by Lyn Cote
O’Neill’s voice was devoid of inflection or emotion. It made Connie shiver, bringing gooseflesh on her arms.
“Troy can’t have left his family.” Lou slammed his hand down on the kitchen counter. “He’s a good boy, my nephew.”
The blow shuddered through Connie. Over the past week, her belief that Troy had been kidnapped had begun to splinter, revealing cracks. She ached over his betrayal of Annie. Troy, there must have been a reason. Why would you empty out your joint accounts and leave Annie penniless and with no support?
She had to find the extenuating circumstances so she could understand why Troy had behaved so out of character. What am I missing, Lord? Why is this happening? What have I left undone that I should have done to help Annie, to find the truth?
Her conscience stirred. Once before, she’d discussed with O’Neill the possibility that Uncle Lou might be involved in Troy’s disappearance. What he’d told her in return had been too upsetting for her to deal with. His cynicism had sliced through her. I can’t be a coward any longer. I’m going to make O’Neill help me find out if Rossi Construction Company is involved with organized crime or not. And then if this had anything to do with whatever happened to Troy.
“Rossi, how do you explain his letting bills pile up unpaid?” O’Neill asked, his pen in hand.
Connie focused on the way his long fingers gripped the pencil.
“What?” Lou halted.
“I was going to call you…” Annie rubbed the back of her neck and twisted her head as though loosening tight muscles. “But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Lou moved closer to Annie.
Annie looked to Connie, begging her silently to break the awful news to Uncle Lou.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this.” Connie’s nerves tingled and she felt like crawling out of her own skin. She looked down at her hands and began tearing at a tag of skin beside her thumbnail. “Troy rented a post office box in Taperville and had all the bills forwarded there.” The tag of skin ripped off, leaving a tiny red slit that stung.
Connie folded her hands together to stop herself from repeating this painful little act of frayed nerves. “Then he stopped paying bills in March.” She couldn’t put any emotion into her recital. Her voice sounded like O’Neill’s. This is not happening. “Troy also stripped every penny out of their joint bank accounts. Annie is about to have her electricity cut off.”
Lou exploded with Italian phrases, his usual way of venting anger.
Annie sat in stoic silence. Connie’s hands knotted together under her chin. O’Neill leaned fractionally closer to her, but also waited out the eruption, merely tapping the blunt end of his pen on his notebook.
Uncle Lou’s tirade finally subsided, and red-faced, breathing hard, he said, “You give me the bills. I’ll pay them.”
“No…” Annie made her voice stronger. “No, that’s not right. You’ve helped us enough—bringing Troy’s wages in cash to me every Friday. I can’t let you shoulder Troy’s responsibilities—my responsibilities—indefinitely.”
Lou tried to interrupt, but Annie persevered. “I’m able to work. Jack said he can use me to do some clerical work at his office here in the neighborhood and Sandy said she’ll watch the twins for me for free while I’m there. And I’ll be getting a refund soon for the summer tuition I’d paid. I dropped everything before the cutoff date. You… I…” Annie fell silent.
“I’ll still be paying you Troy’s salary until we find him,” Lou said stubbornly. He glared at O’Neill as if all this were his doing.
“We have to face…” Annie stammered. She reached up and took the older man’s hand. “Troy may not…he may not…”
Connie’s heart shriveled up as Annie tried to say the words: “He may not be coming back.” Annie, dear Annie. I loved you and your family long before I lost my heart to Troy. Troy, what did you do this for? What’s the explanation? There has to be one. You can’t have meant all this.
O’Neill cleared his throat. “That was a pretty new truck. Was it paid for?”
Finally grateful for his persistence and ability to focus, Connie tried to shore up her defenses against her consciousness of him. She sensed Rand was choosing his words with exquisite care. Why did she doubt his sensitivity to Annie’s pain?
Annie shook her head no. “I didn’t think we needed a new truck, but Troy bought it at the end of last December. He got a great price and a no-interest loan on it because the dealer wanted to get it off his lot before the new year.”
