Cut and Run

by Allison Brennan

  That question seemed to surprise him. “She’s a sweetheart. Has two little boys. Elementary school teacher. Stan worshipped her. She divorced a couple years ago but is still close to her ex—I think it had to do with his job, but I don’t know the details. That Stan would do this to her and her family—it was hard enough on her when he confessed, and now I’m sure the media circus will be ten times worse.”

  “There were only two other reporters in the courtroom,” Max said. “A print reporter and someone with a local crime blog. They don’t seem to be chomping at the bit to find out what’s going on.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. Max also didn’t understand why the press wasn’t all over this, either, though she’d watch the reports tonight and in the coming days. Friday might be a more interesting day in court, when the judge made his decision about allowing the confession.

  “Simon, I have questions. I’m also going to talk to Mitch and—”

  “Mitch is going through his own hell right now. He loved Victoria, even after they divorced. They were friends, they ran their business together. He wanted to come here, but I didn’t trust him not to get thrown out for saying something in court.”

  “Why did you visit Stan in prison last week?”

  Simon was clearly surprised that she knew. “I wanted answers.”

  “Did he tell you that he was going to change his plea?”

  “No. Why does it sound like you’re accusing me of something?”

  “I’m asking questions, Simon. I want to know who killed Victoria and why. The embezzlement motive is weak.”

  “I don’t know what you’re smoking, Maxine, but Stan confessed. He wouldn’t have confessed if he didn’t do it. My mother has aged a decade in the last two months. She rarely leaves the house. The only time I ever saw her cry was when her dad died. Until now. I will never forgive him. I always knew you were a hard-ass, Maxine, but this is beyond the pale. I hope you don’t treat my parents like this.”

  He turned and walked down the stairs.

  Max watched him leave. His reaction was over-the-top, and there was no reason for it. She checked her email. Grover Mills had confirmed he would be home to meet with her this evening, at his house in Fredericksburg. It was more than an hour drive, but she wanted to go to him, to a place where he and his wife would feel most comfortable talking to her.

  Something was off with Simon.

  She would find out what it was.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucy and Nate arrived at King Investigations shortly before their ten a.m. meeting. The business was run out of a corner suite in an office building on the edge of the River Walk.

  A young receptionist with a nameplate that read Charlotte King smiled as they entered, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “May I help you?”

  They showed their badges. “Agents Kincaid and Dunning to see Miranda King. She’s expecting us.”

  Charlotte inspected both their badges and their photos before she said, “One moment.”

  The young woman stood and left the small lobby, went down a hall and out of their sight. To the right, open doors showed a conference room with a table for six, a couch and two chairs, and bookshelves packed with legal tomes.

  Charlotte returned a moment later and said formally, “Please wait in our conference room. Mrs. King will be with you shortly.”

  Lucy and Nate entered, and left the door open. “Sean knows these people?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, he’s worked with them.”

  “Maybe if you called yourself Lucy Rogan we’d get a warmer reception.”

  Lucy didn’t concern herself with Charlotte’s distance—everyone had a story, and she respected the bubble people put around themselves. She had one, too, though over time she’d let more people get close.

  Miranda King strode in a moment later carrying a file. She was in her fifties, fit and clearly muscular, as if she’d worked on a farm most of her life, dressed in jeans, a blazer, a simple button-down shirt, and well-worn cowboy boots. “Hello, Agents. And Lucy, I feel like I know you! Sean texted me earlier and said you were coming by, and that you and Nate weren’t dick agents.”

  Lucy didn’t know what to say to that, but Nate laughed.

  Miranda closed the door and motioned for them to sit. “Don’t be mad at him, he knows I had a douchebag of a federal agent on my heels after my husband died, long story. You said you wanted to talk about the Albrights, and I cleared with the family that I can talk to you about the case. You found their bodies. I’m not surprised.”

