by C. J. Lyons
“Why hasn’t he come forward? Anything else on him?”
“He’s a lobbyist, spends most of his time in DC,” Wash answered.
“We’re guessing Sarah kept her maiden name because of her photography business,” TK added.
Lucy ignored her food, hard to do given the heavenly smell of the French onion soup, and leaned back, staring at the screen. She shook her head. “There’s something not right. Did Sarah call in? Does she know about Walter? Have you talked to him?”
TK and Wash both looked to Valencia. “I told them to hold off,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because when Tommy asked me to act as his attorney today, I ran his name through LexisNexis and Westlaw.” The legal databases contained information on both criminal and civil cases as well as rulings nationwide. “I found summary judgment in his favor for a malpractice suit. It came down just a few days before Charlotte’s disappearance. Depending on how efficient his malpractice insurance company was, he might not even have known that the case was closed. And of course, once Charlotte went missing—”
“Who cared about a malpractice case. What was the case about?” Lucy asked.
“The files are sealed, so all I have are the plaintiffs’ names. Walter T. Putnam and Sarah Brown. Suing Dr. Thomas Worth for wrongful death of their son.”
“Their son?” Lucy spun to face them. “Sarah thought Tommy killed her son?”
Wash shrugged. “No idea. Obviously the judge who dismissed the case didn’t agree. And Tommy didn’t recognize Sarah, so maybe it was dismissed because he didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“In a teaching hospital, that could easily have happened,” Valencia agreed. “Doctors’ names end up on all sorts of patient charts even if they’re not involved in a case. Walter and Sarah may have sued the hospital and never have known that Tommy was also named as a defendant. And since the case was dismissed, they’d never have encountered him in person.”
“Sarah obviously can’t remember, so we need to find this Walter Putnam and talk to him,” TK said. It sounded like it wasn’t the first time she’d proposed the plan.
“And what?” Lucy challenged her. “Tell him his wife is missing and has amnesia, one of the people helping her is the doctor he accused of killing his son, and by the way, how did your son die?”
“We can ask Tommy,” Valencia said.
Lucy thought about it. “He’s got so much on his plate right now. But…” She jerked her chin. “Wash, give him a call. There’s just too much coincidence here. Charlotte and Sarah’s lives intersecting this way—”
“No answer on his cell,” Wash reported. “Or at his home.”
“Let me try his in-laws,” Valencia said. She slipped out of the room, only to return a few moments later. “He’s taking Nellie to dinner. But his mother-in-law will give him a message as soon as he’s back.”
“Wash, what more do you have on Walter T. Putnam and this malpractice case?” Lucy asked, settling back in her seat and tackling her soup. Xander was right, it was going to be a long night. “Find me someone we can talk to. Tonight.”
<><><>
ADRENALINE, ANGER, FEAR. Tommy didn’t have time to catalog the emotions rocketing through him—all he knew was that suddenly the world grew both larger and smaller at once. He wrenched his gaze from the shotgun and glimpsed a minuscule opening in the traffic in the intersection ahead. The roaring in his ears was punctuated by honking, screeching brakes, and Nellie’s scream as he yanked on the wheel and hit the gas, shooting the Pathfinder into the opening, running the red light.
Two cars that had been approaching from the left skidded on the wet pavement, horns blaring, barely avoiding a collision with each other and him. He raced across the intersection into the entrance to the shopping plaza, but the SUV didn’t follow.
Tommy’s throat was tight. He had to force himself to stop holding his breath and inhale. He pulled up at the cinema’s entrance, seeking the safety of the crowd. Nellie was bawling, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” and as he replayed the last few moments, he realized just how close she’d come to being hit. From her perspective in the rear seat it must have been terrifying.
Hell, it was pretty damn terrifying from his perspective in the driver’s seat. He hunched over the steering wheel, palms sweaty, fingers and wrists aching from clenching, his breath coming in gasps.
