Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  Inside, he dug for the television remote amid the pile of motorcycle magazines on the coffee table. He flipped to ESPN, poured a whiskey, and set it next to the newest issue of Gourmet, then peeled off his clothes on the way upstairs to shower.

  When he stepped under the needle-sharp spray, his head cleared. He’d screwed up with Colleen and he realized for the first time since his puppy love days in high school, he actually cared. Shampoo dripped into his eyes and he grabbed a washcloth to rinse away the sting. Too bad he couldn’t rinse out the stinging in his gut too.

  Graham toweled off, dug some cotton drawstring pants and an old Orlando Magic sweatshirt out of a pile of clean but unfolded laundry, went downstairs, and flopped on the couch. Swallowing the whiskey, he felt the heat course through him as it worked its way down his throat. He poured a second drink and scanned a recipe for grilled salmon before he picked up the remote. He thumbed through the channels, trying to decide whether to call and apologize. No. She’d stormed off without giving him a chance to explain how wrong she’d been about being one in a long line of gymnasium seductions.

  First, his liaisons weren’t seductions. Not a chance. His partners were willing participants. Second, they were the sort who wouldn’t be caught dead sparring. If they exercised, they took step classes at the ritzy health clubs; they didn’t allow themselves to be thrown around on a mat. He refused to acknowledge Colleen might have been half-right about him. He wanted her, true, but not for a quick lay. He could imagine her reaction if he said, “You’re not like the others.” But damn, she wasn’t. He downed half the drink and clunked the glass onto the table.

  Maybe he should forget Colleen. She obviously had a lot of baggage and didn’t want to share the load. But she almost had, damn it. He had sensed it when she’d admitted to being a cop. Screw it. What he needed right now was a little mattress mambo. He reached for the phone on the end table. Courtney? No. Stephanie. She worked late. She wouldn’t mind a ten o’clock booty call. The phone rang twice before he broke the connection.

  What kind of a jerk was he? First class. Telling himself Colleen was wrong about his motives and what’s the first thing he does? Starts to prove her right. Shit.

  He had a job to do and damn, he was going to do it and do it right, starting with a little extra effort. Show Schaeffer he wasn’t a womanizing clock-milker like Proctor.

  It was too late to make any work calls tonight, but he could sure as hell be ready to go first thing in the morning. He studied the names on the printout Erica had given him. Most were unfamiliar, but the few he recognized represented money. One hell of a lot of money. His eyes stopped at Kimberly’s name, and he went down the list and found Doris there as well. Okay, maybe the family got a courtesy invite to a high-end reception. Or had they been donors? What would it take to find out how much money they’d raised that night and who’d done the donating? Erica might be able to ferret it out. For the first time, he noticed the top of the page. He’d barely glanced at the heading, but now he attached a name to the project. Crystal Shores. That should give him something more to search for. He went to his computer and began an Internet search. He could probably do more from the office, but the whiskey meant he wasn’t getting behind the wheel again tonight.

  Nothing on any Crystal Shores project in Florida. Stuart Gravely Enterprises got a few hits, and he clicked to their website. Not much there. Some promos about a retirement community in the California desert, a list of other developments with no active links, a form to submit if you wanted to become an investor—yeah, right, but Graham bet there were folks who would bite—an e-mail contact form and a telephone number. He pushed the mouse aside. Tomorrow he could get into the databases he’d need.

  He took a stack of index cards from his desk and started putting names and facts on each one. Soon, he had a pile for Jeffrey, one for Doris, others for Stuart Gravely and Kimberly Simon, Frank Townsend and one for Crystal Shores.

  With some highlighters, he color coded the cards for people and events. Not a lot yet, but he vowed by end of shift tomorrow, he’d have three times as many cards and a lot more notes on his legal pad. Kimberly lived in Ocala, and Townsend lived in Gainesville. He wondered if the office would authorize in-person visits. He should be able to call on both in a day, which would minimize travel.

