by Emily James
“Now you sound like Officer Scott.”
Officer Scott? Elise? She was the only officer assigned to this case as far as I knew.
“Look,” Erik said, his voice quieter than before. “Our whole department is under investigation thanks to the former chief and the things he covered up. Every decision I make right now is questioned and examined for favoritism and corruption because I was his second-in-command. If I don’t have a better justification than Mark examined a patient he had no right to examine because a civilian asked him to, it won’t just be my job. It’ll be his and anyone else who’s seen as crossing the line with us.”
Like Quincey, who’d once let me out of a cell. And the dispatcher who gave me Quincey’s cell phone number because I was Stan Dawes’ niece. Good men whose only mistake was to help me.
“I understand.”
“You know I’d help if I could,” he said.
“I know.” He always had. He’d become the big brother I’d never had, and I appreciated that he was trying to watch out for his people.
But someone also had to watch out for Noah—one of my people. Whoever had hurt him might come back to finish what they’d started. I couldn’t live at the hospital to make sure he was safe, and since the police didn’t classify it as a crime, they wouldn’t leave him protection either.
If Erik couldn’t investigate, I would. I’d find him the evidence he needed to open an official case.
The best lead I had at present was that Noah was a recovering gambler and owed someone money. Finding out the name of Noah’s bookie might be enough to give Erik the justification he needed. Hopefully getting the name from Russ wouldn’t be like squeezing lemonade from a stone.
I snapped leashes on my dogs and took them with me. They could use the exercise, and Russ had planned to spend today finishing the repairs that we couldn’t make yesterday without the parts Noah was supposed to pick up prior to his attack. Thankfully, the temperature had been wrong last night, and the sap wasn’t running today. It gave us a little time to catch up.
I swung by the rental shop to grab a pair of snowshoes and a walkie-talkie, then radioed Russ for his location. His voice as he gave it sounded hesitant, but he couldn’t exactly ask what I wanted over the radio.
The walk out took us about ten minutes. As soon as we were inside the tree line, I took the leashes off Velma and Toby and let them run free. The first command I’d taught both of them was come, and they’d both caught on quickly when they realized a treat waited for them when they did. I wasn’t above bribery for good behavior.
I spotted the snowmobile before I saw Russ’ barrel-shaped figure weaving through the trees. It wasn’t normal for him to take the snowmobile if he was only out this far, but perhaps he had sections to repair all across the bush. Or perhaps the attack on Noah had made him feel his age. I’d called him as soon as Mark left yesterday, and I hadn’t heard him sound so defeated since his girlfriend passed away last fall.
Russ raised a hand in greeting. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever brings you out here.”
Good news had been in short supply for us lately, but it wasn’t like Russ to be so morose. He was usually the level, easy-going one. No high highs, but also no low lows.
Then again, he’d lost Uncle Stan, and now Noah was unconscious in the hospital. If it were me, I’d be wondering what could be coming next. That fear of the future could deflate even the staunchest optimist.
I also couldn’t deny that he wasn’t going to appreciate what I wanted. “I need the name of Noah’s bookie.”
His eyebrows came down into a like heck you do frown. “I don’t know his bookie’s name, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
Russ was one of the world’s worst liars. He tended to sweat and twitch when he needed to tell a falsehood. Right now, he looked stern and solid. Which, unfortunately for me, meant he probably didn’t know the name of Noah’s bookie. “Do you have Oliver’s phone number?”
Russ had his wagging finger out and his chest puffed up. “There’s no reason you need the name of Noah’s bookie. You’re not the police, and you certainly shouldn’t be chasing after whoever hurt Noah. Your luck isn’t going to last forever.”
Velma bounded through the snow drift next to us and made two laps around us before sliding to a stop and planting her fist-sized paw on top of a branch, pinning it to the ground so she could tug on the other end. She was already larger than most dogs and lean like a deer. Watching her play like this gave me an equal sense of sadness and satisfaction. She and so many others had been spared from having short and brutal lives, but it’d taken the sacrifice of a good man to bring it about.
