Vandreen was laboring under the assumption I was a cop. This happens sometimes. I almost never correct people. I don’t want to unnecessarily complicate things or confuse them with details and technicalities. Plus, I don’t mind the increased degree of cooperation this gets me with most people. For now, I decided to let Vandreen go on with this assumption.
“I think you can help me clear a few things up.”
“What things?”
“Do you know Danielle Dillon?”
He leaned back in his chair, studying me for a moment. I felt distinctly like prey being scouted by a predator.
He scoffed. “If this is the kind of information that will ‘clear things up’ for you, maybe you’d better start by reading the case file.”
“I’m not asking if you know her name. I’m asking if you know her. The two of you must have some connection. I’d like to know what it is.”
He stared at me for a beat. “She attacked me in the parking lot. That’s our connection.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think she woke up that morning and decided to beat the crap out of a perfect stranger. I think she targeted you specifically. Why? What reason could she possibly have had?”
He shifted slightly at the implication he’d been overwhelmed by a woman. A blow to his machismo-driven ego?
“So far, I’m not really hearing anything new,” he said. He sat forward and reached for the phone. “I better call my attorney before I answer these same questions again.”
“If that would make you feel more comfortable, then please do. But I only have a few questions. A few quick answers will get me out the door.”
“Why should I help you?” he asked, pausing with his hand on the phone.
“Because you’re the cooperative victim of a crime and a potential aide in the capture of a fugitive.”
He folded his hands on the desk, a faint grin playing over his mouth.
“I’ve never met a cop quite like you.”
That’s because I’m not a cop, but you know, toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.
“My questions are simple, sir,” I said, drawing him back on point. “The sooner you answer them, the sooner I’m out of your hair. Why did Danielle Dillon attack you? What’s your connection?”
He leaned back in the chair again, his hands folded in his lap. “I don’t know Danielle Dillon, and I have no idea why she attacked me. Maybe she wanted to rob me.”
“So she spoke to you that day? She indicated she wanted to rob you?”
He smiled, but behind the casual exterior I could see an edge that was anything but. “It was a possible explanation. She could have wanted to take the car.”
“Hmm. She attacked you and never said a word. That’s interesting. To be clear, you’d never met her before she attacked you?”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“Didn’t I just say your cooperation is the key to my departure?”
He reminded me a lot of my father: a bully. Unfortunately for him, I don’t let people bully me anymore.
I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He certainly didn’t like it when someone talked back to him. “No, I never met her.”
“What did Danielle Dillon say when she attacked you?”
I saw it flash in his eyes before he averted them, glancing down at the desk briefly. When he looked up again, it was gone, and he was back in control. My question had hit a nerve.
“This is ridiculous. All of this is in my statement. Read it. I don’t have time for this.” He stood.
“You’d better make time, Mr. Vandreen,” I said from my seat. “You wouldn’t want to actually need that high-priced attorney, now would you?”
He stared down at me over the desk then slowly walked toward me. Now I felt like prey being stalked by that predator. I was beginning to get a pretty clear picture of Jeremiah Vandreen.
He stopped directly in front of me and glared down. He obviously enjoyed standing over me, and I desperately wanted to stand up, lessen our height difference. But I chose to remain where I was and struggled to appear relaxed. Letting on that he was affecting me would only fuel whatever sick fire burned inside him.
“Don’t threaten me,” he said in a low, dangerous tone.
I repeated my question as if he hadn’t spoken.
“What did Danielle say to you?”
“Like I told you idiot cops the first time, and the second time, she didn’t say anything.”
“You’re lying.”
“We’re done,” he rumbled. “Get out of my office.”
“You know perfectly well why she attacked you. If you’d never met Danielle before, then she told you why at the time. What was it?”
He suddenly jerked forward, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. I saw the same fire burning in his eyes I’d seen a few moments before.
“I told you to get the fuck out of my office. I won’t ask again, cop or not.”
He held his position for a long moment, no doubt making sure his message was received. When he stood again, he straightened his tie, putting the smile back on his face.
“If you have any further questions, contact my attorney.”
He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me. I took it without looking away from him.
I didn’t like yielding to him, but I thought I’d pushed enough for one day. Vandreen was obviously an angry man. I didn’t want to push him too hard. For one thing, this wasn’t the time or the place. For another, if he bitched to his attorney, who then went looking to retaliate, it wouldn’t take long for him to get wise to the fact that I wasn’t a cop. Impersonating a cop and harassment was good stuff; a halfway decent attorney could get a lot of mileage out of accusations like that, all the while making my life needlessly complicated.
Slowly, on my own time, I stood and moved out of the office. Vandreen went to the door and held it open, smiling at me like a victor gloating over a defeated opponent. I knew the smart play was to leave and let him think he’d won something. It was the smart play, but it was damn hard.
I had barely stepped over the threshold when he shut the door behind me. Something I’d said had pushed a button with him. Now I just needed to figure out what it was.
