Tar Heart (A New Hampshire Mystery Book 3)

by Mira Gibson

  Resolving once again to contact Lucas was all she could do to stop herself from sinking further into mental quicksand.

  She pressed the accelerator, easing onto the road.

  Hovering around forty miles per hour along the Daniel Webster Highway, she drove over black-ice, snowdrift, and pools of slush so broad that she hydroplaned twice—gripping the steering wheel tightly and latching onto thoughts of Tucker so her mind wouldn’t split apart.

  Dusk fell, as she veered off the highway, coming behind a salt truck that was moving at a glacial pace along Newman Road.

  Four miles later, she turned up her sister’s driveway and killed the engine after coming to a stop as close to the front door as possible, unable to contain how eager she was to hug Tucker.

  Stalking through the snow, it took a moment to find her house key and as she fit it into the lock, having ascended the front steps, the door pushed inward on its own.

  The door was ajar?

  “I’m home,” she called out, edging through the foyer and peering into the living room where the television was playing a Disney movie, though muted. “Mary?”

  She shrugged her coat off and draped it over the couch, scanning the kitchen—marble countertops, closed cupboards, an organized dish rack, wind howling beyond the window, everything as it was. But Mary wasn’t there.

  Tearing down the hallway, Tucker’s playroom came into view—the dresser, toys scattered across the carpet, his crib...

  He wasn’t there.

  Her chest broke out into a cold sweat, intuition taking hold, pitching her into dark unease. Her heart began punching against her ribs and she felt suddenly light-headed as she started back, not walking, but running to the stairs where she grasped the banister, launching herself up the treads, taking them two at a time, catching a flash of her reflection in the mirror—eyes dark and fearful, cheeks gaunt, her face long and pale, aged by the epiphany she should’ve never left her nephew with a stranger.

  She barreled down the hallway but halted when Mary stepped out of the master bedroom. Her stark blue eyes were white all round, her crescent brows flattened, her mouth a stunned oval, teeth parting as if in shock. She braced the wall as though she might collapse and when she finally met Holly’s gaze, she began slowly shaking her head.

  Dazed, her finger pointing unsteadily in no particular direction though it seemed to anchor the thought she was forming, she breathed, “We were downstairs...”

  Nearing her, taking her by the shoulders, Holly insisted, “Where’s Tucker?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice like wind over reeds. “I went to the bathroom and when I got out, he wasn’t on the couch.”

  “What are you telling me?” she demanded.

  “He’s gone.”

  Holly paced away and plowed her fingers through her hair, her mind racing so fast she couldn’t think straight. Again, she grabbed the girl’s shoulders, forcing eye contact.

  “When?” She shook her. “When did this happen?”

  Remorseful, Mary admitted, “Maybe a half hour after you left.”

  “And you didn’t call me?” she shrieked and the girl cowered, hanging her head.

  “I thought he was hiding, playing a game or something,” she pleaded. “You weren’t gone that long.”

  “An hour,” she asserted, planting her fists on her hips and pacing away again as if distancing herself from Mary would prevent her from killing the girl.

  There was no use trying to compose herself. She was beyond panic, rising into full-blown horror.

  “I didn’t realize how long I was hunting around for him,” she explained, scrambling through excuses. “It’s a big house and I checked every room. I ran outside, scanned the perimeter. I looked everywhere and before I knew it you were back.”

  “Stop,” Holly snapped, drawing her cell phone out of her pocket. She found the number for the precinct then thought better of it and dialed 911 instead. Her lips were quavering badly, but she relayed the emergency to the operator and recited the address, straining to keep her shaky voice steady. When she hung up, she couldn’t look at Mary, but said, “The front door wasn’t locked.”

  “I didn’t even check it,” she supplied as if that made her innocent.

  Holly couldn’t deny she shared the blame. She hadn’t locked the door either or at least she couldn’t recall doing so.

  Her legs felt like rubber as she crossed the hallway, rounded the landing, vaguely aware that Mary was trailing sheepishly after her.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she let out a carefully measured breath and ran both hands down her face.