  “All but the youngest child,” Lucy said. “They were killed within two weeks of their initial disappearance, and Nate and I are beginning to think they never left the country, or came back almost immediately.”

  “I don’t think they left, but the cops up in Kerr jerked my chain one time too many. They didn’t give a rat’s ass about what happened. They saw the picture of their Escalade crossing the border, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Jerks. I eventually had to put the case aside, though any time a John or Jane Doe was discovered in Texas or Mexico I had a look-see, to determine whether they were one of the Albright family. I saw the news report last night, read more this morning—it was your people who confirmed the bones uncovered were the Albrights, correct?”

  “They were verified through DNA evidence. Glen, Denise, Tori, and Becky, but Ricky hasn’t been found yet. We would greatly appreciate if you could share with us what you learned.”

  “Happy to, as long as you’re not going to drop the ball.”

  “No, ma’am,” Lucy said. “This case is a priority for our office.”

  “Hmm.”

  Did she not believe it? Lucy was more curious now about what happened to turn Miranda King against the FBI. But she didn’t ask, and Miranda continued.

  “First, Rico—my son—found the Escalade registered to Denise Albright in a chop shop in Matamoros. Already dismantled. He bribed the owner to let him confirm the VIN number. We gave that information to the police.”

  “They could have sold the car or traded it,” Lucy said. “To avoid being detected.”

  Miranda nodded. “Could have, didn’t. With some prompting, the owner admitted to Rico that he found the vehicle by the side of the road. Had some luggage in it, but the suitcases were mostly empty. He gave those to his sister to sell, which Rico confirmed. Though she didn’t have much of anything left—we tracked the car two weeks after their disappearance, which is when we were first hired—he believed her when she gave him a list of the items. A few shirts and toiletries, but no money, no supplies, no food, no water. A brand-new tent that couldn’t have fit five people. If I were going to disappear into Mexico for any length of time, you can be damn sure I’d have a car packed with necessary supplies to trade, sell, or use. And plenty of water.”

  “There were indications that they left their house quickly.”

  “I’m up-to-date on the case. Denise was suspected of embezzling money. She left because her client was calling in an independent auditor. Makes some sense. I understand insurance fraud, but other white collar crimes, not as much. My question remains: Where’s the money? It wasn’t in her bank accounts. It wasn’t anywhere, as far as I know—and I told the family what to ask for. They didn’t get any confirmation that any of the money was transferred into any account that Denise Albright controlled. The money disappeared down layers of shell corporations that they either didn’t or couldn’t trace, into a black hole.”

  Nate asked, “Who did you work with at the Kerr County Sheriff’s Office?”

  “A prick named Garrett Douglas. Wouldn’t give me the time of day. Kept passing me off to his partner Chavez, who didn’t know diddly-squat and said he’d have Douglas call me back, which never happened.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Nate grumbled.

  Miranda smiled, then said, “I told him I didn’t think the family left the country, I thought something happened to them here, and he showed me piss-poor photos from Brownsville Bo
rder Control. Could have been anybody in their car.

  “I followed up with their friends and neighbors,” Miranda continued, “but no one saw anything. No one had heard from them. The only thing I could get was one neighbor thought she saw Ricky Albright—he was nine back then—on his bike late one night. She couldn’t remember which night—she thought it was Friday or Saturday night the weekend they disappeared. But she couldn’t swear to it.”

  “By late, how late?”

  “Dark—sunset was around eight thirty that week. She didn’t see his face but recognized the bike and his profile. He wore a backpack and hoodie and was riding his bike fast—she was walking her dog. She walks her dog every night sometime between nine and eleven, depending on what’s on television. She waved and said hello, but he didn’t answer or wave back, which was unlike him according to her. She thought it was rude.”

  “But it wasn’t a night before the family disappeared? How can she be sure?”

  “She sounded pretty certain, but you’re right—it could have been Thursday. Though the kid was nine, and everyone I talked to said he wouldn’t be allowed to ride his bike after dark, and he was a good kid, not prone to sneaking out or causing trouble.”

