Blood Trails

by Diane Capri

  For Laura Oakwood, Flint had already ruled out Teresa Prieto and everyone else in Wolf Bend as an ideal family unit. Which left only one option among Oakwood’s blood relatives.

  Odds were strong that Laura Oakwood had placed her trust in Aunt Melanie. She should know where to find Oakwood, and she should want her niece to receive the money that was rightfully hers.

  Or maybe not. Barnett could refuse to help. Flint had a plan for that, too.

  He resettled into his seat and spent the rest of the flight time absorbing everything he could find about Melanie Barnett.

  Charlestown, Saskatchewan, was nestled along the Trans-Canada Highway, sixty miles east of Regina following a well-traveled bus route. Charlestown’s main attraction was Charlestown College, where both Melanie and her husband, Harold, were professors. Harold’s specialty had been rural development and Melanie’s was health studies. Their son’s major was finance, which was probably why he was now working in Switzerland.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Drake set the Pilatus down at a private airstrip. Hobby pilots were plentiful here in the Canadian prairie, which made the process easier than it might otherwise have been. Landing at the local airport would have meant seeking permission from the control tower. They’d have been asked for paperwork. The red tape would have tied them up for way too long, so they’d come in under the radar. No one seemed to care.

  After the Texas heat he’d escaped from, the weather was surreal. A storm was closing in to add more snow to the already-blanketed city. Dark clouds hovered, making midday seem like the middle of the night. Snow had begun falling in fat, wet flakes, the kind that piled up into sodden blankets. At least a dozen people would injure themselves tonight attempting to shovel the heavy stuff out of the way.

  Flint easily found Melanie Barnett’s quiet, residential neighborhood. Sidewalks lined the brick-paved streets. Single-family homes perched on small lots. Well-manicured gardens surrounded them in the spring and summer months, but this March, the gardens were buried under at least four feet of snow. Garages were detached and set back, afterthoughts, added years later, once cars had become standard transportation. Driveways were long and narrow.

  Most of the homes were lit from within and a few chimneys belched smoke in wisps from cozy wood fires. Flint could easily see inside the rooms where people hustled from one task to the next, preparing meals or watching television. Yellow or blue light spilled onto the snow through the windows.

  The Barnett house was perched in the middle of the block. A red brick Georgian-style two-story home with white trim and a black-shingled roof. White mounds of snow, several feet high, were piled on either side of the sidewalk and the front porch and the driveway.

  But there his luck ended. The Barnett house was dark. Melanie Barnett was not home.

  Flint checked the time. Perhaps she was at work or had gone shopping or to accomplish errands before the storm intensified. How long could he wait for her return?

  He’d like to have some evidence that he was on the right trail, at least. Shaw’s deadline would expire in less than twenty-one hours. If this was another dead end, he didn’t have much time to regroup and follow a new lead.

  Inside, Barnett might have pictures or other mementos of Laura Oakwood and her daughter. If she did, then he’d wait to speak to her. But if she didn’t, perhaps he should save his time and move on.

  The fresh snow made it impossible to approach the house without leaving obvious footprints. He scanned both sides of the sidewalk for approaching residents or visitors. Every few minutes a car would pass by, silently rolling along the snowy street. He couldn’t hang around in front of the Barnett house without arousing suspicion.

  He considered his options. Should he break in now and confirm his theories and then wait for Barnett to return? How long would he need to wait?

  He shifted from one foot to the other. He’d worn boots, jeans, and a jacket suitable for spring in Texas, not winter in Canada. His hands were red. His ears and fingers tingled with cold. He needed to move.

  Maybe he could catch her at work.

  Flint turned and tromped through the snow to the end of the block. He kept moving toward Charlestown College. If he hustled, he could get there before the administrative offices closed.

  The entrance to Charlestown College was six blocks from Barnett’s home. Between the two, East Charlestown looked better covered in a snow blanket than it would have in summer. Low buildings, broken pavements, rusty vehicles, and panhandlers dotted every corner. Drug dealers, waifs, and hungry dogs and cats loitered around the buildings for warmth. He’d spent time in worse areas but not recently.

  Half a block off the main drag, he walked through the archway onto Charleston College’s campus. He might as well have walked through a black hole from one dimension to the next. The campus looked like an advertisement by the chamber of commerce for life in idyllic Canada.

  The buildings were clean and well kept. Students and faculty trudged along the snowy sidewalks in all directions, bundled in down outerwear, heads lowered, lugging heavy backpacks or satchels. The college experience here was foreign to Flint.

  He hustled along, dodging preoccupied pedestrians, until he reached the administration building, which was directly across from the main campus entrance. He gripped the twisted wrought-iron handle and pulled open the heavy oak door. A heavily bundled female mumbled something that sounded like “Thank you” as she pushed out and walked into the storm.

  Flint stomped his boots to loosen some of the wet-packed snow before he set off down the corridor to the offices at the end of the hall. Inside he found a standard set of office furniture and a middle-aged woman behind a desk typing on a keyboard.

  She looked up, distracted. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so.” He put a smile on his face and in his voice. “I’m looking for Melanie Barnett.”

