Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  What was with kids running the world these days? Had everyone over forty been put out to pasture?

  The kid held out a manicured hand. “Eric Sheffield.”

  Noah shook his hand harder than necessary. “Detectives Daugherty and Conner. We’re looking for any information you can give us on the original owners of an apartment building located on Varner Road, near the ship channel bridge. The property was foreclosed on six years ago.”

  “I know the property you’re talking about. The FBI contacted me yesterday. I sent them the name of the corporation earlier this morning.”

  “That company is out of business with no forwarding information. We’re looking for the original owners and some personal data. Names of the officers.”

  “I gave that nice FBI agent everything I had. Sorry.”

  Sheffield didn’t look sorry. He looked annoyed at the interruption. And if Lincoln Montgomery was coming across as “nice,” he wasn’t doing his job.

  “Do you have any old files or records, anything that might date that far back? They foreclosed six years ago, but started construction four years earlier.”

  “Like I told you, I wouldn’t have anything more than I already sent the FBI. You’ll have to talk to them.” Sheffield leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands, like a grade school principal finished with his lecture.

  Noah wanted to slap the snot out of him, but Conner stepped forward, handing the kid his spiral notepad. “If you could write down the number for your supervisor and whoever in the corporation is in charge of this type of recordkeeping, we’ll be out of your way.”

  “I’ve told you twice. We don’t have that information,” Sheffield whined.

  The reason Noah knew he whined was because the rain had lightened and he could hear the pleading in the kid’s voice.

  Noah could also hear a growing disturbance outside the office. The sound of raised voices penetrated the closed door.

  He turned his back on Conner and Sheffield and opened the door three inches. From his position, he couldn’t see into the lobby, but he could hear a man’s voice.

  “Everybody down on the floor. Now!”

  Noah eased through the door, edging closer until he could see the lobby reflected in the glass of an office. A man wearing camouflage shirt, pants, and ski mask had a gun pointed toward the ceiling.

  Why the hell did those stupid numb-nuts wear camo? Did they think no one could see them? That they’d blend into the woodwork?

  A crack split the air as lightening flashed. The lights flickered and went out. During the pause before the generator kicked on, a long, slow roll of thunder filled the room.

  Noah inched forward on cat’s feet. He slid his weapon from its holster. A customer screamed when she saw him and the rest of the patrons looked his direction.

  The man in the mask began to turn around as Noah smashed him in the head with the handle of his Glock. The knitted fabric of the mask blunted the blow and the man paused, but didn’t go down.

  Noah tuned out the sound of screaming that bounced around the lobby. He pulled his arm back as far as it would go and swung at the only part of the man’s face uncovered by the mask.

  His nose.

  This time the man went down on his knees. Blood spurted from his nose like someone had turned on a water tap. He dropped his gun and sagged to the floor.

  Noah stepped forward and stomped on the man’s hand as he groped for his lost gun.

  A black dress shoe appeared from behind him and kicked the weapon, causing it to skid, spinning, across the floor.

  Conner.

  His partner dropped to his knees and slapped cuffs on the prone robber, being careful not to get blood on his clean slacks.

  “If you’d just shot the fucker I’d be out of here in time for dinner and my nightly jog. Now we’ll have to take him to the hospital and I won’t get home until after dark.”

  Noah scooped the can of dog food into Sweet Pea’s dish. She lapped it up immediately, surprisingly accepting of dinner at ten thirty.

  He reached down and stroked her back. “You’ve certainly turned Zen on me lately. There was a time when you refused to eat except at your regularly scheduled time of six thirty in the morning and six thirty at night. Have you learned to forgive me for working crazy hours or did you get tired of being hungry?”

  The Yorkie didn’t look up until the dish was licked clean.

  Conner, on the other hand, seemed to be heading the opposite direction. Sure, nobody likes to come home in the dark, when everyone in the house is asleep but that’s part of being a cop.

  Shit happens.

  Especially if you stumble into a bank robbery.

