“Maybe he was running late,” Matt suggested, but he knew in the pit of his gut that something had happened to Curtis.
“No.” Mrs. Evans shook her head hard. “He knows the medicines confuse me. There are too many of them, and they change all the time.”
“OK.” Bree surveyed the room.
“He would never leave me,” Mrs. Evans insisted, even as panic flashed in her eyes. “Never. Curtis takes good care of me.”
“I believe you,” Bree agreed.
Matt nodded.
“You do? You’re really going to look for him?” Mrs. Evans asked in an incredulous voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” Bree took both of the old woman’s thin hands in her own. “I promise we will do our best to find your son.” She released her.
Mrs. Evans collapsed back in her chair. “I don’t know what to do.”
Matt glanced into the kitchen at the pill vials lined up on the counter. “Did you take your medicine today?”
Mrs. Evans stared at her gnarled hands. “I can’t remember which ones are for morning.”
Matt pushed off the wall. “Do you have anyone we could call to stay with you?”
Mrs. Evans shook her head. “It’s just me and Curtis. There’s no one else.”
“We’ll need a list of Curtis’s friends,” he said.
Mrs. Evans reached for the end table next to her chair. On it sat a cordless landline phone and an old-fashioned address book. She picked up the book and thumbed through it. “He cut ties with most of his friends years ago. There’s only one person he hangs out with anymore, his business partner, Anders. They’ve been close since they were boys.”
“We already have his number,” Bree said. “We’d like to search the house. Is that all right?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Evans nodded fiercely. “Do whatever you have to. Please find my son.”
Permission was dicey in this situation. Mrs. Evans didn’t own the house, but it was her residence. If they found evidence Curtis had committed a crime, they wouldn’t be able to seize any of it. But they needed to look for clues.
“I’ll call in a BOLO on Curtis and his truck,” Bree said. “And I’ll have Todd get a warrant for his phone records. In the meantime, we’ll ask the provider to ping Curtis’s phone.” Under exigent circumstances, cell phone providers could agree to locate a user’s device.
“You want me to call Anders?” Matt asked.
“Yes.” Bree nodded. “Then we’ll give the house a quick search.” She turned to Mrs. Evans. “Hold tight, ma’am.”
Matt and Bree both stepped outside to make their calls.
Anders answered his phone. “A Cut Above.”
Matt could hear lawn mowers and Weedwackers running in the background. “This is Investigator Matt Flynn. Did Curtis show up for work today?”
“Hold on. Let me get in the truck,” Anders said. A door slammed, and the sound of the lawn equipment quieted.
Matt repeated his question.
“No, Curtis didn’t show today. He didn’t call either. I texted and called him, but he didn’t answer.” He sounded worried. “I thought maybe his mom had some kind of emergency.”
“No,” Matt said. “He didn’t come home last night. His mother is frantic.”
“Shit.” Anders hesitated. “I knew something was wrong.”
“Is there anyone we can call to look after his mother?”
“She doesn’t have anybody but Curtis. I’ll be right over.”
“That would be helpful.” Matt ended the call. “Anders is coming here to stay with Mrs. Evans.”
“Good.” Bree shoved her phone into her pocket. “Marge is going to try and get a social worker out here as well. Mrs. Evans needs to sort out her meds.”
They went back into the house. Matt searched the kitchen while Bree went through the living room. Neither found anything unusual. They headed for Curtis’s bedroom together.
The full-size bed was neatly made with a plain navy blue quilt. The tops of the dresser and nightstand were dust- and clutter-free. A wicker hamper held dirty clothes. Bree began with the dresser. Matt took the closet. Curtis’s jeans and work pants were folded on shelves. His shirts hung in a neat row. Matt checked his pockets. Empty.
“Look what I found,” Bree said.
Matt turned.
She was standing next to the bed holding a photograph. A photo album sat open on the nightstand. “It’s a copy of that same picture with Frank, Curtis, my father, and Harley. But this picture was in the album and isn’t as faded as the one that was in Frank’s missing persons file.”