  Nearly midnight. He pressed his fingertips against his eyelids and yawned. Satisfied with a productive night’s efforts, he arranged the cards in a neat stack and twisted to work out the kinks in his spine. As he moved to the bedroom, he noticed the beginnings of the aches he’d feel tomorrow. And Colleen’s face, her green eyes narrowed to slits, her flush of anger, returned, along with a coiling in his gut.

  At five, Graham gave up on sleep and made his way to the shower. Fitful periods of dozing broken up by dreams that ranged from erotic fantasies to heart-pounding nightmares had left him groggy. He definitely felt the aftereffects of last night’s workout. The hot water eased some of the soreness, but he popped some ibuprofen with a glass of orange juice. The note on the fridge with “coffee” underlined three times in red marker didn’t lighten his mood. Ever the optimist, he peeked into the canister in case the coffee fairy had replenished his supply. Not surprised to see it empty, he finished dressing and headed for Starbucks before going into the station, making a mental note to get a pound of French roast along with his espresso.

  Double espresso in hand, tongue tingling from trying to gulp the scalding liquid, he made his way through the station to a desk with a vacant computer terminal. The caffeine hadn’t kicked in yet, and he made no effort to hide a yawn.

  “There you are.”

  Graham closed his mouth and turned around at the sound of Schaeffer’s voice. He saw Schaeffer eyeing his coffee.

  “You’ve got time for Starbucks?” Schaeffer said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Graham eyed his watch, then the wall clock. He was ten minutes early for his shift and too tired to play Schaeffer’s games this morning. “I’m here. What do you need?”

  “I did a cursory credit check on Jeffrey Walters.”

  “I thought you said we didn’t have enough for that.”

  “After seeing the mental capacity of the old woman yesterday, her credibility dropped far enough to make the daughter’s questions a little more compelling. This is all unofficial, of course.”

  Graham waited to see where Schaeffer was going with this.

  “We don’t have much to go on, but I’d like to see how you think,” Schaeffer continued. “Consider this a training exercise.” One at a time, he handed Graham three sheets of paper. “Tell me what this means.”

  Graham scanned them, finding copies of Jeffrey’s recent American Express and Visa charges.

  “Take your time.”

  He concentrated on the printouts, blocking the background noises of the room. “Recent activity on both accounts. More on the AmEx than the Visa. This last one was three days ago.” He raised his eyes. “So he’s probably away on business like Doris said.”

  “Look some more. Talk it out.”

  He was obviously missing something. He went down the list of charges. “Phone bill. Amazon. National Geographic. Looks like he bought stuff from three or four holiday mail order catalogs. Christmas presents, maybe?” He glanced at Schaeffer, whose expression hadn’t changed. He kept going. “Florist. Maybe sending something to our phantom woman?” Was this a link? Find the woman?

  “Hypothesis?” Schaeffer asked.

  “One minute. There’s a Holiday Inn charge too. Alabama, like Doris said.” Damn, he knew he was missing something.

  Schaeffer’s voice softened. “This isn’t the final exam. Relax. We don’t know much about this guy’s habits, so start by comparing his to yours. What don’t you see here? What’s missing can sometimes tell you more than what’s there.”

  Graham set the sheets of paper on his desk and half closed his eyes. Schaeffer was right. He was so afraid of screwing up, he wasn’t thinking logically. He let h
is mind drift through his last few weeks. He’d bought gasoline, groceries more than once, picked up takeout for dinner, and spent way too much money at the automotive center. His eyes snapped open. “There’s nothing here that couldn’t have been done on the web. Where are his day-to-day living expenses?”

  Schaeffer rewarded him with a wide grin. “Good. Now, it’s not proof by a long shot. We don’t know this guy doesn’t prefer to spend cash for his daily expenses. But it does look a little off. Now. Where would you take it?”

  “Bank records? Find out where he banks, check his cash withdrawals? See where he writes checks?” He paused. “But can we do that yet? You said all this stuff is unofficial.”

  “Would be better if we had something a little stronger. I can pull a few strings, but no point in wasting favors. Has the lab report on the break-ins come back?”

  “I haven’t seen anything.”

