Besides two monitors, a pull-out ergonomic keyboard, a stash of pens, and a wire tray with two manila folders, Dillon’s L-shaped desk was mostly filled with mementos. On the corner of his desk was the largest memento: a brass clock. It had the Spatium logo etched into the glass and the phrase “Time on task” engraved on the side, with his name beneath it. I imagined that was something he’d given to all of his employees with the belief it would initiate remarkable productivity gains throughout the enterprise.
Oh brother.
Five other work-like trophies lined the front of his desk, all made out of glass or crystal, some spouting accolades for Spatium being a “favorite place to work” and the rest related to visionary leadership in space exploration technology. Pulling around to the other side of the desk, I ran my fingers across the mouse pad, something I hadn’t noticed earlier. It was a collage of Emma pictures, including one with her eyes and mouth wide open as she went down the slide. I wondered if that was her maiden voyage.
I paused and looked to the office door, thinking I heard footsteps from the hallway. After a couple of seconds, I realized it was nothing more than the patter of rain off the gutters from outside. I picked up the manila folders and opened the one on top. It was filled with loose papers, some with crumpled corners.
“Purchase orders,” I said out loud, riffling through page after page. The descriptions of the items were vague and might as well have been written in Chinese. What I did recognize were the dollar amounts. A few items with three digits in front of the decimal, but most had four and a few had five. In all, I counted twenty-seven pages of purchase orders dating back to no earlier than just four months ago.
Most likely, that was business as usual at Spatium as they continued executing their trips into space. I wondered if the failed merger with the other companies had squashed all plans for a colony on Mars. I opened the second folder and immediately thought I might have answered my own question. I saw a plethora of building sketches and associated specification documents. Across the top of one of the sketches, “Camp Burchfield” was written out. I scoffed at the ego of billionaires—everything connected back to their names.
I put the folders back exactly as I’d found them, then pulled on a drawer. It didn’t budge. The three on the side and the one in the middle all were locked. I blew out a tired breath and turned to look at the mahogany built-in bookshelves. They took up the entire wall, filled with books, decorative knick-knacks, and a few framed pictures. I slowly made my way down the wall, pausing at the pictures of Emma. I couldn’t help but smile. Again, it was interesting to note how devoted Dillon was to his daughter.
A few feet down, I stopped, eyeing three connected brass frames. I focused on the one in the center. It was a picture of Dillon with Cheryl on a tropical beach. She looked so different than the woman I saw a couple of weeks back at the truck stop. With a boogie board tucked under her arm and a radiating smile, she appeared to be the definition of life. She was tickling Dillon, who was wearing a silly smile.
I glanced at the two outside pictures, both of them including Emma with her parents. They seemed happy…the postcard for the all-American family. Pudge had said Cheryl had been fighting drugs all of her adult life, but she looked healthy in these pictures. Her face had color, her arms had definition, and she was hugging Dillon and Emma like they were the loves of her life.
A stream of melancholy entered my heart. I stared at the happy faces, wondering what happened along the way that led them to where they were today: one facing felony charges and recovering from someone trying to kill him, and the other locked up in a mental institution after trying to sell her daughter for drugs. If they couldn’t make it as a couple, who could? The temptations of the world and related scrutiny by everyone who thought they had a worthwhile opinion seemed to have a sole purpose of ripping families and loved ones apart. It was cruel…and sad.
Pushing my feelings aside, I shuffled to the end of the wall where I found a picture of three young men wearing ill-fitting military uniforms. Lifting the metal frame, I could see the picture was faded. The haircuts alone told me the picture was easily fifteen or twenty years old. Outside of long sideburns from the one on the right, their faces were void of hair. They were teenagers, with goofy, shocked expressions, as if they were about to create a real scene.
Was that middle one Dillon? I would have cracked up had I not been secretly searching through his office. He was rail thin, but the way his eyes sparkled when he smiled…it was just like the photos he’d taken with Cheryl and Emma.
“ROTC,” I whispered. The boys were likely in high school and a member of that organization.
I ran through what I knew about his background and didn’t recall any connections to the military, not even one in his family, at least not in his immediate family. No big deal. A lot of kids join ROTC and never enlist or attend one of the service academies.
Dillon had graduated from MIT in Boston, at the top of his class no less. If my memory served me correctly, he migrated south to Austin, the Silicon Valley of the Southwest. And that was where he met Cheryl, who’d just graduated from St. Edward’s University.
“Do you make a habit of invading the privacy of your clients?”
My breath stuck in my throat. I turned to see Zeke standing at the door, his jaw jutting out as if he were about to clamp down on my neck. He was wearing a black, tight-fitting T-shirt.
“I couldn’t sleep.” I casually set the picture frame on the shelf and pretended to scan the bookshelves. “I was looking for a good book. I think I’m in the mood for a romantic suspense.”
“Do you honestly think Dillon Burchfield would read genre fiction?” He chortled while entering the room.
