by Debra Webb
When they had all settled around the conversation area, Troy kicked off the interview. “Mr. Cotton, when we last spoke I asked you to think about whether there was anything new you recalled from the days immediately before or after Braden was abducted. Have you had a chance to do that, sir?”
Bobbie watched Cotton’s face as he prepared to respond. Perhaps it was his obviously close relationship with Botox or an innate ability to keep his feelings hidden, but the man gave the term poker face new meaning. His shirt and trousers sported crisp seams and expertly pressed creases. The dark colors accentuated his tan. She seriously doubted he’d gotten that tan on a construction site.
Cotton patted his right hand against the center of his chest as if he’d suffered a pang there. “Shelia and I discussed this last night.” He sighed. “I fear that was the cause of her migraine. We simply can’t remember anything that would have given the slightest hint that trouble was coming before...that night.”
Troy asked, “You never noticed the Sanderses showing any particular interest in your son. You never had words with them or any sort of trouble?”
“God no. We considered Bill Sanders a friend.” He turned his hands up. “Nancy was a little more difficult to relate to. She stayed to herself. Never joined any of the other wives for tea. There was a rumor she suffered from depression, but I can’t say for sure. I do remember there was a time years and years ago when she didn’t leave the house for months. I believe she had several miscarriages. You know they never were able to have any children.” He shook his head. “The truth is, a great deal of the time around the abductions is nothing but a blur. After Braden...was gone. We had a very difficult time moving on. If not for the other children...” He shook his head again as his words drifted off.
The Cottons had a son and a daughter who were older than the son they lost. Both were married and lived in the greater Atlanta area.
“Mr. Cotton,” Bobbie said, drawing his attention to her, “do you remember the accident Thomas Bonner had when he worked for your construction company?”
Not the first line of surprise or confusion appeared on his unreasonably smooth face. “Of course. It’s not often that one of the company’s employees is injured, but it happens.”
“Did the Bonners receive a settlement after the accident?” Bobbie pressed.
“My father was in charge at the time and he made the decision not to provide any sort of settlement,” Cotton said. He shifted his attention to Troy. “What does Thomas Bonner have to do with the disappearance of the children?”
He made that leap damned fast. “Is there a connection between the two?” Bobbie said before Troy could answer.
“How could I possibly presume to know the answer to that question, Detective?” Cotton was irritated now—it resonated in his tone.
“Why did your father decide not to provide compensation for Bonner’s fall?” Bobbie pressed.
Cotton adjusted his jacket. “If you must know, Thomas Bonner was drinking on the job. The rumor was that he and his wife were having problems. Whatever his personal problems, he fell off that roof because he was drunk.” Cotton stared hard at Bobbie. “My father kept that part out of the report so the insurance company would pay his medical bills. I’m certain my father felt that was adequate compensation.”
“Why would he do that, Mr. Cotton?” Bobbie had him on the defensive now. “If the accident was Bonner’s own fault, why do anything at all?”
“Because my father was a Christian, Detective. That’s what Christians do.” His irritation had shifted to outrage. He turned back to Troy. “What is this, Troy?”
The interview ended shortly after that. Cotton remembered nothing beyond what was in the original reports and Bobbie had her doubts as to whether he would be inclined to answer any more of her queries.
Troy didn’t speak as they loaded back into his SUV. When he shifted into Drive and drove away from the ostentatious home, he finally said, “You know, you see people every day and you think you know them, but I’m beginning to think I don’t know any of these people.”
There were several things Bobbie had expected him to say when they were alone again. That she shouldn’t have pushed Cotton about the Bonner incident. That her questions weren’t relevant and those damned irrelevant questions had shut down the interview. The statement he’d made was not at all what she’d anticipated.
“His answers—up until the end—were oddly matter-of-fact,” she said. “Thirty-two years is a long time. I guess maybe I’ll feel different when I’m that far out from my own personal tragedy.” Would those memories one day be nothing more than pieces of her life shelved in the “hurtful past” section? She couldn’t imagine ever touching those memories and not feeling the sharp ache of loss.
Troy checked traffic before pulling out onto the street. “Maybe I’m the weird one then because I don’t feel one bit different than I did thirty-two years ago when I realized I’d lost my baby sister.”
“Everyone—”
“Deals with grief differently,” he interjected.
“We all process pain in different ways.” Bobbie thought about the exchange for another moment. “I don’t understand why Cotton would get so fired up over a question about an accident that happened nearly half a century ago. One he said himself that his father took care of in a more compassionate manner than necessary.”
“Do you think the accident is relevant to what happened to the children?”
“No.” Bobbie checked her cell, wishing again that Nick would change his mind about working with her. “What I think is relevant is the way all their lives intersected back then. These aren’t merely residents of the same city or neighbors or members of the same church or even statistics in the same tax bracket, they’re all of the above.”
Bill Sanders loved taking care of animals, but he had inherited a great deal of property and family money. The same could be said for the Durhams. Troy’s father had been a cop until he retired, but he had inherited well. As Troy said, they were far closer to the Cortlands’ tax bracket than Potter’s.
