“Yes. I had a townhouse not far from here.” The well Faulkner had kept Abby in wasn’t far away either. Anxiety tumbled in her belly.
Harris, New Jersey, was one of the lesser-populated sections of the state. Located fifteen miles west of Atlantic City on the southeastern edge of the Pine Barrens, it was exactly what that name suggested: mostly barren and full of pine trees.
“Did you grow up here too?”
“Yes.”
“Was it always just you and your mom?”
Abby sighed. Her reluctance didn’t deter Ethan at all. “My father wasn’t around much. He’d pop in for an occasional check-in and give my mother money. Other than that, he didn’t want anything to do with my life.” She was about to say she couldn’t miss what she never had, but knew Ethan would see through her bravado. Abby had never experienced a loving father, but she had friends with real dads, fathers who threatened their dates and danced with them at their weddings.
“I’m sorry. Were you close to your mom?”
“She wasn’t naturally maternal, but she tried.” Abby had never doubted her mother loved her, even if she often seemed disconnected. Mom wasn’t the most affectionate person on the planet, but she’d taught Abby to shoot in grade school, and Mom would have fought to the death to protect her daughter. “She suffered from depression. Sometimes she drank too much. I think she loved my father, and the fact that it was a one-way street took its toll. She never dated. Not once.” Abby rested her head on the glass of the passenger window. Talk about an overshare. Why did she tell him that? What was it about him that lowered her defenses?
Following a command from the GPS, Ethan turned left. He drove in silence for a few minutes. “Did I tell you I live with my mother?”
She lifted her head and looked at him. Was this a you-showed-me-yours-so-now-I’ll-show-you-mine thing? And why did the mutual sharing bother her even more than her own too-much-information slip? It was as if they were bonding. “No.”
A wry, close-lipped smile crossed his face. “I do. My father had a heart attack and died at fifty. I was a New York City cop at the time. My younger twin brothers were still in high school, and my mom has rheumatoid arthritis. It was either move home or make her sell the farm. She loves that farm.”
“You gave up your career for your family?”
“Not really. I’m still a cop.” Ethan squirmed.
“New York City and Westbury are barely on the same planet.”
“True.” Ethan laughed. “But it turned out all right in the end. Cam and Bryce had a hard time accepting Dad’s death. We all did. Grieving together was the best therapy.”
“How are your brothers now?” Abby asked. The loss of her mother was still a hard lump in the center of her chest. She’d done her grieving alone.
“They’re doing great. They go back to college tomorrow.” Ethan followed another directional prompt from his cell phone, turned into the municipal complex, and parked in front of the prosecutor’s office. “Are you ready?”
No. The unexpected intimacy formed between them during the long drive had left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Their tenuous bond felt fragile and tender. A connection so sweet shouldn’t be soured by the news that waited for her in the prosecutor’s office.
But such was her life. Beautiful sunny days were always followed by a storm.
“Yes.” Abby opened her door and stepped out onto the asphalt. A freezing wind whipped across the open space. So much for the temperature being milder near the coast. She zipped her down jacket. At least there wasn’t any snow on the ground.
Ethan walked at her side. His busy blue eyes scanned the parking lot as he steered her toward the building. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather bomber jacket as black as his hair, his casual attire didn’t camouflage his cop nature.
Inside, Abby gave her name to the receptionist. She rubbed her hands together to warm them and dropped into a chair. Despite the cold, nervous sweat dripped between her shoulder blades. She took off her jacket and draped it over her arm. Ethan took the upholstered chair next to her. He took her hands between his, which were absurdly hot considering how cold it was outside.
“Ms. Foster, Mr. Whitaker will see you now.” In addition to the prosecutor being replaced, the leggy brunette receptionist was new. She crossed the room and opened her boss’s door. Porcelain skin, even white teeth, and dark red lips lent her a vampire-like sexuality. Where was the older woman who ran the office for the last prosecutor?