  The fact that Conner used the term “fucker,” was the equivalent of the Pope shooting the finger to TV cameras.

  Noah used that term and worse several times a day. But not Conner. The choirboy didn’t approve of cursing and didn’t do it himself.

  So missing dinner and his nightly jog had to be a big deal.

  What did that mean? Was his partner regretting his decision to stay in Homicide? Longing for the regular hours of Internal Affairs? Considering a transfer to Media Relations?

  Or had Conner picked up on the fact that Noah was keeping secrets?

  Noah dropped the empty dog food can into the trash and slammed the lid. He was supposed to be a detective, dammit. He couldn’t even decipher clues from someone he was around every day. How was he supposed to solve a case with no clues whatsoever?

  Only one good thing had come from this day. Well, two. He’d taken down a hopped-up drug head waving a broken gun and no one got hurt.

  Thank God he didn’t have to shoot the kid.

  After the robber had been hauled away in handcuffs, Sheffield had refused a second request for more information. But Abby, the bank’s assistant manager, had hugged him tight, thanking him loudly and profusely for saving her life.

  Meanwhile, she’d slipped a note in his hand and whispered, “This is the number of the guy who used to be in charge of loans here. He might be able to help you.”

  Tomorrow he’d have somewhere to start. A toehold.

  Noah beat Conner into the office by a whole three minutes. Would wonders never cease? He’d already opened his email when his partner set a coffee-shop cup of dark roast goodness in front of him.

  “Sorry I was an ass yesterday. Evenings are when Betsy’s colic kicks up. If I can take her out for a jog, she calms down and we can get her to bed with only minimal fuss.”

  Hell. Maybe I was the ass. Had he cut Conner any slack for daddy duties? “Why don’t I come over this weekend and let you guys go out for dinner? I prefer lifting weights, but I can jog if necessary.”

  Conner’s eyes lit up like he’d won the lottery. “Are you sure? It’s not easy. She’s been known to scream for two, three hours.”

  Really? He had no idea it was that bad. Why hadn’t Conner let on? “I can handle it. I’ve babysat Emma and Iris since they were born.”

  But they never had colic. They’d cry for a few minutes, but he’d rock them and sing and they’d settle down. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Conner sang to Betsy. That would make anyone cry.

  Time for a subject change. “I got an email from Doc M at the morgue. He sent the DNA results on the first two victims over to Lincoln Montgomery who posted them on CODIS. There’s a chance we’ll have something in a few hours.” And a chance they wouldn’t hear anything for days, maybe months. Even with the new rapid DNA techniques, suspects came before victims.

  Conner’s voice held a note of disbelief. “That was fast. Now we can find out if working with Montgomery and the FBI is worth the hassle. So far, I’m voting yes. You?”

  Noah was torn. Unlike Conner, who had a slight case of hero worship for Feds, he had an ingrained distrust for the Feebies, their condescending agents, and the two-last-names Lincoln Montgomery with his perfect hair and shiny SUV in particular. But Montgomery had stayed all night to help Doc, kept him and Conner up
on any information he’d uncovered, and made use of federal resources on their behalf. All while working other cases. “I’m going to hold off voting until I see what CODIS turns up.”

  “What about the message Abby at the bank slipped you last night?”

  He’d seen that, had he? Conner didn’t miss much, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s what his partner was pissed about last night. Maybe he didn’t have any idea about the other secrets. “It’s the phone number for the guy who handled loans during that time period. She said he might remember something. You want to call him or shall I?”

  “She gave you the number.”

  But you’re better with people than I am.

  Conner flipped on his computer and began checking his messages. Noah gave up and started dialing. The number was the man’s home phone and his wife answered. Noah identified himself as a Houston detective, but gave no other information.

  Curiosity filled the wife’s voice, but Noah declined to elaborate. The number she gave him reached a local bank in Kilgore. He waited while the operator transferred his call.