“Except for the Bonners and Amelia Potter,” he reminded her.
“Except for those two, yes.” Bobbie thought about the way Nick analyzed a killer’s movements. “Of all the available children in Savannah, the killer—presumably one or both of the Sanderses—selected those five children and yet there were never any demands for ransom. Have you found any indication that the Sanderses were going through any sort of financial trouble at the time?”
“None.”
“Then the real question we need to ask is why those children were taken? What did those families have in common besides tax brackets, neighborhoods and church? The difference between Amelia Potter and the others may explain why her son’s remains are not accounted for and Treat Bonner’s disappearance is still unexplained.”
Troy glanced at her. “You’re thinking if we find the underlying connection between the five—no, the six—families, we’ll find the motive.”
“I believe so.”
The sooner they found that answer, the sooner they might be able to figure out what Randolph Weller had to do with any of it beyond evaluating Treat Bonner.
Driving back into the heart of Savannah, Bobbie worked at clearing her mind of the mounting frustration. It was almost Halloween. The creepy decorations and harvest colors were everywhere. The last of autumn’s leaves were scattered across the streets and sidewalks. Most of the folks in the downtown shops were dressed in some form of costume. Last year she’d hurried home from work a little early so she and James could take Jamie trick-or-treating. He’d been dressed as the Stay Puft Marshmallow man. A smile tugged at her lips. The costume had made walking a bit of a balancing act for him.
Miss you so much, baby.
Bobbie blinked away the memories and decided her current dilemma was easier
to deal with. Nick should be part of this. His decision to step completely out of her life was unfair. Deep breath. She couldn’t pretend not to understand what drove him. This was his way of protecting her not only from Weller, but from him. Didn’t matter that she was a grown woman fully capable of taking care of herself. He, of all people, should know as much. The person he really didn’t trust was himself. He was so damned afraid he would become his father. That fear had burrowed deep inside him and hardened like ice.
Troy pulled to the curb and parked. Bobbie pushed aside thoughts of Nick and focused on the task at hand. Someone who knew the Sanderses’ ugly secret had murdered them. That someone was very likely involved somehow with the missing children. Bobbie intended to do all within her power to help Troy solve the mystery. And to help Amelia Potter learn the fate of her little boy. She’d wondered long enough. Maybe along the way Bobbie would see whatever it was that Weller wanted to show her.
He’d warned her that what was coming would take all the courage and tenacity she possessed to survive. Was that because little Noah Potter had been about the same age as Jamie? Or was the warning about some danger to Nick? Maybe to her.
Show me what you want me to see, you bastard, so we can get on with the business of taking you down.
“You coming?”
Bobbie banished the thoughts and reached for her seat belt. “Absolutely.”
The Cortland home was another of Savannah’s historic beauties. According to the plaque posted at the sidewalk, it was one of the first homes built in Ardsley Park. The bride-white siding and massive columns and half-round upper balcony were jaw-dropping. Bobbie had read in the case file that Edward Cortland was a banker just like his father and grandfather before him. The family had opened the first independent bank in Savannah more than a century ago.
Troy pushed the doorbell and they waited. The trickle of the bubbling fountain in the center of the front yard and the occasional buzz of a passing car were the only sounds. Glass sidelights and an arched transom turned the classic six-panel door into a welcoming masterpiece. The leaded glass twisted and tilted the image of the spiral staircase that wound its way upward in the entry hall beyond the closed door.
When no answer came, Troy pressed the bell again and followed up with a firm knock.
“Maybe Mr. Cortland decided to return to St. Louis with his nephew for a while.” Bobbie’s instincts hummed. The memory of standing at Lawrence Zacharias’s door and finding it unlocked kept flashing in her head.
“Maybe.” Troy walked over to one of the front windows and peered in. “Shit.”
He drew his weapon and rushed back to the door. He gave the knob a twist. Locked. He charged it a couple of times, forcing it open and rushing inside. Bobbie was right behind him, her Glock at the ready. He nodded for her to go left and he went right.
Just beyond the entry hall, a table stood in the center of the parlor, the vase that had sat atop it had fallen and shattered on the floor. Past the parlor was a dining room. Clear.
Listening intently above the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears, Bobbie moved into the kitchen. She stopped cold.
An overturned ladder-back chair lay next to the breakfast table in the middle of the room. Drawers and doors stood open, their contents tossed about. Kitchen utensils were scattered over the tile floor.
No blood.
Bobbie eased cautiously into the room. Troy appeared at a cased opening on the other side of the kitchen.
“What the hell happened here?”
“The rest of the downstairs is clear?” Bobbie asked, drawing his attention to her.
He nodded. “Still gotta check upstairs.”
Troy knew the family. He’d just given the poor man the news about his missing child late yesterday. His wife had been buried mere days ago. For the first time the lieutenant allowed his emotions to show. His hands shook and his face paled.
Bobbie said, “Call it in and have a look around outside.”