  “If she’s right,” Lucy said, “then this was after the Escalade crossed the border.”

  “Where’s the kid been for three years?” Miranda asked. “Someone would notice a homeless kid as clean-cut as Ricky, and we’ve been going through missing persons databases regularly for the last three years. Though I know that doesn’t mean squat half the time. Kids, sadly, disappear.”

  Miranda glanced at her notes. “No one in the family has heard from any of the Albrights, though on Christmas Day for the last three years the Grahams have received a hang-up call.”

  “Why is that suspicious?”

  “The first time, they were positive the caller was Denise. The caller didn’t say anything but didn’t hang up right away, and Betty said all the right things—that no matter what happened, they could come home and she’d help them. Then there was a sob and the caller hung up. The next two years, same thing, just silence. She gave the information to the sheriff’s department, but they either didn’t do anything with it or didn’t tell her. She gave me access to her phone records. The number was partly blocked, but it was an international number—Mexico. Rico and Sam—my daughter-in-law—traced it to Tamaulipas, but that’s a big state. We sent photos to the authorities down there but haven’t heard anything.” Miranda looked from Nate to Lucy. “It was Ricky, wasn’t it? He made the call.”

  “We don’t know,” Lucy said, “but his remains weren’t found with his family. And if he did witness his family’s murder, why didn’t he come forward?”

  “In my experience, fear is the most powerful emotion. And if he was scared enough, he might have had it in him to disappear. But I agree—it’s highly unusual. I’m just telling you what I know to be facts. I don’t have the answers.”

  “If you would please contact the Grahams and tell them to give the Christmas Day caller my name and cell phone number and tell him that I want to solve his family’s murder and help him to come home.” Christmas was still six weeks away, but if they didn’t solve this crime—and right now they had so little to go on—she wanted Ricky to come home. And if he knew anything about his parents’ murders, he was safer if he shared with them rather than being on the run.

  “I’ll let them decide,” Miranda said. “But what if he did witness the murders? What if he was threatened? A kid living with that fear for three years might not be willing to come forward.”

  “We’ll do everything in our power to protect him,” Lucy said.

  “Even if we have to go down to Mexico and pick him up ourselves,” Nate added.

  * * *

  Nate was quiet driving to Kerr County, and finally Lucy called him on it.

  “Don’t tell Douglas and Chavez about our suspicion that Ricky is in hiding.”

  “You’re going to have to elaborate, Nate. I trust your instincts, but there must be a reason.”

  “I can’t shake the feeling that the kid is in danger. Or he was, which is why he left. And someone had to have helped him, because I don’t see how a middle-class white kid who doesn’t speak Spanish can disappear in Mexico.”

  “If he’s the one calling the Grahams.” Except as she said it she realized that Ricky was the most logical caller. “I see what you mean.”

  “This whole thing feels bigger than we prepared for, and until we know more about the initial investigation, we have to keep this internal. Those cops weren’t forthcoming yesterday, and neither the Young family nor Miranda King had a kind word about Detective Douglas.”

  “Are you thinking that he’s somehow involved?” Lucy knew there were bad cops—she’d faced them. So had Nate. But they were few and far between, and her mind didn’t naturally migrate in that direction. She never wanted to believe that one of her colleagues was corrupt.

  “I’m not saying anything. Just that we keep our theory to ourselves—until we can either prove or disprove that Ricky Albright is hiding out in Mexico.”

  * * *

  Detective Douglas kept Nate and Lucy waiting for more than thirty minutes, and by the time he called them into a conference room Nate was about to walk out.

  Nate didn’t wait for Douglas to close the door before he said, “This is fucking bullshit, Detective.”

  Douglas glared at him, heated. “I have other cases, all of which take precedent over a three-year-old homicide.”

