by Beth Moore
“Sarge?” Sanchez spoke up with urgency. “You still there?”
“Yeah?”
“I found something.”
“Speak, Sanchez! I need to get into that hospital room posthaste.”
“An old bill to a storage unit. Past due. I have no idea if she still—”
“Address, Sanchez!” Cal pushed through the exit door to the stairwell with a bang and started down the stairs. Frank was right on his heels.
“I’ll text it right away. Tracking down the unit number now.”
Halfway between the third and second floors, Frank’s voice echoed, “Where are we headed?”
“Gentilly!”
“Give me more than that, buddy!”
“Follow me!”
Sirens blaring, their tires squealed right on North Rampart and left on St. Bernard. Cal veered right onto Tureaud for almost a mile and then onto North Broad. It was just after 6 p.m. and darkness was falling faster than the rain. The 610, on the other hand, was barely moving, but Cal and Frank wouldn’t be on it long enough to make much difference, particularly since Cal was flying up the shoulder. This wasn’t a great day for traffic to pull over to the right at the sound of a siren, especially with the limited visibility. The police cars pulled off in tandem at Elysian Fields, hardly pausing at intersections. Cal led Frank right over a curb and onto the broken concrete driveway of an old storage facility.
“I need the unit, Sanchez!”
She shouted back so she could be heard over the siren. “Thirty-six, boss! Three six!”
“We’ve got numbers missing here.” Cal was alternately flooring the accelerator and throwing on the brakes as he tried to read the unit numbers. He turned off the siren, rolled down the window, and motioned for Frank to silence his.
“There should already be a squad car there, Sarge. Dispatch sent one ahead of you to get the door open.”
Cal turned down a narrow alley between units, came to a T in the road, and looked both directions. “There’s no car here!”
“Frank says it just pulled in behind him. But we’ve got a picture up and located the unit. If you’re facing the back, take a right at the T. It’s the fourth one with a full-size roll-up door.”
Cal took a sharp turn to the right, hit the brakes, and jumped out of the car. He motioned to the door as the other officers pulled up behind him. The trunk of the third squad car popped open. An officer retrieved several tools from it and headed toward the unit.
“Now, now, now, now!” Cal shouted.
The officer tossed a crowbar to his partner and they headed to opposite ends of the roll-up door. In less than a minute, the door gave way and rattled and clanged its way to the top. Boxes and overstuffed trash bags were stacked all the way to the edge. Cal scanned the dark unit with his flashlight and blew out all the air in his lungs. He’d banked on some sign of Jillian. Some shred of evidence that she was alive. The blood on Crawley’s T-shirt was hers, but he’d seen a lot of bloodshed in his years on the force without anyone turning up dead.
Frank patted Cal on the back. “What do you want us to do here? Start pulling that stuff out?”
“We’ve got to find that car.”
“Yeah, we do. And we will. We’re combing the city for it and alerts are going up on screens all over Louisiana. As of today, Stella’s picture is plastered everywhere. We’ll get her.”
Cal nodded slightly. He wanted Stella in custody alright, but what he wanted more than anything was Jillian Slater alive and in one piece. His hope was hanging by a three-inch-long thread. “Okay, guys, let’s get into this stuff and find something to go on.”
One of the officers already had his head in a box. “I’ve got a couple articles of women’s clothing here, but it stands to reason that they’re the suspect’s.”
“Pull them out anyway,” Cal said. “Keep them dry, though. Then find me something better than that.” He set several boxes on the floor. Something the officer had just pulled out of the box caught his eye. “Let me see that!”
The officer pitched Cal the item.
“That’s hers! That’s her boot! That’s what she had on when she left Saint Sans.”
“You sure, buddy?” Frank asked.
“Do I look sure?”
“Throw me that whole box!” Frank shouted. He drew out a pair of women’s pajamas, some old wool gloves, a coat, and a blanket. “Recognize any of this, brother?”
Cal picked up the coat and looked at it carefully. He shook his head. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not hers.”