I glanced at the card before putting it in my pocket then did a double take, raising the card up and staring at it. Jeremiah Vandreen’s attorney was none other than Eric Dunn, Chevy Camaro owner and resident at an address once associated with Danielle Dillon. I tucked the card in my pocket.
It was a huge coincidence Danielle Dillon was connected to the same address as Eric Dunn, Eric Dunn was connected to Jeremiah Vandreen, and Jeremiah Vandreen was connected to Danielle Dillon. Too big. And I don’t believe in coincidences.
9
I left the bank and returned to the Scout. As I was driving out of the lot, I noticed a security camera near the corner of the building. I stopped and got out, peering at the eaves. I spotted two, and they both had excellent lines of sight on the parking lot. The same parking lot where Danielle Dillon attacked Vandreen.
I turned and scanned the parking lot. From the arrest report, I knew Vandreen drove a Porsche. I saw two, and either could have been his. I wondered if he always parked in the same spot and where he’d been parked the day of his attack. From what I could tell, the cameras covered the entire parking lot. The attack would have been recorded. I needed to see that recording.
I drove to the nearby gas station and got out to use the phonebook at the payphone. Not only was the phonebook missing, but the cord on the phone was cut, hanging frayed and useless. I bypassed it and went inside. The guy behind the counter had to hunt around, but he was able to dig up a phonebook.
I looked up Vandreen. He wasn’t listed. I returned the phonebook and asked to borrow the phone. The man refused, stating it was against store policy. I offered him ten bucks, and he passed it over. He did a lot of staring, but he didn’t ask me about my face, which I appreciated. I dialed Amerson.
“I need an address.”
I gave him Vandreen’s name.
“Why do I know that name?”
“My FTA got arrested for beating him up.”
The guy gave me a look, and I took a few steps away from the counter.
“I hope this gets you to her somehow, Grey.”
Amerson always calls me by my last name. I call him by his last name. Amerson and I both call Ellmann by his last name. Neither of us thinks this is abnormal. We don’t run around asking why we do it. Maybe it’s a guy thing.
“I’m working on it. Got anything?”
“Yeah.” He recited it to me, and I jotted it down.
I thanked him and hung up.
While I had the phone, I dialed Ellmann. He didn’t answer, so I left a message assuring him I was fine.
The address Amerson had given me was in a development on the southwest corner of Shields and Trilby. The houses were big, pricey, and about on par with all the others I’d visited. I jotted down plates then went to the door.
There was kid paraphernalia in the front yard and on the porch. I could hear kids playing in the backyard. A couple minutes later, a woman walked around the house and called to me. She was five-six and rail thin, the kind of thinness that comes from illness or nervousness, not fitness. She was wearing capris and a long-sleeved button-down shirt over a tank top despite the weather, and she seemed to be favoring one leg or hip. I stepped off the porch and walked through the yard toward her.
“Mrs. Vandreen?”
“Yes.”
I introduced myself and handed her a card.
“I was hoping I could ask you a couple questions about a woman named Danielle Dillon.”
She seemed confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
I retrieved the picture and held it out to her. “What about this woman? Recognize her?”
She studied the picture then shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Should I?”
I put the picture away. “Mrs. Vandreen, what do you know about your husband’s attack a few weeks ago?”
There was a particularly sharp scream from the backyard, and she turned, walking back to the open gate.
“Nothing more than what he told me, I’m afraid,” she said over her shoulder as I followed her. “He said a woman had been trying to steal the car when he came out of work. He confronted her, and she attacked him. The police caught her, you know.”
We arrived in the backyard, and I saw four children, three boys and one girl, all between the ages of two and eight, running and playing amid a swing set, a sandbox, and a hundred toys.
“Yes, I’m aware of that. I’m more interested in the circumstances of the attack.”
“Really? And why would that be?”
“I’d like to know why she attacked your husband.”
“I told you, she was trying to steal the car when he interrupted her.”
“Except that isn’t what he told the police at the time of the attack or me when I asked him about it this afternoon.”
She turned and looked at me. She was surprised by my words.
“You spoke to my husband?”
“Why would your husband tell you a different story than he told the police?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. She turned in time to see the kid sitting in the sandbox—the youngest of the bunch—lift a shovel full of sand to his mouth.
“Rusty, honey!” she called, hurrying over. “Don’t eat sand. Yuck! Spit it out.”
She used a finger to scrape sand out of the kid’s mouth then lifted him out of the sandbox, wincing in pain at the burden of his weight. She set him in the yard, directing him to a nearby toy, one of those kid-sized trucks they can sit on and push around with their feet. When he was on to a new task, she walked back over to me, her limp more pronounced now.
“Look, I don’t know what else to tell you,” she said. “I’ve told you all I know. I think you’d better leave now.”
I complied, pulling the gate closed behind me. I could hear the kids screaming and playing until I got in the truck and drove away. I wasn’t sure what I’d learned, but I couldn’t help but feel the trip had been worth it. At minimum, it was confirmation Mr. Vandreen was hiding something about what happened the day Dillon attacked him. And even more than before, I thought whatever that something was would help explain a lot of things.
