Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel

by Bradley, Patricia

  Kate hooted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Livy turned to Taylor. “I did the impossible and located your dad’s records, but they hadn’t reached my office when I left.”

  “You found his files? Why didn’t you wait for them?”

  “Because I wanted to talk to Ben about another case before he got out of pocket. It’ll probably be late this afternoon before I get them. I’ll call you as soon as I do.”

  “Well, I have something for you.” Taylor reached into the bag she’d brought and pulled out Ross’s profile. “Here’s a preliminary on the Ross murder investigation. I don’t think Scott’s involved in it. With everything that’s happened, I haven’t had time to finish it up.”

  “That’s okay. This case is going nowhere. Anything you can give me will help.” Livy placed the folder in her bag. “We are—”

  “Excuse me,” Kate said. “When you two finish talking police business, I’ll be in the house with lunch ready.”

  “Sounds good,” Livy said as her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen and made a face. “Mac.” She pushed the answer button. “This better be important.”

  Livy’s expression changed from teasing to sober, then disgust. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said, then hung up.

  “Something wrong?” Taylor asked.

  “A kid discovered a woman’s body. It’s not our case yet, but Mac wants me to cover it just in case it gets dumped in our lap.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. Even sorrier for that poor woman.”

  Like floating in a blanket of cobwebs, Scott drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite rousing. He barely sensed being moved, rolling through the hallway. People came in and out of his room. Occasionally, someone applied pressure to his right arm. He smelled soap and aftershave and briefly wondered if they’d bathed him. No, that he would have remembered.

  He liked this place in between waking and sleeping. A wave of nausea hit, and he retched. Strong hands turned him. A nurse pressed a wet cloth against his mouth, and later a voice, deep and soothing, spoke words of comfort. Nick? The swish of soft soles and the light fragrance of jasmine curled inside his nose before he slipped back into his surreal world.

  “Fired. F-i-r-e-d.” Johnson shoved him, and Scott staggered against the wall. “I’m tired of you showing up half drunk, arguing with the customers. Now clear out. I don’t want to see your face around here ever again.”

  Find Ross. Make him pay for getting him fired. Follow Ross . . . struggling . . .

  “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

  “Digger?” Relief. His friend was here.

  Fire! Flames shot up the wall. Where did Digger go? Gotta put out the fire. Pain exploded in his head . . .

  “Mr. Sinclair! Wake up!”

  His heart jerked in his throat. Sweat drenched his body. A nurse hovered over him, her voice a din in his ears.

  “Mr. Sinclair, are you all right?”

  “Fire,” he mumbled. “Gotta get the fire out.”

  “There’s no fire. You’re in the hospital.”

  Hospital? He shuddered a breath and stared at the nurse as she concentrated on something over his head. He twisted to see. A monitor. Then she inserted a hypodermic needle into his IV. “What are you giving me?”

  “Valium. It should help.”

  A slightly sweet metallic taste filled his mouth, then his muscles relaxed. The next time he roused, Nick was standing at the foot of his bed. Scott pretended sleep, hoping his brother would go away. He didn’t want a sermon. He’d had enough of those to last a lifetime.

  “I know you’re awake.”

  Scott cracked an eyelid. “No preaching,” he croaked.

  “Okay. Can I get you anything?”

  “How about a pint of Jack Daniels for starters.”

  “They’re trying to dry you out.”

  Nick didn’t sound mad. Another wave of nausea hit, and Scott curled into a fetal position. Spasms racked his body. He hugged his arms to his stomach. The dry heaves had started.

  His brother was in full-blown withdrawal. Nick glanced at the monitor and groaned at the 163 pulse rate. Where was the nurse? He pressed the call button. The usual “can I help you” did not come.

  Nick’s heart broke as he laid a wet cloth on Scott’s forehead and waited for the spasms to end. It killed him to see how Scott was wasting his life. The anger he’d harbored at the house dissolved as his brother writhed on the bed. Finally, the jerking subsided, and Scott lay limp and pale, panting for breath.

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  Scott drew a shaky breath. “Get the nurse,” he whispered.

  Nick pressed the buzzer again. This time someone answered, and he explained what had happened.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Seconds later, a ponytailed RN burst into the room. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sinclair. The technician watching your monitor was distracted by an emergency.”

  She bent over him with a stethoscope, listening to his heart, then took his blood pressure. “You’re calming down.”

  “Explains why I feel so good,” Scott rasped out.

  “Scott, she’s trying to help you. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Just give me the Valium.”

  The nurse glanced at Nick and winked as she wiped the cap on the IV catheter with an alcohol swab and inserted the needle. “If this doesn’t help, let me know.”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” Scott said.

  The nurse patted Scott’s leg. “Buzz me if you need anything else, sugar.”

  Scott closed his eyes, and Nick sat in the chair beside the bed while his brother feigned sleep. “You might as well look at me—I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”

  With a groan, Scott opened his eyes. “No law against hoping, is there?”

  Nick counted to five before he answered. “I’m waiting for an explanation.”

  Their gazes locked. Scott looked away first. “What do you want me to say? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I was sorry.”

  “Try me.”