I’d rather not have to sacrifice the same amount to save Noah. Russ was right. I wasn’t a cat. There weren’t nine lives waiting for me to burn through, and even if there had been, I’d have already used up at least five of them.
“Trust me, chasing after a criminal is the last thing I want to do.” I crossed my heart for emphasis. “But Erik says he doesn’t have enough information to open an actual investigation. I thought if I could give him the name of Noah’s bookie it might help.”
“Oh.” Russ’ chest deflated like a popped balloon. “Sorry. This is bringing up some rough memories of what happened to your uncle.”
That explained his out-of-character behavior. Grief was one of those emotions where you’d think you were doing better and then something small could come along and send you tumbling back. “At least Noah wasn’t negligent.”
Russ grunted. “Small favors.”
He turned away from me and tightened up one of the replaced joints in the sap line. It was his trademark way of trying to end a conversation. He hadn’t given me Oliver’s phone number, but I could always call him at work. With the way he’d been dressed when he came to the hospital two days ago, he couldn’t work anywhere other than Quantum Mechanics.
I called a goodbye to Russ. I’d let him think he’d won this one, and I’d track Oliver down on my own.
I picked up a cell phone signal a few feet from the edge of the bush and dialed the number for Quantum Mechanics. With the amount of time my car had spent there, I knew it by memory. One more visit and Tony should really give me the mechanic version of frequent flyer miles.
I didn’t recognize the man’s voice that answered. “Oliver’s off today for a family emergency. You can leave a message for him when he gets back in if you’d like.”
I opted not to leave a message. If he wasn’t at work, my guess was he was at the hospital, sitting with Noah. I called the front desk at the hospital and gave them the room number.
A man answered on the second ring.
“Is this Oliver?”
There was a longer hesitation on the line than I expected. “Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Nicole Fitzhenry-Dawes.” Always call yourself their employer when you want to form a connection, my mom used to tell me, and their boss when you want to give them an order you expect to be obeyed. In this case I wanted Oliver to feel like I was on Noah’s side, advocating for his best interests. “Noah’s employer.”
“I remember you,” Oliver said, but the way he said it made me think he meant he remembered me from more than just our meeting at the hospital a couple of days ago. “Are you calling to see how Noah’s doing?”
I flinched. Normally I preferred face-to-face interactions because it was easier to read people, but this time the phone saved me. If Oliver hadn’t said something, I might have jumped right into what I wanted from him, so focused on finding who hurt Noah that I forgot to check on how he was healing. If he was healing.
“How is he doing?” I asked so that I didn’t have to lie by directly answering his question.
“The doctor says the swelling’s come down in his brain. He should be awake but he’s—”
His sentence cut off so abruptly that I stopped walking and checked my phone. I still had a signal, so it hadn’t been caused on my end.
“Anyway,” Oliver said, �
��thanks for calling.”
“Wait.” Hopefully he hadn’t hung up already. It’d be mortifying if I had to call back because then it’d been clear what my real motive had been for calling. “I’ve been trying to provide some information for the police that might help them decide if they should classify Noah’s case as criminal. Do you know the name of the man he owed money to?”
Phrasing it broadly seemed more tactful and safer. For all I knew, Noah owed money to more than one person.
“Other than Tony you mean?”
I’d almost forgotten that Noah had gotten himself fired from Quantum Mechanics for stealing. “I didn’t know he was paying Tony back for what he took.”
“Not sure, but I figured that’s what was happening since Tony didn’t press charges.”
That was interesting information but not helpful. I couldn’t see Tony attacking Noah for missing a payment, or even a lot of payments. “Tony’s not the only one, though?”
“Naw, but he’s the only one I know by name. Noah never told me the name of the guy he placed bets with.”
