Cut and Run

by Allison Brennan

  The lights were out, even the porch light, except for a small glow, which was likely a night-light in one of the interior rooms. Max didn’t want to sit out here all night watching the house. Though sleep often eluded her, she needed a few hours or she would miss something tomorrow. She needed a sharp mind for her interview with Stanley Grant.

  Max didn’t want to scare Marie, but she couldn’t just walk away—this request was too odd. The sister could be sleeping. It was late by most people’s standards. Instead of knocking on the door, Max called the cell phone number Oliver Jones had given her.

  The call went immediately to voice mail.

  “You’ve reached Marie Richards. I’m unavailable, please leave a message and I’ll call you back. Bye!”

  Max left a brief message: “This is Maxine Revere. I’m calling at the request of your brother. Please call me at this number any time day or night.”

  She ended the call. Maybe Marie turned off her phone. Two small boys, needed her sleep. Had to work tomorrow.

  Yet.

  Jones had only given her Marie’s cell phone number. She may or may not have a landline. Max did a quick search and found a number at this address. She called.

  It rang four times, then the answering machine kicked in. Max left the same message.

  Was the phone silenced or was she not home?

  She had two kids in school—where would she be so late on a school night?

  Max was about to leave her vehicle, but a car turned down the street, driving slowly. She lay down across the front seats—the last thing she needed was a nosy neighbor calling the police on her. She looked up as the car passed—a dark sedan rolled by, couldn’t be going more than twenty miles an hour. Not a police car. Cautiously, she watched as the car turned right on the next street. She waited a beat, then got out of her rental car.

  Max had parked two houses down from Marie Richards, across the street, where she could see the house but wouldn’t look like she was spying. She walked down Marie’s long driveway, which led to a detached two-car garage. Max listened for any noise, maybe a dog, something to tell her someone was home. She didn’t see signs of a security system, but she wasn’t planning on breaking in.

  The garage had a door. She tried the knob. Locked. She knew how to pick a lock but hesitated. She didn’t really have a good reason to go inside, she just wanted to see if there was a car.

  An unlocked gate connected the corner of the garage to the house. She opened it and walked around to the side and peered in the solitary window.

  No car. In fact, the garage was so packed with boxes, tools, bikes, and toys that Max didn’t think any vehicle would fit.

  Max walked toward the house. Instead of going back through the gate, she looked in the closest window. A door led to a laundry room. The blinds were only partly closed. A faint light was coming from above the kitchen stove on the other side of the laundry room, but she couldn’t make out much of anything in the near-dark.

  She needed to get inside. If Marie Richards really was in danger, she could have left in a hurry—or left against her will.

  Her car is gone. Would anyone who might do her harm take her car?

  If they didn’t want anyone to know she was in trouble. Or grabbed her on the road.

  Max slipped on thin leather gloves and was about to pick the lock when she stopped. Considered.

  Max rarely hesitated when entering an empty house. She’d done her fair share of sneaking around, and misdemeanors didn’t much bother her. She could generally talk her way out of it on the rare occasions she was caught. But ever since she’d started seeing Ryan, she thought twice about intentionally breaking the law. It seemed odd to her, because she’d dated cops and FBI agents before and not once had her relationship stopped her from pursuing the truth, even when she had to commit a small crime.

  She couldn’t do it. While she could talk her way out of trespassing, breaking and entering would be harder. She’d find a way to get inside if she needed to, but not when it was close to midnight. Maybe a welfare check. Rogan had friends in SAPD, he could convince someone to come by.

  Resolved, she walked back through the gate just as a flash of light turned down the driveway.

  Well, dammit. Her gut had been off and Marie had been out late with her kids.

  The lights flicked off, but the car remained idling.

  No voices. No kids. No tired mom. A car door opened, the dome light shining in the dark.

  Max stayed close to the gate. She didn’t dare move. She stood flat against the house, her low-heeled boots sinking into the mulch, a bush under the laundry room window partly shielding her. If she stepped forward she might be seen—would definitely be seen when the headlights went on.

  The door didn’t close at first. The car hummed. She really wanted to look, see if there was a license plate, but she didn’t know if someone was in the car or if it was even Marie Richards.

  She had a strong feeling it wasn’t.

  Two minutes after the car pulled in, the car door shut. She heard the car slip into reverse at the same time the lights came on.

  She held her breath.

  The car didn’t move.

  Had they seen her? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be certain. Who was it? It certainly wasn’t Marie.

  Was this some sort of setup? Max couldn’t imagine why Grant would set her up, but she supposed he might not want her investigating his case. Maybe there was something he wanted to hide. Yet— She had made no indication to Grant’s attorney that she would visit Marie tonight. And why say he’d talk to her at all if he didn’t want to? She couldn’t force him to meet with her.

  After what seemed like forever but was less than two minutes, the car backed out and drove off.

  Max waited a full minute before leaving her hiding spot. She walked briskly down the driveway intending to make a beeline for her car; instead, she looked at the front of the house.

  The intruder hadn’t gone in, otherwise she would have heard him entering. He’d been out of the car less than a minute—spent more time sitting in the car after returning. He hadn’t knocked on the door or rung the bell—she would have heard that as well. So what had he been doing on the front porch?