Abby stood. Next to her, Ethan put his hand on the small of her back. Warmth seeped through her blouse and steadied her as they entered the office. Behind a scarred desk, a tall blond man in his late forties smoothed his tie and stood as they approached.
“Dan Whitaker.” He held out a hand.
Abby shook it and introduced Ethan.
From his shined shoes to his GQ hair, the new chief prosecutor was way too perfect to be honest.
At Whitaker’s gesture, Abby sank into the worn leather wing chair opposite his desk. Ethan dropped his hand from her back and took the other chair. She instantly missed the contact. Her hand drifted to her collarbone as she waited for Whitaker to explain his lack of communication. Three years ago she’d spent hours sitting in this same seat being prepared to give testimony, but this afternoon the once-familiar space felt like foreign territory.
And Whitaker felt like the enemy.
Which was ridiculous. The man hadn’t spoken yet, and even though they’d never met, they were on the same side.
Determined to conceal the panic crawling up her throat, she set her hands on her lap and intertwined her fingers to anchor them. No amount of willpower could stop the sweat that seeped through her pores.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Ms. Foster?” At Abby’s mute nod, the receptionist pivoted on a narrow heel and withdrew.
Whitaker rounded his desk and posed on its edge, looking down at the seated Abby and Ethan. Superior body positioning. Well done. Score one for the new prosecutor.
Whitaker gave Abby a solemn stare. “I’d like to offer my apologies. You should have been informed about Faulkner’s release. We’ve had quite a bit of staff turnover. I looked into the matter. Your new telephone number wasn’t in our records.”
“What about the VINE system?” Ethan asked. “The whole purpose of automating the victim notification system was to eliminate human error.”
Whitaker shrugged. “Any system that size can have an occasional glitch.”
Glitch? That’s all she was to this man? An unfortunate computer error?
Anger locked Abby’s breath in her chest. She struggled to inhale enough air to respond. “I don’t understand. Faulkner wasn’t supposed to be eligible for parole yet. What happened?”
Whitaker crossed his arms in front of his chest. Silver cufflinks shimmered. “A few months ago, a state lab technician was convicted of tampering with evidence. A clerk from this office was also implicated. Every defendant whose evidence one of those two individuals handled filed a challenge to his conviction. Unfortunately, this included your case.”
And explained why the prosecutor’s office had cleaned house. Whether or not they were truly responsible, someone had to pay the public-image piper.
Except for a slight, polite frown, Whitaker’s flawless face remained devoid of expression. Either he didn’t really care or his facial muscles had been Botoxed into submission.
Whitaker’s predecessor would never have blindsided her like this. Mark Bailey had kept her apprised of everything. Light glinted off Whitaker’s gelled hair as he leaned closer, reaching to rest a manicured hand on Abby’s shoulder. Unable to retreat any further in the high-backed chair, Abby gritted her teeth. His touch felt metaphorically slimy. She’d need a decontamination shower to get rid of the taint.
“Does anyone know where Faulkner is?” Ethan glared at Whitaker’s hand
.
The prosecutor put it back on his thigh. “Faulkner wasn’t paroled. He was released. His conviction was overturned. Without the physical evidence, we decided there was no point in retrying his case.”
“So he isn’t required to report in to anyone,” Ethan finished in a dead tone.
“Right,” Whitaker said. “After all, you never saw his face. You only recognized his voice. He never admitted his guilt. It isn’t likely a jury will convict a man based solely on the sound of his voice.”
Abby couldn’t process the news. “But there was other evidence.…”
“Not enough for a conviction.” Whitaker blinked.
Abby’s stomach heaved. One hand shot up to cover her mouth. Whitaker slid backward on the edge of his desk, his mask cracking with revulsion for an instant.
She swallowed, sucked a deep breath in through her nose, and let it out through pursed lips. The cut on her temple stung. She touched the bandage.
“Are there any records of family or last known address?” Ethan asked.