“It’s okay, Nellie,” he said as soon as he could manage it. Her sobs had quieted. It took everything he had to squelch the nausea rising in his gorge, lift his head, and look back at her. “It’s okay.”
She didn’t look like she believed him. Which only added to the pain. Not to mention the headache gathering at the base of his skull, preparing a rampage, complete with lights and sirens.
He blinked—and realized the lights and the sirens were for real. It was as if his hearing had been dampened by adrenaline, but now he heard the people talking outside the car, and they seemed to be everywhere, surrounding it. The windows were steamed by his and Nellie’s breath, making the figures outside appear like monsters clawing their way through the mist.
“Turn the ignition off and put your hands on the wheel,” came the blare of a man’s voice amplified by a speaker.
Tommy glanced into the rearview mirror—not one cop car but two, with flashing amber lights. Two cop cars? Where had they been when a madman was trying to run him off the road, threatened to blow his brains out?
“Driver. Turn the ignition off. Hands on the wheel.” The voice sounded testy, annoyed.
It took Tommy three tries—adrenaline had left his fingers numb and trembling, —put the car in park and shut off the ignition. He placed his hands on the wheel as directed. Through the fog obscuring the windshield he saw the crowd suddenly scatter, fleeing back inside the cinema.
A knocking came on the passenger side of the car. He looked over and was facing a gun held by a uniformed man.
Before he could react, the driver-side door was yanked open and another man reached in and yanked Tommy off balance, as far as he could with the seat belt on. Within seconds Tommy found himself face down on the asphalt, fighting to keep his face out of a mud puddle, arms wrenched behind him, strange hands patting him down, going in and out of his pockets, under his waistband, his wrists shackled.
“He’s clean.”
“The kid’s back here.”
“Nellie, are you okay?” he shouted.
“Daddy!” Her screech was more frightening than the guns. “Daddy! No, let me go! I want my daddy!”
“Don’t hurt her!”
“Hurt her? Buddy, we’re saving her. From you.”
Chapter 38
THE FIRST SET of “cops” turned out to be mall security, who turned him over to the township police, who only had two officers on duty—out of eight total, the officer told Tommy, so he should count himself lucky he hadn’t gone off shift yet, because then he might have been sitting in the mall’s security office for hours instead of here in the police station.
Tommy didn’t feel so lucky as he sat on an unforgiving metal bench, soaking wet, mud and gravel staining the front of his shirt and pants, handcuffed to a railing running the length of the bench, shivering every time the door opened, trying to figure out how the hell he’d gotten here.
He’d tried in vain to explain to the mall cops and the uniformed officer who’d arrested him that he was the victim, that he’d done nothing wrong—certainly nothing to harm Nellie—but they’d ignored him. He’d answered their questions, had taken a breathalyzer test, even waived his Miranda rights, trying to barter it all for a chance to see Nellie, make certain she was okay.
All for nothing. Relegated to his seat on the bench while “we sort things out,” he waited in misery. Where was Nellie? What did she think was happening?
Finally they gave him a phone call. An officer escorted him to a small cubicle with a sweat-stained telephone on a shelf. He should have called Valencia—it was pretty obvious that he might be needing h
er services as an attorney again—but instead he made the call he’d dreaded: Charlotte’s mother, Gloria.
“It’s a long story and I’ll explain everything when you get here, but I need you to come get Nellie.” He hoped by keeping the focus on Nellie he could avoid a long explanation. As soon as Gloria and Peter heard about the shotgun-wielding driver, they’d go ballistic themselves. Not that he blamed them. Most of the tremors that shook his body weren’t from the cold but rather the thought of someone targeting his daughter.
“At a police station?” Gloria’s voice heaved with resignation. “What happened? Is Nellie all right?”
“She’s fine. But I don’t want her here longer than necessary.”
“Did they—are you—Tommy, what the police were saying, this morning—”
“I’m not under arrest for Charlotte’s murder. We ran into some trouble on the way from your place. A man following us. Tried to run us off the road. I need you, I need Nellie…” He choked on the words, hating himself for thinking them, much less saying them out loud. What kind of father abandoned his daughter? Especially after everything Nellie had been through?
