“That’s my cell,” Hunt says, stopping in his tracks. “I forgot, my dad called me a bit ago and I let it go to voice mail because I had my hands in that engine. I should probably call him back.”
Richmond and I exchange looks. Based on the way we left things with Brad Donaldson, I can guess why he’s calling his son. Will he tell him to cooperate? Or will he tell him to blow us off? I’m thinking the latter and, apparently, so is Richmond because he comes up with a quick comeback that might yet let us achieve our goal.
“Is your shed locked?” he asks.
Hunt shakes his head.
“Mind if I take a peek at your equipment while you call your dad?” Richmond looks and sounds like a kid in a toy store. “I promise I won’t break it, or try to shoot any arrows. I just want to get a feel for the equipment.”
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead,” Hunt says with a smile, waving us on. “Just give me a minute and I’ll join you in case you have any questions.”
“Thanks, bud!” Richmond says. And as Hunt heads back into the garage, we beat feet to the utility shed. There is a hasp on the door with a piece of wood stuck through it as a lock. As Richmond pulls the wood out he says, “We need to try to get a sample of the dirt in the wheels of that ATV. We can compare it to the dirt out by Cooper’s Woods.”
“Good thinking. George Haas did say he heard an ATV out there.”
“I have some gloves in my coat pocket,” Richmond says. “When we get back to the garage, find a way to distract Hunt for me and I’ll get a sample.”
I nod my understanding as Richmond opens the shed door. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but items slowly start taking shape: a lawnmower, a weed whacker, various gardening tools, and in the back corner, a hay bale with a big target on it. Hanging on the wall beside the hay bale is a compound bow, a simple bow, and two quivers full of arrows. Richmond takes out the flashlight he has attached to his belt and turns it on.
One quiver holds ten small wooden arrows with green, plastic fletching on them. The other quiver holds eight arrows. Seven of them have black and yellow fletching but the eighth one has neon purple and green fletching, identical to the arrow that killed Lars.
“Whoa,” Richmond says. “Would you look at that. We need to film this.”
“Do you have your camera?” I ask him. “I don’t have mine on me.”
“Mine is in the car.” He hands me his keys. “I’ll wait here while you go and get it.” As he takes out his cell phone and starts taking some still pictures of the bows and arrows, I turn to head back to the cars. And I find myself face-to-face with a scowling Jeff Hunt.
“I just talked to my dad,” he says, glaring at us. “You people lied to me. Your dead guy wasn’t shot with a gun; he was killed with an arrow.”
“I never said he was shot with a gun,” Richmond says. “I told you it looked like a hunting accident. You assumed it involved a gun.”
“I want you to leave,” Hunt says. “My father said you’re on a witch hunt.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Hunt,” Richmond says with an apologetic expression.
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve just discovered that you’re in possession of an arrow that matches the murder weapon.”
“Murder? I thought you said it was an accident.” Hunt’s color pales. He stares into the shed, his eyes settling on the stuff in the corner. “Where did that come from?” he says, looking genuinely puzzled.
“Where did what come from?” I ask.
“That bale of hay with the target on it. That’s not mine.”
Richmond and I exchange looks. “Whose is it then?” Richmond says.
“Hell if I know.” Hunt takes another step closer, peering into the corner. He scratches his head, looking genuinely puzzled. “That quiver on the right is my dad’s, and that’s his compound bow. But that arrow with the purple and green fletching isn’t his. And it isn’t mine, either. My dad’s arrows are all yellow and black.”
“So you’re trying to tell me that an archery target, a hay bale, and a stray arrow mysteriously ended up in your backyard utility shed and you don’t know anything about it?” Richmond says with high skepticism.
Hunt looks at Richmond, then at me, then back at Richmond. His face darkens. “I’m going to call my father back,” he says. “And then I’m going to contact a lawyer.”
“You do whatever you feel you need to do,” Richmond says. “But this stuff is being confiscated as evidence in a murder investigation. Please don’t leave the premises.”