Whitaker’s voice turned sour. “I can’t give out personal information. Nor can I allow you to harass Faulkner, even if you are a police officer. You are out of your jurisdiction, Officer Hale, and legally, Faulkner is now an innocent man. His conviction was wiped away as if it never happened.”
Abby took another deep breath. Oh God. He really was out. And not just out, but free to do as he liked. No check-ins with a parole officer. No reporting requirements. Nothing. He could be anywhere. Faulkner had accomplished what Abby was unable to do. He’d wiped his slate clean.
Ethan got up and moved to stand behind her chair, positioning himself eye to eye with Whitaker. “Someone tried to kill Ms. Foster last Friday.”
Ethan rested both hands on her shoulders. The weight of them anchored her. She reached across her body and put her hand on top of his.
Apprehension flickered in the prosecutor’s eyes. “I don’t see what that has to do with Mr. Faulkner’s release.”
Abby opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. What could she say? The only retort readily available in her brain was, Seriously, are you an idiot? Voicing it wouldn’t gain them any cooperation. Not that they were getting much now, but animosity from the prosecutor’s office wouldn’t help matters.
Ethan squeezed her shoulders in a silent I got this assurance. “It seems convenient that he was released a few weeks before Ms. Foster was attacked.”
“Or it’s just a coincidence.” Whitaker lowered his honed body into the chair and picked up a file from the bin on his desk. Their interview was over. “There are lawsuits pending against the county because of the situation. I can’t discuss it any further.”
Ethan’s fingers tightened. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Ethan barely kept up as Abby bolted from the heated building into the chill of the parking lot. The heels of her boots echoed on the pavement. A bus drove past. Lingering exhaust fumes smelled harsh after their meeting with Whitaker, as if the air was tainted by his message that Abby wasn’t worth the effort of retrying her kidnapper.
She stumbled. Ethan caught her by the elbow. He wrapped an arm around her waist, slowing her down as they approached his truck.
“Easy.” He opened the door and helped her into the passenger seat. Her hands were trembling, and tears welled up in her eyes. Ethan rounded the truck and slid into the driver’s seat. Starting the engine, he blasted the heat and aimed the vents at Abby.
She fumbled with her purse, opening it and pulling out a travel packet of tissues. “I’m sorry.”
“You have no reason to apologize.” Ethan quelled the desire to go back into Whitaker’s office and knock a couple of his perfect teeth out. What a dick.
Abby blotted her eyes and nose. She covered her eyes with one hand and slumped against the armrest.
Ethan swiveled in his seat. He lifted her hand from her face. Her eyes blazed with raw despair. “You’ve been kidnapped twice and poisoned once. You escaped from a car submerged in a frozen river and found out a former assailant has been prematurely released. Instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you look for answers. You are one of the toughest people I know.”
“This last week has felt like I’m skiing on ice, just barely scraping enough traction to get through the next turn.” She sniffed and exhaled through pursed lips, clearly seeking composure. Abby needed to be in control. He wondered how many times in her life had she been at someone else’s mercy.
He leaned across the console and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned against him, silent and still for a few minutes.
The cab warmed, and Abby stopped trembling. With a deep breath, she sat up. “We need to find Faulkner.”
Ethan’s thoughts echoed Abby’s, but he wanted to shield her from this new threat as much as he wanted to solve her case. “Are you sure you’re up for it right now? I could take you home and come back another day.”
“No.” She stretched taller in the seat, as if her decision to continue moving forward was holding her up. “We’re here, and I don’t want to waste time. I need to know what he’s been doing since he was released. If he’s guilty of poisoning me, he’ll run.”
“OK. I’ll call the chief.” Ethan shifted back to his own seat. “He has connections. If Whitaker won’t help us, Chief O’Connell will.”
Ethan drove to a convenience store on the highway and bought two bottles of water while they waited. Ten minutes later the chief called back with an address.
“Faulkner’s mother lives in Somer’s Point.” Ethan plugged the address into the GPS on his cell phone. Somer’s Point was the last town before the bridge to the barrier islands that comprised the Jersey Shore, the family resort not to be confused with the Jersey Shore television show filmed in Seaside Heights sixty miles to the north.
