“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “You should go back to sleep.”
Yeah, right. Who could sleep after that? This was why I didn’t want Ellmann sleeping here.
I got up, my legs slightly wobbly, and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I stood leaning on the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My skin was flushed and covered in sweat, and my hair was a mess from thrashing around in bed, pieces of it stuck to my face and neck. I was glad to see the redness around my eyes from the pepper spray had cleared and that the swelling had gone down significantly. Even the bruising on my neck looked better. But I couldn’t mistake the lingering fear I saw in my eyes. I hadn’t seen fear in my eyes like that for more than a decade. I didn’t like seeing it now. It was something I never wanted to see there again.
I twisted on the cold water and splashed several handfuls onto my face. I tried to pull myself together. If Ellmann wasn’t here, I would have gone back to bed and cried. I’m typically not a crier, but I find under circumstances like this it makes me feel better. It seems to relieve some of the pressure, I think. And apparently that pressure was too high now. The harder I tried to get it together, the greater the urge was to burst into tears. Finally, when I was drying my face with a towel, I couldn’t hold back any longer.
The sobs came, and tears streamed down my cheeks. I sank down onto the toilet and cried. I just cried. I was there for several minutes before there was a knock on the door. I stood, trying to get a grip, and turned off the water I’d left running.
“I need another minute,” I called.
But the tears kept coming.
A minute later, Ellmann had waited as long as he was going to. The bathroom door opened.
I tried to be angry, tried to scrounge up some indignation at his presumptiveness and intrusion, but I couldn’t. All I really felt was relief. Relief that I wasn’t alone.
Ellmann led me back to bed, and he lay with me while I cried, stroking my hair and my back, mumbling comforts. After a while, the trembling subsided. A while later, the sobs quieted. When it was over, I did feel better, aside from the headache a good cry always brings with it.
“Did you have any dreams last night?” he asked.
“No.”
“Is it always random?”
“It can be. Tonight I think the thing with Vandreen triggered it. Learning Martha Porter had been murdered didn’t help.”
“The Vandreen part I understand. How does Martha Porter fit in?”
I told him what Martha Porter had done sixteen years before.
“She was protecting her granddaughters, and she killed someone to do it. Like you.”
“I didn’t even have a chance to talk to her.”
“What would you have said?”
“I would have told her I understand. I understand what she did, and why, and what it’s like to be surrounded by people who don’t.”
“I’m really sorry.”
We lay together after that. Ellmann’s breathing changed, and I knew he’d dozed off. I tried to go back to sleep, but not with much effort. I was afraid of what I might see. At six o’clock, I couldn’t stand it any longer; I had to get up. I scooted out from under Ellmann’s arm and went to take a shower.
When I emerged from the bathroom, the bed was empty, the sheets stripped, and I could smell coffee. Downstairs, Ellmann was working at the stove. The coffee pot on the counter was full.
Apparently it was a pancake kind of morning. I had forgotten I even had pancake mix, and when I found syrup in the fridge, I thought it would surely be a good day. I made myself a cup of coffee then leaned against the counter as Ellmann flipped pancakes.
Instead of sleeping, I’d been doing a lot of thinking. I probably wouldn’t admit it out loud, but I’d considered the possibility Dr. Hobbs was right about a couple of things regarding my interactions with Ellmann. I still wasn’t convinced, but if she was right, then I had a problem. And I wanted to fix it.
“I know I don’t make it easy to be with me,” I said. “And I’m sorry.”
Ellmann turned to look at me, spatula in hand. “I told you, Zoe, I’m not looking for easy.”
“I know.” I put my coffee cup on the counter and crossed my arms. “But it shouldn’t be hard, either. At least not as hard as I make it.”
He watched me for a beat then set the spatula down and leaned against the counter. “I wish you’d let me in more. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get close to you.”
That stung. I’d heard these words before, from others, but it had never hurt. It did hurt hearing them now, from Ellmann. I didn’t need further confirmation that Ellmann was different, but this was it. Which is why it terrified me to think I might lose him.
“I’m not trying to keep you out. I just don’t know how to do anything else. And, I never wanted to do anything else. Not until I met you.”
“I know you’re trying.”
“You should know, only one person is closer to me than you are, and I’ve known her my entire life. I’ve only known you two months.”
He stopped to flip the pancakes then turned back to me. “Sometimes I forget it’s only been two months. I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer. I know we’re close, but sometimes I feel like I run up against a wall.”
“I can’t break down all those walls overnight. I don’t know how.”
“You’re right. And that’s not a fair expectation. It’ll take time.”
“Will you give me that?” I asked, getting to the real heart of my fear. “I want to figure it out, to keep trying, but I don’t know how long it will take or if I’ll ever be very good at it. Will you give me the time it takes?”
He looked surprised then shook his head as realization dawned, and he walked over to me. “Zoe, I’m not going anywhere. I told you, I know what I’m doing.”
That was probably true. Ellmann always knew what he was doing. And he probably wasn’t going anywhere. What I’d told Amy was a fact; Ellmann had showed up one day and never left. But I didn’t want to take for granted that he’d always hang around. Ellmann does care about me, and he’s pretty patient, but he isn’t stupid. And I didn’t want to take any chances of him leaving, because I more than cared about him.
