out of the tree. He tucked the bullet into his jeans pocket for later disposal, then disguised the hole in the bark with a bit of mud. If the Payton Police Department evidence techs did their usual lousy job, the hole would never be found.
By the time he returned to the house, the cops had arrived, lights flashing. Lyle among them, unfortunately. Aubrey had just opened the door to let Lyle and two uniforms into the house. Beau caught up to them and entered last, earning a scowl from Aubrey.
“Well, well, look who we have here,” Lyle said smugly when he realized Beau had joined them. “Hope you have a real good reason for creeping around on this estate.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Aubrey said, exasperated. “He was standing right next to me when the shots were fired.”
“Shots?” Lyle said. “More than one?”
Aubrey’s gaze flickered toward Beau, then back to Lyle. “I’m not sure. I thought I heard two, but maybe one was an echo.” She guided them through the house to the heavy wooden doors that led to the patio. “I was right out here. The shots came from that area, I think.” She pointed in the general direction of the live oak tree, which was two hundred feet away. “And one bullet hit here on the wall, just above my head.”
Lyle inspected the damage to the limestone wall. The bullet, Beau could now see, was lodged in the rock. To his horror, Lyle climbed on the retaining wall and started to dig the bullet out with his own pocketknife.
Beau exchanged a look with one of the uniforms, a young African-American woman whose name tag identified her as Brooks. They shared an understanding—Lyle’s actions weren’t standard police procedure.
“You might want to leave that there,” Beau said, unable to keep quiet. “It hasn’t been photographed or measured yet.”
Lyle turned toward Beau, his face growing red, the knife held out in an almost threatening gesture. “You stay out of this,” he said, “or I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation.” Just the same, he stopped digging. “Brooks, go check out that area behind the fence near that big tree. See if you can find any evidence of the shooter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beau took the opportunity to follow Brooks as she headed back through the house. “I’ve already checked it out,” he said, hoping Brooks had a less dim view of ex-cops than Palmer. “I’ll show you the spot. I collected some shell casings.”
“Man, you really are trying to get yourself in trouble.” But her gaze held grudging respect. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the one who brought in Gavin Schuyler.”
God, he wished he could be famous for something else. Tracking down the Broski heiress had been a helluva lot harder than finding Gavin. But because of a confidentiality agreement he’d had with the heiress’s father, no one knew anything about it.
“Just don’t mention that in front of Aubrey. She’s his sister.” He showed Brooks the spot behind the live oak, showed her the footprint and where he’d found the casings, which she bagged up. She also spotted a single strand of hair clinging to a nearby bush.
“It’s not mine,” Beau said quickly. The hair appeared to be a brownish-blond, nowhere near Beau’s dark brown.
“I’m gonna get an evidence tech up here,” Brooks said. “I don’t want to mess anything up.”
Beau nodded his approval. Apparently Payton did have some decent cops in the ranks.
As they returned to the house, a motorcycle roared up the driveway. The gates had been left open, Beau noted, wishing he’d reminded Aubrey to close them behind the cops.
“Who the hell is that?” Brooks asked, quickening her step. Beau was right behind her. They made it to the front door just as the chopper’s grungy rider climbed off his bike and made his unsteady way toward them.
“Can we help you?” Brooks said, moving to block the door.
“I’m Charlie Soffit,” the man said with a belligerent tilt to his head. His words were slightly slurred. He was obviously under the influence of something. He waited, as if his name explained everything. When Brooks made no reply, he continued impatiently. “I’m Patti’s—I’m Sara’s father, damn it. I want to know why I wasn’t notified my baby’s missing—oh, God, I’m gonna kill that bitch Aubrey!”
Chapter Nine
As Aubrey, Lyle and the other cop left the patio and returned inside, they all heard raised voices that sounded as if they were coming from the front porch. Lyle and the uniform rushed toward the noise, Aubrey right behind. When they opened the door, a strange sight greeted them. The female cop and Beau were on the ground in the driveway, grappling with a stranger.