  “Professor Barnett has taken a leave of absence.” She returned her gaze to the screen, preoccupied with some knotty problem that seemed to have carried away any reticence she might otherwise have had about discussing Professor Barnett with a total stranger.

  “It’s important that I reach her. Do you know when she’ll return?”

  The woman didn’t look up again. “Next semester, I think.”

  He felt his enthusiasm extinguish with the flame of expectation. He’d come so close. “Where did she go?”

  “To Switzerland, she said. To visit her son.”

  The woman had been surprisingly forthcoming so far, so he asked another intrusive question. “Does she have a teaching assistant I might talk to?”

  Before she could respond, a middle-aged man emerged through an open door from an interior office. He cast a disapproving glance at the woman and approached Flint, hand extended. “I’m Ralph Lawson, dean of Charlestown College. Would you like to come into my office, Mister . . .”

  “Michael Flint,” he said, shaking hands before following Lawson, who gestured toward one of the chairs and closed the door behind him. He seated himself in the other chair next to Flint. The encounter reminded him of his talk with Laura Oakwood’s high school principal. Flint had never been a fan of educators because he’d been a lousy student, which his teachers rarely appreciated. This one wasn’t any warmer than any of the others he’d met.

  “Why are you looking for Professor Barnett?”

  “I’m not, exactly. I’m looking for her niece.”

  “Leslie? Why?”

  “Yes, Leslie.” He latched onto the name like a lifeline. An alias probably, but it could be a searchable one. “I’ve been hired to bring her some good news and I don’t have an address for her.”

  “What good news?”

  “It’s confidential.” He saw Lawson’s spine stiffen. Before Lawson could change his mind and throw him out, he said, “Can I trust you to keep this just between us?”

  Lawson folded his hands. “I can’t make that promise until I hear what this is about. But as long as you’re no
t threatening her, I don’t see why not.”

  “Right. Well, Leslie is entitled to some money. Quite a lot of money, actually. But only if she claims it before tomorrow afternoon.”

  Lawson’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth formed an astonished O. “And she doesn’t know about the money? How is that possible?”

  “It’s complicated.” Lawson stiffened again, and Flint relented as much as he thought the administrator might expect. “Her claim to some real estate was not known until recently. When the property came up for sale, her rights in the oil and gas underneath the property were discovered.”

  Lawson nodded. “We have a lot of that kind of thing here in Saskatchewan. Oil and gas production have been booming across Canada.”

  “Then you know this isn’t as crazy as it sounds. I need to find her, pronto. Otherwise, she’s going to lose out on what belongs to her. Does she live around here?”

  Lawson shook his head. “She used to. When she was a student here and lived with her aunt and uncle. But she graduated and moved away. I’m not sure where she lives now.”

  A current address might be in the college records for fund-raising purposes. Universities were forever pestering graduates for donations. Flint was sure Lawson wouldn’t search for it. He’d put Scarlett on the project. Without a last name, it might take a while. But how many Leslies could there be in a relatively small school alumni list from Charlestown College?

  He was closer to finding Oakwood than he’d been since the job started. He could feel it. “I understand that Professor Barnett is on vacation. Do you have a phone number where I might be able to reach her and ask for Leslie’s address?”

  Lawson shook his head. “I don’t. She’s out of the country. I’m sorry.”

  “Is there anyone else on campus who might be able to help me?”

  “I can ask around. If you can come back tomorrow, I might have a couple of people lined up for you.”

  Flint had the feeling that pushing Lawson any further was the wrong way to go. He seemed like the type who took his responsibilities seriously. This was probably the best Flint would get from the old guy, and it was more than the school should have shared with him.

  “That would be great. I’ll call back tomorrow.” He put a big grin on his face and reached out to pump Lawson’s hand. “And thank you for your help, Mr. Lawson. I’m sure Leslie and her aunt will be thrilled when they hear my news.”

  Flint smiled and nodded and Lawson walked him to the exit. He wouldn’t return tomorrow. But he’d learned three useful bits of information. He was on the right track. He could look around inside the Barnett home without fear of being discovered. And Leslie, as Laura Oakwood was calling herself now, had been a student at Charlestown College before she moved away.

  He could use all that to narrow his search. But could he do it before tomorrow’s deadline?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Flint retraced his route to Melanie Barnett’s home in half the time he’d spent on the way over. He walked past her house to confirm that it remained unoccupied. Three doors down, he found a home whose sidewalk and driveway were covered in numerous snow prints. He trudged through the snow to the backyard, mixing his boot prints with the others.

  There were no fences between the homes in this neighborhood. At least he wouldn’t have to climb over them. There were no outdoor lights shining from any of the houses into the back.

  He ducked along the shadows behind the third house and then the second house, until he reached the back of the garage at the Barnett residence. He flattened himself against the garage wall and crouched low to avoid being seen, had any of the neighbors bothered to look into the backyards.

  From the garage, he saw that the back of the Barnett residence was as tidy and deserted as the front. A patio extended the length of the house. There were floodlights, probably connected to motion detectors, near the back door. The setup was low tech, installed more for the homeowner’s convenience than for crime prevention.

