“It’s been thirty years. She could be dead.”
“Curtis is a partial owner of A Cut Above Landscaping.” Matt plugged the address into the GPS. “Curtis did time for robbery when he was young. He was released in 1988. His record since then is clean.”
“Maybe he learned his lesson.” Bree drove away from the mansion. “What do we know about Frank?”
“He also had a record,” Matt said. “A couple of arrests for assault. One for theft. He did two short stretches in jail. Nothing hard core. But then, he died young.”
Ten minutes later, Bree pulled into a dirt driveway that led through thick woods. They bumped down the lane and emerged in a shadowy clearing. Compared to the estate they’d just left, Curtis’s place couldn’t have been more different. He lived in a tiny one-story home. Cinder blocks formed the front stoop. An ancient pickup truck was parked outside. Rust was eating through the front fenders.
Bree and Matt climbed out of the SUV. She joined him in the rutted dirt. A fluffy black-and-white mutt came rushing around the corner, barking. It stopped and considered them, tongue lolling and tail wagging. Fear lifted the hairs on Bree’s nape. Her heart jump-started, banging against her ribs. Sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. But she held her ground. She had learned the hard way not to run from charging dogs. Fleeing made them see you as prey. Then you became prey. The scar on her shoulder began to ache with the memory. She blocked it out. She wasn’t five years old. She wasn’t helpless.
And the dog wasn’t charging, she realized, almost surprised that she could control her panic.
Breathe.
“He looks friendly,” Matt said in a calm voice.
Bree couldn’t take her eyes off the dog. “How do you know?”
“Its eyes are soft, and its body posture isn’t stiff. The tail is wagging in a loose and relaxed way.”
“So, what do I do?”
“First of all, don’t stare directly at its eyes. Dogs perceive staring as a threat. If the dog is aggressive, it won’t like it.”
“Then where do I look?”
“Just look in the direction of the animal without making eye contact.”
“OK.” Bree shifted her gaze to the dog’s feet.
“Most dogs bite out of fear, not aggression. They’re defending themselves.” He glanced at her. “Your case was unusual.”
In every way.
When she was a child, one of her father’s dogs had mauled her. Her father had blamed five-year-old Bree, though he’d bred and conditioned his dogs to be aggressive. Her father had been cruel. She had no doubt his dogs had been as mistreated as his family had been.
Matt continued. “Signs of nervousness are licking the lips, shaking, averting their gaze.”
“But I thought that was good?” Bree was confused.
“When it’s fear-based, they look like they’re cringing.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Sort of.
“The more time you spend with dogs, the easier it gets to read their body language.”
“Then that’s what I need to do.” Bree needed to get over her fear of dogs. It was the last legacy of her father’s abuse that she was determined to shake.
“You can work with Brody and Greta.”
“Yes. I want to.”
Matt crouched and held out his hand. The dog jumped closer, lowered his front end to the ground, and barked. “That’s a play bow. It’s a very good sign.”
The dog wiggled closer. When it reached Matt’s feet, it flopped over on its back. “Generally, wanting belly rubs is a good sign.” He rubbed her belly. “This is a female. Hello, pretty girl.”
Bree moved closer and crouched beside him. “Can I pet her?”
“Sure.” Matt moved aside.
In protest, the dog rolled onto her belly and army-crawled toward him.
“Let her sniff your hand,” he said.
Bree held out her hand. The dog licked it, then flipped it with her nose. “She wants me to pet her.” Bree stroked the dog’s shoulder. “It feels stupid to be this happy over doing something most toddlers can do.”
The front door bounced open. “Digger! What was all that barking about?” A tall man stepped outside. He wore faded jeans, a gray T-shirt, and Timberlands. His head was shaved. Over his shoulder, he hefted a chain saw. In his midfifties, he was the kind of fit that came from hard, physical work, not a weight bench.
The dog jumped to her feet and raced to the man. On the way, she snatched a tennis ball from the dirt. Stopping at her owner’s feet, the dog spit the ball at his shoes and barked.
