Useless.
Before sitting down, I detoured into my bedroom, where I sorted through my jewelry looking for a chain thin enough to fit the charm’s tiny fastener. The only one that worked was one that Robert had given me a month or so before he was killed.
Sadness swept over me. And guilt. I hadn’t loved Robert—nor he, me—and our break-up had occurred mere days before his murder, but after I’d finally realized what an ass he was and how little we had in common.
But his death was a direct result of his involvement with me. There were people at the club who still blamed me. Hell—I still blamed me.
Returning to the couch, I placed the files on my lap, stomach churning. Skolnik, of course; I set her file back on the table. I didn’t remember the next one—Bailey—from the closet boxes. My heart banged at the next though: Church. It went on top of Skolnik’s. As did the next file—Tammy Long. Jordan and Tshida didn’t ring any bells, and I was pretty sure that Tshida hadn’t been one of the labeled boxes.
I started going through the paperwork slowly, taking notes, trying to find a common denominator that perhaps I’d overlooked the first time. If there was one, it eluded me. They’d had different therapists; none of the time periods seemed to overlap; aftercare services were varied; they didn’t live in the same part of town. I puzzled on it until the information started swirling in my head—something joined these women together. Regina had seen something, knew something. And it had gotten her killed.
Frustrated, I set the stack of files to the side and picked up Regina’s calendar. I paged through to the beginning of September, a couple of weeks before Regina’s “accident.” I found Karissa’s initials penciled in various places, seeming to correspond with what I remembered of her sessions. Other initials had been recorded as well, and a few “Gp Tx” abbreviations indicated when Regina had led the group therapy sessions. I paged back a month to August. More of the same. She’d also made a habit of listing phone calls or tasks she needed to complete. One date, with a telephone number, caught my eye.
I knew that number. I’d called it numerous times last spring when a nasty client had filed a false complaint against me to the state licensing board. I’d consulted with Regina over the issue, but that had all been settled by late spring.
If the licensing board note didn’t have to do with me—and I didn’t see how it could—who did it concern? Was Regina being investigated? I’d have to check with Bob, but if it wasn’t connected to the clinic, he wouldn’t know. Maybe the shelter? Could that be why Clotilde and Lachlyn were so edgy? I’d never get a straight answer out of them, and I doubted that Astrid would spill the beans, either.
It was possible, likely even, that if Regina was being investigated she would have consulted her lawyer. I made a note to call Ashley Perkins.
There was another possibility, however. If Regina wasn’t the target of an investigation, maybe she was the initiator of one. In which case, she would have pissed off someone.
Between the discovery of the archives and this new possibility, I had more than just an icky feeling to show Blodgett. If it wasn’t so late I’d call him, but unless he was working a case he preferred to be in bed by 10:00. I didn’t want to scare his wife Diana, either. She’d put up with enough over the years; she didn’t need me calling at close to midnight. On the off chance that I’d catch Blodgett at work, I dialed the police station.
And learned my friend had just been rushed to the hospital.
The hospital, of course, gave me even less information than the desk sergeant had. I ended up calling Sue—a truly courageous act on my part—and made her call her on-again, off-again beau, Pete Durrant, an officer with Chippewa PD. She claimed the reason they fought was for the spicy, make-up sex. A nice way to rationalize being a bitch. At any rate, even though they were in an off-period, she was willing to call him to see if he’d track down information about Blodgett’s admission.
It would be awful if Blodgett had a heart attack just a few months before retiring. If his heart didn’t kill him, Diana would.
Pete Durrant called back within twenty minutes. It wasn’t a heart attack. Blodgett had been attacked—knifed from behind—while off-duty. Diana had found him lying on the sidewalk leading to their back door. Although he was unconscious by the time she’d found him, the blood trail showed that he’d managed to crawl from his Chevy truck. He’d lost a lot of blood. He was still in surgery.