When his gaze snapped to hers, she added, “You’re familiar with the kind of car he drives. See if it’s in the garage. If not, check with the hospitals. Maybe his health took a turn for the worse. I’ll check upstairs.”
He gave a quick nod and reached for his phone.
Retracing her steps, Bobbie returned to the entry hall and started up the winding staircase. Troy’s somber tones as he spoke to dispatch sent a chill tumbling over her skin. Did the Cortlands have something to hide? His wife had committed suicide for some reason. Why after thirty-two years had she suddenly decided she couldn’t live her life any longer?
The upstairs hall and sitting room were adorned with the same lovely antiques and elegant decorating Bobbie had seen downstairs. The walls were a soft cream throughout with satin white trim. No rugs on the hardwood. Most of the chairs and sofas she’d spotted were leather. There had been no cut flowers in the broken vase downstairs. No sign of pets. Allergies?
She checked the first three bedrooms. All were clean and tidy. All were clear of foul play. When she moved into the master everything changed. The room smelled of death, a distinct sickly sweet odor of the dying. The covers were tousled and a pill bottle and water glass lay on the floor next to the antique bedside table. Like the other rooms, no framed photos sat atop the tables or the dressers. None hung on the walls either. She checked the en suite bath and the massive walk-in closet. Clear.
She hesitated as she prepared to exit the bedroom. A smaller door was hidden by the door leading back into the hall. Bobbie opened the door that was only a couple of inches taller than her five-eight. She felt for a switch on the wall and flipped it. An overhead light glowed to life. The room was approximately eight by ten feet. Maybe an extra closet or a nursery.
Whatever it had been, it was a shrine to Alice Cortland now. The photos Bobbie had expected to see scattered throughout the house covered every inch of wall space in this hidden room. Toys and stuffed animals were piled nearly to the ceiling in one corner. A small pink cushioned mat, like a kneeling pad one would use in the garden, lay in the center of the room. All around the mat were prayer candles.
The image of Mrs. Cortland coming into this room and praying for her child every day and night for thirty-two years sat heavily on Bobbie’s chest. As horrible as her child’s death had been, at least Bobbie had known. These people had lived in uncertainty for half their lives.
Had the Cortlands learned the Sanderses killed their child and the others and decided to have their revenge? Except Mrs. Cortland walked into that lake before the Sanderses were murdered. The idea that she would take her life when her husband needed her most still nagged at Bobbie. Had a man as ill as Mr. Cortland been able to carry out what Bobbie had seen at the Sanders’s home? Not likely.
Another possibility nudged Bobbie’s instincts. The lake. Mr. Cortland may have decided to go to his lake house and do exactly what his wife had done.
Bobbie rushed from the room, ran down the hall and took the stairs two at a time. Outside, official vehicles were already screeching to halts on the street. When she reached the back door she spotted Troy. He stood near a large fountain ensconced in the center of the secluded gardens nearest the house. Lush shrubs and vibrant flowers surrounded the seating area, complete with an outdoor kitchen that had been designed specifically for entertaining.
None of those material things mattered to the Cortlands now. Allison Cortland was dead and buried and Edward Cortland lay facedown in the fountain, a water lily stuck to his back.
“If this is a homicide, and it sure as hell looks that way,” Troy said, his voice grim, “why would Weller do this?” He shook his head. “I can’t come up with a single damned reason he would care about this case or these people much less go to the trouble to drown a dying man in his own backyard in broad daylight. Where is he going with this?”
Bobbie had to admit she was as baffle
d as Troy. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
He shook his head again. “This is fucking crazy.”
Bobbie hoped the lieutenant understood that things were going to get a hell of a lot worse before this was over.
As if Fate had decided to provide immediate proof that things were going to get far worse, three suits, one being a skirt, abruptly appeared around the corner of the house. How the hell had Kessler gotten word so quickly? The scene had barely been called in. Bobbie exhaled a weary breath. Maybe while Troy was dealing with Kessler, she could call Nick.
“I need a minute,” she said to Troy. He nodded his understanding and Bobbie turned to walk away.
“What’s your hurry, Detective Gentry?” Kessler demanded. “Walk me through what we have here.”
Bobbie wished she had slipped away a few seconds sooner. “This is Lieutenant Durham’s crime scene. You’re aware that I’m only here in an advisory capacity.”
On cue Troy launched into an explanation of what they’d found, which was nothing beyond the body floating a few yards away.
Hands on her hips, Kessler shook her head. “This isn’t Dr. Weller’s work.”
Troy glanced at Bobbie. Kessler noticed.
“I see you’ve already come to that conclusion.”
Bobbie figured keeping her mouth shut was her best answer. No, this was not Weller’s work, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t orchestrated the kill.
“I believe this is his son,” Kessler announced with a confirming nod. “There’s something going on in Savannah, Lieutenant,” she said to Troy. “And it’s somehow related to Dr. Weller’s past. Quantico is sending two of their best profilers to help us out here. Whatever secrets the players in this case are keeping, Nick Shade believes they will draw his father here. I would advise you to press those involved to come clean before it’s too late.”