“I’d like to go to the wedding with you,” I said, “if you decide to go.”
He smiled at me and cupped my face, bending down to kiss me. “Thank you.”
12
After breakfast, Ellmann packed his case files and went to work. I left the dishes in the sink and went up to the office. I reviewed my notes and started mapping out a plan for the day. My first move was to finish the research I’d been doing last night.
I logged back on to the Sideline database and typed in “Lyle Young.” He had been arrested at the same time as Todd Lindgren, also for theft. Sideline had handled both bonds. I read through what information was available. Nothing much was helpful aside from a notation at the end of his file that listed three known aliases for him. I wrote them down and searched each one in the database. Nothing came back. Next, I searched Andrew Dyer, the third name associated with the house Young owned. Nothing popped.
I brought up Google and searched for both men and all known aliases. Toward the bottom of the page, I found a link to an article in a British newspaper for one of Young’s aliases. I read through the article and learned he’d been investigated by Scotland Yard for involvement in the theft of a one-of-a-kind diamond that had been on display in the British Museum. The article never gave any indication about his guilt, and I couldn’t find any details about whether or not he’d been arrested.
I added this new information to my notes then looked them over. I went back to the page where I’d listed what I knew about Danielle Dillon. I had no idea how this stuff about Lyle Young fit into anything or connected to her. And maybe it didn’t. With the story I told Ellmann about Martha Porter protecting her granddaughters still in my mind, I noticed I’d left t
he sister off my list. Donna had told me the sister’s name was Desirae Dillon. So far, I hadn’t done any looking into her. No stone unturned and all that, I typed Desirae’s name into the Sideline database. I wasn’t surprised when nothing came up.
I tried Google, and half a dozen Coloradoan articles came back. I opened the first one and found it outlined the arrest of a teenage girl named Desirae Dillon who was suspected of setting her aunt’s house on fire. The aunt and her husband had managed to escape without serious injury, but the structure was totally destroyed. A few of the articles were associated with that case.
The next one I found reported that a twenty-year-old man had been burned alive in his home ten years ago. His girlfriend, Desirae Dillon, eighteen, was wanted for questioning by the police for her possible involvement in his death. A third article described the death of a fifty-year-old mother of five. She’d been found dead in her kitchen, her body horribly mutilated, including by fire. The woman had fired Desirae Dillon from her place of business earlier in the week, and Dillon was wanted for questioning by the police for her suspected involvement.
I was getting a picture of Desirae Dillon. Of the three types abused people become, she was the first kind. She became the abuser. Her righteous and justifiable anger had gone unchecked and morphed into something hideous and deadly.
Feeling like this new information only confused things rather than clarified them, I grabbed my keys and left.
It was only just after eight, but it was already sixty degrees. Without watching the weatherman, I knew it was going to be hot. I rolled up the sides of the soft top then cruised over to the bonds office. I found Amerson coming out of a meeting with Meeker and Sands. The fact that it was Saturday seemed to mean nothing to them.
“Grey, tell me you brought me a body receipt.”
“Actually, I did,” I said, holding up a slip of paper and falling in step beside him.
“Is that Dillon’s?”
“No.”
“Dix’s?”
“Cole’s.”
“I want Dillon’s. And Dix’s.”
“Yeah, well, easier said than done.”
“Dillon I can understand,” he said as he went into his office and sat down at his desk. “But what about Dix? The kid’s like ten years old and weighs a hundred pounds.”
This is a guy thing. The entire world is laid out before them in a series of obstacles, challenges, problems. Each task is a matter of solving the next problem. Problems, then, are reduced to their basic elements. It makes them easier to solve. Unfortunately, the reality was that Dix was not such a simple problem to solve.
I sat across from Amerson.
“That may be true, but he’s proving to be a little craftier than I originally anticipated. But don’t worry, I’ll get him.”
He nodded. “You always do. What happened to your face?”
“Cole.”
“Hmm. What I’m really worried about is Danielle Dillon. Time’s running out. Where is she?”
“That’s what I’m working on. I need some information.”
“You realize you only have until six a.m. tomorrow to ‘work on it,’ right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can you get me a couple addresses?”
I’d used Ellmann’s phone earlier to call the Burbank house and the McKinnon house in order to find out where each man was going to be today. I was told Burbank would be at his office for part of the day and after that I could find him at the Country Club. Mrs. Burbank had not been very forthcoming with additional information, like where her husband worked. I asked Amerson for Henry Burbank’s place of employment.
Amerson found it, and I wrote it down. Mr. McKinnon was supposed to be home all day, but while I was here, I had Amerson find a work address for him, too.
I thanked him then got up to leave.
“I don’t suppose you have a better picture of Dillon somewhere, do you?” I asked offhandedly.
“I might be able to pull up the photos from her arrest,” he answered as he typed a few commands.
“What?” I stopped and turned around.
