Besides, Elena’s trailer wasn’t a bad place. The brown siding had faded under the strong Western sun and the skirt that hid the mobile home’s underbelly was dinged and dented, but the walkway was swept and the windows sparkled. And to me, that said more about a person’s character than her address.
“If Cody’s mother takes good care of him,” I said, “that’s all that matters.”
“She does,” Marc assured me. But he couldn’t quite look at me. “Her parents make sure she does.”
Warily, I asked, “Does she still need her parents to tell her how to raise her son?”
Marc shrugged. He cut the engine. He jerked the door handle and climbed out of the SUV.
We approached the trailer with the crunch of gravel. From the next unit, I heard the bing and bling of a TV game show. Someone was watching The Price Is Right.
Elena’s trailer, however, stood in silence.
The mesh in her aluminum screen door had been patched in the lower right corner by a careful hand. At close range, everything else about the place—from the freshly painted picnic table under the closest window to the tricycle and T-ball stand lined up and tucked away under it—spoke of thrift and care. And I couldn’t think of better values for a mother to demonstrate for her son.
Marc rapped on the door.
Tunk-tunk-tunk.
The aluminum frame slapped against the doorjamb, unlatched. That in itself wasn’t cause for alarm. But when Marc slipped the cuff of his flannel shirt over his hand and twisted the inner door’s chipped chrome latch, it opened.
In a heartbeat, Marc drew his weapon from its holster, gripped it with a ready hand.
“Elena?” he called.
No answer.
“Elena, it’s Marc. We need to talk.”
Silence.
“Federal agent!” he warned. “I’m coming in!”
With Marc’s swift kick, the door flapped inward on its hinges. Marc ducked into the trailer, sweeping the space with a wary eye and his service weapon. He moved quickly through the room, whipping open an accordion door along the narrow hallway and the curtain covering some kind of sleeping compartment at the rear.
“Clear!” he called.
But I was already up the steel-grate steps and in the trailer’s belly.
Shag carpeting that had come and gone with the 1970s met my footfalls, but while the floor covering was worn, it was meticulously clean. To my right, the Formica surfaces of the home’s little kitchen were dull with age, but spotless. Even the furniture—an overstuffed brown sofa and butterscotch easy chair—were old but well cared for.
Marc emerged from the back of the mobile home.
He said, “It’s as if Elena just evaporated over the weekend.”
“I concur. And as the security specialist on your payroll, I’d say it’s time to call the police. Now.”
Marc shook his head. “Not yet.”
I didn’t argue just then. I simply moved past him to look over the place myself. And to draw my own conclusions.
A cubby built into the side of the trailer housed an adorable inglenook setup for Cody. The trundle bed was a perfect fit, especially with a chest of drawers tucked at the end as a footboard. The shelf above it kept all kinds of books, games, stuffed animals, drawing paper, and crayons within the boy’s reach.
I stuck my head into the trailer’s miniature bathroom. Whatever Elena’s faults, she’d scrubbed this room to within an inch of its life. The medicine cabinet behind the mirror contained nothing more sinister than mouthwash, children’s Tylenol, and a hot-pink toothbrush she hadn’t taken with her.
Moving on, I ducked behind the cheery flowered curtain that cordoned off the rear of the trailer. Here, the narrow bed belonged to Elena herself. The tiny room smelled of sage and lavender.
But what was present wasn’t my main concern.
I was interested in what might be missing.
I whipped open the door of the built-in wardrobe. Well-worn shirts and skirts hung, undisturbed, on their hangers. Folded, faded jeans and a good-looking handbag stacked the rack above. I snagged the purse, but it must’ve been her extra. It held nothing: no cash and no credit cards.
She could’ve kept a tote bag alongside the purse. She might’ve grabbed jeans and sweaters from the top of their stacks. She could’ve packed a few things and hitched a ride with someone she knew, but if she’d intended to go away, she hadn’t packed her toothbrush. Of course, maybe she’d forgotten it. In any case, that bothered me.
But more than this bothered Marc.