The man stared at Bree and Matt, then his gaze took in her official vehicle. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” He lowered the chain saw to the ground, picked up the ball, and tossed it across the clearing. Digger tore off after it. She was back in less than a minute, expelling the ball with force at the man’s feet. The dog dropped into another play bow and barked at him, her feathery tail wagging hard. The man scooped up the ball and heaved it harder. The dog shot off into the woods.
“Beautiful dog,” Matt said.
“She’s a good girl.” The man crossed his arms, his spine rigid. The tattoo of an eagle decorated his forearm. His eyes were wary. “What do you want?”
Bree straightened. “We’re looking for Curtis Evans.”
“I’m him.” Curtis shifted his weight, and his tone grew downright suspicious. “But I don’t have to talk to you.”
“This isn’t about you.” Bree didn’t move out of the driveway. “It’s about your brother, Frank.”
Curtis’s head drew back. “Frank?” The dog rushed back to his side but seemed to sense her owner’s shock. She dropped the ball and put her front paws on his thigh. He scratched her head absently.
“Is there somewhere we can sit down?” Bree asked. “I’m afraid we have bad news.”
Curtis cast a worried glance over his shoulder at the house, then shook his head. “Just say what you have to say. I have to go to work. I’m already late.”
“You work for yourself,” Matt pointed out.
“We have a big job and we’re behind schedule,” Curtis said.
Bree nodded. “The remains of a man were found in a shallow grave in Grey’s Hollow. Your brother’s wallet and driver’s license were found in the grave.”
Curtis didn’t respond. He just stared at them as if he couldn’t comprehend what Bree had said. She watched emotions play over his face. Disbelief faded to understanding and grief.
The door opened again, and a white head poked out. “Curtis? What’s going on out there?”
“Nothing, Mom,” Curtis replied. “I’ll be in in a minute.”
“Nothing, my ass. That’s a cop.” The elderly woman held the doorknob as she carefully navigated the cinder block steps. She was about five feet tall. Extraordinarily skinny, with a pouf of white hair, she looked like a cotton swab. She walked toward them gingerly, as if her entire body hurt with every step. When she reached them, she swayed slightly. Her son reached out to catch her elbow, but she waved him off with an angry gesture. She eyed Bree and Matt. “What do you want with my son?”
Curtis said, “Mom, the sheriff is here about Frank.”
“You’re here about my Frankie?” She took a step closer to Bree and squinted. The old woman’s eyes were opaque blue, as if she had cataracts that needed to be removed. Her face was as wrinkled as an elephant’s hide.
“Are you Frank Evans’s mother?” Bree asked.
“Yeah. I’m Wanda Evans.” Suspicion filled the old woman’s voice, and her eyes narrowed.
Sympathy filled Bree. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”
“Just spit it out,” Mrs. Evans said. “You found him, didn’t you?”
“We think so.” Bree repeated what she told Curtis. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The words felt hollow. They always did. “The medical examiner has issued a presumptive ID. Curtis should call her office to arrange to give a DNA sample. Then Frank’s ID can be officially
confirmed with a familial match.”
Curtis nodded. “I’ll take care of it today.”
The old woman froze for a few seconds. Then she moved faster than Bree would have thought possible. Her hand snaked out and slapped Bree right across the face. She didn’t have much strength, and the slap surprised Bree more than it hurt.
On reflex, Bree grabbed the woman’s wrist. Matt had shifted closer, but Bree shook her head to stop him. She was fine, and she wasn’t going to throw an eighty-year-old woman to the ground regardless of what she did. Mrs. Evans looked like her body would shatter with any rough treatment.
“Mom!” Curtis yelled. “You can’t do that.”
Bree’s fingers completely encircled Mrs. Evans’s wrist. Her skin was stretched tightly over her bones, and Bree kept her grip gentle but firm. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again, right?” Bree stared her down.
“Right,” Mrs. Evans agreed between clenched dentures. But she didn’t look sorry. Not at all.
Bree released her wrist anyway. When she was eighty, maybe she wouldn’t have any fucks left to give either.