I stomped my foot into the snow and Velma’s ears perked up into triangles like she was trying to decide if this was a new game. If this were a game, I could go online and find a cheat to get around this roadblock. “Are you okay with me going into Noah’s house and looking around for any records he might have kept?”
“Sure,” Oliver said. “And could you empty out the fridge for me. If he comes out of this, he’s not going to want to go home to his house smelling like spoiled milk and rotten apples.”
I settled the dogs in at home and took the path through the woods to where Noah and Russ’ cabins sat. Other than the staff at Short Stack, our pancake house, and Dave who worked at the rental shop and ran the zip line in the summer, Sugarwood only had three full-time employees—Noah, Russ, and me. Since Uncle Stan had technically been their landlord—albeit rent-free—before he died, his key rack had neatly labeled spare keys to each of their homes.
I wiggled the key in Noah’s lock until it gave, pushed the door open, and hesitated in the doorway. Even though Oliver gave me permission, it felt like a violation of Noah’s privacy.
One of the strangest things about dealing with Uncle Stan’s affairs after he died was sorting through his private belongings, things he’d never expected anyone else to see. It’d been bearable then because he’d been my family and he wasn’t coming back. But with Noah, if he recovered, I’d have to face him every day knowing more about him than an employer should know about their employee.
But if I wanted to help him, I had no other choice.
I took a long stride across the threshold and dragged the door shut behind me. I’d expected the house to smell like grease and dirt and gasoline since Noah was a mechanic. Instead, his house smelled more like hay and spicy aftershave.
I didn’t know Noah well enough to know the best place to look for any records, but I did know he was methodical about organizing his tools. He didn’t like anyone touching his toolbox, and his workbench had all his tools hung on labeled nails or stored in neatly labeled, clear plastic boxes.
Since he didn’t have any reason to hide his records—Russ and Uncle Stan had known about his habit—the most likely place would be in a desk or filing cabinet. I walked through the living room, kitchen, and breakfast nook, but they were almost sterile, like Noah had already sold everything of value that he owned that wasn’t essential for survival. No television. No computer. Nothing of value except a small piece of machinery sitting on a towel, presumably something he was fixing for Sugarwood, but it could also be an item he was repairing for someone else to make extra cash.
The only other room downstairs was his bathroom. I highly doubted he kept his record of his debts in there, though in the crime scene photos I saw during my previous career, I’d seen stranger things kept in the bathroom, including a spray paint gun and a hand juicer. I peeked into Noah’s bathroom just in case, but the most interesting thing there was the lack of a shower curtain.
The stairs led up to the house’s two small bedrooms. The first was completely empty. The second must have been where Noah slept because it at least had a mattress on the floor, neatly made. A small dresser nestled against one of the walls.
I held my spot in the doorway. The dresser seemed like my best option for finding any information about who Noah owed money to. It was also the most likely spot for him to keep his underwear, and as important as this was, I didn’t want to be elbow deep in Noah’s boxer shorts…or tightie whities. There were some lines that should never be crossed.
I sucked in a deep breath and strode toward the dresser. I’d take a quick look. Given how Noah organized the rest of his life, he probably wasn’t the type of man to keep papers in with his underwear anyway. Fingers crossed, he kept anything pertinent in its own drawer.
I pulled the top drawer open enough to see inside. Jackpot. No underwear, only papers and pictures.
Noah had stacked old credit card bills, neatly labeled with the reference numbers banks gave online when you paid, and elastic-banded together by year. Did bookies accept credit card payments for debts? With people being able to accept payment through their cell phones anymore it was certainly possible, and I didn’t want to overlook anything.
I unfolded a couple recent bills and scanned the purchases. Other than the grocery store, a 96ers Bar & Grill, and The Burnt Toast Café, the majority of purchases were ones he’d made for Sugarwood that we reimbursed him for. Nothing jumped out at me as a potential cover name for a bookie’s business, and there were no charges to a personal name.
I folded the bills back up and stacked them back on his pile. If I had to rifle through his private business, I could at least be respectful of his filing system.