I found him outside in the thin morning sunshine, hands shoved deep in his pants pockets, and scowling at the trailer as if it were some kind of rotting dump heap.
“I make good money,” he spat. “Anything that boy needs, I pay for it. Anything he wants, I pay for that, too. I want to pay for it. I’d pay more. Elena won’t let me. She says Cody has enough. That she contributes financially and they’re fine. In the meantime, she’s raising my kid in this sorry excuse for a tin can—”
“Marc…”
“I should’ve sued her ass years ago. I should’ve sued her ass for custody of Cody.”
“Hey.” I grabbed a handful of Marc’s sleeve and made him look me dead in the eye. “Like it or not, this woman is the mother of your child. So you’d better learn to speak about her in a more respectful manner. Got it?”
Properly abashed, Marc hung his head and glowered at the toes of his boots.
That’s when compassion softened me up some.
“But I don’t disagree,” I said gently. “You should’ve sued for custody if you suspected she might disappear someday.”
Yet, if Elena had disappeared intentionally, why hadn’t she taken more with her? Like her toothbrush. Or her car.
I circled the green Tercel, parked on its gravel patch alongside the mobile home. Cody’s child safety seat remained in the back, buckled into place as if Elena planned to be chauffeuring him around town again soon. A discarded pair of his socks, some storybooks, and a Matchbox car lay scattered across the upholstery.
In the front, a travel mug occupied the cup holder between the seats. Bright red lipstick marked the cap in a kind of kiss. It was a pretty shade of red and one I wouldn’t have minded wearing myself.
A slipcase for sunglasses had been clipped to the visor. The shades were still in it, from what I could tell. But curiosity and a desire to take a closer look had me yanking on the door handle—and to my surprise it gave way.
Waves of welcome warmth emanated from the interior thanks to the greenhouse effect. The carpeting and the floorboards had been recently vacuumed. Little grooves in the nap indicated where the vacuum’s nozzle had done its work. I caught the scent of Windex and noted that very little dust had settled on the dash. Elena, it seemed, took good care of her vehicle, just as she took good care of her home. And of her son. So, why hadn’t she returned to DC for him? Where was she now? And why hadn’t she used her car to get there?
Marc gave up his grim mood to open the passenger door and hunt through Elena’s glove box. I tackled the center console and the skinny change drawer. Between us, we came up with nothing more interesting than discount coupons for an oil change place, a curvy cardboard piece from a jigsaw puzzle, and a wheat penny she or Cody must’ve been saving. None of this indicated where Elena might’ve gone. If she’d gone anywhere at all…
I turned to my copilot. “Think Elena left her keys behind?”
Marc got out of the car and retreated into the trailer. And the second he was out of sight, I popped the latch to the trunk, dashed to the rear of the Tercel. In its depths, I found a first aid kit, a tire pump, and an old raincoat that smelled faintly of pond water—but I didn’t find Elena, doubled up on her side and dead, and that was the main thing.
I slammed the lid closed just as Marc emerged from the house. He carried a key fob in his hand. He tossed the keys to me. I slid into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.
At least, I tried
to fire it up.
The starter gave off a buzz and a click, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. I tried a second time, and then a third. Nothing.
“Dead battery,” Marc surmised. “Release the hood.”
I did as he said, seized the lever under the dash, and gave it a tug. But by the time I joined him at the nose of the car, he wasn’t leaning over the grill, wiggling the couplings on the battery’s terminals. Rather, Marc, hands on his hips, stared into the Tercel in disbelief.
I peered past his shoulder, tried to make sense of what I saw.
Every wire under the car’s hood had been severed. Even the belts had been snipped clean through. And without those critical connections, this car would go nowhere fast.
“If you’re those people from that garage,” a shaking voice yelled, “you’d best clear outta here!”
I ducked around the Tercel’s flank, discovered a rather round lady standing flat-footed on the cement porch of the neighboring trailer. As if she’d just come from a long soak in the tub, she wore a purple velour robe that zipped straight up the front and a blazing yellow terry-cloth towel on her head. Presumably, she’d also left her teeth soaking in a glass at the edge of the bathroom sink—because they certainly weren’t in her mouth.
