“Hang on. I’ll get my coat.”
140
When we arrived at Prairie Gardens, no one
would talk to us. They shepherded us to a tiny reception room in the butt-fuck Egypt part of the building and told us to wait.
Kevin tired of waiting. He called 911.
Nothing gets attention like cop cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance. The first cop on scene knew Kevin. While he was pissed off about the tactic Kevin employed to get action, on some level he understood. We waited for the manager to show up. And rather than waste time and manpower, the firefighters and the ambulance crew knocked door to door, asking if any residents had seen Vernon Sloane. By the surprised expressions, I doubted anyone had performed this task on the general populace. Why not? Why weren’t the security teams and the caretakers doing their job? For 141
Christsake, a man was missing. Didn’t anyone care?
No wonder Amery freaked out.
Dee was practically in tears as she fluttered about, trying to calm residents, insisting everything was a simple misunderstanding.
Officer Smith stayed with us when we entered Vernon Sloane’s empty apartment. Didn’t look any different than it had a couple of days ago, which meant nothing. Searching for a missing coat, boots, or a suitcase was pointless, too. The three of us were loitering outside the door when a man sashayed down the hallway. He was somewhere around fifty, with slicked-back reddishbrown hair, a face free of signs of aging, courtesy of Botox. He wore dark tan pants, a wool blazer, and a cream-colored turtleneck. It surprised me he wasn’t stroking a yippy poodle or a groomed terrier. I could give a crap about sexual orientation, but this gent was so gay he actually swished when he bypassed me.
“Officer. I’m Bradley Boner.”
Oh, yeah, I totally felt the urge to snicker like a third grader. Not only because of the guy’s name, but when he shook Dave’s hand, I noticed he wore a diamond-studded ring on his pinkie.
“You the manager?”
“Yes. And frankly, I’m disturbed by why it’s necessary to have all this”—he pointed to the EMTs standing at the head of the hive—“commotion. We’ve 142
followed procedure—”
“Bull. If your security team had followed procedure, then these residents would’ve known Vernon Sloane was missing,” I said. “Instead, you hid the information. Which makes us think you’re hiding a helluva lot more, which is exactly why we caused this commotion.”
Boner’s poufy red lips made a girlish moue of displeasure. “And just who are you?”
“Julie Collins, of Wells/Collins Investigations. Amery Grayson is out of town and she hired us in her stead to find out what happened to her grandfather.”
A little white lie. “Seems he’s been missing since the blizzard struck? When we discovered that your crack security team hadn’t followed procedure and contacted the police”—I smiled sweetly—“we thought involving law enforcement would speed things along.”
“If you’ll accompany me to my office, be assured I’ll get to the bottom of it.” He spun on his spit-and-polished dress shoes without waiting to see if we’d follow. Dee gave me the evil eye when we passed the desk. I gave her one right back.
Bradley Boner’s office sparkled as if it’d just come off the office supply truck. Not a spare paper clip or file folder or Post-it Note anywhere. No computer. Not even a Cross pen set. If I had to guess, I’d say the office hadn’t been used before today.
After I leaned against the wall, Kevin and Officer Smith snagged the two chairs in front of the enormous 143
cherrywood desk.
Officer Smith began. “How long have you been the manager here, Mr. Boner?”
“I took over seven months ago at the request of the new owners.”
“Did you personally hire your staff?”
“Some. Others were holdovers from the previous administration.”
“Including the volunteer staff?”
“Yes. Recently Prairie Gardens began a new active senior volunteer program, called Prime Time Friends.”
“Don’t you mean enforced a volunteer program on all residents, where the volunteers are financially compensated?” I asked. Boner’s face blanched, but he blithely continued,
“Our head volunteer, Luella Spotted Tail, penciled in an outing for the day in question with Mr. Sloane. Logic says due to the poor road conditions, Ms. Spotted Tail took him to her private residence.”
“Is that standard procedure? Ms. Spotted Tail hosting resident slumber parties on a whim?”