Frank looked at the other two policemen, who were navigating their way through stacks of meaningless paraphernalia. “Let’s speed it up here.” They’d pulled up one of the squad cars and shone the headlights into the unit so at least they could see what they were doing.
Cal took several pictures of the contents of the box that had held the boots so he could text them to Bully. Cal had all but moved Bully into Saint Sans until they could either locate Jillian or come to a confident conclusion that Saint Sans was no longer under threat now that Crawley was in custody. The connection between Stella and Crawley was still unclear and no one had been able to come up with a plausible explanation as to how Jillian found herself in harm’s way between them.
So far the police had nothing concrete on Stella. She’d admitted on the phone to Sanchez that Jillian had stopped by on her way out of town, so all traces of her in the apartment were easily explainable. Forensics found no trace of blood on the blouse discovered in Stella’s kitchen trash, but if some of Jillian’s belongings were in that storage unit, they’d have something to go on. Cal needed to know if the clothes in that box were Jillian’s. And Bully was in the perfect place to find out.
“Sarge, you better take a look at this.”
The contents of a black trash bag were in a heap at Frank’s feet and Cal could see that he had a man’s wallet in his hand. Cal fought off the agitation crawling up his spine like a garter snake. He wasn’t looking for a man’s belongings. He was looking for a woman’s. One woman’s. The last thing he needed was another player in this whole pileup.
Cal reached out and took the wallet, opened it, and turned it toward the headlights of the squad car. He tried to shake the confusion out of his head and read the Louisiana driver’s license again. He looked at Frank, who was nodding his head.
“It’s our corpse, boss.”
There, in black-and-white, was the name Raphael Weyland Fontaine. And beside it, his picture, with eyes wide open and alive. Cal dropped his hand to his side and stared into the distance as bits and pieces of the last four months with the Fontaines became metal filings finding a magnet.
“Did you get Bully’s text?” Frank asked.
“What?”
“Did you get Bully’s text?” Frank stepped closer to him and tilted his head toward Cal’s phone. “He just sent it to me to double-check because he expected you to reply immediately.”
“Didn’t hear it come in. What is it?” Cal read the words on his screen at the same time Frank relayed it to him.
“Mrs. Atwater recognized these pajamas. They’re Jillian’s.”
“Is she sure?” Cal asked, trying to get his thoughts to land in one place.
“She says she’s certain because she gave them to her. They’re Jillian’s. She thinks the boots are too, but she’s positive about the pajamas. Bully asked her to keep it to herself for now but he says she’s about to come unglued.”
“Get all this stuff sorted now,” Cal shouted to the other officers. “And get another team over here to help. We’re wasting time here, and we haven’t even made a dent in this mess. We need that woman’s car, Frank!”
Cal looked for something in that storage unit heavy enough to give his excess adrenaline an outlet. He threw two boxes off the seat of the biggest thing in there: a large leather office chair. He grabbed it by the bottom lip and jerked the chair forward, causing it to tip and fall. Cal threw an old lamp out of his way, grabbed the legs of t
he chair, and dragged it forward and all the way past the squad car. It was everything he could do not to cuff it and throw it in the backseat. He was itching to make an arrest.
He wiped the rain off his face and stared almost mindlessly into the open space left by the missing chair. His eyes were so tired he felt like they were playing tricks on him. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep in thirty-six hours. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Officers on the way.” Frank stuck his phone in the clip.
Cal could hear a siren in the distance. “Thanks. That’ll help.” He stepped back into the unit and stared at the wide path he’d left in the dirt on the floor when he dragged the heavy chair out. He shifted to one side, allowing the beam from the headlights to illuminate the whole space. He took another step forward and peered at something on the floor catching the light.
It was the sole of a bare foot.
CHAPTER 43
AFTER ADELLA’S SEARCH turned up a phone number with a San Francisco area code, Olivia got in touch with Jillian’s mother. She uncharacteristically held her acidic tongue for a solid twenty minutes while Jade gave her the tongue-lashing she’d obviously saved up for a solid twenty years. It was the very kind of conversation Olivia would have done most anything to avoid, but the wretched dialogue at least answered the question. Jillian had not gone to California to her mother’s place. Not yet, anyway.