Toothless or not, however, she stabbed her index finger at me and bellowed. “I mean it! I’ll call the sheriff if you mess with that car again—”
Marc materialized at my back.
And the words died on her lips.
“Hey!” She smiled broadly, showcasing her pink gums. “You’re Cody’s daddy, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marc replied. “You haven’t seen Elena around, have you?”
“Not since Friday night. Those fellas from the garage pounded on her door somethin’ fierce. Funny thing is, I coulda sworn she was home. But maybe she’d walked up to the carry-out for milk or somethin’.”
“These guys from the garage,” I said. “Can you describe them? Did they wear uniforms or drive a tow truck with a logo?”
“Naw, they were just a couple a’ fellas. Nothing to write home about. Not like Cody’s handsome daddy.”
She winked at Marc and smacked her lips.
“Anyway, they got to work on her car. And the next I knew, they was gone and Elena was out here trying to start it up. Didn’t work, though. I came out and told her about those fellas. I offered her a lift if she needed to get anywhere just then. She said she’d make other arrangements. That’s the last I saw of her.” The neighbor’s face clouded. “Say, nothin’s happened to Elena, right? Or to Cody?”
“Cody’s fine,” Marc assured her. “No need to worry.”
“But Elena—”
“If you see Elena,” I said, stepping closer and offering the woman one of my business cards, “will you give me a call, Mrs….”
“Vesterny.”
Or Vespy as Cody had pronounced it. Here in the trailer park, she was probably Elena’s closest friend. But I didn’t count on it.
After we bade Mrs. Vesterny goodbye, Marc and I canvassed the neighborhood and flashed around the photo of Elena I’d downloaded from the state’s licensing office. Plenty of the residents were at work or otherwise out and about, but of the folks who were home to talk to us, no one had seen Elena leave the park Friday night. And no one had seen the men who’d supposedly messed with her car, either.
“Someone certainly didn’t want Elena driving off,” I said, once Marc and I had returned to our rented SUV. “They went to a lot of trouble to make sure she stayed put.”
“But she didn’t. I don’t like what that might mean, babe.”
“Me, neither.”
Because the possibilities were endless.
And most of them weren’t pretty.
“It’s not too late to call the cops,” I said.
A muscle rippled along Marc’s jaw. “I can’t do that. Not yet.”
“All right. Then in the meantime, I think it’s time we paid a visit to Elena’s parents.”
Marc’s hands closed over the steering wheel, but that was as close as he got to starting the car. “They must not know she’s disappeared. If they did, they’d call me.”
“Well, Mrs. Vesterny said Elena told her she’d make other arrangements when she saw that can of worms under the hood of her car, so let me ask you,” I said, “who else would Elena turn to except her parents?”
Marc’s brow furrowed in thought, or maybe frustration. Either way, he started the SUV. And our tires kicked up dust as we hightailed it down the road we came in on.
Chapter 5
Elena’s parents lived the American Dream in a quaint little raised-ranch-style house on a sweet patch of land, lined up among other ranches that were exactly the same in a pleasant neighborhood with avenues named after mountain ranges. Not a thing looked out of order as Marc and I rolled up the quiet street named Alpine Place. But that had been the case at Elena’s, too.
We parked, got out of the car. In the house opposite the Prebles’, a FOR SALE sign protruded from the lawn, and the curtain in the front window twitched as Marc strode across the asphalt toward his almost-in-laws’ driveway. I caught up with him at a trot.
“I’ll circle wide,” I told him, “and check out the back. Shout if you run into trouble.”
Marc didn’t agree to this course of action, but he didn’t tell me to forget about it either, so off I went, across the winter grass, at a fast clip.