“I wondered.” O’Neill looked as though this had told him something important—nodding to himself and jotting another note down. “Who was the dealer?”
Connie eyed him. What had it revealed to him?
Annie named a large Chicago dealership.
“Let me call them. It might not have been stolen, just repossessed. That’s why I wanted you to wait before we called Hess.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.
Uncle Lou started to say something—maybe “Troy wouldn’t do that,” but stopped himself.
“Would they break into a garage to repossess a vehicle?” Connie asked, pressing her hands together, so she wouldn’t start tearing at her own skin again. “Is that legal?”
O’Neill shrugged. “Some of these professional repossessing outfits aren’t too picky how they get the vehicles back.”
Connie opened her mouth to ask another question.
He held up a hand, forestalling her. “Yeah, this is Rand O’Neill,” he spoke into the phone. “Taperville police detective. I need to know if any of your men picked up…”
Connie let O’Neill’s low voice flow around her. She watched the way his hand covered Annie’s while the other cradled the phone to his ear.
“Thanks.” O’Neill hung up. “No, the pickup wasn’t repossessed. But Troy only made two payments on it and it was on the repossession list for June. If it hadn’t been in police custody after Troy’s disappearance, it would have been picked up.” He made eye contact with Connie.
She returned his gaze, her brow lifted, asking him why this was important.
“Troy had been notified of the repossession,” O’Neill continued, not answering her unspoken question. “Annie, do you know where the truck’s loan paperwork was filed? Here or a safety deposit box at a bank?”
Annie looked confused for a moment.
“Where did you and Troy keep your important papers?” Connie asked.
“It’s in the file cabinet in the spare bedroom.” Annie pointed to the small room opposite the bathroom. Connie rose.
Uncle Lou lumbered over and sat down in the chair Connie had vacated. His face was gray.
Connie felt like she should say something to the sorrowful man. But what? “Annie, is the cabinet locked?”
“No, there’s a file folder in the top drawer.” Annie covered the big hand Uncle Lou laid on her shoulder with hers.
Connie remembered having conversations like this as she had dealt with the details of her parents’ funerals. But those painful conversations had ended when the departed had been interred. This process goes on and on. For how long? If we don’t find Troy, this could go on for years. Tears began to well up from deep inside her.
O’Neill followed Connie. His coming with her nearly put her over the brink. She clamped down on an upsurge of weeping, kept it tightly concealed inside. She switched on the lights in the small room that had a desk, file cabinet and sofa bed where Connie slept most nights now. She slumped down on the sofa bed suddenly too tired to go on. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered, choking down the tears.
Rand stood over her, wounded by the way she’d folded in on herself as if fractured by this latest blow. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in turn.
As though drowning, she held up one hand to him.
He took it. “What do you want from me?” he murmured, not wanting Annie and Lou to hear them. “I can’t change any of this.”
“I can’t face it.” She stood and walked into his arms. “It’s too much.”
Knowing he shouldn’t, knowing it was wrong, knowing he was taking advantage of her vulnerable state of mind, he folded his arms around her warmth and softness. He lowered his guard. Just this once. Never again.
He waited for her to pull away, to sever their connection. But she laid her cheek against his shoulder. When he felt her tears wet his shirt, he stroked her sleek hair and murmured consoling sounds. He forgot everything but the yielding form pressed against him.
Abruptly, she pulled away, turning from him. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did.” She folded her arms around herself as though chilled. “It’s just so hard to see Annie going through this.”
“I’m the one who should apologize.” Rand’s voice grated low in his throat. “I was out of line.” To stop himself from reaching for her, he opened the top file drawer and began pawing through the files, looking at their labels. He pulled out one and began rifling through it.
“There must be a reason for Troy doing all this.” Arms still around herself, Connie moved closer to him. “The bills, the accounts, now the truck…”
“Haven’t you figured that out yet?” Rand looked at her over the folders, the file cabinet drawer between them.