Officer Smith jotted notes. Kevin sat there like a toad.
Fuck this. “You’ve called Ms. Spotted Tail at her private residence and confirmed this?”
Boner didn’t even look at me. “We’re working on it.”
“You either have or you haven’t.” I gestured to the shiny black phone on his desk. “It’s not that hard. 144
Call her. Right now.”
“You have no authority—”
“And you have no idea where Vernon Sloane is, do you, Mr. Boner? Do you even know how to use that phone? Or is it just another prop?”
“Miz Collins,” Officer Smith said, “take a deep breath. We all want the same thing.” He angled his head toward Boner. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Boner?”
“Absolutely, Officer.”
“Then you should have no reason not to answer Miz Collins’s question.”
Boner’s self-righteous smirk faded.
“Have you, or any of your staff, been in touch with Miz Spotted Tail, either by phone or in person?”
“No.”
“But you have phoned her?”
“Yes,” he said tightly. “We learned some of the phone lines were down in that part of town, which might be a reason why she didn’t answer.”
“But the streets are cleared,” I pointed out. “Why didn’t one of your trusty staff members drive the company van over to check on her?”
No answer.
He cut me an icy stare. Might’ve been intimidating, if I hadn’t been dating Tony Martinez—king of the piss-your-pants icy glare.
I crossed the room in three angry steps to slap my hands on his desk. “You slimy sack of shit. You didn’t send anyone, did you? As a matter of fact, I’ll bet you 145
didn’t even know a resident was missing. Who on your staff called you and warned you to get your prissy ass out of bed because the cops showed up?”
“Julie,” Kevin warned.
“I will not sit here and listen to your insulting accusations,” Boner said. Officer Smith didn’t jump in and chastise me. My ability to speak my mind was probably therapeutic for him—not that he could admit it. “Maybe you should take a breather, Miz Collins.”
“Fine. I’m going. I need some fresh air since something sure stinks in here.” To make my descent into good PI/bad PI complete, I slammed the door. I didn’t get far. Dee blocked my retreat before I hit the receptionist’s area.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who is very, very pissed off right now, so get the hell out of my way.”
“Not until you answer my question. Are you really a private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“And you came here pretending to check out the facility so you could spy on us?”
“Pretty much.”
Her face turned a mottled red. “You’re despicable,” she spit. “Lying, sneaking around, acting—”
“You know what I think is despicable, Dee?” I crowded her against the wall until her frizzy hair caught on the ridged wallpaper. “That an eighty-five146
year-old man has been missing for three fucking days and no one cares. You’re all too busy covering your goddamn fat asses to get off them to find him. So the day you can call me despicable is the day you stop worrying about your fucking paycheck and start worrying about the people who are stuck with this facility’s pisspoor implementation of elderly care.”
I stormed out the front door. The minute my boots hit the paveme
nt, I lit a cigarette and started stalking the interconnected sidewalks. Fucking idiots. Wasn’t like Vernon Sloane was my grandfather. I don’t know why I’d gotten so worked up.
Yes, you do. Neglect is neglect; doesn’t matter if the person is five or eightyfive. Wrong is wrong. And this is wrong.
Stupid ideology. My life would be so much easier if my conscience would take a powder once in a while. I smoked. And walked. And marveled that the sidewalks were snow free. What was the point? Who the hell was out here clattering around in a walker? I’d bet not many octogenarians were clamoring to get out in the fresh air and pop wheelies in their wheelchairs. That thought stopped me. Vernon Sloane not
only wanted to get out of Prairie Gardens, but he’d been successful at sneaking out. Several times. What if he’d done it again?
What if he’d gone looking for his car?
Nah. Even if he had managed to escape, he
couldn’t have gotten far with the arctic temperatures, 147
the blowing snow, and his advanced age.