  “Auto loans. Nick Travers.” The voice was pleasant, not young or old, definitely southern.

  “Mr. Travers, this is Detective Noah Daugherty with the Houston Police Department.”

  Travers gave a short laugh. “I didn’t leave any unpaid parking tickets behind when I moved, did I?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. I’m working on an old case. Can you remember any details about a loan you approved for an apartment building on Vernon Street that eventually went into foreclosure? That would have been about ten years ago.”

  What were the chances he could remember one loan out of hundreds, maybe thousands? Noah barely remembered his address ten years ago.

  “I’m going to take a wild guess and say Abby Willis gave you my number.”

  “That’s correct. The manager of that bank wasn’t particularly cooperative and she thought you might remember something helpful.”

  “You didn’t tell my wife Abby gave you my number, did you?”

  Had he? He couldn’t remember. “I don’t believe I did. Just identified myself as a police officer.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’ll have a fit anyway. Abby should have gotten that job when I left, but that snot-nose Sheffield was the CEO’s son-in-law. I’m not surprised he wouldn’t help you. That would mean he had to make a decision.”

  “Do you remember the loan I’m talking about?”

  “Oh, yeah. Cost me my job. Although that might be the best thing that ever happened to me. I love it here. The bank’s smaller. You get to know the people you’re dealing with. No one looking over my shoulder all day. The kids have more freedom than in the big city. Gave me and my wife a chance to start over.”

  What’d they say? TMI. Too much information. Although he’d bet there was a story in there between Travers and Abby. “What can you tell me about the loan? I’m looking for the names of individuals.” Noah held his breath. If Travers said he didn’t remember or needed a warrant, he was dead in the water.

  “Old man Dwyer pushed for the loan, even though it was too big for us to handle. One of the partners was his fraternity brother from college. The first corporation was named Frio or something like that. It had Dwyer’s frat brother, Darius Mason, but also Bradly R. Bachman, Senior and Junior, and the Keillor brothers. I can’t remember their names. Maybe a couple of more people. Mason’s wife might have been listed as a secretary or something, but that was in name only because she was a recluse. Never left the house.”

  Noah made notes as fast as he could. Even asked for confirmation of spelling.

  “Anyway, Mason died, he was the money man, and the corporation fell apart. Only to be put back together with a few new people under a new name. Llano, I think. That’s the first time I asked Dwyer for permission to lay the loan off on a bigger entity. Then Bachman senior wanted out. He was going through a nasty divorce. He’d loaned Junior the cash for his share of the investment, which meant he was out, too. Not surprising. The kid was a loser. A college dropout playing with daddy’s money. One of the Keillor brothers got into some tax trouble and moved to Costa Rica and a new corporation was formed. By this time, I knew we were in deep shit.”

  Interviewing over the phone was tough. You couldn’t see the guy’s face. Noah didn’t want him to quit talking, so he threw in an “Uh huh.”

  “The construction costs kept climbing with all the delays. By that time, they owned everyone and their uncle plus a bucket-load of back taxes. All the money was gone because they paid themselves big salaries. I lobbied to take over and finish building but Dwyer wanted to retire so we washed our hands of it and let Harris County deal with the headache. The whole situation was a black mark on our loan department so I lost my job and reputation. The joke’s on them. I’m much happier now.”

  Noah drilled him for more information and got a couple of tidbits, but nothing substantial. Now he had a few names. Not much to go on, but somewhere to start.

  He put down the phone and glanced over to see Conner grinning like a kid with an ice cream cone and holding up a slip of paper.

  The sky had cleared since yesterday’s rain, leaving a few puffy white clouds against a robin’s egg blue background. Noah glanced up and smiled. No wonder he loved autumn.

  Any decent pool car—an oxymoron if ever there was one—would be gone by this time of the morning, so he drove Lola and Conner navigated.

  The duplex in Montrose was gray-painted brick with a black wrought-iron hand rail on both sides of the four steps up to the miniature porch. Noah rubbed the worry stone in his pocket as the doorbell bing-bonged inside.