  “I’m not surprised. Nothing damaged, nothing apparently stolen, nobody hurt. It won’t be at the top of their pile. What else can you do?”

  “I planned to work through that phone list, talk to the daughter, and see if I can reach the consultant in Gainesville. As a matter of fact, I wondered if I might drive up and do both in person.”

  “Where’s the daughter?”

  “Ocala.”

  “I can see that one, because she initiated the call, but the Gainesville connection is too thin.”

  “I’ll set up a meet with Kimberly.” Graham’s mind raced ahead.

  “Not quite so fast. We still need to talk.”

  Schaeffer’s serious expression brought Graham back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, but remember—this is all hypothetical. Look at the big picture for a minute. Consider the worst-case scenario.”

  Graham thought for a minute. “I don’t suppose you’re talking about finding Jeffrey with someone he’d rather not be found with, and they sue the pants off the office.” He could see Schaeffer fighting a grin.

  “Well, not looking like idiots is always important, but you’re right. Let’s think about service to the public, not covering our collective asses here.”

  “You mean what if he’s dead?”

  Schaeffer nodded. “Definitely worst case. What would we be doing?”

  “Finding the murderer.”

  “That’s a bold assumption—that a dead body means murder. Don’t jump to that conclusion so fast.”

  “Right. Determine cause of death.” He allowed himself a smile. “Then look for the murderer?”

  Schaeffer shook his head. “Slow down, Harrigan. Who do we look at?”

  Graham sobered. Schaeffer was dead serious. “People with a motive to want him dead. Something to gain with him out of the picture.”

  “I want you to start looking at everyone through that filter. Start with the people you’ve already met, but don’t forget, you’re going to have to assume everyone you’ve spoken with has lied to you, and everyone you’re going to speak with could be lying as well.”

  “I know the drill. People lie to cops.”

  “And as a detective, you’re going to have to develop an even better internal lie detector.” Schaeffer checked something on his computer. “I’m tied up all day. Tell you what. You were fine interviewing Erica. I’m going to let you run solo with the daughter. Give Ocala a courtesy heads up before you leave.”

  “Yes, sir.” Solo. He gave himself some internal points.

  “I’ll expect a progress report before you leave.” Schaeffer started for the door, then turned. “And tomorrow, show up dressed like a detective, not a Patrol deputy.”

  “Yes, sir!” Graham rose to his feet, wincing as his sore muscles shouted at him.

  “Rough night?” Schaeffer asked.

  “No, sir. Put in some time at the gym. I’m a little stiff, that’s all.” He watched Schaeffer leave and rubbed his shoulder. Colleen had damn well better be hurting this morning too.

  Chapter Eleven

  Colleen flipped on the news as she made her way to the kitchen for a late breakfast. After last night’s sparring, she’d expected to be stiff and sore, but the aches were minimal.

  Munching a bagel, she crossed the room and opened the window, sniffing the cool, fresh, morning air. Behind her, a voice from the television spoke of an outbreak of brush fires. She sniffed again. Not near here, at least. She ignored the traffic update, not knowing where any of the streets were, paused for a moment at a story about a beached whale on the coast, and then dealt with reality of dealing with Doris. It was either that or think about Graham and his sneaky seduction system.

  She threw on jeans and a t-shirt, put on her sneakers, grabbed the rest of her bagel, finishing it as she strolled up the driveway to Doris’ house. When Doris answered the doorbell, her makeup-free face and her disheveled hair added ten years to her appearance.

  “Hi,” Colleen said. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m all right. Did you need something? This isn’t a good time.”

  “I thought I might be able to help you with the cleanup. Fingerprint powder is messy, and I figured you would still be upset.” Colleen waited. Doris cast furtive glances around the room. Was she afraid of something? She wrung her hands. Maybe the woman was exhausted.

  Doris took an unsteady step backward and Colleen reached to support her elbow. “I’ll help you to the couch and you can take it easy. The cops messed my place pretty good yesterday too. I got plenty of practice cleaning this stuff.”

  “I guess so. I don’t know. I’m tired. And I couldn’t bathe, and I didn’t have clean underwear, and they wouldn’t let me go home last night.” Her voice escalated into the shrill zone.