A worse thought settled in, one too awful to contemplate, so naturally that’s the one my brain stuck on. I stopped and gauged where I was outside the complex in relation to the inside. Off to the right, way at the back of the acreage, were the separate buildings housing the acute care. Then the temporary care wings with separate entrances and parking lot. Around the corner to the left was the private condo wing. If I followed the sidewalk straight back, I’d end up at the rear of the main building, by the hive. Each corridor had an exit. Where did the exits lead? To a common courtyard? Somewhere by the common rooms? No. I’d parked in the east lot and remembered the single unit apartments were to the west of the common rooms.
Since the emergency alarms on the exterior doors were disengaged, anyone could leave easily. What about the security cameras? Wouldn’t there be a record? Why hadn’t Boner brought it up?
Duh. Because there were no cameras. But at least that security oversight fell on his head. No matter what he claimed, that fact couldn’t be hidden from the cops. As I walked the perimeter, I began to pay very close attention to benches and bushes and trees. The machine used to clean off the sidewalks left the discarded snow in neat, uniform rows along the side. Snowdrifts behind the ridges were postcard pristine. No people or animal tracks marred the thick crust.
148
In my neighborhood, the snowy areas surrounding the houses were trampled from kids making snow angels or Eskimo forts or snowballs. Or from them carving a channel to the woodpile or a path to a friend’s house. Even at the ranch, where the white space was vast, there were bumps and dirt everywhere; in the empty fields, in the shelterbelt, in the abandoned garden.
Here? Everything was neat and tidy. Here, I saw nothing.
Except that.
My stomach lurched at the snow-covered lump
between the evergreen shrubs and the brick wall. It looked out of place. I stared at it for the longest time. I scanned the area. No windows overlooked this section where two buildings intersected. The shrubs were an attempt to spruce up the hidden corner. But even those shrubs were straggly, neglected, and forgotten. A shiver trickled down my spine as I took that first step. My boot broke through the unspoiled crust and buried my leg midcalf. To make progress through the thick layers, I had to raise my knees high, making me look like a demented majorette as I threw my arms out for balance. My blood pounded in time to the rat-atat-tat of a snare drum in the phantom marching band in my head.
Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I’d reach that
lump and find a sack of yard waste. Or some lazy person’s discarded garbage. Or a bag of old, unwanted clothing.
149
Or an old, unwanted man.
My warm breath cut through the air. I crouched and gently brushed the snow away.
Please be wrong, please be wrong.
When my gloved fingers uncovered the frozen
skin and hair, I shrieked and fell on my ass. He appeared to be lying on his side, curled up in a fetal position. No hat. I couldn’t tell if he wore gloves or a coat beneath the shell of snow covering him. I didn’t want to see anything else. This was not my job. I’d done my job in finding him. Period. Done done done.
Against my will, my fingertips reconnected to his face. I brushed away a little more snow just to be sure it was him. When his whole head was visible, I stopped. Vernon Sloane didn’t look peaceful in death. He looked … pained. Cold. Terrified. Just like those frozen corpses at the end of the movie Titanic. But this wasn’t a movie set where he’d get up, scrub off the makeup, and walk away. He was dead.
My vision became blurry. I stumbled back to the sidewalk and dialed Kevin’s cell. He didn’t answer until the third time I tried him.
“I found Vernon Sloane. Yes, I’m serious. No. I’m outside. Take the sidewalk heading east. In the corner.”
I glanced down at the old man. “No, I’ll wait. Just don’t bring a ton of people with you, okay? It’s bad enough he died this way. He doesn’t deserve to be gawked at like some kind of freaky human ice sculpture.”
150
After I shut my phone, I peeled off my gloves, not caring about frostbite. I wouldn’t wear them again. Ever. I rolled them into a ball and shoved them in the closest trash can.
God. I craved a cigarette, but I’d already fucked up the scene. I hunched deeper into myself, into my coat, and didn’t budge until I heard Kevin shouting my name. Even then I didn’t move very fast. I was too numb—in body and soul. I let him wrap me inside his big wool coat, soaking up his warmth and strength. I eased away from him when I could think again. Kevin tipped my chin up to look in my eyes. “I’m sorry you found him.”