Bully was practically living at Saint Sans, the place was under constant surveillance, the residents had been asked not to leave the premises unless absolutely necessary, and who could blame them for going stir-crazy? Everybody but Olivia hovered around the great room to stay in the loop and to keep one another company in all the infernal waiting. Earlier today David had chopped up every vegetable in the kitchen and tossed the whole heap into a pot with some stew meat, mild spices, and a couple of fresh bay leaves. Whether or not anybody ended up with enough appetite to eat, something simmering on the stove offered a fixed point to congregate.
When Bully took Adella to the side to show her some pictures he’d just received from another officer and she identified the pajamas as Jillian’s, he asked her to keep the discovery to herself until they had more information. He said those were Sergeant DaCosta’s orders. Keeping things to herself wasn’t exactly Adella’s forte, particularly in matters that could tie a square knot in a pair of intestines, but she’d assured Bully she’d comply in order to save the rest of them considerable panic.
She’d fully intended to keep her word, but Olivia came out of her quarters before she could properly feign a stiff upper lip and quit beating the Snapdragon with her purse. Olivia took one look at her and demanded with the choicest words for Adella to spit out whatever had her hollering, “God help ’em if I get my hands on ’em!”
Technically, Adella didn’t break her promise about not telling Olivia. She made Bully tell her.
Before Bully could bring the pictures up on the phone to show Olivia, he might as well have been flypaper and Mrs. Winsee, David, and Caryn flies. Now they all five knew, and a strong sedative wouldn’t have been a waste on any of them. Somehow the uproar over the pajamas even jolted Mrs. Winsee back to her old self and maybe smack-dab into one of her old stage plays.
“Ransom money!” she’d yelled. Everybody, including Bully, stared at her quizzically. She grabbed hold of Olivia’s shoulders and commanded, “Get the money!”
“What money are you talking about, Vida?” The tank of patience Olivia seemed to reserve solely for Mrs. Winsee sounded down to the dregs.
“Pay them off!” she insisted.
“Pay who off, Mrs. Winsee?” Caryn tried to help.
Mrs. Winsee shook Olivia like a rag doll. “The heiress’s kidnappers!”
They all looked at David, who shrugged in confusion. “You’ve got me.” David was normally the one who could call out, in perfect charades style, the name of the play Mrs. Winsee was reliving in her mind. Without his help, they were stumbling around in the dark on an unknown stage.
“Get the money!” Mrs. Winsee barked once more, grabbing Olivia by the arm and dragging her down the hall, past Rafe’s old room, into the private suite. Adella followed right behind them, Bully right behind her, and David and Caryn right behind Bully.
“I put it in a safe place.” Whatever Mrs. Winsee had done, it was clear that she was pleased with herself.
The expression on Olivia’s face at having all five of them in her private space would have caused demons to tuck tail and run, but human curiosity could be indomitable.
“Scat, you lazy grimalkin!” Clementine yowled as Mrs. Winsee shoved her off the end of Olivia’s bed. Before Olivia could get a word of protest out of her mouth or pick up her chin from the floor, Mrs. Winsee lifted a corner of the mattress and pulled out a stack of cash. “Here! Ransom money!”
When Olivia froze, Adella took the stack of money and flipped through it to estimate the sum. “It’s the money I accused Jillian of stealing.”
“You didn’t accuse her.” David’s words were thick with compassion.
“But I may as well have, because she believed I did. And that’s why she left and now we don’t even know—”
Bully made a quick interception. “How to thank you, Mrs. Winsee. That money might really come in handy.”
“How much did they demand? Is it enough?” Mrs. Winsee’s voice leapt an octave with the second question.
Bully responded respectfully. “I bet anything Jillian has checked into a hotel and bought some new pajamas and clothes and no telling how threadbare her bank account is getting. This may be just what she’ll need to borrow when she comes to her senses.”