  Though there was a mailbox mounted under the numbers of the house, there was also an old-fashioned mail slot in the door. Very common with older homes, and the mail slot was no longer used. She first looked in the mailbox—there was mail. Today was Monday, and Marie hadn’t picked up her mail. Max looked through it—all junk mail, except for two postcards dated late last week with pictures of the Gulf, one addressed to Jason Richards, the other addressed to Kyle Richards, and signed Dad. Each card had the same message:

  Great news! My boss invited us to sit in his box for Astros opening day. Mom can come, too, if she wants. Plenty of room.

  To Jason he added:

  Mom said you want to start baseball in the spring. I’ll be back for six whole weeks starting Thanksgiving morning and we’ll practice every day. Miss you.

  To Kyle he added:

  Mom said you got straight Excellent marks on your report card except for talking. Ha-ha. That’s great, kid!

  Max put the cards and junk mail back. Definitely not a family torn apart after the divorce. Sounded like Marie talked to her ex regularly and he was involved in the kids’ lives. Why the divorce?

  What did it matter? People had reasons for their decisions. She didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.

  She was just curious.

  Had the kids gone to school today? Had Marie gone to work? That might be something she could get if she was sneaky about it, or maybe Rogan had an easier way. Schools were tight-lipped about the privacy of students and teachers.

  Because she still wore her gloves she opened the screen and peered through the mail slot. Cautiously. She didn’t know what the stranger was doing here—maybe he’d just checked the mail like she had, determined that Marie hadn’t come home. Then he would know the kids’ names, if
he didn’t know them before.

  There was a sheet of paper on the floor right in front of the mail slot. The house felt empty. She wanted that paper desperately, but that meant she would have to break in.

  What would Ryan do if she got arrested?

  She walked back to her car but didn’t leave. She had an idea. Not technically breaking and entering. Possibly a misdemeanor, if she was caught. But she was willing to take the risk.

  Max always kept a variety of useful tools in her oversized purse, especially when she was working an investigation. But, damn, she didn’t have duct tape. Why hadn’t she brought it?

  Because you haven’t been in the field lately.

  She dug around her bag and found a pack of gum. She didn’t like gum and never chewed it for pleasure. She only carried it for situations like this.

  She stuck two pieces in her mouth and grimaced at the burst of sickly sweet flavor that invaded her taste buds. While she chewed, she searched for a string. She had none. Why didn’t she carry string? She felt like she was losing all the skills she’d spent more than a decade acquiring.

  She remembered seeing a first-aid kit in the glove compartment box when she tossed in the rental forms at the airport. She pulled it out and searched for gauze. There was one pad, but it was multi-layered. Unfolded, it was about three feet long. She rolled it lengthwise so it made a three-foot-long rope. She needed something heavy to weight it down. She looked at the car fob in her hand … if she lost it through the mail slot, she’d be in real trouble. Instead, she pulled out her personal house keys and tied one end around the loop. If she lost those, she could more easily get them replaced.

  She walked briskly back to Marie’s house. Without hesitating, she stuck the gum onto one of her keys, molding it around to better hold, then she slipped the weighted end through the mail slot.

  She swung it back and forth until it was over the paper, then let it drop. She dragged it toward her, sliding the paper across the floor. When it was right by the door, she slowly pulled it up. As soon as the paper reached the slot, she put her gloved fingers through and grabbed it.

  Max walked back to the car, heart beating, remembering all the reasons she loved working in the field as an investigative reporter. The years she’d spent finding the truth. Justice was the system; she was about answers. She wasn’t a cop or judge or lawyer—she left the system up to them. But she firmly believed that when the truth came out—the entire truth—the system worked best.

  She slipped into the driver’s seat and finally looked at the note she presumed the stranger had slid into Marie’s house. It was a folded photograph. The picture was of a pretty yellow and white country house with a wide porch and surrounded by trees. A white car—a small Ford Explorer it looked like, but she wasn’t positive—was parked in front on the gravel driveway. No people in the photo.

  This had to mean something. What? Why would the stranger leave a photo like this at Marie’s house?

  It was time to call Sean Rogan.

  Chapter Nine

  TUESDAY, EARLY MORNING

  Max found Sean waiting for her in the lobby of her hotel as soon as she walked off the elevator.

  “Prompt, I like that,” she said with a smile. “Breakfast?”

  “I ate.”

  “I haven’t. Join me.”

  “I could use some fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

  “I didn’t take you for a health addict.”

  He laughed. “I’m not, I just don’t like coffee.”

  “I need my morning coffee.”

  “You and Lucy.”

  They sat down and ordered, then Sean said, “You’re going to have to be careful—technically, you broke the law by extracting this photo from the mail slot, even if it’s not in use by the post office.”

  He had the picture in a plastic evidence bag. She’d dropped it off at his house last night.

  “I would argue that whoever slipped that photo in the slot committed the crime because there’s no stamp on it. And the post office didn’t deliver it.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I don’t need luck. I have good lawyers.”

  Sean grinned. “I have some answers for you.”