“Thanks for the quick action, boys,” the woman cop said, one plucked eyebrow arched in sarcasm. “But with Maddox’s help here, things are under control. This might be our shooter.”
As soon as the cop and Beau hauled the man to his feet, Aubrey realized he wasn’t a stranger after all. “Charlie, what are you doing here?”
“You could have called me,” he said as he ceased struggling and started sobbing. “I loved her, and you didn’t even tell me she was dead. I had to hear it on the TV! And now my kid’s missing.”
Lyle looked at Aubrey. “Who is this guy?”
“Charlie Soffit. Patti lived with him for a while. He is, unfortunately, Sara’s father.” She turned her attention back to Charlie. “You don’t have any rights where Patti or Sara are concerned. You kicked her out after you got her pregnant. And you signed that paper—”
“I did not kick her out!,” he interrupted. “She left me. I wanted to marry her. I wanted to do right by her. But she wouldn’t let me get near that baby. My own flesh and blood.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Lyle said in disgust. “Brooks, why do you think he’s the shooter?”
“The first words out of his mouth were that he wanted to kill Aubrey,” Brooks said.
A chill wiggled up Aubrey’s spine. She knew she wasn’t Charlie’s favorite person. He’d always claimed Aubrey had turned Patti against him, that Aubrey was the reason they broke up.
“What shooter?” Charlie asked. “What are you talking about? I didn’t shoot nobody.”
“Check his bike,” Lyle told the other cop. “See if he’s got a gun.”
“Don’t we need a warrant?” the cop said.
“We’ve got probable cause. Do it.”
Reluctantly, the cop opened first one of the huge motorcycle’s saddlebags, then the other. He reached in and withdrew a large handgun. “This what we’re looking for?”
Aubrey felt light-headed at the sight of the gun. She only hoped Lyle’s haste wouldn’t make the evidence inadmissible.
“Let’s take him in,” Lyle said.
“Just a minute,” Beau said. He still stood close to Charlie, though he was no longer holding him. “What’s this gash on your arm, dude?”
Aubrey hadn’t noticed it before. But Charlie did indeed have a ragged cut on his right forearm.
“A dog bit me. Why?”
“A dog? Are you sure?” Beau asked. “Not a person?”
“Yeah, a pit bull. They don’t like motorcycles.”
Aubrey waited for Lyle to respond. But he just stood there, apparently not understanding the significance. Maybe he really was a lousy cop. He sure had a short memory.
Beau shook his head. “Have someone photograph that wound. And swab his hands, for God’s sake.”
Lyle looked supremely irritated. “Maddox, will you just stay out of it?”
“Someone’s got to do your job for you.”
“Look, turkey. I could haul your ass in for—”
“Enough!” Aubrey interrupted, stepping between the two men before they could come to blows. “Don’t you dare put him in jail,” she said to Lyle. “Whether you like him or not, he’s good at finding people. Let him help.”
Lyle narrowed his gaze at Beau. “Just stay the hell out of my way.”
Beau looked as though he was biting his tongue to keep from retorting.
“And you,” Lyle said, pointing his finger at Aubrey. “Lock that gate after us, and don’t let anyone in for any reason.” He softened his voice. “And keep recording the calls you get. Maybe one of those tips will pay off.”
AUBREY CHECKED the answering machine. A couple of calls had come in during all the excitement, but they didn’t seem significant. She dutifully recorded them on the computer, then she let Beau scroll through all the other tips.
He stopped at the one from Summer. “Interesting. She seems to confirm that Cory’s the one we need to look at.”
“What about Charlie?” Aubrey asked. “Patti did refuse to let him have any contact with Sara—he was telling the truth about that. He apparently regretted severing his parental rights. He tried to get back together with her and she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Not that I blame her.”
“He does make a handy suspect,” Beau said. “Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s the shooter. He was wearing motorcycle boots. The footprint I saw up in the woods was definitely from an athletic shoe. Also, I think Charlie was too drunk or doped up to shoot as accurately as our guy did.”
“He could have changed shoes. He could have been a lucky shot.”
“Possible.”