  “What if I help you clean? I’ll start in your room and bathroom. You can wait here on the couch until I’m done in there and then you can take a bath and a nap while I do the rest.”

  Doris gave her a blank stare, then cleaned her glasses. “You’re Colleen McDonald, aren’t you? You live in the apartment now.”

  Shit. What was she getting into? She would definitely find out who this woman’s friends were and see if they’d keep an eye on her. One of them had driven her home, right? “Would you like me to call any of your friends for you?”

  “Gladys already knows. She brought me home. She wanted to stay, but I sent her home. I’ll be fine. I have to wash.”

  Colleen put her arm around the woman’s waist and got her settled on the couch. “Which way to your room, Doris?”

  Doris shrank into the couch and tilted her head down the hall to the left. “Last door on the right.”

  Colleen went to the kitchen, noticing paint color chips and a wallpaper book on the table, open to a green and yellow floral. So Doris was making herself right at home. Colleen found paper towels and cleanser, then followed Doris’ directions to her room. The bedroom held a double bed covered in a plain blue spread, an easy chair upholstered in a blue and brown plaid fabric, and a tall chest of drawers. Definitely not Doris decor.

  The lab techs hadn’t made a big mess in here—the night table and dresser displayed the only smudges. A plastic bag from the hospital revealed a few medicine vials. She read the labels. No new prescriptions. A quick swipe with the towels and she moved to the bathroom. She made short work of the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet and drawer fronts. This room reflected Doris’ presence, with makeup and perfume bottles on the counter, a bowl of potpourri and some scented candles on top of the toilet tank. Not yellow and green, but floral prints matted in pink that accented the marbled blue wallpaper. She poked around in the medicine cabinet. An assortment of basic first aid supplies, not much else.

  She tossed the used paper towels in the wastebasket and went to the living room. Doris sat, staring into space, right where she’d left her. Colleen dropped onto the other end of the couch. “Your room is finished.”

  “Thank you for helping.” Doris said. “That’s so nice, especially since you cleaned after the fire too.” Her smile was too sweet. “I think I’ll take my bath
now.” She scooched herself to the edge of the couch and stood. Colleen popped up and took Doris’ elbow, but the woman shrugged off her assistance and walked steadily down the hall.

  “Okay,” Colleen said. “You enjoy your bath and a nap. I’ll get started on the rest of the house.”

  When she heard the door shut, Colleen picked up the spray bottle and the towels, merely going through the motions in the kitchen, removing nothing more than fingerprint powder residue. Here, unlike her own apartment, there was no compulsion to disinfect. She opened doors and perused the house. Kitchen, living and dining spaces were central. Beyond the kitchen to the right were two doors she assumed led to bedrooms.

  She opened the first. Definitely the master suite. Half again as large as Doris’, with a sitting area complete with recliner and television set. King-sized bed, more southwest décor. A luxury bathroom was visible from the door. Ignoring the fingerprint powder, she poked her head into the next room. Jeffrey’s office. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. A good place to start. But she was going to do a little more than simple cleaning. She set her bottle and towels on a leather easy chair by the window.

  Her conscience gave a quick protest, but she quashed it. After all, Jeffrey might be in trouble. Surely that outweighed a little rude poking about. Nevertheless, she picked up the bottle and paper towels, keeping them in easy reach. Should Doris appear, she would find Colleen busy wiping fingerprints. She kept an ear cocked toward the door for any sounds of doors or footsteps.

  Standing in the center of the room, she paused and tried to absorb Jeffrey Walters. Bird prints on the wall. Lots of shelves filled with books and small sculptures of birds. Two tall file cabinets—not office metal, but wood to match the desk—and copy and fax machines in one corner. Piles of books and papers on the floor as well as the desk. She knelt beside one of the stacks on the floor, one set well away from the desk. If Jeffrey Walters had any sort of logical organization system, it eluded her. The garden section of the paper from two months ago, camera catalogs, a file folder of miscellaneous correspondence. She leafed through that one, but nothing seemed significant.