by Lisa Gardner
“Maybe he died when you were still a baby,” Rainie suggested. “Which is why he wasn’t available to take you and Telly in. According to the state, you had no surviving relatives.”
Quincy was still frowning. Something about this photo . . . “The background,” he said abruptly. “The garage behind the man. Does it look familiar to you, Rainie? Because I’d swear I’ve seen it before . . .”
Quincy’s voice drifted off. Then suddenly, he whirled on Shelly, who was still studying the EZ Gas photos. “The color of the siding. This corner of the garage door. This is the Duvalls’ house. This man is standing in front of Frank and Sandra’s garage. I know it.”
Sharlah looked up in confusion as Shelly crossed to them quickly, the tracker as well. Shelly and Noonan had been with Quincy at the Duvalls’ house just this afternoon. Now they both studied the background of the photo.
“Definitely could be the Duvalls’ place,” Shelly agreed.
“Not that long ago either,” Noonan supplied. “There in the corner. That green is a clump of daylilies, just growing in. I noticed them this afternoon, because I hadn’t seen such a dark orange bloom before. But late spring, early summer, the foliage would look something like that.”
“Assuming it’s this year,” Shelly said.
“Telly wasn’t living with the Duvalls last summer,” Quincy murmured. “Which makes this year a good bet.”
“Meaning?” Rainie studied him. She had put one arm around Sharlah, who still appeared bewildered.
“Telly has a scrapbook filled with images from his childhood, except for this final photo,” Quincy said. “This picture features an old man in front of his foster family’s house. No foster parents present. Just the old man. Meaning the man came to see Telly, has a connection to Telly, not the Duvalls?”
“Long-lost grandparent?” Rainie tried on. “Had lost contact with Telly and Sharlah’s parents? Now trying to reconnect?”
Shelly looked at them. “Wouldn’t he have to go through the system? Meaning you would’ve received a call from foster care as well? Especially, you know, as you’ve started adoption proceedings.”
Which the appearance of a long-lost relative would certainly complicate.
“We didn’t get any calls,” Quincy said.
“Could the guy be a relative of the Duvalls?” Noonan asked.
“Telly didn’t even include photos of Frank and Sandra in the album. Why omit his foster parents but include one of their relatives?”
No one had an answer for that.
Quincy exited the group circle, pacing now.
“Notebooks, journals, personal scrapbook,” Quincy muttered, making it one length of the conference table. “No logic to bringing such items to a staged camp. Not like you search a hiker’s pack and are surprised he didn’t bring his photo album camping. So why these items? What is Telly trying to tell us?”
“Zero or hero,” Rainie murmured.
Quincy glanced at her. “Last page of Telly’s notebook, he wrote hero.”
“Because he’s trying to save me,” Sharlah said stubbornly.
“From a frail old man?” Rainie glanced again at the photo, tone clearly dubious.
“Telly’s cell phone,” Quincy said. “Left behind in Frank’s truck, with the photos of Sharlah on it. He meant for those images to spook us. He wanted us watching Sharlah, keeping her close.”
“Because he was too busy shooting up my tracking team to do it himself?” Noonan said bitterly.
Quincy couldn’t argue with that. “This photo, it’s a message, too. We need to identify this old man. And fast.”
A knock. The group turned to find one of the county detectives, Rebecca Chasen, standing in the doorway, holding a sheet of paper. “Ah, Roy,” the woman said. “Need you for a sec.”
The homicide sergeant crossed over. He lowered his head as Detective Chasen murmured something low in his ear.
“You’re sure about that?” he asked sharply.
In response, she held up the paperwork.
Roy nodded, then returned his attention to the room, fax in hand.
“ME ran the Duvalls’ fingerprints as a matter of protocol. Got a hit: While Frank Duvall really is Frank Duvall, Sandra, on the other hand . . . According to her prints, Telly’s foster mom’s real name is Irene Gemetti. And she’s currently wanted for questioning in a thirty-year-old murder.”
