The Truth About Comfort Cove

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “You service all of eastern Massachusetts,” Ramsey said, reading a sign on the wall.

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you always?”

  “Yes. My father bought the business from East Coast Meats. They’d started with two brothers. One who processed meat and the other who delivered it. When the one brother died, the one who processed the meat sold off that part of the business. My father bought it—I was ten at the time—and we’ve distributed for them, exclusively, since day one.”

  He’d heard of East Coast Meats. They provided beef to all of the restaurants in the tourist district of Comfort Cove. And to places in Boston and surrounding cities, as well. He’d also already known what Davenport had just told him.

  He was there to find out what he didn’t know. First thing being whether or not Davenport was being straight up with him.

  “How serious was your father about the work logs you gave me?”

  “Very,” Davenport said without a moment’s pause. “Reliability is what built East Coast Meats, both in the quality of the meat and the timeliness of its delivery. Meat isn’t something that can sit outside and wait for someone to get home. People plan their schedules around the time their meat will arrive so that they can be there to take it in and get it in the refrigerator. If we’re late, we make them late. We could ruin an entire day by upsetting someone’s schedule, which is not convenient. If we aren’t convenient, our customers might just decide to stop in at the local butcher to buy their meat. Even today, if a man doesn’t log in, allowing us to verify every delivery, he doesn’t work for us.”

  Amelia Hardy had led him to believe that Jack’s job depended on his timeliness.

  “Jack Colton made an unscheduled stop for gas the day that Claire Sanderson went missing. I can find no record of him making that stop at any other time that he worked for you.”

  Frowning, Randall Davenport stood to his full five-footeight and reached for the book that was still on his desk from the previous day when Ramsey had been there to collect copies of the twenty-five-year-old records.

  Randall turned the pages with the ease of someone who was completely familiar with them. Ramsey recognized the page when Randall found it. There was a scribble in the upper left-hand corner. Like someone had been trying to get an ink pen to write.

  With his pudgy finger running down the page, line by line, Randall appeared to read every bit of information there. He turned back a week and forward a week. Ramsey had done the same thing.

  Then he went for another book. For the next fifteen minutes, Randall Davenport spot-checked time pages for all Wednesdays in 1987. And then he went to the basement and came back fifteen minutes later with another book of records.

  “I’m looking at finance records, here,” Davenport finally told him. “Colton’s unscheduled gas stop is logged, with a request for reimbursement. There is no request for gas reimbursement at the end of the day, which was usual for him.”

  Davenport turned the book around.

  “He probably got a truck that hadn’t been filled the night before,” Davenport said. “We frown on guys turning in trucks before filling them, but it happens sometimes. A guy has somewhere to be, a function that he’s rushing off to…”

  Ramsey was impressed with the man’s record keeping. It rivaled the department’s evidence room.

  And he was pissed, too. There went his prime suspect. Most likely. Unless he could figure out how the man could steal a two-year-old child, stop for gas, get rid of the child and make all of his usual deliveries, too.

  Or…steal the child, stop for gas—a well-planned alibi— make one more delivery with the child in the car and then get rid of the child during his lunch break in time to make all his afternoon appointments on schedule.

  Colton would only have to have kept the two-year-old quiet and hidden long enough for one delivery.

  Was it so hard to imagine that he’d done so?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  T he box wasn’t that big. Maybe two feet square. A little bigger than a book-size moving box. It had the name of a popular kids cereal on the outside. Probably picked up free from a grocery store. It was not a box that someone went out and bought.

  “You ready?” Amber Locken stood on one side of the island countertop in the evidence room at the station house. Lucy, in black wool slacks and jacket and her power red blouse, stood on the other.

  “Yes,” Lucy said, staring at the strip of brown packing tape sealing the box.

  The handwriting on the top, addressing the box to their care, was obviously feminine. Flowery. Young.

  Wakerby was fifty-five. He’d said he didn’t go for babies.

  Just women young enough to be his own baby?

  Pulling a utility knife from a drawer in the island counter, Amber handed it to Lucy. “This one’s yours,” she said.

  Surprised, Lucy glanced at the woman who’d brought her up in the business—back when Lucy had been a cop on the beat. Amber was watching her.

  “It takes a special woman to be a cop, Lucy. Where men are natural tough guys, we’re nurturers. Think of little boys. They figure cutting up worms is cool. They laugh at bodily functions, and consider blood and gore entertainment. Girls, on the other hand, stereotypically, play nurse and house, where they’re taking care of people. They like movies with animals in them—preferably horses—and happy endings. They’re embarrassed by bodily functions.”

  Lucy got the point.

  “You’re a natural at this job. And you deserve this,” Amber said, nodding toward the box.

  Taking the knife from the other woman’s hand, Lucy put the tip of the blade to the tape and sliced with one sure motion.

  She was a good cop. She could do this.

  T he beaten mother was gone by the time Ramsey made it back to the office. Kim was nowhere to be seen, either. Ramsey sat down to write up his suicide from the day before while he ate the cold fried-chicken sandwich he’d bought from the shop downstairs.

