“You said you don’t have any family.”
“Have you heard anything back on the prints?”
“Not yet. Who’s Steve?”
“At the arraignment, the judge read the charge as second-degree murder. Did the grand jury receive any evidence other than the report on the knife found in my home?”
“The knife found in your home was the murder weapon.”
“Without my prints.”
“You don’t have prints. Who’s Steve?”
“What else does this prosecutor, this Christa Hart, think she has?”
“You know everything I know at this point.”
“What about this woman, Hart? What’s she like?”
“Plays by the book. Until she can’t win that way and then she doesn’t.”
“What about our judge? Castillo?”
“Hard. Nothing lenient about him. But fair.”
“I didn’t expect to have to post a cash bond.”
Which explained the use of a bank account he didn’t want to discuss. “I think the idea was to keep you in jail.”
“Then why offer bail at all?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Frankly I expected to have to fight for you on that one.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We have to prove that.”
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
Nice words. Erin defended them on a daily basis. But the system she worked with tended more toward guilty until proven innocent.
Right until cases went out to their juries.
“Don’t worry, counselor,” Rick said, drawing out the word as if they were on some television law drama. “I know the score.”
She doubted it. He’d be a hell of a lot more worried—and more cooperative—if he had any idea how determined Johnson and his people were to get him for the death of a Temple native.
“Who’s Steve Miller?”
He stood. “Call me if you hear anything more. I’ve got things to do.”
“They’re going to find him.”
He didn’t respond.
It might be dark and cold and after nine, but Rick’s day was far from over.
He retrieved his truck, which had been towed and conveniently parked in a private lot behind the jail, probably with Sheriff Johnson hoping he’d soon have the go-ahead to sell the vehicle. Then Rick stopped by the EMA office. The building was manned around the clock and he wanted his tools.
Turned out he didn’t have to interrupt whoever was on duty inside. His belongings were tossed haphazardly out the back door. The blade on his jigsaw was busted. His table saw on its side. The electrical toolbox was open with the color-coded connectors on the ground rather than stored neatly in their plastic compartments. The plumber’s toolbox was relatively intact, though. All the compression fittings were in their slots according to size.
It took him only a couple of minutes to verify that nothing was missing. Not even a tape measure.
And another twenty to pack everything into the back of his truck.
He thought about knocking on the door to let whoever was on duty know he’d been by, but didn’t bother. Chances were the guy had been watching him since he’d pulled into the lot.
And if he hadn’t, he should’ve been.
After all, Rick had just been charged with the murder of one of the guy’s associates.
So why was he out on bail? Granted, the amount had been high enough that no one had expected him to be able to ante up. But whoever was behind this was no amateur. He’d been found.
Someone from his past had to be orchestrating the whole thing. The setup. Charles’s murder. The knife in Rick’s home. Someone from his past had found him. And whoever had managed to do that, had to know his net worth, as well.
Which brought him back to the original question.
Why was he out on bail?
There was only one obvious answer. Because he—or they—wanted Rick to do something. Or appear to do something.
So…was he supposed to lead them to someone? Or something?
Was he going to be contacted? Threatened with life imprisonment, or worse, if he didn’t do a job for someone?
Or… With a grim face he drove out of the EMA lot. Or was he being set up to take another fall? A bigger fall? One he couldn’t be blamed for if he had an alibi—like jail.
Rick pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of the leather jacket he’d put on after loading his tools. Hit speed dial. And asked for Angela Markham.
“Hi, Mr. Thomas, is everything okay?”
“Fine, Angela. How’s Steve?”
“Sleeping soundly. He had a busy day. Jill helped them make kites. Steve was the first one to get his airborne and was out there all afternoon. We had to bribe him with chocolate cake for dessert to get him to come in and eat dinner.”
Rick wouldn’t have used a bribe. He’d simply have told Steve it was time to go in. Period. And that if he didn’t, he would not be flying his kite tomorrow. Once Steve knew there was no room for negotiation, he was generally amenable.
Jill and Angela and everyone else he’d met at Lakeside Family Care just wanted to keep Steve happy. They were good people. Kind. Most importantly, they cared about Steve.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“Sure,” the young woman said. “What is it?”
“I was arrested today.” Rick stated the facts with no emotion attached. That was the way he got through life. “I’m innocent and they’re working on clearing things up quickly, but in the meantime, I don’t want any word of this to get to Steve. It probably won’t hit the news, but I’d appreciate it if you could block the news stations on his television for the moment.”
“He doesn’t watch the news, anyway, but I’ll put in an order in the morning.”
“And if someone comes to Lakeside asking questions, keep him away from Steve. I don’t want anyone, except staff and residents, anywhere near him.”
That meant Steve would have to be kept in a restricted area for now, but so be it. Lakeside was a secure facility, which was one of the reasons Steve was there.
“Got it.”