Mrs. Evans spit in the dirt at Bree’s feet. “The damned cops wouldn’t even look for my Frankie. They didn’t do anything. Lazy SOBs.”
Frankie. The name triggered a flash of déjà vu. Bree dug around in her brain but couldn’t find the reference.
“Mom,” Curtis said. “This sheriff was only a kid when Frank went missing.”
Mrs. Evans didn’t appear to care. She vibrated with anger and grief.
“Mom, why don’t you go inside?” Curtis put his hands on his mother’s arms.
“I will not!” She shook him off but nearly lost her balance.
“We’ll all go inside.” Curtis steered her toward the house.
Bree and Matt followed them. The house was cramped but cleaner than Bree had expected. The small living room and kitchen were attached. A basket on the kitchen table held more medications than anyone could possibly keep track of. A short hall likely led to the bedrooms. The dog raced into the kitchen and drank from a stainless-steel water bowl.
Curtis guided his mother to an old chair and eased her into it. The house was dark. Trees blocked the light from the small windows. Curtis turned on a lamp on an end table. Tears shone in Mrs. Evans’s eyes. Two women had learned of their children’s deaths today. Both were over eighty. They couldn’t have been from more different circumstances, but their devastating grief over losing their children was universal.
Images of Kayla and Luke popped into Bree’s head, and the fleeting thought of something happening to either one of them was almost crippling. Nausea rose in her throat.
“You’re not going to arrest my mom for hitting you, are you?” Curtis asked.
“No.” Bree swallowed.
“Thank you.” Curtis sank into the chair next to his mother. “She had a stroke two years ago and went into a nursing home. I just got her out last winter. I don’t think she could physically handle being arrested.”
Bree and Matt took the love seat facing them over a dark-pine coffee table.
Mrs. Evans shifted in her chair as if she couldn’t get comfortable. “Now I have cancer, and Curtis doesn’t want me to die there.” She shuddered. “Awful place.”
“They tried, Mom,” Curtis said.
His mother crossed her arms and gave him an insolent glare.
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.” Bree pulled a notepad from her pocket. “I wish I could have brought you better news today.”
“I knew he was dead.” Mrs. Evans hunched her shoulders. “He wouldn’t have left us. My husband died when the boys were little. It was just the three of us for a long time. We were close.”
Bree leaned forward, her notepad on her knee. “Tell me about Frank’s disappearance.”
“The deputy didn’t bother to look for my Frankie. He had a record, so the cops didn’t care what happened to him.”
Bree didn’t argue with her. When adults went missing, unless there were indications of foul play, there wasn’t much law enforcement could do. There was no law against walking away from your home and your family. It was hard to find someone if they wanted to disappear.
Thirty years ago, there was no E-ZPass to track. There weren’t as many security cameras. People still used cash. Not everyone carried a cell phone, and even if they did, the devices hadn’t been equipped with GPS. Smartphones hadn’t existed. Hell, the internet hadn’t even gone live until 1991.
“When was the last time you saw your son?” Bree asked.
“Before I went to work. That was back in June 1990. I used to waitress at a bar in town. It’s closed now.” Mrs. Evans wiped a tear from her cheek. “Frank made me dinner before I went to work. He was good like that.”
Bree asked, “Did he say where he was going that night?”
“No,” Mrs. Evans said in a weary voice. All the fight seemed to have left her, like air from a slashed tire. “He was a grown man. He was only living with me temporarily because he’d lost his job. When he didn’t come home the next day, I called the sheriff. They said it was too soon to report him missing. He was an adult. He could come and go as he pleased.” She drew in a shaky breath. “A few days later, they finally took a missing persons report. They never did much about it, though. Frankie had a record, but he was a good man. He’d just gotten involved with the wrong people.”
Curtis looked away, his eyes misty.
“Where did you live at the time?” Matt asked Curtis.
“I rented an apartment over a friend’s parents’ garage,” Curtis said. “Place was so small, I couldn’t even have a bed.”
His mother gave him a soft look. “Curtis was helping me pay my rent. My boys might not have been perfect, but they always looked after me.”