Hunt’s face is a dark mask of anger, but I can also see a hint of fear there. He spins around and strides back toward the garage.
“I need to get some backup here,” Richmond says, punching a number in his phone. “Looks like we’re going to do a meet and greet with the Portage police.”
“Are you going to arrest Hunt?”
Richmond shakes his head. “This stuff alone isn’t enough, particularly since we can’t know yet if the hay bale is from Reece Morton’s storage unit. And having a matching arrow doesn’t prove anything either. We might be able to match up some markings on this bow and the arrow we took out of Lars, but that’s going to take time.” He sighs and shakes his head again. “We can’t arrest him yet, but we definitely need to have a chat with him. And I need to get a search warrant for his house and garage.” He pauses and shakes his head. “I’m going to put a watch on Hunt. With Brad Donaldson’s money at his disposal, it would be all too easy for him to disappear.”
As he makes his call, I head back across the yard and out to his car to get the camera. Jeff Hunt is in the garage on his phone—no doubt talking to his father—and he glares at me as I walk by. By the time I return to Richmond, squad cars are rolling up out front. I hand Richmond the camera and watch as he starts filming.
“What motive does Jeff Hunt have to kill Lars?” I ask, thinking aloud.
“I don’t know exactly,” Richmond says. “But a lot of those fake receipts Lars had were for building supplies. There must be a connection there somehow.”
“What do you want me to do?”
He pauses in his filming. “This is going to take a couple of hours, maybe longer. Why don’t you head home and get in some time with the kid? I’ll instruct the Portage guys on what we need and stay until we have the evidence secured. We can regroup in the morning. I’ll call you at your office.”
“Okay.”
It sounds ideal on the surface, but it’s just a shift of focus from one crisis to another.
Chapter 25
During my drive home, I call Hurley.
“Hey, Sunshine,” he says. Despite the cheeriness of the words, his tone is one of dismal depression.
“I take it you haven’t had any luck.”
“Nope. I’ve tracked down some of Emily’s old friends from here, but none of them claim to have seen or heard anything from her since she left Chicago.”
“The guys didn’t find anything useful on the computer, either. The only e-mail exchange she had with anyone in Chicago was with a friend named Chloe Bannerman and that was months ago.”
“I haven’t talked to her yet,” Hurley says. “I’ll look her up this evening, and I’ve got a couple of other names to check out. If they don’t pan out, I’ll probably head home in the morning.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then if I don’t hear any news from you tonight.”
There’s a pause for a few seconds and then he says, “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this, Mattie. The longer this goes, the more convinced I am that something really bad has happened to her. I’ve got the guys checking up on some of the known pedophiles and sex offenders in the area to see if any of them look suspicious.”
“I can barely force myself to even consider that option, Hurley. It’s just too horrible.”
“I know.” He sighs slowly, heavily. “I’ll never forgive myself if something like that has happened to her.” He pauses, and I stay silent, not knowing
what to say. Then he adds, “Give my boy a hug and a kiss for me.” His voice cracks, and he sounds so sad and forlorn, it makes me want to cry.
When I get home, Matthew is awake and bright-eyed, sitting in Dom’s lap, smiling and gurgling at the colorful, noisy toy Dom is playing with.
“How are my two favorite guys doing?” I ask. I set my purse and the laptop down on the coffee table and hold my arms out to Matthew. As soon as my son sees me, his face lights up and his legs start to kick. I pick him up and give him a hug, closing my eyes to relish the moment.
My dog, Hoover, is sitting nearby and he thumps his tail and looks at me with his big brown eyes, waiting patiently for his turn. The poor guy has gotten used to being second banana now that Matthew is here. I walk over and give him a scratch on his head.
“Rough day?” Dom says.
“Could have been worse.”
“Any news on Emily?”