  “Think he’s in?” Noah whispered.

  “His website lists him as an interior designer at this address. If he wants business, hopefully he’s working.”

  The man who opened the door had a shaved head, tattoos crawling up the side of his neck and a Metallica T-shirt. He was probably an inch shorter than Conner so about five-eleven without the steel-toed work boots. Not exactly how Noah would have pictured an interior designer.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone this morning. Did you have an appointment?” He had the door open, so Noah stepped through. That was an invitation as far as he was concerned.

  “No. No appointment. I’m Detective Noah Daugherty and this is my partner, Conner Crawford. We’re looking for Niles Biermann. Is that you?” It better be. The guy was in Niles Biermann’s house.

  “Yes. What can I help you with?” He seemed surprised, but didn’t back away as if he had something to hide.

  “We’re looking for information on one of your missing relatives.”

  Hazel eyes didn’t blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. All my relatives are missing.”

  Conner held out a drawing of Kathy Doe made by the department forensic artist. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Biermann took the drawing and headed toward the back of the house. “Let’s go to my office. The light is better in there.”

  Noah tried to get a feel for the house as they traipsed through the living room and dining room but Biermann speed-walked to his office. All Noah managed was a quick glimpse of original artwork and a mirrored wall with a ballet barre.

  The interior designer’s office might once have been a patio, but now sported glass walls and ceiling, Moroccan tile floor, and a whiteboard covered with paint chips, fabric swatches, and floor plans.

  Biermann reached for a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He laid the drawing on his worktable and switched on a lamp. Taking his time, he scrutinizing every line. “You say she’s my relative? What’s her name?”

  “That’s what we came here to find out.” Noah tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice, but from the look on Biermann’s face, he failed.

  “I was born in the women’s restroom of the downtown Hilton Hotel and left there to be found by the cleaning crew. I have no idea who I might or might not be related to. That’s why I had my DNA tested and
posted on a site that promises to search for long lost relatives. In three months, this is the only hit I’ve had.”

  That’s why the results came back so fast. One mystery solved. A dozen more to go.

  “What is she, my sister?”

  “They only give the results in percentages. She’s most likely your half-sister, although first cousin is a possibility.”

  “So dear old mom kept it up and had more kids after me.” He reached out a finger and traced the curve of her face. “I’m guessing she’s dead, not missing. Otherwise you’d have real photos instead of a pen and ink sketch, even if it is well done. What the fuck, Mother. Why not mess up another life while you’re at it?”

  “We don’t actually know if she’s related to you on your mother’s side or your father’s side.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Probably not. Damn this case. If there’d been anything unbreakable around, Noah would have kicked it. Pain and suffering every direction he looked.

  He turned to study a stylistic drawing of a flower and let Conner handle the comforting words.

  “Niles?” A beautiful—and pregnant—woman came into the room. “I didn’t realize we had clients.”

  “Hi, honey. You feeling better?”

  “Much better, thanks.” Her head swiveled from Noah to Conner and back.

  Biermann draped his arm around the woman’s shoulders. “This is my wife, Aurora. The talent behind this business. I was a pretty messed-up kid, but I always liked to draw. She’s the one who taught me how to channel that talent. Honey, these gentlemen are police detectives checking on a missing person who may be my half-sister.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up. “They found your family?”

  “Only this one woman they can’t identify.” He showed her the sketch.

  “Did something happen to her?” Tears filled her eyes and her lower lip quivered.

  “For the moment, she’s just missing. Why don’t you go back upstairs and finish your nap. Doctor’s orders. I’ll come up later and bring you some tea.”

  After Aurora left, he turned toward Noah. “You’ll have to pardon my wife. We’ve lost two babies already and she got it in her mind we needed to check for birth defects in our families. She knows every ancestor of hers on both sides back to the Civil War, so it must be my fault.” He pointed to the drawing Conner was now holding. “What happened to her?”