Steve Miller—as Erin was probably going to find out since she had the actual account number—was the full beneficiary of monies that had been put in a trust.
Rick managed the trust. But his name was privileged information. Sarge had arranged that when Rick left the army.
Even so, he didn’t like the fact that there was any connection to him at all, but the money had to be in Steve’s name to insure that the man was cared for in the event of Rick’s untimely death.
And Rick had access to that account for one simple reason. He didn’t trust another living soul with the management of his money.
“I don’t think they’ll bother him,” Rick told Angela. He and Sarge had made damn sure no one would make the connection between him and Steve. And in fifteen years, no one had. “I don’t want to take any chances,” Rick added.
Chances, like he’d taken that afternoon, drawing on the account he’d set up for Steve’s care. But it was the only one that had the amount of cash he needed. Even if they got a judge to issue some kind of special clearance that would reveal Steve’s identity, his address would tell them that Steve was of no use in court.
Rick knew that.
He was just being paranoid. Overprotective.
For the first time as an adult, Rick wasn’t in complete control. There were always unknowns in life, but Rick was usually one of them—not a victim of them.
Until he figured out what was going on, if his identity had been breached, if someone knew that Rick Thomas and Tom Watkins were the same man, until he understood why he was suddenly faced with defending himself against a murder he didn’t commit, he was going to act as though the worst had happened.
That one of his many, many enemies had found him.
And would stop at nothing to make his life a living hell.
One thing
was certain. If they’d simply wanted him dead, they’d have killed him by now.
“And, Angela,” he said just before he hung up. “If for some reason I don’t make it by, tell Steve I’m working.”
“We always do,” the woman said, her tone filled with as much compassion as cheer. “When he’s missing you, it’s the one excuse that seems to appease him, to make sense to him.”
With Steve’s lack of ability to discern the passage of time, he could be missing Rick ten minutes after a visit. Or go ten days without asking about him.
“I know you do.” Rick spoke softly, though he was alone in his truck. “I’m saying that if I don’t make it by again—ever—tell Steve I’m working.”
Steve’s bills would be paid. Permanently. Rick had already made that arrangement a long time ago.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Thomas? Is there someone I can call? Something we can do?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her, ending the call as he turned off toward the privately owned marina he’d visited the day before, to prepay, in cash, for a boat that would be waiting for him. If he hadn’t shown up tonight, the guy would’ve kept the cash.
The keys to the small motorized fishing boat were exactly where he’d been told he’d find them. The gas tank was full.
A can of fresh worms waited in the bottom of the boat. Grabbing his rod and tackle box from the truck and exchanging his leather jacket for an insulated hunting suit, Rick set out for a night of fishing—and a rendezvous.
12
Rick Thomas was playing the stock market. And doing quite well at it. In her favorite soft robe and big furry slippers, Erin lounged in the corner of her sectional couch, looking out over the darkness of the lake beyond, listening to the sound of the waves through the window she’d opened a crack. Studying the screen on her laptop, she followed his buying and selling patterns over the past year.
He’d started with a conservative ten thousand dollars. Had withdrawn twenty-five thousand. And still had eleven. Not bad for a construction worker in a down economy.
Erin reached for the toast sitting next to her on a paper towel. Toast with peanut butter might not be a balanced meal, but it had protein. And it suited her just fine.
Especially since the glass of wine was covering the fruit and vegetable group.
She had a call into Caylee.
She was also running a program, on another screen, that gave her a list of Steve Millers. She was trying to narrow her search to those with connections in Chicago, since the bail money had been drawn from a Chicago account.
You could tell a lot from a man’s bank account. Like the fact that he was responsible. Organized. Paid his bills online on the same dates every month. He kept two hundred dollars in his checking account and, if he made extra in a week, moved it into a savings account that was substantial enough to carry him for a year or more.
He had no frivolous expenses. Not even cable TV, although the amount he paid for his cell phone indicated that he probably had online browsing services.
Utilities were about the same every single month, not fluctuating much between summer and winter.
He did his grocery shopping every two weeks, spending between seventy-five and one hundred dollars every time.
His bar bill was a little more sporadic; sometimes he drank twice a week, sometimes not at all. And his tab was never more than twenty dollars.
He didn’t seem to carry much cash with him.
And didn’t do a whole lot for entertainment, either. Except rent a boat now and then. Or buy fishing bait.
So what did the guy do with his free time? He didn’t go anywhere. Didn’t do anything except fish. He didn’t even sit at home and watch sports channels, since he didn’t subscribe to any.
So if he did kill Charles Cook, money was probably not the motive.
He could have an offshore account. Could’ve made a big deposit there if he’d received payment for a hit—
Erin stopped those thoughts. She’d agreed to defend Rick, not to doubt him.
She scrolled through more search results on Rick Thomas.
And froze, just as the phone rang.
It was Caylee.
A call she had to take.