  “Fast. You could have led with that.”

  “The paper is generic photo-printer paper available at any number of stores, the ink a decent color printer, but not commercial. Nothing embedded in the image, no markings on the back. I haven’t tracked the house down yet, but I have some guesses. The Explorer is registered to Marie Richards.”

  “I didn’t see a license plate.”

  “I knew that Marie owned a white Ford Explorer, and when I scanned the photo and enlarged it I got a partial. It matches.”

  “It’s a threat.”

  Sean didn’t say anything because he couldn’t disagree with her.

  “Someone is keeping tabs on her—and they want her to know it.”

  “Do you believe Stanley Grant?” Sean asked. “That his sister is in danger?”

  “His lawyer was convincing—not that his lawyer believed it, only that his lawyer believed Grant was worried. He’ll talk to me as long as he knows his sister is safe. This photo tells me that she may not be.”

  “Where’s David? This is right up his alley.”

  “In California visiting his daughter. And I have you, so he can stay put.” She looked at Sean, eyebrows raised in question. “I do have you, correct?”

  “Yes, but we’re going to have to be careful walking this line.”

  “What line? Are you still hung up on the mail slot?”

  “No. But, Max—I think you forget that I’m married to a federal agent. I’m really good at walking the line, but I can’t go over it.”

  She stared at him. She had worked with Sean enough to know that his line and the legal line didn’t always match up.

  He tried to hide his smile, then cleared his throat. “I’m serious, we have to be careful here.”

  “I am,” she said. “Did you call your SAPD contact?”

  “Not for this—I can’t abuse that relationship, so I’m saving my requests for something I can’t learn on my own. Instead, I contacted the school where Marie works. She called in sick yesterday but is expected in this morning.”

  “And they just told you that?”

  “Do you doubt me?”

  She almost laughed. She appreciated how resourceful Sean was.

  Sean continued, “I’m going to drive by her house first. If she and her brother are close, she might plan on going to the courthouse. Otherwise, I’ll catch up with her at school.”

  “I should go with you.”

  “Let me talk to her first.”

  Max had a control issue. She knew it. It had taken her more than a year to feel comfortable letting David handle interviews and other matters for her. She had gotten better, but she’d only worked with Sean on a few cases and letting go was difficult.

  “Okay,” she said cautiously, “but I need to talk to her after I talk to her brother.”

  “I expected no less.”

  “Is that sarcasm?”

  “No.”

  She shook her head. Her fruit and toast came. “Would you be willing to keep an eye on her this morning? At least until I find out what’s going on? That way I can tell Grant that she’s safe.”

  “If she’s okay with it. I’m pretty good at talking people into things, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” He drained half his orange juice. “One more thing I learned last night when you woke me up.”

  If he was trying to make her feel guilty, she didn’t. She paid him very well to be on call.

  He handed her a folded piece of paper. She opened it. It was a printout from a hotel in Austin, about an hour north of San Antonio. A room registered to Marie Richards for two nights. She must be missing something, because she didn’t see the importance. She glanced at the dates. September. Marie had checked into the hotel the night before Grant went to the police and confessed to Victoria Mills
’s murder.

  “What am I missing?” Max asked. “Just because Marie left town when he confessed? Maybe he gave her a heads-up and she didn’t want the headache of the press.”

  “When I initially ran backgrounds, nothing about Marie seemed off. But last night after I saw this photo, I ran her in another database and that registration popped.”

  “Still doesn’t tell me why this is important,” she said.

  “Maybe there’s nothing important here, but it shows a pattern. Before Grant confessed, she disappeared for a couple days. Then she returned to San Antonio but kept a low profile. Work and home and the occasional visit to her brother. But this Sunday she visited her brother and then left town.”

  “So he told her he was going to change his plea and she left town again to avoid the media spotlight. A lot of people would do the same thing.”

  “But she didn’t go to a hotel. My guess? She went to the house in the picture.”

  Then it clicked. “And someone followed her.”

  “Her brother warned her about what he was doing—maybe suggested she go on vacation. She listened but doesn’t have the skill to elude a tail. Or she went to a location that could be easily discovered, such as a relative or close friend.”

  “Why does Stanley Grant think his sister is in danger?” Max wondered out loud.

  “Grant could be guilty. Of murder, embezzlement, any number of things. But what if he has a partner, or he knows about a major crime, other than Victoria’s murder. I know I’m speculating but from our research we know that Grant cares about his sister and her family. My guess is that yes, he’d try to make sure they’re safe before he makes a deal with the prosecution. If he knows something juicy, he might get wit sec. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Something strange is going on, and Stanley Grant is at the center of it.”

  “I don’t see where you’re going with this. He confessed to killing Victoria. Guilty or innocent, he knew enough about the murder that the police were confident they had the right person.”

  “It’s the embezzlement after the murder that is the red flag. If he’s guilty, why would he lie to the police about his motive? Maybe he asked her for the money and she refused and he killed her … why not just say so? But he lied about his motive, because the money wasn’t taken from their accounts until four days after she was killed. What this means for his sister I have no idea. But the only reason he would be scared about his sister’s safety is if he knows of a bigger threat.”