A nine-by-twelve cream-colored envelope lay next to his stacks of bills. I wiggled it out and popped the flap. It wasn’t sealed.
I poured the contents out on the dresser top, and photos slid everywhere. Pictures were the last thing I’d been expecting. I stored all my photos digitally anymore, as did most people I knew. I only printed out ones I wanted to frame and display. I certainly didn’t print pictures to stuff them in an envelope in a drawer. But maybe Noah had owned some expensive frames that he’d pawned for cash. That wouldn’t surprise me.
Either way, pictures wouldn’t help me find his bookie. I started to scoop them back up to slide back into the envelope and froze.
Noah smiled at me from the image, sitting on a large fallen log, a backdrop of trees covered in red and orange behind him. And the young woman sitting on his lap looked barely legal age…maybe not even.
She’d tied her blonde hair back in a ponytail, which made her already lean face look narrower, and turquoise teardrop earrings dangled from her ears. She wore that kind of all-hope-no-fear smile that I’d rarely seen on anyone over the age of twenty-five.
They were both fully clothed, though, so it wasn’t like the photo alone proved wrongdoing. For all I knew, Noah had once had a younger sister and she’d died so he took down all her photos and stuffed them out of sight. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing a grieving person had done.
I flipped to the next picture.
Whoever the girl-woman was, she wasn’t his sister. This picture was close, like Noah held the camera at arm’s length to take it, and the image was slightly off-center. Despite that, there was no mistaking that the person Noah was passionately kissing was the same girl-woman from the previous photos. The turquoise earrings were the same.
I’d seen enough. I averted my eyes while I shoved the photos back, just in case any of the others weren’t so innocent.
A burning sensation grew at the bottom of my throat and spread down into my stomach. I should turn these pictures over to Erik as well. If Noah had been inappropriate with an underage girl, that meant an angry father or uncle or brother could have been the one to hit Noah in the head. Based on what Mark had said about the angle of the wound, it couldn’t have been someone shorter
than Noah, which ruled out 80 percent of women and the girl herself.
I’d pray she was overage. I hated to think that Noah could have been capable of acting inappropriately toward a minor.
I set the packet on top of the dresser. If the girl-woman in the photo were legal age, I’d still need the bookie’s name. Even if she wasn’t, the bookie might be the one who hurt Noah anyway. Finding these pictures simply meant the police would have more suspects to investigate.
A few other photos floated around loose in the drawer. Noah with an older woman who looked like his mom. Noah, Russ, and Uncle Stan standing in front of the horses and sleigh. Noah at what looked like a Quantum Mechanics Christmas party with Oliver and Tony. Nothing in any of them suggested anything abnormal or pointed to anyone else who might have wanted Noah dead. In fact, he looked well-liked.
I moved the photos to the side. Underneath was a manila folder. I flipped it open.
It looked like a ledger of payments, like you’d expect to find when someone was paying off a debt. Unfortunately, Noah hadn’t written down the name of the person or persons he owed money to.
I continued turning the pages. If Noah hadn’t left some trail, I didn’t know where to go next. The man took minimalism to a whole new level.
I set aside another page. The one behind it was a photocopy of three checks. I couldn’t help but smile. Noah might have been an addict, but he wasn’t entirely stupid. He’d covered his tail by copying every check he’d written to repay his bookie so that he’d have proof of what he’d already paid off.
The checks were all written out to a George Abbott. I’d found the name I was looking for.
I squirmed in place on the cold metal bench along the wall of the police station. The man at the front desk, who turned out to be the same one who put me in contact with Officer Quincey Dornbush the last time I’d been tangled up in a murder investigation, had told me Erik was on the phone, but he’d be out as soon as he finished.
The front door to the station swung open, and Elise Scott strode in. I could tell the moment she spotted and recognized me because her step faltered slightly. She changed directions and stopped in front of the desk.