“What about the bite mark on his arm?” she asked, unwilling to dismiss Charlie. “He could have come to my house looking for Patti and Sara, and he got me instead.”
“Definitely possible,” Beau said. “We might also be dealing with two different perps. Or maybe a gang. Either Charlie or Cory could have hired a shooter once they found out about the reward.”
“Two different people trying to kill me?” Aubrey scoffed. “I’m a chemistry professor, for God’s sake.”
“Yesterday you were just in the wrong place. Today you were definitely the target.”
She sighed. “There’s one other thing I should show you.” She led him into the living room where she’d left the set of plastic keys. She handed them to Beau. “I’m ashamed to even bring this up. But it’s so peculiar. David said in no uncertain terms that he has not seen Patti in months. But this is Sara’s favorite toy—or one just like it. I found it under the sofa.”
Beau examined the keys, then shook them, causing a tinkling sound. “It’s a pretty common toy.”
“But what’s it doing here?”
“Does Beronica have any children?”
Aubrey shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s ask her.”
When they went to the kitchen, they found Beronica busily preparing lunch, though it was almost midafternoon.
“Sorry I so late,” she said as she pulled a pan of steaming enchiladas out of the oven. “Everything so crazy today.”
Aubrey hadn’t felt like eating since she’d heard about Patti, but she knew she should eat something. The Mexican food made her stomach growl. “Beau, would you like some?” she asked politely.
“Sure.”
Aubrey got out two plates and heaped them with enchiladas, beans, and rice, while Beronica prepared trays for Wayne and Mary, the hospice nurse.
“Beronica, do you have any small children?” Aubrey asked. “Niños? Bebés?” She pantomimed rocking a baby.
Beronica smiled. “Oh, sí. I have a little boy, Carlos. He one year old.”
“And does he live here with you?”
She nodded. “But during the day, my sister take care of him. He make cry, you know, and I no want him to wake Señor Wayne.”
Aubrey was much relieved to find a logical explanation for the toy. Beau gave her a look that sa
id I told you so.
When Beronica finished the trays, she skillfully balanced them both in her arms and headed out of the kitchen.
“Why doesn’t she use the dumbwaiter for that?” Beau asked. “It goes right up to the master bedroom, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t think anyone uses it.” Aubrey got up and went to the sliding wooden door in the kitchen wall and opened it, revealing the heavy ceramic mixing bowls stacked inside. “Maybe it doesn’t work anymore.” She hadn’t recalled the dumbwaiter being so small. “Is it really possible I used to ride in this thing?” She gave a delicate shiver, recalling the thrill of getting closed into the claustrophobic space and moving through the dark shaft.
“You and David were always inventing crazy scenarios that involved smuggling children in and out of various places.”
Aubrey smiled at the memories. She and Patti—and even David—had used the dumbwaiter to escape all manner of imaginary Nazis, cruel orphanages, and Soviet spies.
“We had so much fun back then,” she said wistfully. “What happened to us?”
“We grew up,” Beau said simply. “Pretend cops and robbers became real.”
And hormones kicked in, Aubrey added silently. Her unrequited crush on Beau had transformed the carefree games of little girls and boys to miserable ordeals of rising hopes and crashing disappointments. Also, Beau’s and Gavin’s brushes with the law had pitted them against her parents, as well as Uncle Wayne and Aunt Joan. The freedom Aubrey had taken for granted—to ride around with the boys, hang out at Stubby’s, or just roam the neighborhood at night—had been severely restricted.
Then Aunt Joan’s death when Aubrey was seventeen had put an end to childhood.
Beau checked his watch. “I’ve got to get to work. Some of those tips are worth checking out. Long shots, but the kind of things cops will overlook because they don’t have the time or manpower. If you learn anything that might be helpful, call the First Strike office. Lori will get hold of me.”
“I want to go with you,” she said suddenly. The idea of just sitting here, answering the phone, was unappealing. Calls were still coming in, and there would be peaks of activity every time the reward was publicized. But the task had become boring. “You might need me. You said yourself, I’m pretty good at getting people to talk.”