“Let’s ask Mrs. Evans what she knows about it.”
Matt carried the picture into the living room. Mrs. Evans hadn’t left her chair. She didn’t seem to have moved at all. He knelt beside her chair. “Do you recognize this picture?”
She reached for a pair of glasses on the table at her elbow. Putting them on, she squinted at the picture. “Yes. I gave a copy of this to the police when Frank went missing.” She pointed to Bree’s father, then to Harley. “I always thought one of these two men had something to do with Frank going missing.”
“Do you know anything about them?” Matt asked.
Mrs. Evans shook her head. “All I know is that Frank did jobs for them now and again, when he was hard up for cash.”
The way she’d said jobs made Matt think the work was sketchy. “What do you mean by jobs?”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Frankie would never tell me. But he always came home with too much cash for a day’s work. I told him, ‘Frankie, if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ But he would shrug me off. He didn’t like being out of work. He didn’t want to be a burden on me. He wanted to help me, not the other way around.” She went quiet, staring at the photo.
A knock at the door interrupted her musing. Anders walked in.
Mrs. Evans reached her hand out to him, and he took it.
“Did you eat breakfast?” he asked.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“You need to eat anyway.” Anders went into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a loaf of bread. He put a slice in the toaster, scanned her medication, and rolled up his sleeves. “Don’t worry, Mrs. E. We’ll sort this out together.”
Leaving Mrs. Evans to Anders, Bree and Matt returned to the SUV.
Bree’s phone buzzed. She read the screen. “The cell provider pinged Curtis’s phone.”
She fed the location into the GPS and stomped on the gas pedal. The light bar flashed as they sped down the country roads. About ten minutes later, Matt spotted the old pickup parked on the shoulder. Bree pulled up behind the vehicle, and they got out. The sun beat down on Matt’s head, and heat radiated off the pavement in waves.
With one hand on her weapon, Bree jogged to the driver’s door. Matt headed to the passenger side. The pickup’s cab was empty. The driver’s window was smashed. Glass shards littered the seats, floor, and dashboard. The front tire was flat.
Matt bent to inspect it. “There’s a nail in the tire.”
“His cell phone is on the passenger seat,” Bree said. “Can you grab it?”
Matt put on gloves and opened the door. He picked up the cell phone. “It’s passcode protected.”
Bree stabbed her own phone screen, then put the device to her ear. “Todd, do you have Curtis Evans’s cell records yet?” She waited, then nodded. “Any recent calls? Text me the address.” She ended the call. “Curtis’s last phone call was to a landline in Scarlet Falls. Guess who the number is registered to?” She paused, her mouth set in a grim line. “Darren Taggert.”
Bree stared at Curtis’s truck, but she was clearly focusing on some internal thought.
“Do you have a relative named Darren?” Matt asked.
“Not that I remember, but then I didn’t remember Harley until recently.” Bree circled the truck. “What do you think happened?”
“Someone drove a nail into his tire, then followed him until
the tire went flat.”
“Then they nabbed him?”
“That’s my best guess.” Matt went back to the truck’s cab and stuck his upper body inside the vehicle. “I don’t see any blood.”
“Then maybe he’s still alive.” Bree headed back to her SUV. “We’ll have the truck towed to the county garage. Forensics can go over it there. We’re going to see Darren Taggert.”
While Bree drove, Matt used her Mobile Data Computer System to run Darren Taggert. Among the information Matt could access were motor vehicle records, the NCIC, and the Division of Criminal Justice Services.
“Darren is sixty-five years old. Five foot ten, hazel eyes. He drives a 1999 F-150. Driver’s license and registration are valid. No outstanding warrants.”
“Criminal record?” Bree asked.
“Long and distinguished. He was in and out of jail multiple times back in the ’80s and ’90s. B and E, burglary, theft, trespassing. No violent crimes, no drug convictions, and nothing recent.” Matt scrolled through the information. “In fact, he hasn’t been arrested in twenty-five years.”