Chapter 34
HENRY DUVALL HAD TAKEN A ROOM at one of the cheap motels lining the coastal highway. Given it was the height of the tourist season, Shelly was amazed the man had found a room at all. The motel was basically a long white building, set back from the road, each room opening up to the parking lot. A blinking red light advertised: CHEAP & CLEAN. Beneath that, the promise of free Wi-Fi.
Shelly had called ahead, so Henry was waiting for them, backlit by the glow of his room as he stood in the open doorway, watching them pull into the parking lot. He was wearing the same shorts and shirt from before, but his hiking boots were off. Standing in just his socks, he seemed smaller, more vulnerable. The grieving son, she thought, except she was no longer convinced.
Shelly had taken time to don a fresh shirt, which looked exactly like her original brown dress uniform but smelled better. Quincy hadn’t even managed that much. He’d scrubbed his face and arms in the department’s bathroom. That was it.
The air in the parking lot felt thick and sluggish when they climbed out of Shelly’s SUV. A strange combination for a town that had always associated summers with cool coastal breezes. The ocean was supposed to be their salvation, not their punishment.
Shelly could already feel beads of sweat prickling her hairline, gluing her new dress shirt to her torso, as she led Quincy to Henry’s room. The man stepped back, wordlessly inviting them in.
The space offered a sagging double bed, beat-up dresser topped with a flat-screen TV, and little else. A wall-mounted air-conditioning unit chugged sluggishly, making an ominous rattling sound. If it had cooled the room at all, the temperature change was purely incidental.
Henry shrugged, as if reading their assessment of his cheap room on their faces. “I would say it’s a step up from camping,” he said, “but maybe only half a step up. At least camping, my buddies and I had a stream for cooling off.”
Shelly wondered where those buddies were now. Surely if you’d just learned your parents were murdered, you’d call in some friends for support? So far, her detectives hadn’t found any records indicating Henry had been in town two weeks ago, hanging with his foster brother at the EZ Gas. But the investigation was still early and her officers were overworked. Shelly wasn’t willing to make any assumptions when it came to Henry Duvall. The more they learned, the more she was becoming convinced the Duvall family held the key to today’s shootings, not Telly Ray Nash.
“Want water?” Henry asked belatedly. “I have water. Some snacks.”
“We have some questions regarding your family,” Shelly said. She placed her hands on her hips. Her official sheriff’s stance, devised to make her appear larger, more intimidating. In contrast, Quincy hung back. Not necessarily the good cop, but the less noticeable one as he discreetly took in the room, made his own observations. Shelly and Quincy had worked this gig a few times before, hence Shelly’s decision to bring him along.
Henry nodded. He moved to the bed, the only available sitting option, and perched awkwardly on the edge of the mattress.
“Does the name Irene Gemetti mean anything to you?” Quincy asked now, voice drifting innocuously over Shelly’s shoulder.
Henry frowned. He could hear the profiler but not see the man’s face. “No. Should it?”
“What about your mother’s past? Friends, family members?”
“My mother didn’t talk about her past.”
“You mean she never mentioned her parents?” Shelly asked. “Or, like, she
never told stories from the good old days?”
“I mean all of the above. My mom had a strict policy about not looking back. Every time I asked, I got the same answer: She’d left home at sixteen, gotten in some kind of trouble, then met my father, at which point her real life began. That’s all I needed to know. Beginning. Middle. The end.”
“You had to be curious.” Quincy again, having moved away from Shelly and Henry completely, now checking out the door to the rear bathroom. “What did your father have to say?”
“‘Go ask your mom.’”
Shelly’s turn, redirecting Henry’s attention, keeping it split between her and Quincy: “She never talked about her parents? Not once?”
“Her father wasn’t a nice guy. That’s all I was ever told. Bad enough, I guess, that even after leaving, she still wanted no part of him. No visits, no cards, no phone calls. Nothing.” Henry shrugged. “Of course I wondered. I mean, what is very bad? Or maybe, what’s so bad in this day and age of Oprah that you still can’t talk about it? But my mom never budged on the subject. At a certain point, I’m only the kid. If she wasn’t going to talk about it, that’s that.”