Even though I made it across town ten minutes quicker than the law allowed, Pete was there before me. He met me at the Emergency Department entrance—the only doors unlocked at this time of night—and led me through the hospital maze to a waiting room where Diana sat, the only soft pair of eyes in a sea of flint.
Blodgett’s colleagues had shown up en masse, an undercurrent of anger creating a subliminal hum of energy. One of the few things that TV cop shows apparently got right was the rage incurred when one of their own was hit. I sat next to Diana and took her cold hand. We waited.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Over the course of the next few hours, most of the cops trickled off, back to work or home or wherever, leaving a trio of older men, each looking as close to retirement as Blodgett, who sat stoically waiting for news. Blodgett’s oldest son and his wife made it to the hospital just before the doctor came to talk with Diana, so I hung back and let them be. As soon as the doctor left they informed the rest of us that Blodgett had come through the surgery well and was in recovery. No visitors allowed, of course, except for immediate family.
One of the three men approached Diana. As they murmured quietly together, she nodded several times, her face tired and grayed out under the flourescent lighting. Knowing how anxious his colleagues would be to question him, I imagined Blodgett had just acquired a “long-lost brother” who would take his turn with the family. There would be no time wasted in tracking down the person responsible for attacking their fellow officer.
I hesitated, trying to decide if I should talk with Blodgett’s buddy. Despite my quasi-friendship with Blodgett I had a long family history of learned cop avoidance. My mother, in particular, would have crapped kittens if she’d known my cell phone had a cop’s personal phone number residing in close proximity to her own. Called him more often, too.
Besides, all Blodgett had been doing for me was looking up records. Although I couldn’t imagine his attack was connected with Regina’s death, my stomach felt queasy. Maybe it was all the coffee I’d been chugging.
Undecided, I gave Diana a kiss on the cheek, told her I’d call, and left.
My body craved sleep, but my brain was buzzing like a frenetic mosquito. I briefly debated going to the Sunday morning AA meeting. I’d have to wait a couple of hours, but I could curl up on the couch in the lobby and maybe nap. The thought of dumping my problems and wallowing in my safe place was almost as intoxicating as the booze I used to drink, but the couch had seen more asses than a county fair judge and I rethought the nap plan, which left two hours of even more stale coffee and brooding.
Instead, I stopped home to explain my absence to Siggy (who was sound asleep and oblivious to the fact that I’d been gone all night), fed him (this, he cared about), and grabbed Mikey Dillard’s stuffed toy.
I hoped Mo-Mo would get me past Karissa’s elderly bodyguard, maybe even earn me some goodwill.
The Jeep was gone from the parking slot. I again braved the precariously leaning set of stairs and knocked on the trailer’s metal screen door until my knuckles screamed in protest. No one answered; I sensed emptiness beyond the flimsy door. The windows were too grimy to see very much so I didn’t try. Besides, I didn’t want any neighbors calling the cops, although it was so early in the morning I doubted many would be awake.
After following the PARK MANAGER signs, I found myself, despite the early hour, knocking on yet another door. This one had the name Tallie Brandess, Manager stenciled across the front. I heard movement within as someone, presumably Tallie, shuffled up to answer my summons.
&nb
sp; The woman who answered was a tiny bird of a woman with a smile that captured the joy of a new morning. It was impossible not to smile back.
“Yes?” she asked.
I introduced myself. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I’m looking for the family from Lot 7. The woman’s name is Bernadette Stanhope, but it’s actually her daughter Karissa that I’m looking for.”
“Oh, dear,” Tallie said. “You just missed them. I talked to Bernie yesterday morning and everything seemed fine. Next thing I knew they were loading up and long gone just before midnight. One of our neighbors ran over to tell me they were packing up ‘cause it looked like they were sneaking out. Thing is, though, Bernie had already paid up her October rent and, of course, I have her deposit. Not much I can do if she’s paid up.”
“Was there an emergency, do you think?”