  Scott closed his eyes. He swallowed, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “It was Angie’s kitchen. That’s what bothers me the most.” His voice cracked. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough. But fixable. You could’ve died in that fire.”

  “So? Everybody would be better off.”

  Nick sat on the side of the bed. “You know better than that.”

  “I . . . I didn’t mean for it to happen. But I had to have a drink.” Scott had opened his eyes but avoided looking at Nick.

  “How’d you get the whiskey?”

  “Walked to the corner. Threw up the first drink, took another. Then another. By the time the bottle was gone, I was hungry, and French fries sounded good. I remember pouring the oil in a pan and turning up the burner. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up here.”

  Nick pressed his lips together. Did Scott think he was stupid? His brother had no more walked to the corner and bought a bottle of whiskey than Nick had. He’d already checked out the liquor store. They’d never seen Scott. Nick rewet the washcloth in the bathroom sink and wiped his brother’s face. “The clerk at the liquor store said she never saw you.”

  Scott cracked an eye. “You think she’d admit she sold Jack Daniels to a minor?”

  Nick flushed. “I talked to Dana. She said I ought to ask you about Digger. Who is he? And did he buy your whiskey?”

  Scott rubbed his hand across his mouth. His chest heaved with short, shallow breaths.

  “Scott, who is he?”

  “A friend, that’s all.”

  “I assume he has a name besides Digger.”

  “It’s the only name I know,” Scott said, shrugging Nick off.

  “How do you know him? Where’d you meet him?”

  “At . . . the university, in the library.”

  “Is he a student there?”

  Scott shook his
head. “He’s too old to go to college. He’s just a good friend. Helps me out sometimes.”

  “And now he’s here, in Memphis?”

  His brother licked his lips. “I . . . I don’t feel good.”

  This was going nowhere fast. Nick tossed the cloth on the rolling table. “Can you handle some water? Or maybe ice chips?”

  “Chips.”

  Nick spooned slivers of ice into his brother’s mouth.

  “I found your cell phone near the stove. Destroyed, by the way. So, who’d you call? Who brought it to you?”

  “Nobody. I have a fake ID. It’s like I said. I found twenty dollars on your dresser.” Scott scowled at Nick. “You’re never going to believe me, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about Dr. Martin.”

  Scott’s head jerked up. “How do you know about her?”

  “It’s a long story, but I know about the stalking.”

  He tried to pull up and collapsed on the bed. “I wasn’t stalking her! Not really.”

  “What do you mean, not really? Either you were or you weren’t. How about the gifts and those photos? And I understand this isn’t the first time you’ve been accused of stalking.”

  “I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t this wait until I can think?”

  “No, Scott, it can’t. You’re in serious trouble. Did you break into her house and attack her and that sheriff?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  “Well, did you?”

  “I didn’t hurt her. I really liked Dr. Martin. She was always so nice to me. Sometimes, I just liked to be where she was.”

  “Don’t you know that can be construed as stalking?”

  “I promise, I didn’t stalk her. You have to believe me.”

  The same eyes that so many years ago begged Nick to make the wounded bird live begged now. “Why, Scott? Why do I have to believe you?”

  “Because . . . you’re my brother.”

  Nick released a slow breath. A knot clogged his throat. Not blood brothers, but maybe something more. “Okay, Scott, I believe you. Now, let’s see if we can get Dr. Martin to do the same.”

  Scott’s body started shaking.

  “C-can we w-wait?” Scott’s teeth chattered. He hugged his ribs. “Until I f-feel b-better?”

  “Sure, Scott.” His brother’s thin body shook beneath the sheet. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “You c-can’t help me. S-ee about more V-valium.”

  “It’s too early for that, but I’ll see if I can get you something for nausea.” Nick pressed the call button, and a nurse arrived shortly. Slowly the tremors subsided and Scott dropped off to sleep. Nick checked his watch. Barely enough time to get home and meet the cleaners.

  He stopped at the nurses’ station. “Could you put up a ‘no visitors’ sign?”

  Until his brother’s condition improved, he didn’t need to answer questions from anyone, not even Taylor.

  19

  Taylor wasted no time getting to the Criminal Justice Center after Livy’s call that her dad’s records were sitting on her friend’s desk. Finally, she would get answers, maybe even a lead on where her dad was.

  Livy looked at her watch. “What’d you do, fly? It hasn’t been forty-five minutes since I called.”

  “No in-coming traffic.” Taylor grinned. “It’s all going the other way. Besides, it’s almost five—I didn’t want to hold you up.”

  “Don’t call me when a black-and-white pulls you over. I don’t fix tickets.”

  “No, honestly, I didn’t speed.”

  “Yeah, right. The small conference room down the hall is empty. Would you like company?”

  Taylor wasn’t sure she wanted anyone with her as she examined the contents of the box. “Maybe later.”

  She started toward the room and paused. “That woman who was murdered, were you assigned that case too?”

  Livy shook her head. “Not this time. Looks like it might be a serial killing, and the feds want it. A couple of other detectives get to work with them on it.” Her grim look said “better them than me.”