“I know.”
“You want to head back inside and I’ll catch up with you when I’m done out here?”
“Hell, no.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. Since my near-death bout with hypothermia I tended to get cold faster than most people, hence my reluctance to stay in the cold, hence Kevin’s concern over my willingness to do just that. I’d survived calving in subzero temps with my father. I’d survive this, too. “Look, I don’t want to be by myself, especially not in there. I’ll wait for you.”
“Then I’ll make it fast.”
Before I witnessed the Search and Rescue guys chipping away ice so they could load the body, Officer Smith escorted me back inside and took my statement. I don’t know if my investigative skills impressed him or 151
scared him. But his solicitous act caused a headache. I was damn glad when Kevin and I were formally excused from further questioning. Kevin drove back to the office.
I gazed out the window. I’d had a lot of practice in staring aimlessly into space, contemplating death in recent months. “Did you call Amery?”
“Yeah. She’s on her way home.”
“I’m sorry, Kev. This’ll be rough on her.”
As I said it, the truth hit me. I could be in Amery’s situation right now. If I hadn’t gone to the ranch, my phone might be ringing with the news they’d found my father frozen stiff. A niggling sense of unease surfaced for my petty parting shot of wishing him dead. Was my guilty feeling because his behavior had turned me into a recalcitrant child again? Or the fact I really wouldn’t be so broken up over his death?
Was Amery feeling guilty for flitting off to Vegas?
Probably. I shivered again.
Kevin flipped the heater to high. “She’s taking it hard. This situation raises more questions than answers.”
With any luck he’d choose to counsel Amery in a personal, rather than a professional capacity. And I really hoped she didn’t resent Kevin because they’d indulged in a little slap and tickle during the blizzard while Gramps became a permanent snow angel.
“Jules, you okay?”
“Yeah. But I think I’ll go home. I’m not as fully recovered from my ranch exploits as I thought.” With 152
any luck Martinez would show up and we wouldn’t leave my bed until morning. This ti
me neither of us would be sleeping.
“Take care, babe. See you tomorrow.”
I climbed in my Ford and smoked while the engine defrosted. My cell rang. The caller ID flashed—TM. Thank God. “You won’t believe what—”
“Julie. Big Mike here. Hang on a sec, bossman wants to talk to you but he’s on another line.”
I rested my forehead on the cold steering wheel. I hated being put on hold.
Finally, Tony came on. “Something came up and I’ve gotta go to Denver.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Great. “Where are you?”
“Outside of Lusk and we’re about to lose cell service so I thought I’d call you.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
Pause. “You okay?”
No. “Just tired. How long will you be gone?”
“A couple of days.”
Immediately the pissy/whiny/clingy part of me pouted and demanded attention. What was I supposed to do when he was off at another Hombres secret meeting? Learn to knit? Get a fucking cat to talk to?
Join a Bunko club?
Jesus. What was wrong with me? In the past I hadn’t needed a man to entertain me or to make me 153
happy. I oughta kick my own ass for being depressed. At least I wasn’t IDing a loved one’s body on a metal slab at the morgue tonight.
“Blondie?”
Buck up, tough up, suck it up, my inner bitch commanded, while my softer side lobbied to make kissy noises in the phone and coo for my man to be careful and come home to me safely.
Talk about unhinged.
“You still there?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you when you get back.” I closed the phone.
In the safety of my empty cab, I snapped, “I hate it that you’re gone again, all right? And I’m pissed off that I need you, you stupid bastard. I’m even more pissed off that I can’t seem to tell you I need you. Why in the hell don’t you know how goddamn bad I miss you when you know every other thing about me?”
There. I felt better already.
I drove within three blocks of Kim’s place, deciding to pop in and say howdy. See if she needed anything, or had a craving for Chinese food. Sounded heavenly to shovel in egg rolls and laugh at stupid baby names from her pregnancy books. Between my job, her job, 154
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