“I don’t know what the problem was. Bernie is very private, and I never really met her daughter. Bernie was renting that trailer, and she wasn’t supposed to have anyone staying with her long term. I was willing to ignore it as long as no one complained. Times are so bad we all have to look the other way on some things. But I don’t think it was that. Nobody had complained, and if Bernie just wanted a bigger place, I would think they would have stuck out the last month or asked for part of the rent back.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?”
The manager was shaking her head before I finished my question. “No, she said she’d contact me. If you ask me, they were more focused on leaving than on where they might be going.”
Another thought occurred to me. Could they have even fit everything in the old Jeep that I’d seen? A Wrangler isn’t the roomiest vehicle. I asked Tallie.
“No, just the Jeep.”
“Was anybody helping them? Did you see anyone else?”
“Nope. Not then, anyway.”
“I guess it’s possible that they’ll come back before their rent runs out? Maybe they aren’t gone for good.”
“Maybe so,” Tallie agreed, but her little bird face scrunched up with doubt. I could tell she didn’t expect to see Bernie back at Lot 7 in the near future. I stood there pensively, trying to come up with some more questions.
“You said, ‘not then,’” I repeated. “Was there somebody here earlier? A man?” If Karissa’s ex had shown up, it would make sense that they were on the run. It would be a hassle for me to try to find them, but at least it would mean that it didn’t have anything to do with the shelter. And if I couldn’t find them …
Tallie’s face closed like a cloud covering the sun.
I held still. It looked like she wasn’t sure if she should mention whatever it was that she’d started to say. I didn’t push for it. Sometimes it was better to just wait patiently.
“They had a visitor,” she finally said. “Not a man, though.”
“I see,” I murmured. It’s a therapist thing. Works, too.
“I only caught a glimpse,” she continued. “But I’ve been half expecting a social worker to show up there, so I wasn’t surprised. Anyone could see that Karissa was having some troubles, and when there’s kids involved, well, quite often someone official comes by eventually. I used to teach. We could usually tell.”
“So, you think it was a social worker?”
“I don’t know, really. It could have been. She was tall, you know, but professional looking. Real short hair like those women who don’t want to bother with curlers. I just don’t know. Really, you know, I shouldn’t have said anything. I hate spreading gossip, especially when I don’t know if there’s anything to it. She could have just been a friend of the family.”
She did look distressed, so I reassured her as best I could. I gave her one of my business cards and asked her to call me if she saw Bernie or Karissa, but I could tell that she was regretting her openness. She mumbled good-bye and retreated into her trailer looking far less happy with her day than she had before she’d met me.
I hated having that effect on people.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Back at home, I settled in on the couch with Siggy and called the hospital. Diana answered in Blodgett’s room, sounding tired but happy. She told me the doctors were pleased with his response to surgery. Diana was waiting for her son to get back from the cafeteria, and then she planned on going home to rest for a few hours.
“They have an armchair here next to Del’s bed that I’ve been cat-napping in, but I need a shower and their soap here smells like cleaning fluid. Well, I guess it is at that, but I don’t want to smell like sanitizer all day. Besides, I need to feed Whiskers. He must have been scared to death with all the ruckus.”
“If you need me to run over to the house, I’d be happy to feed Whiskers, or stay with him, whatever you need.”
Siggy turned his emerald-green eyes to me and glared. Stopped purring, too.
Diana declined my offer. She had plenty of family in the area, not to mention their extended police “family.” I had to forcibly stifle my need-to-be-needed gene, but Diana promised she’d let me know if anything came up. She also promised to call as soon as Blodgett could have visitors.
That left me with nothing to do but suffer under Siggy’s jealous stare and nap.
Lachlyn had agreed to meet me at 8:30 the next morning, but I got there a wee bit earlier. Forty-five minutes early, actually, but I wanted to have some wiggle room to get up to the second floor if I could. Unfortunately, Astrid was fluttering around the kitchen while the residents yakked and finished breakfast. I couldn’t manage it without a half-dozen witnesses.