  He stayed close to the garage until he reached a walkway to the house. Flint pulled out his LED microbeam and used it to see the connections for the floodlights. He didn’t want to shut down the electricity. If he could get close enough without tripping the sensors on the motion detectors, he could simply unscrew the bulbs in the floodlights and screw them back in when he left.

  He’d seen no evidence of a home alarm system here or anywhere else on the block. The neighborhood didn’t seem like the kind of place where a homeowner would need one. Apparently mountains of snow and bone-chilling cold were sufficient deterrents to crime here, even given the dodgy characters he’d passed a few blocks away.

  He scanned the area again, to be sure he wasn’t visible to the neighbors. Then he avoided the motion sensors, unscrewed the bulbs, and moved to unlock the back door.

  Inside, the first thing he noticed was the darkness. Little ambient light spilled in from the streetlights out front. The windows were covered by heavy drapes or wooden blinds or both. Barnett had left the heat on with the thermostat set at about fifty degrees, which meant the power was still on. But if he turned on the lights, the neighbors might notice. Some ambient light had infiltrated the window coverings, which meant light could no doubt escape through the same crevices.

  He pulled the LED microbeam from his pocket again. He didn’t have to worry about a watchdog. He made a quick tour of the house. It was about two thousand square feet and included a finished basement, where laundry and workout equipment were set up. The first floor was divided into kitchen, dining room, living room, half bath, a small office, and a room with two chairs, two ottomans, and two reading lamps across from a big-screen TV. The second floor contained four bedrooms and two full baths.

  None of the rooms were occupied by woman or beast or sufficient lighting.

  If he hadn’t assumed that Melanie Barnett lived here alone, he might have concluded this was still a family home. Instead, it was an unoccupied residence because its single owner was on vacation.

  On the second pass, he looked for family photos on the walls and in frames resting on the tabletops. Melanie and Harold Barnett had been a happy couple, judging from all the photographic evidence.

  Photos chronicled their courtship, marriage, and major life events, like the birth of their son, Harold, Jr., who grew up to be a handsome young man and became a middle-aged banker. If Junior had married, his parents didn’t choose to display photos of the occasion. Which probably meant he was still single. Married to his work, perhaps.

  On the second floor, along the corridor walls, Flint found the first photos of Laura Oakwood and the girl who could only be her child. The age-progression photos he’d prepared back in Houston were fairly accurate. He’d have recognized the twenty-five- year-old Oakwood anywhere. At thirty-five-ish, she resembled his computer-generated images well enough to hit on facial recognition software at border crossings around the world. She was in her midforties now and she probably hadn’t changed much.

  The baby, Selma Oakwood Prieto, had been photographed slightly more often than the Prince of Wales. Walls throughout the house were adorned with her image. Framed candid and studio shots of her at various life events rested atop most flat surfaces. In all of them, she looked healthy.

  Her fourth birthday had been celebrated with a chocolate cake that said “Happy Birthday, Sally!” in bright pink script. So they’d used her grandmother’s preferred nickname for her, too.

  The most recent photo of Laura Oakwood was framed and perched on the table in the TV room between the two easy chairs. She looked about forty or so. Her daughter was photographed with her. There were “Happy Birthday” signs behind her and Selma held a martini glass in her hand. The legal drinking age in Canada was eighteen in some provinces and nineteen in others, which meant the photo was probably eight or nine years old. He pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures of the photos.

  He made another quick circuit of the house, looking for more recent photos he might have missed while
roaming around in the dark, but he didn’t find any. Which made sense if Laura and Selma had moved on, as Lawson said. Maybe the Barnetts were like a lot of modern families and they took mostly digital photos now. Sometimes people displayed digital images in an electronic frame, but he didn’t see one anywhere in the house.

  He’d confirmed that he was on the right track with Melanie Barnett, though. Her niece had come here. Lived here. Raised her daughter here. Apparently changed her name to Leslie something and began calling her daughter Sally. What last name had she adopted? Was she using Barnett now?

  Flint shook his head. Logically, when Laura showed up here with a baby, she’d have told her aunt something about the father. She might have invented a name for him, too. Because if she’d used Oakwood when she first arrived, unless she told her family why she was running from the law, they’d have expected her to have the family name. So she’d probably given them the false name from the very outset.

  Where was Leslie living now? That was the thing he’d come here to find out. But he’d come up empty so far.

  He hadn’t found an address book or a list of phone numbers near the landline phone. The phone itself was old and hard-wired into a jack in the kitchen wall. It didn’t have a phone book feature or a list of speed-dial numbers. He found five more phones in three of the bedrooms, TV room, and basement. All were of the same vintage and configuration. None had a list of numbers or addresses nearby.

  Where would Melanie Barnett have kept her niece’s address and phone number? Unless there’d been a rift in the family, she’d have been sending cards and gifts to wherever Laura and Selma were living now.

  All appearances here in the house suggested she’d have that information written down somewhere. She had a home office. A wired landline phone. He hadn’t seen a desktop computer anywhere. So she didn’t seem like the kind of person who would store important information solely in an electronic device of some kind.