__________
I had more than an hour to kill before dinner, so I decided to hit the gym. I hadn’t really worked out my next move, but I knew if I looked into anything else, the chances were good I’d get caught up in something and be late for dinner. The gym seemed safe; there was no way in hell I’d lose track of time on the elliptical.
The kid at the front desk tried to chat me up while I signed in. He was barely twenty, with terrible acne, and so pumped up he probably had trouble feeding himself.
“So, uh, you wanna get together sometime?” he asked as I was walking away from the desk. “You know, hang out or something?”
As I looked back at him, he reminded me of a little boy playing dress up, pretending to belong in a world he didn’t understand yet.
“No, I can’t,” I said. “I’m married.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” he said easily. “I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
I felt his eyes on me until I disappeared into the locker room. I could just imagine all the women he met here, women hungry to feel better about themselves and willing to let him help. Maybe he understood the world perfectly well after all.
I found my favorite playlist on my iPod and cruised over to the elliptical. The gym wasn’t very busy, but three of the ellipticals were occupied. I started toward a free one beside a man in tiny running shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. When I was nearer, I realized the guy was probably seventy and the timer on his machine was past the hour mark. Just knowing he was there was a blow to my self-esteem; I certainly didn’t want to know how much longer he’d be at it.
I continued on to an opening between a middle-aged woman and a forty-something guy in a knee brace. Through the openings of the knee brace, I could see a fresh surgical scar. Yeah, these two were much more my speed.
Recently, I’d been experimenting with some of the programs on the machines, just to help alleviate some of the boredom. Today, I chose the one with the picture that looked like a mountain. I was delighted when the timer told me the program was thirty-five minutes long.
I was sweating after five. I wanted to quit after ten. I thought I might cry after fifteen. About the time I got to the top of the mountain and was trying to decide if I wanted to puke, I saw a woman stroll by. She was dressed in black spandex pants and a pink spandex top, and after watching her walk by, I felt as if I knew her intimately. For that reason, I wasn’t surprised to find every male eye trailing her perfectly toned behind across the gym to the weight machines.
The woman was familiar, and it had nothing to do with the spandex. I’d seen her somewhere before, but I couldn’t place her. She adjusted the settings on a Bowflex machine and climbed on, demonstrating exceptional upper body strength.
Maybe I’ve seen her here, I thought. But that didn’t feel right. I’d seen her recently. No, seen her picture.
Shit.
I knew where I’d seen her.
I climbed off the elliptical and returned to the front desk, sweating and favoring my right leg. The same kid was there, bent over his cell phone.
“Excuse me. Could I borrow the phone?”
He straightened up and walked over, glancing down at the phone sitting on the counter between us. “That’s really against gym policy.”
I was getting that a lot today.
“Listen, how ’bout this? Let me use the phone, and we can talk about hanging out sometime.”
He eyed me openly, his gaze lingering on my breasts. “Thought you were married.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I don’t mind as much as I thought.”
He smirked. “Sweet.”
He
set the phone on the counter, then lingered while I dialed Amerson.
“Tell me you’ve got good news, Grey.”
“I do, if you use that term in the broadest sense.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Who did you give that yoga instructor to? The one with the DUI, resisting arrest, propositioning an officer …”
“Rena Cole,” he said. “No one. Why? Did you find her?”
“More or less. Can you send someone to come get her?”
“Not at the moment. Just grab her. Her bond’s only a few hundred bucks, but that’s money in the bank. Her authorization to capture is in her file at the office.”
“No, I can’t,” I said, glancing at the clock. “I’m supposed to be at dinner in thirty minutes. I’m meeting Ellmann’s family.”
“I thought they lived out of state.”
“They flew in.”
“Oh. Shit. That’s rough. Good luck with that.”
“Yeah, thanks. What about you? Can’t you come get this lady?”
“No can do. I’m in Denver with Burton and Raleigh. Got a solid lead on Bruce Zornes.”
Burton and Raleigh were Sideline’s two top recovery agents. They were badass ex-military, ex-cop guys that hunted the worst of the worst. Currently, Bruce Zornes held that title. He’d skipped six days ago and was worth five hundred thousand dollars to whoever dragged him back in.
“Fuck.” I wiped sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “I’m gonna have to let her go.”
“Your call, Grey, but I’m telling you right now, you let her go, I’m assigning her to you.”
I bit back a groan. “What’s the forfeit date?”
“How should I know? It’s in the file. She’s been on my desk a while, though.”
Translation: the date was sooner rather than later.
“Fine. Good luck with Zornes.”
“Good luck with the Ellmanns.”
This time I did groan. And I redialed before the kid could swipe the phone from me. Blue answered on the third ring.
“Hey, kiddo, how’s business?”
“Uh, better than I wish it was at the moment. You around?”
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 11