I walked around the desk and watched over his shoulder as he brought up the pictures. I could see the resemblance between the girl in these photos and the mug shot I’d been flashing around, but that’s all there was: a resemblance. No wonder no one had recognized her. I could see now Dillon had not escaped her encounter with Vandreen unscathed. Much like Mrs. Vandreen and the four foster children, Dillon had bruises all over her face, arms, and torso. Amerson picked two, a frontal shot and a profile, that seemed to show the least amount of bruising, and printed them.
“That’s not the picture in the file you gave me,” I said, pointing to the computer screen. “Why didn’t the file include a current mug shot?”
He shrugged. “We only get what the courts give us. I have no idea why they didn’t use a current photo. It might be because she’s all banged up in these, and once the bruises cleared it would have been hard to know it was her.”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard.”
He retrieved the photos from the printer and handed them to me. “Then I don’t know what else to tell you except tick, tock.”
“Bite me.” I snatched the printouts and hit the door. “And pay me for Cole! I want my three hundred bucks.”
__________
My first stop was the Budweiser brewery. Henry Burbank was the CEO and had been for many years. I found a parking spot near the back of the lot and went inside. It was Saturday and must have been a big day for tours because the place was packed. I hoped Burbank was still here; I really didn’t want to visit him at the Country Club.
After talking to three different people, I was finally led to Mr. Burbank’s office. It was large and plush and masculine, like you would expect. There was also Budweiser paraphernalia everywhere. Inside a display case in the corner of the room was a two-foot statue. It was similar to the one I’d see in his house.
“Now, how can I help you, young lady?”
He was dressed casually in slacks and a polo shirt, ready for an afternoon at the club. He lowered himself to the chair behind the desk then picked up a long cigar and stuck it between his teeth, unlit. I sat in a chair across the desk and handed him a card.
“Do you know anyone named Danielle Dillon?” I asked after I introduced myself.
He thought a moment then shook his head. “No. Should I?”
“What about this woman? Do you recognize her?” I passed the new photos Amerson had printed across the desk.
Burbank barely had to look at them.
“You’re a private investigator, did you say?” he asked. “Did my wife hire you?”
“No.” I repeated the part about who I am and what I do. “Why would you ask if I’m a private investigator hired by your wife?”
“This girl,” he said, tipping his head at the photo lying on the desk in front of him. “I saw her around the house a couple times. My wife was sure I’d brought her home, accused me of sleeping with her. She just wouldn’t believe me. I thought maybe she’s checking up on me.”
“Well, if she is, she didn’t hire me. You say this girl was at your house?”
“Yeah. Saw her two or three times. I thought she was working in the house, but she must not have been considering my wife was sure I’d brought her over. Now, come on,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “If I was going to stick it to somebody else, would I bring her to my house while my wife was home? I swear, sometimes the woman doesn’t even think.”
“Do you remember when you saw her?” I didn’t want the conversation to veer off into marriage-counseling territory, though between you and me, he made a good point.
“Uh, let me think.” He tipped his head back against the chair, looking at the ceiling and gnawing on the cigar. “Must have been a year ago, you know, give or take. Last summer, I think.”
“If it was a year ago, why would you think your wife had waited so long to send a PI after you?”
&
nbsp; He shrugged. “She just mentioned the girl again a couple nights ago.”
Surprise, surprise. Mrs. Burbank had lied to me.
“She’d been off it for a while,” he went on, “but I thought maybe she was back on it. That’s all she goes on about anymore, that girl and that statue. On and on and on.”
“Statue?” I asked, certain I’d regret it.
“The three-foot Aphrodite statue that was stolen last July. It was her favorite. I didn’t steal it, but, I swear, she holds me responsible. Like I should have done something to prevent it. I ask you, what the hell does she want me to do? I pay through the nose for the state-of-the-art security system she just had to have, which she doesn’t really know how to use, by the way. We even had a dog for a while. Had to get rid of that damn thing, though, because he kept biting everyone—her included. After the third time, she made me take it to the pound. And don’t even get me started on what I pay to insure all this crap.” He swung an arm in the direction of the statue in the corner, shaking his head.
I stood, thanked him, and then hurried out of the office before he said anything else. I was partly to blame—I’d asked the questions—but I wasn’t convinced he would have kept quiet if I hadn’t. He seemed like a talker. This was probably why he liked to hang out at the Country Club. He could smoke cigars and chew the fat with other guys who were just as irritated and baffled by their wives.
The lobby hadn’t cleared out by the time I returned, and I bumped into several people as I made my way to the door. Finally outside, I hiked to the truck then started out of the parking lot. As I was about to turn out of the lot, a Toyota Camry pulled in. It squeezed past me then tried to turn into a row at the same time another car was pulling out. Someone laid on the horn. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced that way as I drove out of the lot. Then suddenly I snapped my eyes to the rearview mirror. The Camry had nearly collided with a silver Cadillac.
I’d only seen the Cadillac from the side; there was no way to determine the license plate number. Still, I was pretty sure they were plates I’d already seen. Unfortunately the windows were so darkly tinted I’d been unable to get a clear look at the driver.
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 15