I shake my head. “I talked to Hurley a bit ago and he’s got a few more people to talk to in Chicago. If nothing pans out, he’s going to head home in the morning.” I start to add that he’s also looking into the sex offender thing, but I can’t give it voice. The thought is there, dark and lurking in the back of my mind all the time. But it’s as if it’s locked behind a door, and giving it too much thought or a voice would release it and make it real somehow.
“How’s Hurley holding up?”
“Not well. He’s really beating himself up over this.”
Dom sets the toy aside and gets up from the couch. “If you’re home to stay, I’m going to head home, too.”
“I am,” I tell him. “Izzy wanted me to tell you he’ll be home around seven.”
“Then I best get dinner started,” he says. “I’m making his favorite tonight: beef tenderloin with roasted baby potatoes.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I decided we’re going to have the talk.”
“The talk?”
He nods. “The baby talk.”
“Oh.” While I’m glad to hear that Dom is finally going to broach the subject with Izzy, it also panics me a little. I don’t how much hope Dom is putting on my willingness to be a surrogate for them. “Good luck,” I tell him.
My cell phone rings, and as I shift Matthew in my arms so I can get the phone out of my purse, Dom waves at me and says, “Later.”
I’m hoping the call will be Hurley with some good news, but when I glance at the caller ID I see that it’s my sister, Desi, instead.
“Hey, Desi,” I answer.
“I heard about Emily,” she says. “Have you found her yet?”
“No. Hurley is in Chicago looking for her.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Since yesterday morning sometime.”
“Oh, Mattie. How awful!”
“How did you hear about it?”
“Erika told me. One of her friends has an older sister who’s a classmate of Emily’s and she told the younger sister, who then told Erika.”
And so the grapevine goes.
“And then I saw the Amber Alert,” Desi goes on. “You don’t think that boyfriend of hers had anything to do with it, do you? I heard she’s been seeing a Chester boy.”
“I don’t think so. Johnny Chester seems to have avoided branching off his family tree the way his father and grandfather did. He’s as concerned as we are.”
“That has to be frustrating for you,” Desi says. “Why don’t you and Matthew come over for dinner tonight? I’ve got a big pan of lasagna made, and it’s been too long since I’ve seen that adorable nephew of mine. And maybe we can brainstorm about Emily.”
I’m tired, and the thought of having to pack Matthew up for a trip sounds like work. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen my sister and her family, and her mention of my niece, Erika, has given me an idea. Even though Erika is still in middle school this year, she knows a lot of the same people that Emily knows. Maybe some of her connections could shed some light on Emily’s whereabouts.
“I’d love to,” I tell Desi. “What time?”
We’ll be eating around seven. Any time before then is fine.”
“Okay. Let me feed and change Matthew and then we’ll be over.”
Matthew isn’t particularly hungry at the moment, so after trying to nurse and having him fall asleep at my breast, I put him in his crib and go out to the kitchen to pump. While disconnecting I manage to spill on myself, so I head into the bedroom to change. One of the new shirts I ordered from Amazon is still in the package in my dresser drawer. I figure now is as good a time as any to wear it and take it out. Beneath it is a composition book, a black and white notebook just like the ones Emily had in her room. Mine was a gift—or perhaps a trick—from Dr. Maggie. She gave it to me with instructions to use it as a diary of sorts, to record my feelings and thoughts. I wasn’t required to share it with her, and didn’t. Seeing it now makes me wonder about the empty composition book I found in Emily’s desk drawer. Had that come from Maggie, too?
It doesn’t matter one way or the other, but I decide to call Maggie anyway. It’s after five, so I’m not sure if she’ll answer, but she does. Either she is done for the day or has no client at the moment.
“Maggie, it’s Mattie.”
“Did you find Emily?”
“No, not yet. I have a question for you.”
“Okay, as long as it’s not a question about what I discussed with Emily.”
“Not directly. I went through her bedroom today and I found one of those black and white composition books in her desk drawer, like the one you gave me. She had several others that she was using for notes for school, but this one wasn’t labeled, so I thought maybe it was an extra. But when I ran across mine a little bit ago, it got me to wondering. Did you give Emily one of those composition books?”