The kind who would give his life to keep her safe. The kind who had finally awakened to the truth that Charlotte had been killed and that he and Nellie might now also be targets.
The kind of father who could not face life if anything happened to his daughter.
“I need you to take Nellie. Maybe go on a trip. Get her away from all this.” Somehow he made the request sound perfectly sane despite the fact that his heart shattered as he uttered the words.
There was a long pause. “Is she in danger?”
“If she stays with me, I think so, yes.”
“We’re on our way.”
“Gloria, thank you.”
He hung up and considered his options. He needed someone who could access official footage, review all the evidence. As the officer returned to escort him back to his cold bench, Tommy said, “I need to speak to a Pittsburgh police detective. Don Burroughs.”
The officer made note of his request and returned him to the bench, snapping the handcuffs shut once more. Tommy sat there, not sure what was happening, as most of the lights in the building were turned off, leaving his hallway and lonely bench in half-light. Not to worry, the woman manning the desk had told him in a cheerful voice, it was just how they saved money on energy costs after hours.
Finally the officer came back for Tommy. But instead of escorting him to the desk to collect his belongings and his daughter, he led Tommy to an interview room that, except for the fact that it boasted cinderblock walls, looked identical to its Pittsburgh counterpart. Burroughs waited inside, huddled over his laptop at the table. He didn’t even glance up when Tommy and the patrolman entered, just waved his hand. “We can lose the cuffs.”
“Sure thing, Detective.” The officer released Tommy from his metal bonds. “I’ll be at the front desk, you need anything. If you could let me know when you’re done—we’ll be shutting down for the night and the chief doesn’t like overtime.” He closed the door behind him.
Tommy remained standing, trying to assess Burroughs’ mood. The detective finally looked up, took in Tommy’s bedraggled appearance, and leaned back. “Sit.”
“Where’s Nellie?” Tommy didn’t sit. He’d been sitting around doing nothing for far too long. “I need to see her.”
“In due time. Which is after you sit down.” Burroughs snapped the last in the tone of a platoon sergeant.
Tommy hesitated, just long enough to make it clear he was taking a seat under protest.
Burroughs continued, “I went over the statement you gave the officer. Does this look familiar?”
He turned his laptop around so Tommy could see the screen. On it was a grainy black and white image of an SUV. The driver’s face was obscured by the rain on the windshield and a ball cap pulled low, but there was no mistaking the shotgun in his hands pointed out the window.
“You got lucky. New red light camera at that intersection, installed last week.”
“Did you find him? Is he under arrest?”
“No. The plate,” he clicked a key and a shot of the SUV racing away filled the screen, “was covered with mud. We’re working on other cameras in the area.”
“So he’s still out there.” Tommy was glad he’d called Gloria. “Where’s Nellie?”
“Down the hall in the break room with the secretary—whose shift is over, by the way. Gonna be up all night with the sugar rush.”
“I called her grandparents to come take her. She’s not safe staying with me.”
“Not if someone is really trying to run you off the road and aiming shotguns at you. The charges against you are dropped.”
“Charges?”
“Reckless endangerment of a minor, about a dozen moving violations.”
Then the rest of Burroughs’ statement kicked Tommy in the gut. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘really’ trying to run me off the road? You’ve seen my car—you can see the guy right there. Why don’t you believe me?”
Burroughs met his gaze, his face expressionless. “I see a guy. I see a guy so desperate to clear his name and keep his daughter he would do anything.”
“You think I faked all this? Hired some actor to terrorize my daughter? I would never—” He couldn’t even find the words to finish his sentence.
“A man who killed his wife would.” Burroughs appeared unmoved.
Tommy stood, his chest burning as he forced his fists to relax. “If I’m free to go, I’d like to be taken to my daughter, Detective. Now.”