  In the living room, she sat on the couch, her eyes glazing over, stupefied.

  Mary edged into the room, wringing her hands, dropped into the adjacent sofa-chair, and stared at Holly.

  “You were in the bathroom?” she asked, trying to wrap her head around the unfathomable—how an intruder could have possibly darted into the house and snatched her nephew.

  Air escaped between Mary’s teeth and Holly realized it was a Yes.

  “How long were you in there?”

  “Five minutes-”

  “And you didn’t hear anything?” she demanded, glaring at the girl now that she could stomach looking at her.

  Reluctantly, she confessed, “I was upstairs.” As Holly absorbed the detail, Mary added, “I may have gotten sidetracked when I got out.” She hesitated a beat, gauging Holly’s reaction, and then quickly blurted out, “He wasn’t alone for more than twenty minutes-”

  “He shouldn’t have been left alone at all,” she stated, irate that the girl had the audacity to defend herself.

  Shifting in the chair and squaring her shoulders at Holly, she argued, “You think I could’ve prevented this? Fought someone off? What if they shot me like they shot your sister or that guy?”

  Holly remembered Ron’s curt, Russian conversation, connecting dots she couldn’t be certain were there. But just as she was beginning to comprehend the detail the doorbell chimed followed by pounding on the front door.

  Mary stood, but didn’t rush off to answer it. Instead, she angled over Holly in an invasive manner, catching her off guard. “I know what you’re keeping in the bedside table.”

  Gaping, staring up at the girl with abject horror, she said, “You’re threatening me?”

  The girl straightened her back, her drawn-on brows rising in challenge, as a police officer shouted, “Got a call, Holly, open up!”

  “I’m not threatening you,” she said easily. “Just making sure we’re on the same page. You should hide it better.” As she crossed to the door, she ordered over her shoulder, “Now,” and then rushed to greet the officers, popping the door and thanking them for coming.

  Holly tended to the matter quickly, using urgent strides until she reached the second floor landing where she immediately tore down the hallway, grabbed the drug baggie out of the nightstand drawer, and rushed to the trunk in her sister’s walk-in closet, all the while disturbed that Mary had not only discovered her burgeoning habit but seemed invested in keeping it secret.

  After planting the baggie at the very bottom of the trunk and shoving it into place beneath the hanging dresses, she made her way down to the living room where two police officers, as well as Lucas, Cody, and a woman—dark, wavy hair, her body sharp angles instead of curves, a delicate English bump on the bridge of her nose—were angled around Mary.

  As she neared them, her high-heeled boots clicked on the wooden floor, which drew their attention.

  Approaching her, Lucas asked with grave concern, “Tucker’s missing?”

  On the brink of tears, she said, “What the hell is going on?” She realized she had grabbed his arm so she clasped her hands together.

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” he calmly suggested. “Where were you?”

  She realized he was assuming she had been here, so she shook her head. “Ask Mary.”

  Hearing her name, the girl flicked her pier
cing blue eyes at Holly and a trace of intimacy shined through as though she was hinting at their shared secret. It was jarring.

  But Mary quickly launched into the facts, giving her statement, while one of the officers scratched his pen over a report form, struggling to keep up with her account.

  Holly watched them for a beat then discretely turned to Lucas. “I need to talk to you.”

  Interrupting their privacy, an officer approached Lucas and addressed him in a low tone. “I’ve got an Amber Alert out, but she should get a photo of Tucker.”

  In immediate response, Holly padded down the hallway, making a beeline for Tucker’s playroom where she recalled a number of framed photos were resting on top of the dresser.

  She chose one of Tucker beaming a toothy grin, lips curled and eyes bright, sand blowing from his fists as he sat on the shore, then realized Lucas had followed her in.

  Nearing her, he quietly asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?” and gently touched the small of her back where she kept her revolver.

  Uncomfortably shifting, taking a step back so he wouldn’t discover her weapon, she told him, “I’ll tell you after everyone’s gone.”