“I didn’t know I was revealing my lower-classness,” I said with a sarcastic tone as I inspected the authors of the books on his shelf. Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clark, Kim Stanley Robinson, and Douglas Adams, whose name was on the spine of a book titled The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
I turned to see Zeke inspecting the entire room. He spent a lot of time around Dillon’s desk, feeling under the edge, as if he were looking for a planted listening device.
“I’m not the person who tried to kill Dillon.”
He paused, stared at me. “I’m not an idiot,” he said and continued his routine, as if he’d done it a hundred times.
I couldn’t be certain what he was thinking, but he wasn’t about to tell me. I took another glance at the photo of Dillon and his ROTC buddies, then looked at Zeke. I saw no resemblance, even taking into account his currently chiseled physique.
“I’m going to bed,” I said, waving an arm.
He acted like he didn’t hear me, so I walked upstairs and rested my head on the pillow.
26
A double clap of thunder sent a jolt through my extremities. I sprang upward, gasping for air, wondering where I was.
I felt cotton sheets at my fingertips. My throat relaxed a bit, allowing oxygen to reach my brain. Opening my eyes, I could see the outline of the overhead ceiling fan fixture, the curvature of the sleigh bedframe. Lightning pulsated through the curtains, and I began to recall what I’d been dreaming about.
The images were etched in my mind. The storm must have pushed them to the forefront. It usually happened that way—something seemingly random could bring back the horrors.
I blinked and could see myself hogtied, naked in the back seat of a car. The man’s greasy, black hair. Rain and wind thrashing the car side to side. The never-ending crash…tumbling over and over again as we plummeted down the rocky terrain into a dark canyon. Jagged glass slicing my skin as I wedged my way to freedom—only to be grabbed by his huge mitt. A fight for my life. Stabbing an arrow of broken glass into his hand.
Still trying to catch my breath, I coughed twice and rolled out of bed. I’d been asleep less than an hour. I stepped into the bathroom, gulped down a cup of water, then splashed more water on my face. I was alive and well. Memories of Milton were never v
ery far, but I highly doubted that he would venture on property protected by James Bond.
I held a towel against my face until my breathing returned to normal.
What about Emma?
I raced out my bedroom door, hoping the thunderstorm hadn’t scared her. I jogged past Cristina’s room, then cut down the long hallway until I reached Emma’s room. The door creaked when I pushed it opened.
She was still asleep. My shoulders dropped a couple of inches as I tiptoed over to her Aladdin-themed bed. She was curled up, holding a stuffed horse. Her little chest lifted every second, and when a flash of lightning illuminated her room, I could see her eyelids flutter. She was dreaming.
It had to be better than my dream. I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, then padded out of the room, releasing a long yawn. I had a daunting list of tasks to complete tomorrow morning, and I would need sleep before my brain could think straight.
I was heading back to my room when I heard the chime of the doorbell.
“What the hell?”
Wearing a long T-shirt that hung below my shorts, I bounced down the stairs. Dammit, no bra. Whoever it was would have to deal with it.
At the bottom of the staircase, I rounded the corner and looked around the house and out the back windows for Zeke or Squash. No sign of any security guard.
I walked into the foyer as the door knocker rammed the front door.
“Shut the hell up,. We have kids sleeping,” I growled, knowing no one could hear me over the storm. I pulled a curtain to the side and looked out a small vertical window.
It was a cop.
The chime sounded again. I put my hand on the deadbolt, but paused. I felt a ping of doubt in my gut. The cop’s face was obscured by his hat.
Milton fooled you last time, had you thinking he was a cop. Don’t let your guard down.
Slowly leaning to my left, I peeked out the window again. Three more cops, two with hats off, running their hands through their wet hair. And pulling up behind them...
Was that…?
I unlatched the deadbolt and swung open the door. “Moreno, tell me you found out who the sniper was.”
“Sorry to bother you so late, Ivy.” His tan pimp suit was a darker shade along his shoulders where he’d been drenched by the rain.
“Not to be rude, but you are bothering me. I just hope you didn’t wake Emma.” I looked up to the top of the stairs and saw no one there. “By the way, where’s the security team?”
“We checked in with Squash at the gate. He knows us, so he just let us in.”
“Can you come back in about seven or eight hours to gather your evidence? I’m assuming you have something on Dillon.”
“What? No, different case.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Can we come in?”
I wiped my face. “Do I have to say yes?”
He flapped a folded piece of paper. “This says so,” he said with a cocky smirk.
I didn’t move out of the way. “Where’s Stan?”
“Not involved with this case. He’s home with his wife and kid. I’m single, so I have nothing better to do than serve a warrant.”
“A warrant for what?”
He took a step just inside and looked over my shoulder. “For her.”
I turned and found Cristina paused halfway down the stairs. Moreno walked right past me, followed by his backup crew.
“Go ahead, come on in.” I shut the door, muting the thunder and driving rain.
“Cristina, come on down and talk to us,” Moreno said from the foyer.
Her eyes shifted from the detective to me. She looked like she was considering running back upstairs.
“It’s okay, Cristina,” I said, walking toward the stairs. My chest felt exposed, so I quickly crossed my arms. “I’m sure we can talk this out. Come on down.”