“No, what explains it? What am I missing?”
He shook his head as he found the folder labeled Important Documents.
“Tell me,” she pleaded an urgent whisper. “Please.”
“No. I have no hard proof yet. When I do, I’ll let you in on my reasoning.”
“But why would Troy buy a new truck and then only make two payments?” She gripped the edge of the file cabinet. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if he wanted an expendable asset for almost nothing.” Forcing himself not to look at her, Rand inspected each of the papers in the file, birth certificates for both the boys, social security cards and finally, the loan agreement for the truck. It had been over twenty thousand dollars new. How much of that value had it retained over the past six months?
“What do you mean?” Connie gripped the file folder, their fingers touching. “If he owed money on it, it would be a liability not an asset and besides, the truck’s been stolen.”
“Yes, but maybe Troy stole it.”
On Friday evening after work, Connie sat in her Volvo near Ed Cudahy’s home. She’d driven around the neighborhood, starting at the burnt-out warehouse, then in widening circles and finally to Ed Cudahy’s street. She got out and walked down the street.
The area had obviously gone to seed. Older homes had been cut up into apartments or rooming houses. Tall shade trees swayed overhead in the wind of a gathering summer storm. Connie felt the same unease churning inside her.
All week long, she’d battled with herself over walking into O’Neill’s arms Monday night. Why did I do it? Stupid, stupid, stupid. He must think I’m an… Her mind couldn’t come up with an appropriate label for her idiotic behavior.
And she couldn’t accept that Troy would steal his own truck. Could Troy be that calculating, that selfish?
Her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her purse and paused on the broken and heaved sidewalk. “Connie here.”
“Chuck here.”
“Oh, hi, do you have that information for me?” She’d called Chuck to find out more about Ed Cudahy. She wanted to be very sure of her ground before she put any faith in his testimony.
“Sure. Nothing to it. Cudahy has a clean record. No arrests, no convictions. And,” Chuck teased, “I promise his name will never pass my lips no matter how I’m tortured.”
“Very funny. But thanks. It was quicker to have you check than to do it myself.” And much easier than calling your brother. Much easier.
“No problem. Where are you?”
“I’m on his street. I wasn’t able to get him by phone, but I wanted to see his backyard and how easy… Well, I don’t have to go into that. Thanks again—”
“Don’t hang up yet. Have you given the double-dating idea any more thought?”
“I’m sorry, Chuck.” This had been the one hitch in calling Chuck O’Neill, but no matter what he said, she was not double-dating with the O’Neill brothers. A definite no. “I just don’t think that would work out. But thanks, and remember if you ever need a favor from a lawyer—”
“I’ll call you. Okay, but I haven’t given up.” He rang off.
Hanging up, Connie walked up the steps to Ed Cudahy’s apartment, which was in an older two-story house. His hand-printed name was displayed on a strip of yellowed paper under wrinkled tape. She pushed the doorbell button under it and waited.
Finally, the door opened. A large-boned woman in a flowered housedress and apron looked out with a smile. “Who you want, honey?”
“I’m sorry. I thought I pushed Mr. Cudahy’s button.”
“Cudahy?” The woman stared at her and then twisted her face. “What would a pretty young lady like you want with that dried-up old coot?” The woman chuckled.
This forced Connie to grin. “He’s helping me on a legal case—”
The woman gave her an astute look. “This about that warehouse burning over on Depot?”
“Yes, is he home?” Connie wondered if this woman might be another witness for her defendant.
“No. He’s out. I answered the door because I saw you through the curtains. I own the house. I rent out the upstairs to him and another old coot. They’re both out. Down at the neighborhood bar probably.” She nodded toward the end of the street, which was only three houses away. Neon beer signs advertised a corner tavern and liquor store there.
Connie was not too unhappy that Ed Cudahy wasn’t at home. Maybe this woman would let her look around or maybe answer a few questions. “Did you see anything that night?”
