Instead, we each got into our own vehicle and went back to work. Which wasn’t nearly as much fun.
I took Trilby to Lyle Young’s house. The apartment above the garage was dark, but there were lights on in the main house and the guesthouse. Someone was home. But with so many people living here and Young’s “open-door” policy, I had no idea who I’d find.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail then stuffed cuffs and capture paperwork into my pockets. I got out and opened the tailgate, opening the toolbox and pulling out the Glock .45 I kept there. In the state of Colorado, you need a permit to carry a concealed weapon. I’d never felt it necessary to carry a weapon until I’d had people trying to kill me on a regular basis. A few weeks ago, I’d applied for a permit. My application was denied. The state thought it was too dangerous, my history being what it was, but I was told I was welcome to reapply in five years. Of course, this just meant I carried a concealed weapon illegally.
I clipped the holster onto the waistband of my shorts at the small of my back. Then I put on a light sweatshirt to help cover the gun. I didn’t normally go around carrying a gun, but I didn’t normally get mixed up in murder cases either. In fact, the only other one had been the one in which I’d met Ellmann. I made it a point to leave those FTAs to the other agents. Had I known Danielle Dillon was mixed up with murders, I would have told Amerson to go fly a kite when he asked me to take her file.
I got out of the truck and walked to the door. A short time later, Young answered.
“Back again?” he asked, smiling. “I’m sorry, but Todd isn’t here at the moment. I saw him go out earlier. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Actually, I need to speak with Heather Neuman.”
I could see in his eyes he knew the name, but he did another almost-perfect job of concealing it.
“Heather Neuman,” he repeated. “Sorry, I don’t know who that is.”
“Heather Neuman is Andrew Dyer’s girlfriend, and I was told by a reliable source she’s living in this house with him. Given your ‘open-door’ policy, I find that highly likely.”
“Sure, Andrew stays here sometimes, but I haven’t seen him in months. Your reliable source isn’t very reliable.”
Last time I called him out on lying to me, he fessed up. It wouldn’t hurt to try it again.
“That’s two lies since you opened the door,” I said. “And maybe three, since I suspect Todd really is home. Lying seems to be a bad habit of yours.”
He burst out laughing.
“You really are something else, you know that?”
“I get that sometimes. Where’s Heather?”
He pushed the door open and stepped back. “All right,” he said, still smiling. “Why don’t you come in?”
Something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it’s these gut feelings of mine that have saved my bacon more than once. I can’t ignore them, even if I don’t understand them at the time.
“Is there a Heather Neuman living here?” I asked, not moving.
“She’s stayed here in the past, like Andrew.”
“Is she here now?”
“Why don’t you come in and see for yourself? That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”
“Please ask her to come to the door.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“And why’s that?”
He just laughed and walked away from the front door, leaving it standing wide open.
Deciding there was something wrong with Lyle Young, I walked off his porch and returned to the truck. As I drove away, I didn’t have a clear sense of whether Heather was in the house or not. And I had no idea what Young had been up to.
I decided one of the only reasons I wanted to talk to Heather was because I wanted to know what was going on. But that was my inability to accept questions with no answers. All that really mattered was locating Danielle Dillon. Technically, I thought I’d already done that. I didn’t know where she was at this moment, but I knew where she’d been hiding, probably for the last ten months. Bringing her in was the whole point, and it should have been my only objective.
With that thought in my head, I drove away from Young’s house and over to Lemay, which I took all the way north to Willox. I cut across Willox to Highway 287 then made a right on Highway 1. I knew where Danielle Dillon had been very recently, and since she probably had few other places to go, I thought chances were good she’d go back there. Plus, I didn’t know where else to look. And as Amerson continued to remind me, my time was running out.
I returned to Douglas Road, finding the woodsy neighborhood didn’t have any streetlights. The only light came from the half moon and the scattered porch lights. The Conrad house was dark. I parked across the street and sat a moment, surveying the area. Out of habit, I jotted down nearby license plate numbers and scanned for any faces pressed to windows, particularly in Bonnie Matheson’s house. When I found none, I got out of the truck and hustled to the front door. While Leroy had been chatting to Natalie, I’d watched over his shoulder as he punched the code into the lockbox. I’d thought it might come in handy.
Working mostly by touch and the faint light of the moon, I punched in the code and retrieved the key. Then I closed the box and went around to the side of the house. There had been no other doors out of the basement aside from the one that led up to the kitchen, but from trying the handle when I’d been inside earlier, I knew it was locked. It would take Dillon some time to get out that way.
I switched on the flashlight and held it in my left hand as I descended the stairs. I used the key and opened the door, shining the light around as I moved through the apartment. I found it empty, and from what I could tell, no one had been here since Leroy had showed it to us earlier.
I went back to the front door and shut it. Since I was here, I wanted to have a look around. I’d done so briefly earlier, but with Leroy and Natalie around, it had been cursory. I started in the bedroom, working only by the beam of the flashlight. This seemed to be where the occupant spent most of his, or more likely her, time.