“Irene Gemetti,” Shelly stated.
But Henry shook his head, appearing just as confused as before. “I don’t understand.”
“You ever Google your mother’s name? Look into her past yourself?” Quincy reappeared from the back of the room.
Henry flushed. “Maybe.”
Quincy and Shelly waited.
“There’s a lot of Sandra Duvalls out there,” Henry supplied at last. “Eight or nine. Only record I could find of my mom was her own Facebook page. Let’s just say she was bigger on posting Crock-Pot recipes than family secrets.”
“But Duvall is her married name,” Quincy pointed out.
“Which occurred to me, too. But where to go from there? Not like she was going to tell me that much. And searching for Sandras in Oregon—”
“She wasn’t from Bakersville?”
“No. My father brought her here. That much I know. They met in Portland. Had some kind of whirlwind, love-at-first-sight thing. Married, like, in a matter of weeks. Then my father graduated with his teaching degree from PSU and they came here. Bakersville is my father’s hometown. He always said there was no place else he’d rather live.
“You know what I realized?” Henry said suddenly. “There aren’t any photos of my mom. I mean, like, anywhere. Her Facebook page doesn’t have a profile pic. And all the images she posts—they’re of me, my dad, or maybe pictures of food or a flower in the garden. But no pictures of her. I even went around the house, looking for a wedding photo, snapshots of her and my father. Nope. I found my senior class photos, a couple of shots of my dad and me from some camping trips. But none of my mom.”
“You ask your dad about it?” Shelly asked.
“Sure. He said it was just how things were—the one who’s always taking the pictures is the one who’s never in them. But zero photos? Seriously?”
Quincy spoke up. “Why were you looking for photos of your mom?”
Henry resumed his study of the carpet. His shoulders were bunched. Shelly could feel the tension radiating from the young man. The weight of untold secrets.
Shelly took a step forward. “Irene Gemetti. You know that name.”
“Swear to God. Have no idea—”
“But you know something.”
“It doesn’t matter! Telly’s the one who shot them—”
“Shot who? Your parents? The mom with no photos, no past?” Shelly piled it on. “Who died in your house today, Henry? Have you asked yourself that? Who was Sandra Duvall? And why the hell are you still protecting her secrets?”
“I don’t know—”
“Your mother’s real name: Irene Gemetti. A woman still wanted for questioning in a thirty-year-old homicide.”
“What?” Henry popped up straight. His eyes widened.
If the kid was an actor, Shelly thought, he was the best she’d ever seen.
“My mother’s name is Irene? She’s wanted for murder? What?” Then in the next heartbeat: “The bad thing she did when she was sixteen. She wasn’t kidding. Holy shit. My mother. Holy shit.” Henry sat down again, staring blindly at the carpet.
Shelly studied him, trying to figure out how to proceed, when Quincy came up next to her. He grabbed the case file Shelly had tucked beneath her arm. He flipped through it quickly. Until:
“There.” He thrust out the photo of the old man standing before the Duvalls’ garage. “Who is that man? You know. Now tell me!”
Henry looked up, back to appearing dazed and confused. “It doesn’t matter—”
“Who is this man!”
“My grandfather!” Henry suddenly rocketed off the bed, face flushed. “My mother’s father. Pop Gemetti, I guess. He found me. Showed up one day outside one of my college classes. Said he wanted to get to know me. That he was excited to learn he had a grandson. But he didn’t go by Gemetti. He called himself David Michael, David Martin, something like that. And he never mentioned any Irene anything.”
“You met with him? You spoke to your mother’s father?” Shelly pressed.
“No. I mean, I saw him that once, but then . . . Damn it!” Henry whirled away, walked two steps, hit the bedside table, and stopped. His head came down. He sighed heavily, clearly realizing there was no place to run, no place to hide. The truth was often like that.