Rick welcomed the cold, the fresh air, as he bobbed quietly in an alcove not far from the lighthouse that marked the cliff bank where Sarge would be if he’d been able to get away.
Rick’s line was in the water. He watched the bobber when he could make it out in the moonlight.
He’d pulled in a decent-size smallmouth bass. And a few blue gill. He’d kept the bass. They were good grilled. And proof that he’d been fishing. The blue gill he tossed back.
And he focused on the murder of Charles Cook—listening not so much to the words in his head as to the feeling in his gut.
He tended to assume the worst. He’d found it a prudent way to stay alive.
But if he wasn’t careful, it could also blind him to the truth.
This whole setup, Charles’s murder, the weapon planted in Rick’s home, could just be some local yokel who had it in for Charles and saw Rick—a loner construction worker with no history in town—as an easy target to take the fall for him. And that person would’ve had no way of knowing that Rick was anything other than what he seemed to be.
So why had they stipulated a cash bail? If they’d thought he was a construction worker with a blue-collar bank account, and they’d wanted to keep him in jail, simply setting such a large amount of bail would’ve served that purpose. As Rick Thomas, he didn’t have enough assets to use as collateral to raise that amount of money. If they’d just been dealing with Rick Thomas, there would’ve been no reason to stipulate a cash bail.
At least, not that he could see.
And if the hit wasn’t a professional job, not a ghost from Tom’s past, then someone from the sheriff’s office would have to be in on the scheme. How else could the perpetrator have gained access to Rick’s bedroom to plant that knife?
There’d been no sign of forced entry.
But why would someone want an under-the-radar guy like Charles dead?
Who stood to benefit?
Forgetting his bobber, Rick turned to the touch screen on his phone, accessing the internet and typing in the name Charles Cook. With his membership on some intelligence websites, a once-a-year investment, he had access to public records.
He knew Charles wasn’t married. Apparently never had been. Forty-five years old and the man had only had two addresses. The home in Temple he’d been born in and the one that was now owned by his estate, which was now in limbo, since he’d left no will—or any apparent heirs.
There were no bankruptcies or foreclosures. No court cases. No criminal records.
When he did a general search he found a copy of a local newspaper article naming Charles as a member of the parish committee that had been in charge of bringing in a new minister to a local church.
And that was it.
But Rick needed more.
His life could very well depend on it.
“Noah used to tell me that in any situation, if I listened to my heart, I’d never go wrong.”
Standing in front of her wall of windows, gazing out into the darkness, Erin rubbed the back of her neck. She and Caylee had been talking for more than half an hour, with Erin doing a lot of listening and mostly giving placebo responses.
Because she didn’t have answers.
Or because she was afraid to give them?
“Sounds like good advice,” she said now. Ron Fitzgerald had trusted his son’s judgment.
“Yeah, well, the problem is that I am in love with Daniel, who doesn’t want me to pursue any kind of college education, let alone one at Yale. I love my mother, and we both know what she wants. So I try to listen to that love. To find peace in the idea of staying in Temple, marrying Daniel and having babies. But I start to panic before I even get to the wedding.”
“I don’t think listening to your heart means simply
following the dictates of those you love.”
“What do you think, Erin?” Caylee asked in exasperation. “All this talking and I still don’t know. What would you do if you were me?”
“I’m not you,” she said. “You guys are all the family I have, Caylee. You know that. And I love you all so much. This rift between you and your dad, and maybe your mom… I don’t know what to do. I didn’t grow up in a big family. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have much of a family at all. Just me and my dad. And then just me.”
“That’s exactly why I want to hear your thoughts.” The young woman’s words didn’t ease Erin’s tension. “You have a different perspective. You aren’t so tied down by generations of one pew at church. I can’t seem to separate myself from the obligations I’ve grown up with. I can’t figure out if I’m just being selfish by needing this opportunity at Yale or if, by passing it up, I’d be unhappy and dissatisfied for the rest of my life.”
Go. Erin almost said it. But she didn’t.
What if her response contributed to the eventual death of Noah’s mom?
What if, when Caylee got to Yale, she found that she didn’t fit in? What if the girl really did belong in Temple? What if her happiness was right here? What if the people who loved Caylee knew that about her?
“Erin? You still there?”
“Yes.” Turning, Erin settled on the couch, resting her head against the back cushion. Her conversation with Kelly Chapman came back to her.
“What I’d do, if I couldn’t give up on either option, would be to find a way to make both work,” she said.
“Go to Yale and stay here and get married? How on earth would I do that? Cut myself in half?”
“I don’t know how to do it, Cay, or I’d tell you.”
“So you don’t think I should go to Yale?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then you think I should.”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“I know. You aren’t saying anything. What I don’t understand is why not.”
Erin didn’t understand herself. She knew what she’d do. She could tell Caylee.
The Third Secret Page 9