At the desk, I looked through the papers and folders. One was stuffed with newspaper clippings, all detailing some kind of art theft. Most of the articles were in English, but not all, though there were a few translations of those that weren’t. Some identified suspects, a couple of them names I’d already seen, while others said there were no suspects.
The next folder was full of information on Russian eggs. There were half a dozen photos and pages of information that included details and histories. Half the photos looked familiar, and I thought they had likely been printed from a website Natalie and I had viewed ourselves only a few hours earlier. I was positive they were photos of Caroline Marks’s egg. But why did that matter to Danielle Dillon? Why was she researching Marks’s egg?
A third folder held research on other familiar objects: the jade carvings. There were several dozen photos. One group of photos was clipped together, and a yellow sticky note on the front read private collection. I removed the paper clip and shuffled through the photos. Toward the bottom of the stack, there were three photos of a jade sculpture. Another sticky note read same private collection.
So the rumor Natalie had heard was accurate; the carvings and the sculpture had been in the same private collection. Why had Dunn lied? Was it because the sculpture had been stolen from him? Or because he wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place? More interesting was why Dillon was interested in any of this and who had stolen the sculpture.
I selected one of the sculpture photos and tucked it into my pocket. I wanted to ask Natalie for confirmation before I jumped to any more conclusions. Probably it was the sculpture we’d been talking about earlier, but I wanted to be sure, and it was easy enough to find out.
As I reached for another folder, I heard a car stop outside, the brakes squealing slightly. It seemed close. Had I been in any other house, I would have ignored it, but this house was a plague on this neighborhoo
d—everyone avoided it. No one would have parked right outside.
I stood and switched off the light, moving silently through the hall to the living room. Maybe it was whoever had been squatting here, which I seriously suspected was Danielle Dillon. I didn’t think I’d get that lucky, with ten hours left until the deadline, but I could dream.
Outside, I heard heavy, hurried footsteps, first on the front steps and then on the dead lawn, as someone moved around to the back door. Finding it locked, too, the person hurried back through the lawn and around the house. When he or she spotted the basement door, the person stopped. Then there were heavy footsteps on the concrete steps, and I could see a faint shadow on the other side of the door.
On the off chance Dillon did come home, I’d locked the front door. But this person didn’t have a key. Whoever was out there was trying to pick the lock.
Shit.
I realized at this point I only had two questions: Did this person drive a silver Cadillac? And could he or she pick a lock?
I still had the gun on my belt, but I wasn’t interested in using it. In fact, I didn’t want to fight at all. I thought it better to slip away unseen. I could have been wrong, but I guessed whoever this was had come here for me. The list of reasons for doing so was short and largely negative. I wanted to delay our confrontation as long as possible.
I turned and went back down the hall to a closed door at the end, near one of the unused bedrooms. I pulled it open, stepped inside, and flipped on the flashlight, pulling the door closed behind me. The passageway was dusty and dank. I climbed the wooden stairs then tried the door at the top, even though I figured it was locked.
Having been in the kitchen earlier, I knew the door was not barricaded or braced. It was a simple interior door with a basic lock. I pulled my hairpin out, my bangs falling free, and stretched it open, stripping the plastic end off. I knelt and slipped the pin into the lock.
I’d recently spent a lot more time practicing on handcuffs than doors, I realized. Too much time.
Behind me, I heard the heavy footsteps inside the basement apartment. Then light poured into the stairway from the crack under the bottom door. It wasn’t going to take long for the visitor to figure out the apartment was empty. But would he leave when he did? Would he believe there was no one else here?
I got the answer to my question when the bottom door ripped open. I shot to my feet and glanced back. The figure was big, obviously male, but strongly backlit by the light in the hallway, appearing only as a silhouette. I didn’t need to know who he was to know I was in trouble, though.
I gripped the railing on both sides then lifted my left foot, bringing it down against the door. The frame splintered and the door swung open as the visitor charged up the stairs. I burst through the door and bolted for the patio door. I reached for the lock with one hand then lifted and held the Charlie bar with the other. I slid the door open enough to slip out, letting the Charlie bar rest against the door. When I stepped out, I closed the door, and the Charlie bar fell back into place.
This wouldn’t delay my pursuer long, but it would buy me a few seconds. Without looking back, I ran through the yard to the front, half expecting my pursuer to get in front of me, emerging from the basement or front door. But when I reached the front of the house, I saw no sign of him. I tried to listen for sounds of pursuit behind me, but I could hear only my own pulse.
The car parked crookedly at the curb outside the Conrad house was not a silver Cadillac. It was a shiny black Jaguar. I committed the plate to memory as I passed and dug my keys out of my pocket. I wrenched the Scout door open and threw myself inside, shoving the key into the ignition and stomping on the clutch.
I tore away from the curb with a screech of the tires and glanced in the mirrors. I saw no sign of my pursuer or the driver of the Jaguar. But I kept my eyes glued to the mirrors as I drove all the same.
__________
I needed to run the Jaguar plate, and the bonds office was closer than my house. But Ellmann’s house was on the way, so I decided to stop by to ask Natalie about the photo. When I pulled up, there were lights on in the main level and upstairs. I used my key and called Natalie’s name as I walked to the office.