“I came home on spring break. Okay?” He turned back around. “I asked my father about the old geezer dude. Didn’t approach my mother, because I knew that would end badly. So I asked my dad if my mother’s father was still alive, and hey, could I get to know him, because I was pretty sure he wanted to get to know me. You know what my father said? Absolutely, positively not. That if I loved my mother at all, I’d forget my long-lost grandfather had ever appeared. I tried to argue. I mean, whatever had happened between my mom and her dad, that was, like, thirty years ago, right?”
Quincy and Shelly waited.
“And the guy was so . . . old. Maybe he wanted to repent, mend fences, that kind of thing. All these years later, what could it hurt?” Henry shook his head. “No dice. According to my father, my grandfather was some kind of notorious criminal. Or spawn of Satan. Hell if I understood it. If I loved my mother at all, I’d forget I’d ever seen the man and, better yet, never ever mention him. End of story.”
“But you’re not the man’s daughter,” Shelly stated bluntly. “You’re his grandson. Surely you have a right to a relationship of your own.”
Henry immediately flushed again. “I thought about that,” he muttered. “But then my dad . . . He wanted me to consider why my grandfather was suddenly appearing now. I mean, if he’d found us after all these years and really wanted to make peace, why not contact my mom directly? Instead, he just happened to track down his one relative with a reputation for computer skills. . . .”
“Your father thought your grandfather was recruiting you,” Shelly said. “For his criminal enterprise?”
“Crime bosses need IT guys, too. At least that’s what my father implied.”
“What did you do?” Quincy asked.
“Nothing. I returned to school. Kept an eye out, but he never showed up again. Then, shortly after I started my co-op program for the summer, my dad called me. Said the matter was over. My grandfather had died. Cancer.”
“When was this?” Shelly asked.
“Um, a month ago. July?”
“Did you believe him?”
“I tried Googling the name. David Michael. David Martin. David Michael Martin. Let’s just say, lots of Davids out there, but none that come up as evil incarnate, recently deceased.”
“Another alias,” Shelly muttered, jotting down a note.
Quincy had a better question: “How did your father find out about your grandfa
ther’s death?”
“I guess my dad ended up having his own little chat with him. Told him to stay away from my mom, our family. That kind of macho stuff.”
“At your house?”
“And risk my mom finding out? God no. Dad took Telly hiking. Arranged for a rendezvous with Gramps in the woods.”
“With Telly present? Telly has met your grandfather?”
“Met him? Not that I know of. Heard about him? Sure. Telly was there the day I first talked about the old man contacting me at school. When my father said we were never to speak with the guy, he was talking to both Telly and me. There might have also been something like, ‘And if you do see a geezer dude hanging around the house, shoot first, question later, and save Mom the hassle.’”
“And Telly agreed to these terms?”
“We both did.”
“So who met with your grandfather at your house?”
“He never came to the house.”
“Henry, look at the photo. Where is this man standing?” Quincy held up the image from Telly’s scrapbook again. He tapped the garage in the background. Shelly watched as slowly but surely, Henry got it.
“That’s our garage. He’s standing in front of my house. Before he died, my grandfather came to the house. . . . But why? Dad said my mom would kill him on sight.”
“Unless he didn’t come to see your mom,” Shelly said. “First he tried you. Then your dad. And then . . .”
Henry’s face went pale. “Son of a bitch. Telly. Even after everything Dad told him, Telly met with my grandfather. Son of a bitch. He sold out my parents!”
“Henry, are you sure your grandfather is dead?” Quincy asked again.
Henry shook his head.
Chapter 35
I DIDN’T SEE ANYONE when I first walked through the door. Seven P.M. Thursday night. I’d had a meeting with Aly, my probation officer. My junior year officially done, summer school about to begin. She said she was pleased with my progress. I’m glad one of us was.
Aly liked to meet at this downtown diner, famous for its malts. She thought cheeseburgers and fries were the world’s most perfect food. In the beginning, I’d figured that was just something she said to get on a kid’s good side. Having watched her eat the last couple of times, I took it back. For a little thing, she could really toss it down.