  Even stale, it was better than the nothing he’d brought from home that morning.

  As if on cue—because he was eating bad—his cell phone rang and his father’s number appeared on the screen. His first instinct, to push the end-call button and send Earl Miller to voice mail, almost saved him.

  “Yeah, Dad, what’s up?” He answered the call just before it switched over.

  “You busy, son? I waited until lunchtime, hoping I wouldn’t be interrupting a meeting or something, but I know that when you’re on a case time of day means nothing.”

  Ramsey bit into his sandwich. Chewing just to be stubborn in response to the voice inside of him that was telling him that he shouldn’t eat that stuff.

  “I’ve got a minute,” Ramsey said. “What’s up?”

  “Thanksgiving’s next week.”

  The last swallow of his sandwich stuck in his throat. “I know.”

  His father always asked. He never nagged.

  Or pushed.

  “We’d really like for you to come home and celebrate it with us.”

  His mother must be getting worse. Did Earl think this might be her last Thanksgiving with them?

  Heart racing, Ramsey tried to corral his thoughts. His mother was losing her mind. Not her physical health. She wasn’t even seventy yet. And she’d always been healthy.

  “I can’t, Dad.”

  “I told your mother that’s what you’d say. But think about it, would you, Ramsey? It’s really important. To both of us.”

  “I have a wedding to go to that weekend.” Until that moment, he’d been dreading the event. Partially because he wasn’t sure he could spend any more personal time with Lucy Hayes without her figuring out how much she turned him on.

  “A wedding?” Earl’s tone changed. “Anyone we know?”

  “No. A…victim’s sister is getting married. She invited me and another cop.”

  “Did you get the guy?”

  He blinked, fighting against the knot in his chest. If someth
ing was wrong with his mother…

  “What guy?”

  “The one who victimized the sister of the girl getting married.”

  An image of Jack Colton flashed in his mind’s eye. As far as his father knew, the “guy” could have been a “girl.” “Not yet, but I’m closing in on him. Hopefully I’ll be able to wrap it up this next week.”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “Saturday.” Time enough between Thanksgiving dinner and the wedding to make it back from Vienna. “But I’m on call Thanksgiving Day,” he said. He’d volunteered. Just like he did for every other holiday. Everyone else, including Kim, had family to be with over the holidays. “Holidays seem to make crazy people crazier,” he said, and then wished he hadn’t. They made his mother worse, too, but she wasn’t crazy. And he didn’t want Earl to think he thought so.

  There was a pause on the line. Ramsey could make out the distinct tones of his mother’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then Earl said, “How about the week after Thanksgiving? Can you get away then?”

  “What’s wrong, Dad? Is Mom sick?”

  “No.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. We’re both healthy, Ramsey. We just had our annual physicals last month. We miss you, son.”

  And he missed them, too. He just didn’t miss the emotional turmoil that coiled around them every time they got together. Even worse was the state his mother was always left in any time he’d been home.

  Missing each other was far healthier for all of them.

  “I’ll see what I can do. If not then, soon,” he said, and realized, when he heard Earl’s sigh, that his father knew Ramsey wasn’t going to be home anytime in the near future.

  “How are you otherwise?” Earl asked, and Ramsey felt like more of a heel than ever. His father never called him on his lies, his false promises. He’d never said a word about the fact that it was Ramsey’s fault that Diane was dead, either. Not once.

  But they all knew that it was.

  “I’m fine, Dad. Busier than ever. In addition to my regular homicide duties, I’m working some cold cases. Child abductions.”

  At least Earl would know that his son was spending his time doing good work, helping people.

  Maybe even bringing families back together to make up for having blown his own apart.

  L ucy spent Friday evening with Sandy, giving Marie a break to meet another one of their old high-school friends for dinner. Her mother’s caretaker was talking about moving in with Sandy permanently.

  “There’s no point in paying for two places,” she’d said just before leaving that evening. “Sandy’s been asking for years, and I’m getting too old to clean so many bathrooms.”

  Sandy had been asking Marie to live with them since Lucy was a little girl—probably because she’d known that life would have been better for Lucy if another woman, a sober woman, had been there to mother her.

  And Lucy had a feeling that Sandy’s close call the week before had scared Marie. Sandy, for all of her issues, was the only family Marie had left. And, even drunk, Sandy was a good friend to Marie. She listened. She encouraged. She cared.

  “Just one, Luce? A glass of wine won’t hurt. Marie’s been letting me have one a night. After dinner.”

  “I’m not Marie.”

  And after sitting in that hospital waiting room, afraid her mother was going to die, Lucy couldn’t bear to see Sandy with a glass to her lips again.

  “I’ve got the shakes, Luce.”

  “Take a pill.”

  She didn’t look away from the TV game show that they were watching. She was rooting for the young, pregnant brunette. Sandy wanted the blonde newlywed to win.

  Neither of them cheered for the thirty-something, handsome man who was the third contestant at the podium.

  The blonde won a bonus trip. Sandy smiled. Sat on the edge of her chair. She’d lost weight again and her size zeros were hanging off her bones.