The computer was on, but I saw no sign of Natalie. She wasn’t anywhere on the main level or upstairs, although the lights were on in the room she was using. Maybe she’d decided to go to the movie after all, which would be more fun than grading papers. I shut the lights off, wondering if maybe they didn’t pay for electricity in California, then locked up and left.
I’d expected to find the bonds office empty, but Amerson’s truck was parked near the back door. It was Saturday, for crying out loud. Didn’t the man ever rest?
I punched my code into the keypad and went inside. The lights were dimmed, but I could see the lights were on in Amerson’s office. I spotted the man himself near the copy machine as I passed. I couldn’t help but notice he had traded his usual uniform of cargo pants and military shirts for trousers and a button-down. He looked … nice.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I got stood up, so I thought I’d come in and get some things done. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be looking for Dillon?”
Stood up? So that’s why he was dressed up; he had a date. But Amerson wasn’t the dating type. Actually, the only girl he’d shown any interest in since I’d known him was—
Oh, shit.
Natalie had told her parents she wanted to skip the movie to grade papers. Vince had made a comment about her having already done that. And, looking back, she seemed to have been blushing, eager to change the subject. Now it seemed obvious why. I was pretty sure Ellmann would have had a thing or two to say about Natalie dating Dean Amerson. Vince didn’t really seem to like anyone, so he would probably have had more than a thing or two to say. No way Natalie would have come right out and said that’s what she’d planned to do.
But why would she have stood Amerson up? She’d been giddy about him all afternoon, bugging me with questions: “Does Dean like this? Does Dean like that? Do you think Dean likes me?” It didn’t make sense.
I thought back to the house. I’d found all the lights on, but the doors had been locked. There had been no overt signs of struggle. Of course, I hadn’t seen any papers to be graded, either.
Something was wrong. Not only did things not add up, but I had a very bad feeling in my gut. And that feeling was never wrong.
“Grey! What’s the matter with you?”
“Uh, nothing,” I said, looking up at Amerson, who was now standing in front of me. “Listen, I’m really close to Dillon. Really close.”
He looked at his watch. “Just under nine hours. I hope you’re close enough to cuff her.”
“Me too.”
I turned and hurried over to a computer, logging on and punching in the license plate number. After a brief search, a name popped up on the screen. I was only mildly surprised, and a few pieces fell into place. After quickly logging off, I hurried for the door.
I debated saying anything to Amerson and ultimately chose against it. I didn’t want him involved. Too many people were involved already, if I was right about what was going on. I was pretty sure Natalie was in trouble. I didn’t want anyone else’s well-being on my conscience, even if Amerson could take care of himself. He liked Natalie, and feelings like that could cloud your judgment, cause you to make mistakes.
Probably I should have called Ellmann. Without a phone, I wouldn’t have another chance after leaving the office. I didn’t even pretend to think I could hide any of this from him, but I did think I might be able to resolve it before having to tell him about it. He may have had serious issues with his father and a distant relationship with his sister, but he still cared about his family, and I knew without being aware of the details he would not like what was happening to Natalie right now.
I broke multiple traffic laws after leaving the bonds office. Arriving in record time, I slowed a
s I drove south on Lemay toward Trilby. Shortly before the light, I turned left into Lyle Young’s driveway.
As before, there were no lights on above the garage. A familiar Jaguar was parked haphazardly between two of the doors. The same lights appeared to be on in the main house and guesthouse, but now a silver Cadillac was backed up to the main door of the guesthouse, the trunk still open. It didn’t take a big leap of the imagination to guess what had been in the trunk.
“Fuck,” I said. “I hate when I’m right.”
I parked the Scout cockeyed across the mouth of the driveway, preventing anyone else from coming or going, then shed the jacket and got out. This ended here. None of these people were going to get away from me.
I kept to the shadows and skirted around the main house and garage. I followed the driveway around the small lake to the guesthouse. The front door was closed, and I didn’t bother with it. I cut through the lawn toward the back, peeking in windows as I passed. This side of the house was dark, and what I could make out through the blinds were bedrooms.
The windows on the far side of the back were a different story; light poured out of these. I crept onto the expansive patio, cutting around the furniture, and leaned against the house to the side of the sliding glass door. A blood-curdling scream rang out, only faintly muffled by the glass, and every hair on my body stood up on end. My heart leapt in my chest then hammered against my sternum. My stomach turned at the realization of what I’d likely find on the other side of the glass.
I took a breath then leaned over and looked. Pretty much as expected, I saw Natalie duct taped to a chair sitting in the middle of the kitchen. There was blood on the floor and on Natalie’s dress. Her face was red and wet from crying. and even from a distance I could see she was trembling.
On the island in front of her, a towel was laid out with several items neatly arranged on it. Most of them were kitchen utensils, but not all. Among them I could see a couple knives, a potato peeler, needle-nose pliers, pruning shears, a box cutter, and one of those long lighters used for candles. There was a large pot on the stove, and whatever it contained was likely boiling based on the amount of steam rising from it.
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 23