The Prebles’ driveway boasted a fresh coat of tar and ran straight toward the closed door of a double-wide garage. An honest-to-goodness split-rail fence bordered the drive and the next-door neighbor’s property. Great clumps of pampas grass, as tall as me and three times as wide, dotted the fence line. Last year’s heads bowed at me in shades of pink and beige as I skirted past them. Mr. Preble must’ve been handy because a good-looking deck hung off the back of his abode, complete with planters built of the same lumber. A barbeque grill, under its black shroud, waited for warmer weather and burgers, steaks, and hot dogs.
The blinds on this side of the house had all been drawn, so I couldn’t peep into the premises. A solid-core door led into the garage, but it was locked up tight. Another door communicated with what would probably turn out to be the kitchen. Someone, however, had drilled this sucker. Steel shavings dirtied the decking. And the lock itself, a sturdy Kwikset deadbolt, was riddled with pinholes because someone with more torque in his hand tool than brains in his head had had to hunt for the cylinders.
Stealthily, using the cuff of my turtleneck to cover my hand, I eased the door open. Without a functional bolt in the jamb, it swung on its hinges easily. Shriveled leaves lay on the creamy tile just inside.
The ticking of the clock hanging over the kitchen sink sounded unnaturally loud. Cody’s artwork plastered the humming refrigerator. A pair of mugs and a coffee carafe stood on the Corian countertop alongside the gas range. The carafe was cold. The stuff in the mugs had grown scummy—as if the cups had been neglected for a day or more.
A swinging louvered door opened into the home’s dining room. Four Shaker-style chairs crowded around a trestle table with spots for two more. Where those two had gone, I had no idea. A centerpiece of powder-blue-and-mauve artificial flowers topped the glossy surface of the table. They matched the color scheme of the flowers painted onto the china dinnerware in the hutch behind it.
Cautiously, I rounded the corner into the house’s little living room.
And the baby-fine hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention.
A fight had played out in this room. And it had been a pretty violent one, judging by the damage. Sure, the plump throw pillows on the fat brown sofa still decorated either end of the couch with a housewife’s neat precision, but the coffee table in front of the thing had been flipped like a coin at a football game.
Newspapers, magazines, and a hoop of counted cross-stitch lay scattered like so much confetti. At one of end of the sofa, a table lamp had gone untouched. But its twin had been
snatched from its spot and thrown across the room to shatter against the white wall.
A hefty recliner lay on its back, heaved by brute force. And a delicate rocking chair had been smashed into kindling. The flat-screen TV tilted to one side where it still presided from its place in a massive armoire. Across its face, images of a classic car auction flickered by. But the TV had been set to mute.
Ding-dong.
The sound of the Prebles’ doorbell echoed through the still house and made me jump. When no one responded to it, Marc, outside on the doorstep, hit it again. He hammered on the door with his fist.
“Burt? Helena? It’s Marc.”
I veered toward Marc’s voice and the foyer.
And that’s when I smelled it.
The odor was sickly sweet. As if a good Angus beefsteak had been left in the sun to go bad. Except no beefsteak had ever smelled quite like this.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
“Jamie? Are you in there?”
The staircase to the second floor practically filled the foyer to bursting. I crossed the terra-cotta tiles quickly, intent on reaching Marc before he raised a ruckus the neighbors would notice. But I froze when I spotted the river of blood that had cascaded down the stairs.
From the front porch, Marc’s muffled voice called, “Jamie? What’s going on?”
I didn’t reply.
The blood had to be a couple of days old. No longer shiny and bright, it had congealed into a sticky pool of deep purple on the bottom tread. Rust-bucket-brown trails glazed the next few steps. And right at eye level, on the step below the landing, the blood formed the distinct outline of a palm print and four grasping fingers.
“Jamie!” Marc pounded the front door.
And the knob spun as he turned it.
Because whoever had been in the Prebles’ home had left the door unlocked.
It was a solid door, made of good oak and tempered hardware. Six panels had been set in strong horizontal stretchers for that All-American look. On the door’s kick plate, Mr. or Mrs. Preble had installed a doorstop. It was one of those long springs capped with a rubber tip. I could see where it had bounded now and again into the baseboard of the wall perpendicular to it.
The Kill Wire Page 4