Chapter 39
THE BEST WASH could do was locate Walter and Sarah Putnam’s address in Pittsburgh from two years ago when their baby died. To TK it didn’t seem much to go on—the new owner was a leasing company, so was closed for the business day, even if they had any information about the former owners. But Lucy seemed determined to find someone to talk to tonight. So here they were on a fool’s mission to knock on doors in the middle of a monsoon in the hopes that someone would remember neighbors from over two years ago.
TK had wanted to go alone, had argued that Lucy had a husband and daughter to go home to, but it was obvious that Lucy’s battle instincts had been aroused and she wouldn’t rest until they uncovered the truth. Didn’t help that no one had been able to reach Tommy yet.
Lucy had driven them across the river to the Putnams’ former duplex in Bloomfield. The rain hadn’t slowed but Lucy had seemed impervious to it, driving more aggressively than TK had ever seen her.
First they tried the neighbor in the adjoining half of the divided Victorian. No one home. Next, they tried the townhouse on the other side. There they got lucky. An elderly African-American woman with high cheekbones and silver hair opened the door.
“We’re trying to learn more about the owners who lived next door to you two years ago,” Lucy said, pitching her voice over the sound of the rain drumming on the porch roof and sounding very much like the FBI agent she used to be. Someone not to be trifled with. “A Mr. and Mrs. Walter Putnam? Her name was Sarah?”
“Why?” the woman asked. The mailbox beside her read: Barnett. TK tried a personal appeal.
“They’re not in trouble or anything, Mrs. Barnett,” TK rushed to explain. “Sarah needs your help.”
“We’re from the Beacon Group,” Lucy continued. “Sarah has had an accident, lost some of her memory.”
“I saw it on the news this morning. Barely recognized her, she’s changed so much. Different hair and all. I wasn’t sure if I should call or not. They said her name was Brown, and I thought maybe—” Barnett’s expression dimmed. “I thought with everything, she might have moved on, gotten remarried or the like…”
“So you remember them?” Lucy prompted. “Could you tell us what happened?”
“I guess. If you think it will help.”
“Yes, ma’am. At this point anything will help. You’ll have details that the police won’t, little things that cou
ld help her remember.”
“Are you sure she wants to? I mean, maybe it’s a blessing—”
“I’m not sure that’s for us to decide. Wouldn’t you want to know?”
“No. I don’t think I would. But, all right, then. Better you hear it from me than some lawyer or such. You’d best come in out of the rain.” She ushered them inside and settled them on a couch in the front room. “Would you like some tea or cookies?”
“Thank you, no.” Lucy sat still, arms open at her sides, palms up. TK realized that her body language was inviting the old lady to fill the silence, to trust her. She quickly uncrossed her own arms and tried to mirror Lucy’s posture.
“It was a terrible tragedy.” Barnett shook her head, looking puzzled, then smoothed her skirt across her knees. “Those two. Poor things. Absolutely devoted to each other. And to that baby.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“Well now, they’d only just moved here from DC. He had a fancy consulting job, was commuting to the capital, talking to senators and congressmen and such. Handsome man, sharp dresser. And how she loved to fuss over him. Straightening his tie, smoothing his hair. You could just see how it pained either of them to be out of the other’s sight. But he didn’t want his boy to grow up in DC, so they moved here right after the baby was born—I mean, they bought the house before, actually planned to have the baby here, but the Good Lord brought him early, threw a wrench in their plans.”
“A pretty stressful beginning, then?”
“Oh my, yes. That baby, so colicky—like so many of them born a bit early, you know. First three weeks he was home, I don’t think either Walter or Sarah got a lick of sleep. Then Walter had to go back to work, and it was only Sarah.” She folded her hands in her lap and sighed. “If they’d only let me help. But you know how it is, young, independent, new to an area, not sure who to trust. I offered, I did, but she insisted—”
“What happened, Mrs. Barnett?”
“Walter was due back that night, but his flight was canceled. Sarah had been up for days; the baby just wouldn’t settle. And I guess, it all just crashed down on her.”