  His head tilted, brow furrowing, curiosity peaked.

  “I could tell everyone out there,” she mentioned, offering him the framed photo as a means to urge him back, but he neither took it nor allowed her space. “But I’d prefer to speak with you alone.”

  Agreeing, he whispered, “Okay,” but began clenching his jaw as if waiting might kill him.

  Without engaging him further, she hurried into the living room where Cody took the photo from her, glimpsed at it, and immediately passed it to one of the officers whose badge read Gibbs.

  “We’ll find him,” Cody assured her, placing his hand on her shoulder and giving her a squeeze.

  It was just the kindness she needed to fall apart.

  She choked down a sob, burying her face in her hands for a long moment, and when she lifted her head, her vision was blurred with tears, but she noticed the woman who had seemed familiar with Cody and Mary was offering her a sympathetic smile.

  “Cody will find him,” she said, resonating the detective’s assurance. “He’s the best when it comes to finding people.”

  Cody nodded affirmatively.

  “I’m Hannah,” she said, finally introducing herself. “Mary’s sister.”

  Groaning, the girl corrected her from the sidelines. “Half-sister.”

  Addressing Hannah, Cody suggested, “Why don’t you take her home while I finish up here?”

  As Hannah hooked her arm around Mary’s shoulder, shepherding her to the foyer, Holly asked, “Are you guys going to have to search through everything again? Should I go home, I mean to my real house?”

  Which prompted Cody to ask, “Is anything missing?”

  She shook her head, though she had no idea. She hadn’t looked around.

  Lucas was approaching from the hallway, but only to wave the officers over.

  “I wouldn’t recommend staying here at all,” he said finally. “This house isn’t safe if our perp is coming and going as he pleases. But we won’t be too long. Just need to dust for prints, be thorough,” he detailed in a firm tone as if giving weight to the seriousness of the crime. Then his mood grew personal, tone softening, his brows arching understandingly. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Holly began fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, willing herself not to cry again. “I don’t want you to beat yourself up for leaving him with Mary.”

  She let out a laugh, which caused her tears to spring. “I already do.”

  Lucas returned, as Cody guided her to the couch. She sat, her gaze locking on the snowfall outside where the bright floodlights lit up the porch, the backyard beyond it in darkness. The magnitude of Tucker’s abduction was hitting her. She felt sick. She felt like a bad aunt, a terrible makeshift mother. A walking disaster.

  She barely heard Lucas explaining to his partner that the officers were dusting the playroom for fingerprints. Their voices twisted into incoherent mumbling, though she caught Lucas offering to finish up here—Go on home to Mary, she’s going to need you, she’s probably a wreck. His response was a resounding, No.

  Maybe she should tell both of them about Diamonds. Maybe she would have to. But she didn’t trust Cody, not after his scheming display at the precinct, coaxing her into offering up her whereabouts, alibis that didn’t exist. She wasn’t sure she could trust Lucas either, but her reasons for that were entirely different.

  Deciding she would stick to the events of today and nothing further so as not to slip up with an accidental contradiction, she piped up, interrupting their hushed conversation. “I’d like to tell you what I know now.”

  The detectives paused. She could feel their eyes burning into the back of her head and when she glanced over her shoulder at Lucas then twisted to meet Cody’s gaze, they quickly rounded either side of the couch.

  She flipped her laptop open and refreshed the Diamonds homepage. “Please,” she said, indicating they should have a seat. Mentally, she weighed the pros and cons of mentioning the envelope and decided doing so wouldn’t be detrimental to maintaining her innocence, not like admitting she had been in Benjamin’s hotel room would be.

  Cody scanned the screen, reading out loud, “Diamonds.”

  “It’s an escort service,” she explained. “I found a note written to Rose that was embossed with this logo.”

  She pointed to the silhouette of the woman and Lucas stiffened beside her. Unless she was mistaken, she thought he had stopped breathing.