  Caught up in the show, Sandy didn’t ask again for something to drink until an hour later. The requests came every five minutes or so after that until finally, just past ten, Lucy gave her mother a sleeping pill, watched while the woman changed into her pajamas and then held the covers as her mother settled into her queen-size bed. Grabbing the remote control for the flat-screen TV she’d bought Sandy for Christmas, Lucy climbed on top of the covers on the other side of her mother’s bed and settled down to watch a movie she’d seen a hundred times before.

  “C arol of the Bells” sounded halfway through the movie. After quickly silencing her ringtone she glanced at the screen of her phone. U up?

  Yeah.

  Me too.

  She smiled as she typed, No shit.

  Hot date?

  She read the words a second time. Where had that come

  from?

  But curious, she wrote, No. You?

  No.

  He was thinking in terms of her with a hot date? Could that

  mean he viewed her as a hot woman? Or a woman who could get a hot date? A woman who had hot dates?

  A woman? Not just a cop?

  Lucy smiled again. If she wasn’t careful she was going to fall for this guy. And then get hurt.

  You home?

  She hesitated before typing in the affirmative, loath to lie to Ramsey in spite of the fact that lying to keep her life with Sandy private was as inbred as breathing.

  The fact that his next question would be to ask if he could call—though why they’d started checking with each other first she didn’t know—drove her reply.

  No.

  Work?

  No. She hesitated. And then, before he had a chance to reply typed, Mama’s.

  Everything okay?

  Fine. Sleeping.

  You bored?

  Little. Lucy adjusted the pillows behind her and lay back, smiling again. Would he take pity on her and entertain her for a while?

  Anything in the box?

  The mention of work brought her back to reality, and Lucy wasn’t completely unhappy to be able to tell him about the day. She didn’t need to, which was why she hadn’t called him, but since he’d asked…

  Clothes, a razor, deodorant… She knew what kind Sloan wore now and would never, ever be able to pass it in the store again without thinking of him. Damn him.

  And framed photo of American flag with some numbers written on back of it.

  She sent the message off because of reaching length limits and then kept typing.

  Looks like some kind of coordinates.

  For what?

  No clue. Not yet, anyway. Amber was going to be questioning Wakerby over the weekend, before the meeting with his attorney at the beginning of next week. They’d discussed their tactics together and agreed that they needed to up the heat on him over the weekend, but with the new evidence in hand, it made sense for Amber, not Lucy, to be the one to make this visit.

  Lucy was one hundred percent good with the decision.

  In the meantime, Spending the weekend with maps. Grocery store where Mama taken. Place by river where found. Areas around and in between. Checking coordinates. If lucky, will be a match.

  She’d have started already if she hadn’t promised to spend the night with Sandy. And no matter how much she was itching to get started, no matter how good her mother’s glass of wine sounded at the moment while she champed at the bit, Lucy was not going to risk doing any work on the Wakerby case in her mother’s presence. Or in her home. The chance of Sandy seeing something, having a relapse, was not worth it.

  Keep me posted.

  Course. Anything with employer?

  No extra gas, just different time. Truck likely not full when picked up in morning explains early stop.

  Lucy read the text again.

  And then typed, Had to turn in gas receipts.

  Yes.

  Receipt with time stamp could be used as alibi.

  Yes. So maybe not dead end.

  Agreed, she typed.

 
Question.

  Go.

  You ever consider trusting a guy when he’s not working?

  Lucy started to sweat. ???

  Personally, not professionally.

  He wasn’t suggesting… He couldn’t be asking…

  Could he?

  Depends. She had no idea what to do.

  On what?

  Was he flirting with her? Did she really want him to? She’d clearly been afflicted with a desire to jump his bones, but beyond that…

  The guy.

  Oh.

  She stared at her phone. That was it? He was going to leave it like that?

  She reread their string. Which had started with him asking her if she’d had a hot date. Her stomach had butterflies. Like the salad she’d shared with her mother for dinner wasn’t sitting well with her, although she couldn’t imagine what, in a grilled chicken salad, would upset her stomach.

  Her phone remained still. No messages popping in. Was he going to throw something like that out there and then just go without even saying good-night?

  Why did you ask? she typed carefully and sent.

  Wondered. The reply shot right back. Had he been waiting for her to say something?

  Lucy shook her head. This is all too confusing. Did you have a guy in mind?

  She wasn’t breathing properly. And wanted to drop her phone when the reply came back. A good detective knew when she was in over her head.

  Knowing was the difference between living and dying.

  Yeah.

  Who?

  Her screen flashed. He’d answered. Lucy got up and went to the bathroom. Down the hall from her mother’s room, not the one in her mother’s room. She did her business. Finished. Sat on the side of the tub, biting her lower lip.

  You’d think she was in high school. Except that she’d never been a ninny in high school. Not even once. She’d been too busy dealing with life to have a single ninny moment.

  She thought of Ramsey, alone somewhere in the middle of the night, sending a text and waiting for a reply.

  It’d be cruel to make him wait. He didn’t deserve that.

  She pushed the green button on her phone. Opened up the text message waiting for her.

  It was all of one word.

  Me.