“I did. Did you read it?”
“There was nothing to read. It was empty.”
“Hunh. I guess she handed me a line then, because she told me she was using it.”
“I wish she had. It might have helped.”
“You didn’t find any other papers she wrote stuff on?”
“Nothing except schoolwork. And the only things I found there were some drawings and doodles.”
“Sorry. Listen, I have a patient who just arrived. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, that’s all I needed. Thanks, Maggie.”
I hang up and finish getting myself ready for the trip to Desi’s house. Hoover is sitting next to the coffee table and, after sniffing the laptop, he rests his chin on it and lets out a little whimper.
“Did my mother teach you guilt lessons when you were over there?” I ask him.
In response he thumps his tail vigorously and beseeches me with those brown eyes.
“Okay, okay,” I say, and Hoover springs into action. It’s as if he can read my mind because seconds later he’s standing by the front door, looking back at me expectantly, his whole butt wagging with excitement.
I glance over at Matthew, who is sound asleep, and figure now is as good a time as any for a little doggie attention. Hoover’s enthusiasm is contagious as he bounds out of the house and runs toward the woods, stopping every few feet to look back and make sure I’m coming with him. I don’t want to be out of sight of the house so I don’t venture too far, but I let Hoover run ahead and explore to his heart’s content. After a few minutes of hearing him rustling through dead leaves and sniffing like a hyped-up cocaine addict, the sounds grow dimmer. Then I don’t hear them at all.
“Hoover!” I yell. “Come on, boy. Come on back.”
I wait and listen, but there’s no sign of him, so I call to him again. “Hoover! Come!” I whistle for good measure, sure he’ll come bounding through the trees any second. But he doesn’t. I look back at the cottage—it’s well within sight—and venture a little deeper into the trees before calling out again.
There’s no sign of him and I curse my stupidity for letting him out w
ithout a leash even though I’ve done it a number of other times and he’s never wandered far and always returns with little or no prompting. I need to go looking for him, but I’m not going to leave Matthew unattended and I don’t have my phone with me to call anyone. Reluctantly, I turn back and head inside to gather up my kid and a flashlight.
My doorbell rings just as I’m trying to stuff Matthew into his snowsuit. It’s like trying to thread overcooked spaghetti through the eye of a needle, so I give up for the moment and put Matthew in his bassinet in the living room while I go to the door. Standing on my porch is my ex-husband, David, whom I haven’t seen since Matthew’s birth.
Hoover dashes past David’s feet and mine, runs over to the bassinet, sniffs a couple of times, and then plops down on the floor beside it.
“Your dog was over at my house barking,” David grumbles.
“I’m sorry. I took him out for a quick walk and he went running off on me. He’s never done that before. I was just about to go looking for him.”
David is staring at my head and judging from the expression on his face, I’ve come up lacking somehow. “You changed the color of your hair.”
Yeah, yeah. I make a mental note to call Barbara as soon as possible to schedule an undoing. Then I mentally amend my note, realizing that the word undoing might not be the best choice in a funeral home setting.
“I wanted to try something different,” I tell him, running a hand through my hair.
“Well, if different is what you were after, you got it.”
His tone is snippy and it ticks me off. I’m not going to stand here and be insulted by the man, even if my hair does look like crap. “Thanks for bringing Hoover home,” I say, edging the door closed. “I need to be somewhere, so if you don’t mind.”
David’s eyes shift from me to the bassinet and before I have the door half closed he says, “I can’t believe you went through with this. Is this really what you want? Being a single mother? Being the talk of the town?”
I know I should just shut the door and be done with him. I know he’s goading me. And I know that if I play this game with him, it’s going to leave me frustrated and angry. But the gall of his comment is more than I can ignore. “You made me the talk of the town long before I did,” I shoot back. “Besides, my situation is temporary.”
Stiff Competition Page 25