I also wanted the opportunity to study Lachlyn’s face when I asked her point-blank why she’d gone to Bernie’s trailer. Of course, it was possible that it had been Clotilde, but, if so, I was certain Lachlyn would be well aware of it. After waking up from my nap, I’d spent the previous evening brooding over the mystery woman who had shown up at the trailer so conveniently just hours before the family fled. What I couldn’t decide was how they’d tracked Karissa to her grandmother’s home, unless they’d withheld information from the file they’d allowed me to see. Wouldn’t put it past them.
I also didn’t know whether the mysterious visitor had been initiated at my discovery of Bluebeard’s closet or if that too was just a coincidence.
I didn’t much believe in coincidences.
When Lachlyn finally arrived, twenty minutes late, she looked like she’d been sprinkled with an extra dusting of pissy powder. After saying good morning to the women—and pointedly ignoring me—she turned to me and snapped, “I have an emergency. I won’t be able to monitor you this morning. You’ll have to reschedule.”
Without bothering to wait for a reply, she spun on her heel and made for the door.
“Lachlyn, wait!” For once, my voice tone—with a fine, commanding ring to it—matched my intentions. The women at the table hushed, eyebrows raised in astonishment. Astrid froze like a field mouse under a hawk’s shadow as Lachlyn slowly turned back. “We need to talk. Here or in your office is fine with me. You choose.”
For a moment, the air crackled around us. Lachlyn’s eyes narrowed at the challenge, then slid toward the table full of watching women. Taking a deep breath, she forced a syrupy smile across her face. “Of course, Letty. The office will be fine.”
She held the door open for me. Unless we were to enter into one of those “after you” games, I’d have to walk with her at my back. Reasoning that she wasn’t likely to bludgeon me to death in front of witnesses, I proceeded forward, but my back itched where I could feel her laser eyes scorching a path up my spine. By the time we made it to her barren office, much of the delicious bravado had leached out of my skin, and I was back to my usual passive-aggressive, sarcastic self.
Lachlyn closed the office door with a snap.“What is it that’s so important it can’t wait?” she asked. “I have things to do.”
“I’m sure you do. In fact, I understand you were pretty busy Saturday, too.
Her eyes flickered from
disdain to doubt, then to something else that I couldn’t quite place. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She managed to pack a lot of scorn into one sentence.
“Sure, you do. How did you know where to find her? Couldn’t have been from the file … unless there was something missing from it. Maybe something you held back? A contact person? An address? That, if you removed it from the file, would be illegal, by the way.”
“This is ridic—”
“But that’s not the biggest question, is it? No, what I want to know is what you said to her. What is she so afraid of that the whole family had to pick up and take off again right after you went to see them? Every one of them—back into hiding. Isn’t this supposed to be a safe place? Aren’t you supposed to be the one they run to, not away from?”
Her face had run a whole gamut of emotions during my speech—irritation, shock, guilt maybe—but not confusion. And last, not surprisingly, was rage.
Don’t know what I’d hoped to accomplish, but it felt damn good.
“You have no idea,” Lachlyn sputtered. “You just have no …” She bit her lip, visibly willing herself under control.
I wanted to keep her off balance without bringing Mikey into it, so I kept the focus on his mother. “Did Karissa see something that night? Maybe hear something? Was Regina sticking her nose into something?”
It didn’t matter. However off balance my first accusations had made Lachlyn, she recovered quickly.
“I don’t have time to waste on your theatrics. Now please remove yourself from my office. Immediately.”
I left. Wasn’t much more I could achieve anyway. But I’d gained more than just the fleeting look of complicity that I’d seen flash across her face.
Lying with military precision in the upper right hand side of the desk, I’d also seen the work order request for a local locksmith. A solitary red and white cardboard box perched like a paperweight on top, so it didn’t look like they were changing all of the locks. Just one. The door leading to the stairway maybe? Or the upstairs storage room? Either one would be effective at preventing accidental visitors to the Bluebeard closet.
Whittaker 02 The One We Love Page 10