“Maybe he learned his lesson.” The SUV careened around a bend as Bree barely slowed for the turn. “Is he married?”
“Doesn’t seem like it.” Matt scanned the screen. “He works for ABC Auto.”
Ten minutes later, Bree turned into a solidly middle-class suburban development. Trees and basketball nets lined the street. A small playground on the corner contained a slide and a few swings. A mother pushed a baby stroller on the sidewalk away from the playground. A little boy toddled beside her. He squatted, picked up a rock, and shoved it into his pocket.
The neighborhood was quiet, well groomed, and family friendly, not the sort of place he’d expected to find someone with a criminal record as lengthy as Darren’s.
Bree cruised to a halt in front of a well-maintained one-story home. Matt took in the structure. White with blue shutters, the house had a mailbox in the shape of a barn. The garage doors were styled like barn doors.
“You sure this is it?” he asked. “It looks so . . .”
“Normal.”
“Exactly.” Matt double-checked the address. “This is the right place.”
They stepped out of the vehicle, and he joined her on the sidewalk, standing on a child’s chalk drawing of a giant daisy. From the sidewalk, Matt could see the shadow of a tall vehicle through the narrow windows of the garage door. “There’s the truck. Looks like he’s home.”
Before they could start up the driveway, the air resounded with a solid pop. Matt startled, and a cold ball solidified in his gut. He knew exactly what that sound was.
Gunshot.
He crouched, scanning their surroundings.
Where was the shooter?
And who was the target?
CHAPTER THIRTY
Bree’s heart did a double tap as she reached for her weapon. She’d been shot two months before. The wound had been superficial and had healed well, but the gunshot brought back the memory. The scar seemed to sting.
“Did it come from inside the house?” Matt asked.
“I think so.” Scanning the front of the house, she whipped out her cell phone and called for backup and an ambulance. Behind her, Matt retrieved the AR-15 and Kevlar vest from the SUV. He was still fastening the Velcro of his vest as they jogged up the driveway. She was wearing her own body armor under her uniform. They both knew they should wait for backup, but if someone had been shot inside the house, those extra minutes could mean the difference between life and death.
Narrow panes of decorative frosted glass framed the front door. Bree and Matt automatically flanked the entry. Bree tried the knob, which was locked. She turned her ear to the door, but the house was dead quiet.
If someone was exiting the house, they would likely use the back door, where they’d be less visible to the neighbors.
Raising one hand in the air, Bree signaled for them to go around back. Matt went left, and Bree ran to the right. Weapon in hand, she crouched as she passed in front of a picture window. She paused beneath it, lifted her head, and tried to peer inside, but the blinds were closed. She kept moving.
Adrenaline sprinted through her veins as she passed in front of the garage door. She rose onto her toes to look inside. The F-150 occupied the right half of the garage. On the other side, a workbench and rolling tool cabinet were lined up against the wall. She scanned the concrete floor around the F-150, but the garage looked empty. She saw no one inside the cab of the pickup. Continuing, she rounded the corner and jogged along the side of the house. A side door clearly led into the garage. As she passed, she checked the knob. Locked. She hurried along the side of the house until she came to the rear yard.
She peered around the corner. Darren’s lot wasn’t fenced, but all three adjoining properties were enclosed with six-foot-tall fencing. She listened for sounds of a person fleeing, but all she could hear was the echo of her own pulse. In the far corner, four Adirondack chairs faced a brick firepit. She saw no one, and the grass was too thick for visible footprints.
Bree moved into the backyard just as Matt was coming around the opposite corner. She jogged to the patio and passed a gas grill to stand at the side of a set of french doors. Matt put his back to the house on the other side.