Twenty minutes later, Ethan pulled up in front of a boxy rancher the size of a doublewide. The entire lot was barely big enough to play full-court basketball. Instead of a lawn, the yard was covered in a thick layer of smooth, round beige pebbles.
“Let me check it out first. Lock the doors.” But one look at Abby’s face told him she wasn’t happy with his plan. “Was his mother at the trial?”
Comprehension dawned on her face. “Yes.”
“I hate to take the chance she’d recognize you and refuse to speak to us.”
“You’re right.” Abby slumped.
“In fact, she might even see you from the door.” Ethan rooted around behind the seat of his truck for a baseball cap. He handed it to her. “You can trust me, Abby.”
She pulled the cap low on her forehead and slid down in the seat a few inches. A second of silence passed before she answered. “I know.”
But did she? Her mother was depressed. Her father was a no-show. Had Abby ever had anyone she could fully trust?
Ethan got out of the truck. He yanked the zipper of his jacket up to his chin. Though it rarely snowed at the Jersey Shore and the temperature was milder than his mountain hometown, the wind barreling down the street was cold, damp, and thick with salt. Ethan scoped out the property as he walked toward the house. The stone-filled lawn surrounded the house. If anyone came running out the back door, Ethan would hear footsteps crunching in pebbles. Plastic flowers and cement gnomes lined the concrete walk. The only car in the driveway was an older model four-door Buick. A handicapped parking pass hung from the rearview mirror. The carport was empty except for a tan tarp piled on the cement like a snakeskin. After a quick look around the corner of the house, Ethan knocked on the door.
An old woman answered. She opened the door but kept the chain fastened. Her skin bore the permanent sun damage of a lifelong beach lover, as wrinkled and brown as distressed leather.
“Mrs. Faulkner?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”
“My name is Ethan Hale, ma’a
m.” Ethan gave her a respectful nod. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen your son, Zeke.”
“Are you one of his friends?”
Ethan contemplated lying, but he wasn’t very good at it, and the gaze leveled at him through the gap in the door was shrewd. “No, ma’am.”
“Then you can come in.” She shut the door. Ethan heard the chain sliding free. The door opened wide.
So Zeke’s mom wasn’t happy with him.
Mrs. Faulkner’s five-foot-nothing, ninety-pound frame was dressed from head to toe in pink velour. She could have been anywhere from fifty to eighty years old, but since Zeke was only twenty-eight, he placed her in the lower end of that age bracket.
Ethan stepped into the foyer. A living and dining room combination fronted the house, with a large picture window that overlooked the street. Figurines of cats cluttered every available surface. The house smelled like a combination of boiled cabbage and mildew. “So, have you seen Zeke?”
Mrs. Faulkner leaned on a walker. “Exactly who are you?”
Ethan produced his wallet and badge from his back pocket. “I’m a Pennsylvania police officer, and I’d like to speak with Zeke about a case I’m working on.”
“What’s he done now?” With a glance at his badge, she pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her fleece zip-up and wiped under her nose.
“We don’t know that he’s done anything.” Ethan folded his wallet and returned it to his jeans. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions.”
She snorted. “Whatever you think he did, he probably did it. That boy could never stay out of trouble for a whole day, let alone two weeks.”
“Have you seen him?” Ethan asked.
“I saw Zeke about ten minutes after he got out of prison,” she huffed, and bitterness soured her expression. “He cleaned out my rainy day fund and was gone in another ten.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need. You didn’t raise the worthless son of a bitch.” Turning, Mrs. Faulkner pointed her walker toward a yellow kitchen. She clunked and shuffled down the short hall and eased into a metal-and-vinyl chair, either the effort or the pain of her son’s betrayal exhausting her. “Zeke comes by his worthlessness naturally. His father was also a waste of the life God gave him.”
She Can Hide (She Can Series) Page 11