The woman screwed up her face again. “Why don’t we sit down on the porch?”
Connie allowed the woman, who limped slightly, to lead her slowly to a few sagging aluminum lawn chairs on the wide covered porch.
Her hostess eased herself into a worn plastic-webbed chair that creaked and rasped as she settled into it. “I love this porch. I try to spend most of the summer here watchin’ my world walk by.”
Connie remembered her manners. She offered the woman her hand. “I’m Connie Oberlin, a new lawyer in town.”
“I’m Pansy Mayfield, an old lady in town.” Pansy chuckled, wheezing slightly. “Call me Pansy, okay? Otherwise, when someone calls me Mrs. Mayfield, I feel even older.”
Connie grinned again.
Pansy took control of the interview. “You’re defending the warehouse owner, right?”
Impressed by the woman’s perception, Connie nodded. “Yes, and Mr. Cudahy said that he saw the fire start from the window in his kitchen.”
“Well, that’s possible. They tore down the old Hagen house behind me last year. And they squashed that row of stores on the street behind Hagen’s the year before that. I lived in this neighborhood all my life—child, wife and widow. It’s bad to see how rundown it is. You’d think they’d furbish this part up with all the new construction going on here.”
“That will probably happen.” Connie had heard this before. “Property values will continue to rise and investors will come in—”
“Yes, and a bunch of yippies, yuppies—whatever you call ’em—will move in and want everything swanky.” Pansy waved her hands toward her neighborhood. “I’ll be ashamed to hang my bloomers out in the backyard on the line.”
Connie chuckled again. Whatever Pansy lacked in “everything swanky,” her wit made up for. “Did you see the fire that night?”
“No, but I sure woke up when the sirens came up the street.” As if it had gone to sleep, Pansy tapped one foot on the wooden porch floor. “They were loud enough all right.”
“Mr. Cudahy said that my defendant recently came through the neighborhood and spoke to people about the fire. The fire marshal thinks it was arson and my defe
ndant says he’s innocent.”
“Your client named Sanders?”
Connie nodded. What had Pansy Mayfield’s opinion of Floyd Sanders been?
“I didn’t talk too much to him myself. But then I wasn’t able to help him. I was like most everyone else.”
“Like everyone else?” Connie asked.
“Asleep when the fire started.”
Connie nodded glumly. “But Mr. Cudahy could have seen it out his kitchen window, right?”
“Yes, it’s on the back. Why don’t we walk around to the backyard so you can get a feel for what Cudahy might have seen?”
Connie had been about to ask permission to go to the backyard and see where Ed Cudahy’s rear window was and the view of the warehouse. “Thank you. That would really help me.”
“Sure.” Pansy struggled to heft her weight out of the creaking lawn chair.
“I can go by myself—”
“No, no. It’s good for me to keep this old body moving. When I can’t get down the stairs, out into my yard, then I’ll know it’s time to sell the place and go into assisted-living.”
Over the parched grass, Connie moved slowly, allowing the older woman to keep up with her. The wind swirled old newspapers and stray plastic grocery bags against the chain-link fence around the Mayfield house.
“Storm’s coming,” Pansy said. She walked over to the fence and pulled at the debris. “Looks terrible,” she muttered to herself. “My husband, Lowell, would have a fit if he saw how this neighborhood has slipped.”
Connie helped by picking up more debris ahead of Pansy. They made their way slowly along the fence to the backyard. Pansy wheezed beside Connie and then leaned against the venerable clothesline pole cemented into the ground in the middle of the backyard.
Pansy pointed out Ed Cudahy’s back window and Connie looked around. And yes, it was possible that he could have seen a flash from his window. She walked through the back gate and the alley to see if Ed Cudahy could have seen someone running from the warehouse. And indeed he could have. Her spirits rising cautiously, Connie walked back to Pansy and escorted the woman back to her lawn chair.