Bree peered around the doorframe. The reflection of sunlight on the glass obscured her view inside the house. She shielded her eyes with a hand to block the light. She could see into a small but nicely renovated kitchen. White Shaker cabinets and marble countertops gleamed. The floor tiles looked like planks of driftwood. A dark patch on the floor caught her eye. She moved her head. Her stomach rolled over as the dark patch glistened red. “I see blood.”
“We need to get inside.”
Bree tried the doorknob. Locked.
Matt used the butt end of the rifle to break a glass pane in the french door. Reaching through, he popped the doorknob lock and opened the door.
The house was small. Bree could see all of the kitchen and adjoining family room. A man’s body lay behind the kitchen island, but she and Matt quickly searched the two bedrooms and single bathroom.
They wouldn’t be able to help anyone if they were also shot.
After they’d cleared the house, she returned her weapon to its holster and crossed the tile to the victim. She dropped to one knee beside him. Blood pooled around his head. His eyes were closed, and his skin was the pasty color of skim milk. His features had aged, and his brown hair had gone mostly gray, but he was familiar. She knew him. She’d seen him at her childhood home many years before. An ache formed in the center of her chest. “That’s Harley.”
She pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. From the size of the blood puddle, she expected him to be dead. The faint thrum against her fingertips surprised her. “He’s alive.”
The blood was coming from his head. She leaned closer, separating his wavy gray hair until she found the source, a wound just behind his temple. “He’s been shot in the head.”
Just like Jane and Frank.
“How bad?” Matt leaned over her.
“There’s too much blood. I can’t see anything. I need something to stop the bleeding.”
Matt rummaged through the kitchen drawers. He rushed back to Bree and handed her a short stack of folded dish towels.
“Call dispatch and get an ETA on that ambulance.” She pressed a towel to the side of Harley’s head and applied pressure. How had she not remembered him?
She looked him over. He wore jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. His feet were bare. His hair was shoulder length. Gray patches colored his short beard.
Matt brought a blanket from the bedroom and spread it over him. “If he’s your father’s cousin, does that make him your second cousin?”
“I think so.” Blood soaked through the towel. Bree added another.
Harley’s eyes fluttered open. He looked up at Bree with unfocused eyes in the same shade of hazel as her own. He blinked hard a few times.
Then his mouth twitched, and he breathed out, “Bree.”
“Who did this?” Bree asked.
But that one word was all he could say. His eyes drifted closed again. She gave his shoulder a small shake. “Stay with me.”
Emotions choked her. She didn’t know what kind of relationship she’d had with this man, but she wanted to find out. There was so much she couldn’t remember. Could he help? Had she liked him? He’d been an adult when she’d seen him last. Sure, he’d aged, but his features had been fully developed. It seemed odd that he’d recognized her. Her appearance had changed profoundly over twenty-seven-plus years. She didn’t know why she remembered him as Harley when it seemed he now went by the name of Darren.
Please don’t die.
Todd and Deputy Collins arrived right before the ambulance. Bree stepped back to let the EMTs take over.
Then she updated her deputies. “Canvass the surrounding homes. The shooter must have parked elsewhere and walked to this house. Matt and I were out front when the shot went off. We know the shooter didn’t leave through the front door. He must have run out the back and gone over a fence. Try the three houses with attached yards first. I also want the neighbors’ impressions of Mr. Taggert. Show photos of Curtis Evans, Shawn Castillo, Bradley Parson, and Richard Keeler. See if anyone recognizes any of them. Also ask if Mr. Taggert has any regular visitors or if he had any unusual company recently.”
Todd and Deputy Collins hurried off. Bree knew the shooter was long gone, but someone must have seen something. This was a tight neighborhood.
“Keeler couldn’t have shot Mr. Taggert,” Matt said. “He’s still in jail.”
“I know, but I want to cover all the bases in case he’s involved. Maybe he was here in the past. He could have hired someone for his illegal activity. Maybe Harley knows him from business dealings. I’ll check the windows and doors for signs of forced entry.”
Right Behind Her (Bree Taggert) Page 22