Bree leaned forward and rested her clasped hands on her knees. “Had Frank gotten into any fights? Was anyone angry at him?”
“Frank wasn’t an angel,” Mrs. Evans said. “He’d been in trouble before, which is why he was sleeping on my couch. I didn’t want him doing nothing illegal because he was desperate for money. Family sticks together.” She reached across to give Curtis’s hand a quick squeeze. “We’ve never had many material possessions, but we have each other.”
Staring at his work boots, Curtis blinked away a tear.
“Do either of you recognize the name Jane Parson?” Bree pulled a photo from her pocket and showed it to them.
Curtis glanced at it, then swiped a hand under one eye. He shook his head.
Mrs. Evans squinted and studied the photo for a few seconds. “I don’t think so. She doesn’t look familiar.”
“Could Frank have had a relationship with her?” Matt asked.
“Not that I remember,” Mrs. Evans said.
Curtis said, “Frank didn’t have a steady girlfriend. Said he couldn’t afford one.”
“Did he spend time with women?” Bree asked.
Curtis’s shoulder jerked. “He’d go to a bar now and then, but he wasn’t a dog, if you know what I mean.”
“Were there any places that Frank used to frequent? Bars?” Matt asked.
Curtis scratched his head. “He worked as a bouncer at McNary’s on Fifth sometimes. They closed about ten years ago.”
Matt dopped his hands between his knees. “Did Frank have a trade?”
“He was a mechanic,” Curtis said. “But he’d lost his job when the shop closed. He’d been out of work for a couple of months.”
“But you have no idea where he went the night he disappeared?” Bree asked.
“None,” Mrs. Evans said. “I went to work. I thought he was staying home. He didn’t have any money.”
Matt speared Curtis with a long gaze. “Where were you that night?”
“Home,” Curtis answered.
“Alone?” Matt pressed.
“Yeah.” Curtis’s chin came up.
“Not hanging with a girlfriend or a buddy?”
“No. I didn’t have a girlfriend.
” His tone was wry.
Bree glanced at the row of snapshots on the table. There were two of Curtis and his mom. In another picture, a blond man posed with them in front of a birthday cake loaded with candles.
“Now you have your own business?” Bree made a note to ask Todd to run a full background check, including financials, on Curtis.
“I have a business partner,” he answered, pointing to the blond man. “We bought the company almost ten years ago, and it’s still growing.”
“You have a record, don’t you, Curtis?” Matt asked. “Tell us about that.”
Curtis didn’t say anything for a full minute. His face flushed, and his jaw shifted back and forth. He wouldn’t make eye contact and talked to the floor. “I made plenty of mistakes when I was young. I’m not proud of some of the things I did back then, but I haven’t been in any trouble since. I learned my lesson the hard way, by spending time in jail.” He glanced at his mother. “I’m a different man now.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Matt stepped out of Bree’s official vehicle in the fenced-in parking lot behind the sheriff’s station. The late-morning sun roasted the top of his head as they walked toward the back door.
Bree glanced at her phone. “I only have a few hours before I need to be home. Also, I scheduled the press conference to start in thirty minutes.”
Matt caught her gaze. “Don’t feel guilty. You have the right to a personal life. That’s why you run a whole department. You do not have to do everything by yourself.”
Bree was getting better at delegating, but she still fought her desire to be in control of every aspect of the case.
Her nod lacked enthusiasm. “I don’t like leaving investigations hanging, and I’m tied up all day tomorrow.”
“The case is thirty years old. Whatever we don’t accomplish today will keep until Monday.” Matt followed Bree through the rear entrance. Two deputies were typing reports in the squad room. Matt could hear the dispatcher in the communications room down the hall. Todd looked up from his computer.
Bree tapped her watch. “Conference room, five minutes.”
She headed for her office. Matt carried their files into the conference room and jotted down notes from the morning’s interviews for his reports. Bree and Todd arrived a couple of minutes later, lugging their own files. Todd brought his laptop and a box.
Right Behind Her (Bree Taggert) Page 13