  “Multiple homicide,” Nate said. “We came here to talk to you yesterday and you were out. You assured us that you would be here at eleven this morning and yet wait until nearly noon to talk to us?”

  Lucy decided to let Nate run without her interference. She was interested in how Douglas would respond. He was in his forties, a twenty-year veteran of the sheriff’s department. Maybe he didn’t like the FBI. Maybe he was just a jerk. Maybe he really had another important case.

  Maybe he had screwed up the initial investigation and was trying to cover it up.

  Or maybe he is corrupt.

  Douglas clearly wanted to get in Nate’s face but bit back whatever he wanted to say and motioned for them to take a seat. “You have my undivided attention for ten minutes.”

  Nate didn’t sit. He slapped the file folder down that had the information about the Albrights’ Escalade being dismantled in Mexico. “A private investigator found information about the Albrights’ vehicle, abandoned just over the border, chopped for parts. Did you follow up? This information wasn’t in the file you gave us yesterday.”

  “Your tone is disrespectful, Agent Dunning.”

  At first, Lucy thought Douglas was going to concede, but now he had his hackles up.

  “Detective,” she said, being the mediator, “we all want the same thing: to find out what happened to the Albright family. Did you follow up on the investigator’s report and, if so, what did you learn?”

  “Of course I followed up on the claim. The investigator’s report was mostly accurate. I also talked to a witness that said a man who fit Mr. Albright’s description traded the Escalade for another vehicle. We did due diligence, Agent Dunning. We have no authority to pursue suspects across the border. The FBI had the same information and far more resources to track criminals in Mexico, so why you’re putting all this at my feet I can only imagine is because your people dropped the ball.”

  “Where’s the witness statement?” Nate asked.

  “It should have been in the file. If it wasn’t, it was an honest mistake.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll find it and send it to you, though what good is it going to do three years later?”

  Lucy said, “In light of the fact that the bodies were found in Kerr County, and that they have been dead for three years, we don’t think they actually went to Mexico.”

  Douglas shook his head. “You’re making this far more complicated than it needs to be. My theory has always been based on t
he evidence we had. They left the country. Now that their bodies were found, it’s clear they returned for some unknown reason. Maybe they didn’t have all the money Denise Albright stole and needed to come back for it. Or maybe she felt guilty and wanted to make amends. Maybe they had new identities and were trying to re-assimilate. Hell if I know. But they left, I had the Border Control photo, and I had the witness.”

  “The photo is bullshit,” Nate said. “That driver could have been any white male.”

  Lucy jumped in before Douglas kicked them out. “If Denise wanted to make amends, who killed her? It’s a valid question. Say your theory is correct and they returned for an unknown reason, was she working with someone? That’s the only explanation. If so, they might have a reason to kill her—a partner in crime.” Killing Denise is one thing, but her children? Still, what else made sense?

  “Exactly,” Douglas said, as if she had come around to his way of thinking.

  Lucy had … in a sense. She just didn’t believe they’d left the country. Her partner likely took the money, killed them, and fled. Someone with the technical skill to push the three million through multiple entities until he became virtually untraceable.

  “Then we need to find her partner,” Lucy said calmly. “When you investigated the original embezzlement and missing persons case, did a name come up? Someone who may have been working with her to steal the funds?”

  He didn’t say anything for a second. “Well, no. She was a sole proprietor, didn’t even have a secretary. It was our impression from the beginning that she worked alone, stole the Kiefer money, and when Kiefer said he was going to audit the account she panicked and left the country. It fits the timeline to a T.”

  “Then she didn’t have a business partner. So who would kill her?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said with a half smile.

  Nate said in a low voice, “We don’t have to guess. We have to investigate.”

  “You’re talking about a three-year-old case. The woman had many clients. Maybe she stole from someone else. Ask your people in the FBI, they have all her client records. Maybe one of them discovered she’d embezzled from them and killed her. They would then have no reason to come forward. Why are you giving me shit on this when your people took the case three years ago?”