  “I went there today, which is why I needed Mary to watch Tucker,” she went on, producing the note from her jeans. Cody took it, and after studying it carefully, passed it to his partner. “Everyone thought I was Rose.”

  “You’re dead to me,” Lucas read.

  As a qualifier, Holly mentioned, “It was in an envelope full of cash. Rose was working there.” She grimaced. Stating it outright left a bitter taste in her mouth. “A man named Ron seems to run the place,” she continued, meeting Lucas’s gaze. “He admitted he wrote the note and...” It was like she was back in that office again. Her pulse quickened. “I know you won’t think it’s evidence but when I stepped in that room, he went pale like he was seeing a ghost. I think he killed them.”

  “Okay,” said Cody, absorbing the information. When she glanced at him, Holly could almost see his mind working—his eyes shifting over the screen, jaw clenching.

  “Before I left, he threatened me, thinking I was Rose. He also placed a very brief phone call—in Russian, I think.” She locked eyes with Cody for emphasis. “I think he ordered the kidnapping. I think that’s what that call was about.”

  “We’ll talk to him,” Cody assured her, determination in his tone. “This is good, Holly. This is solid.”

  Lucas was leaning towards the screen. He took command of the mouse pad, scrolling over the toolbar, and then clicked on the tab for Girls.

  The screen filled with a grid of black squares, each with the Diamonds logo, each with an exotic sounding name written in cursive—Letitia, Gisele, Sonia, and the list went on.

  Interested, Cody took over the mouse pad and clicked on the first name and a young woman popped up.

  Wearing nothing, a sheet of black lace cascading from her balled fist over her body—her left breast exposed, her smile darkly inviting the viewer near—the girl looked in complete command from where she reclined on a white settee.

  “Jesus,” said Cody. “They should call it Barely Legal.”

  Lucas said nothing and when she discretely angled her gaze to him, he seemed off, rattled, sweat beading along his brow.

  Cody clicked through a few more names, perhaps in search of Rose’s image to confirm Holly’s statement, but soon gasped.

  Holly stared at the screen in disbelief.

  Were her eyes playing tricks on her?

  Or was the bleached-blonde straddling a black chair, elbows
out and breasts swelling, piercing blue eyes glancing down her nose, head tipped back and smile wide, none other than Mary Cole?

  Chapter Eleven

  She could hear them—muffled, overlapping voices, rising and falling in concerned waves downstairs. There was no way to make out what Hannah and Cody were saying, not with the ragged wind pinging sleet against the window.

  Mary’s bedroom looked how she felt—wasted.

  The dresser was topped with an array of CDs, loose tissues and q-tips, old makeup containers leaving trails of pink and charcoal dust. The drawers were open and drooping, clothes billowing out as if trying to escape. Her gaze floated distractedly across the floor—textbooks and school binders lain awkwardly over crumpled jeans, USB and headphone cords tangled, the carpet beneath matted and stained though it had been brand new when she first moved in.

  Mary felt suddenly dizzy so she tucked her knees to her chin, shifting where she sat on her bed, and leaned her forehead against the cold windowpane.

  It was too dark outside to get lost in the scenery, but she had it memorized—the naked Maples, snow tracing every bent branch, the particular slope of the backyard, cattails brown as death shooting up from the frozen shore. She could see it all despite her own reflection on the glass. And as she envisioned each detail, she willed herself to sober up.

  Taking bump after bump of Holly’s cocaine had been a mistake.

  She hadn’t been in the upstairs bathroom for ten minutes, but rather in the master bedroom, seated on the edge of the bed for far too long.

  It had only been a guess. Rose had had dozens of hiding places and the nightstand drawer hadn’t been one of them, but Mary had gotten lucky, or rather Roberta had. Her friend had called her, convinced her to hunt around upstairs. Mary had argued that they still had plenty—Why look for drugs? We’re set. But when she saw the plump bag resting in the drawer, she was glad Roberta had coaxed her.

  The last thing she felt now was glad.

  What the fuck happened to Tucker?