She didn’t say a word. Her lips didn’t move. She just stared straight ahead, as if she were in some type of catatonic state.
Surely, this was about nothing more than Cristina being Cristina. She’d probably flipped a bird at the wrong person, or keyed some rich woman’s car after being called a derogatory name. Or maybe it was about the fight she’d been involved in.
“Cristina,” I said again.
She didn’t move.
Moreno gave me a glance, then put a foot on the first stair.
“Hold on, I’ll get her down here,” I said, stepping in front of the pushy detective and moving up the stairs until I put my hand on hers. “Hey, you all right?”
“Fine.”
“Let’s not wake up Emma, okay?”
I followed her eyes as she looked to the landing above her. Thankfully, Emma hadn’t shown her face. Cristina slowly made her way down the stairs, stopping just in front of Moreno.
“Where were you two nights ago at around ten o’clock?” he asked, his hands on his hips.
I chimed in with, “She was probably roaming the streets, or sleeping on a park bench. Why are you asking?”
“Stay out of this, Ivy.” Moreno gave me the eye. “I don’t want to have to arrest you too.”
“Too?”
He kept his gaze on me for a couple of seconds, then turned his attention back to Cristina.
“I didn’t kill him.”
I had to replay her words before they really sunk in, then choked out, “Who?”
“Are you going to tell us where you were?” Moreno asked.
Cristina’s chest lifted and fell rapidly. Her hands were balled into fists, and her eyes were glassy. I wanted to reach out and hold her, protect her. But I couldn’t, not with Moreno and his troops here.
“What’s going on?” Zeke walked into the room from the kitchen. I assumed he came in through one of the back entrances. I ignored him.
“Sir, we’re executing a warrant. We need for you and Ms. Nash to stand back,” an officer said.
Zeke put his hands behind his back, puffed out his chest. “All I care about is the safety of Emma. So do what you need to do and get on with it.”
I gave him a curious look, then slid over next to him while eyeing my ECHO teammate. In fact, all eyes were on her.
She looked at us like we were piranhas. “I said I didn’t kill that bastard.” Her volume increased with each word.
“Please tell me, what bastard?” I asked.
“Jesse,” she said. “Mom’s boyfriend.”
“We found a cell phone by him,” Moreno said. “It has text messages between you and him, to meet behind the elementary school. Did you meet him and then, maybe because of some type of vendetta, you killed him?”
Please no. Tell me she didn’t, not for that asshole.
I thought about the text Cristina had received from her mom on Mother’s Day night. I was confused. Had Cristina told me the truth about how she got those bruises?
Tears bubbled in her eyes, and she began to rock back and forth. “I didn’t do it. You gotta believe me.” She began to sob, dropping her head in her hands.
“What’s wrong, Cristina?” Emma was standing at the top of the stairs.
“It’s okay, sweetie.” I began to walk in that direction, but an officer held up his arm.
Zeke took a step forward, as if he were my protector. Another cop came at him from the side.
“Everyone, calm your asses down,” Moreno said from the second stair. “Let Ivy go to Emma. Zeke, I need for you to stay where you are and not start a fight.”
I walked over to Cristina. She reached out and grabbed my hand. We locked eyes for a moment. And all I could see in those couple of seconds was hopeless fear. Then I ran up the stairs as Moreno read Cristina her Miranda rights.
Emma watched as another caregiver got arrested and taken out of her life.
We both cried this time.
27
Saul shook hands with the Bexar County assistant district attorney, then turned and walked in my direction. I could see his furrowed brow from thirty feet away. The meeting must not ha
ve gone well. I rested a hand against the courthouse pillar as I prepared myself for the worst possible news.
“How did it go?” I asked.
He shook his head. “The ADA, Ronda, is direct and doesn’t play games. She backed up what Detective Moreno said about the text messages.”
“Why wouldn’t Cristina tell me that she’d been contacted by the man who had raped her? I don’t get it.”
Two lawyerly-looking men casually walked by, and Saul paused to let them move past us before he continued. “Ronda did provide me with a little insight into how all of this went down. Now, she only shared this since she knew we would eventually learn this from Cristina.”
“How nice of her. But go ahead,” I said.
“The text messages that Jesse sent Cristina…they were from her mom’s phone.”
I reached for Saul’s arm, as I connected his feedback with what Cristina told me on Mother’s Day night. “Cristina told me she got a text from her mom that night, which makes me wonder…”
Nodding, Saul said, “I didn’t get to see the content of the text messages, but Ronda said it was obvious that he was posing as Lena, her mom.”
Blood coursed through my veins, brought on by anger and sorrow. Anger at Jesse for using a daughter’s connection to her mom for such a disgusting and selfish purpose, and sorrow for Cristina. The moment she’d realized it was Jesse, and not her mother, who had drawn her to the school…it must have shredded her heart. She’d obviously had hopes of reconciliation with her mother—she’d decided to meet up with her after all. And then in a split second, it was stolen from her, like so many other things in her life. “He wanted to draw her to this school in the middle of the night? To harm her again…or what exactly?”
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 62