  Taylor walked down the hall to the conference room and put the box on the table and stared at the faded white card on the end. James William Martin. Her body tensed. What secrets did the box hold? Or had she been chasing a dead end? Taylor squared her shoulders and lifted the lid.

  A few sheets of paper clipped together and what looked like pages torn from a small notebook lay in the bottom. One report, a few notes. And a letter-sized envelope—probably the letter her father mailed after he left.

  She began with it, taking out an expensive-looking sheet of stationery. Bold handwriting that she remembered from the letters Mom let her read. Dear Allison, I don’t know where to start, only that I have to leave. The pressure is too great. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

  He’d signed it “James.” Taylor could not imagine how Mom felt when she received this bombshell that left the lingering question of why. She checked the envelope to see where it’d been mailed from. She blew out a breath. Dallas.

  She set the letter aside and lifted the smaller sheets and counted eight. Then she took out the larger pages. Her father’s name appeared in the upper left corner and below that the name of the lead detective, Lt. Robert Wilson. Taylor removed the paper clip and began reading the two typewritten sheets.

  She learned nothing new from the first paragraph. The second paragraph listed people Wilson interviewed. Her mother, Jonathan, Ethan Trask. Taylor hadn’t realized Ethan was there that day. The other names she recognized as her father’s friends and acquaintances. The next paragraph gave a brief summary of the day he left. Jonathan and Ethan took him to the airport. Interview with airline: manifest shows Martin boarded the plane. Flight attendant indicated she didn’t remember him per se, but the crew had been short staffed that day. A comment at the bottom of the page noted he never arrived at the Palace Hotel in Dallas.

  The second page mentioned the missing ten thousand dollars from the safe, along with the name of a private investigator Jonathan had hired. Wayne Russo. She needed to check that out. Wilson had ended the second page with the conclusion James Martin deserted the family and made off with ten thousand dollars. Case closed.

  Nothing new, but seeing the detective’s words along with her father’s in black and white made it so final. When her dad had gotten on that plane, he had never intended to return. He deserted them. Jonathan was right—her dad didn’t want to be found. The heaviness in her heart spread through her body. She’d pinned so much hope on this case file.

  Taylor pulled her thoughts together and picked up the handwritten notes. That was odd. Unlike the report, the note pages were in random order. Reading the report, she’d imagined a meticulous lawman and not someone who’d just toss the notes in the box.

  When she finally put them in order, she noticed that the last page ended in midsentence. Why would any part of these notes be missing? She examined the papers. Most cases had two detectives working them, and they worked on the report together. This looked like the work of one person. Maybe there was another report somewhere.

  She looked over Wilson’s working notes again that showed the lieutenant’s penchant for concise statements. He would have made sure all his notes were in the file. If one thing was missing, could other items be missing as well? Was it possible Wilson was still around?

  “Livy,” Taylor called as she came out of the conference room. “Do you know—” She halted. Livy was engaged in conversation with her partner, Mac. They both looked toward her.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Taylor turned to go back into the conference room.

  “You’re not interrupting anything important,” Livy said. “I’m sending the boy here to get coffee. Hazelnut, to be exact. Want some?”

  “You bet.” Taylor glanced down at the report in her hands. “You guys know a Lieutenant Robert Wilson?”

  Livy shoo
k her head while Mac repeated the name. “Robert Wilson . . . Rob . . . yeah, I remember him. He retired at least ten years ago. Why?”

  “He was the investigator on my father’s case,” Taylor replied. “I wonder if he’s still around.”

  “I can check and see.” Livy picked up the phone. A few minutes later she jotted a number on a sticky note and broke the connection. “Jody in personnel says he’s still kicking.” She handed Taylor the note. “This is his address and phone number.”

  “Can I use your phone?” Livy nodded and Taylor dialed the number. Rob Wilson answered on the seventh ring.

  “Hello?” his voice wheezed over the line.

  “Lieutenant Wilson?”

  “That’s me.”

  Taylor identified herself and explained she was investigating her father’s disappearance. “Mac McCord and Livy Reynolds will be sitting in on our conversation,” she added as she put the call on speaker.

  “That you, Mac?” Wilson’s breathy voice rasped into the room.

  “How’re you doing, Rob?”

  “Gettin’ by.”

  “I know that feeling,” Mac replied. “Appreciate it if you’d help us.”

  “The James Martin case,” Wilson said slowly. “It’s odd. Y’all are the second ones to ask about that case lately. Hasn’t been a week since a reporter came out and interviewed me for a story on it. Said he was doing a series on unsolved crimes in Memphis. I haven’t seen the article yet.”

  “What did you tell him?” Taylor asked.

  “You say you’re the daughter?”

  “Yes. What did you tell the reporter?”

  “Didn’t remember anything at first. Then, it came back to me. Told him Martin lived over in Logan Point. I got the case because the Memphis airport was the last place he was reported seen. The way I recollect, the Martin fellow just up and left. Took some money with him.” The old man paused, and Taylor heard him suck in air. “There was always something about that case that bothered me, though. Some things just never added up—that’s what I told that reporter that came around. Got my personal notes out—the ones I kept so I could write a book someday.”

  “Did you figure it out?” Taylor’s hopes rose.