Mrs. Winsee looked woefully dissatisfied with his uninspired answer. He went on, “But if I get a ransom note, for sure this will be enough.” With that she nodded and exited Olivia’s room stage left.
Adella held the cash out to Olivia. She took it and folded it in her hand and said dryly, “She must have found it in my drawer and moved it when she stayed in here after the Halloween ordeal.”
Bully tried to reassure them that any shred of mystery cleared up under that roof could put them one step closer to finding Jillian.
They all dispersed after Mrs. Winsee’s dramatic revelation of the money she’d hidden under Olivia’s mattress. David returned to the stove and minded the stew with a wooden spoon. Olivia did the usual, but not before reminding Bully for the hundredth time that he was to knock on her door the moment he knew something.
Adella couldn’t remember sitting down for hours. She was about to do so when she realized that Bully was outside on the back porch and Caryn was holding the door open, talking to him. Poor man probably needed a breath of fresh air after being cooped up all day with the inmates. The fireplace in the great room was blazing and popping a bit enthusiastically for a big man in a heavy uniform.
“The meat’s tender,” Caryn was saying, “and David and I are going to go ahead and have a bowl of beef stew. Want to come in and have some with us?”
Adella couldn’t quite hear Bully’s response, but the next thing she knew, Caryn was back in the kitchen filling a thermos bottle with coffee. When she reached in the drawer for the measuring spoons, Adella had to ask. “Girl, what on earth are you doing?”
“Bully likes three teaspoons of sugar.”
“Well, I don’t think he meant you had to measure it to a T. What he means is sweet.”
“I want to get it just right. You think level teaspoons or heaping?”
What Adella thought was that something was curious. But she didn’t say so. “Heaping. A man doesn’t grow that size leveling a teaspoon.”
It wasn’t Adella’s fault Caryn left the door ajar when she headed back to Bully with the thermos. Anybody the slightest bit downwind could have overheard their conversation. What was she supposed to do, bring her earplugs with her to work?
Caryn sat down on the bench next to Bully. Since they both had their backs to Adella, she didn’t see how it would hurt to
open the door a little wider even with David giving her that look. Nobody could tell Adella he didn’t secretly want her to. Caryn’s words to Bully came with seriousness and a twinge of tenderness.
“You know that everybody here appreciates what you’re doing, don’t you? We are aware that you have taken it upon yourself to attend to us. You did not owe us that. Even Adella knows it. She’s mostly bluffing out of pity for Mrs. Fontaine, who’d about rather stick needles in her pupils than let strangers in this house.”
Bully’s response was soft. “I wish things had gone different from the start. I wish none of this heartache had befallen this household. I wish this were a different world. That’s what I wish.”
“Well, me too,” Caryn answered. “But there are no stars out tonight and nothing to wish upon, and this is the world we’ve got. And in this mean world, Officer Billy Bob La Bauve, we get to meet some good people along the rocky path. You are one of them. So is Officer Sanchez, and for that matter, Sergeant DaCosta.”
Adella had to agree with that. She wasn’t sure where this whole thing was going, but one thing was certain. Those officers meant well no matter what Olivia thought. David stepped over to the door, gave Adella a curious look, and stuck his head outside. “Caryn, you coming? Your stew is turning into a Popsicle. Bully, we’d be so happy for you to join us. You sure you don’t want some?”
“Thank you, sir, but I better wait. The officer patroling out front could probably use a little break about now. I’ll take his post awhile and have a look around. But maybe if Caryn doesn’t eat it all,” he said, looking at that skinny thing with a grin, “I’ll have a bowl after that.”
When the two of them stood to their feet, Adella and David gawked. The backs of both their pants were dripping wet. How they had managed to have an entire dialogue on a bench cushion soaked by rain was a mystery to Adella, but she wasn’t sorry. Not one bit. And neither was David. It was the best sight they’d beheld at that fine house since the launch of two baby cardinals.
