Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel

by Bradley, Patricia

  Just like Angie.

  His phone vibrated in his shirt pocket, and he slipped it out. Allison. He answered and couldn’t believe what she told him.

  “Taylor is doing what?”

  “She’s keeping some appointment in Memphis today. But she hasn’t left yet.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  A blue jay fussed overhead as a slight breeze touched Taylor’s face. The giant oaks provided shade but didn’t let much air through. Taylor winced as she bent over and signed the rental papers. She handed the Gordon’s Rent-a-Car agent his copy and accepted the keys to the Civic. “Sorry about the other car,” she said.

  He waved his hand. “Your insurance company is covering it.”

  Taylor fanned herself as he and the driver of the second rental car pulled away from the house. At the end of the drive, the car waited as Nick’s red Mustang turned in. Seconds later his tires screeched to a halt on the asphalt drive, and Nick got out, his face set for an argument. Overhead, the blue jay screeched at the new intruder.

  “What are you doing here?” She continued to fan with the insurance papers. Today promised to be another scorcher.

  “I’m going to Memphis. Need a ride?”

  “My mom called you.”

  “She’s concerned.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t call Ben Logan.” She opened the door to the Honda and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. “I can drive myself, and I don’t need a babysitter. Besides, I’ll be with Livy. We’ll be at a retired cop’s house.”

  “I’m not offering babysitting services. Just a ride to Memphis until you meet your friend.”

  She did not want Nick going with her.

  “Come on, Taylor. Let me do this. You rolled your car, and you’re bound to be sore. Probably on pain meds. You don’t need to be driving.”

  “I’m only taking Tylenol, and I’m not that sore, at least not too sore to drive.”

  “Okay, how about the argument that someone tried to kill you last night. Maybe if I’m with you, he won’t try anything today. And I want to make up for not telling you about the poem. Let me drive you.”

  “I wouldn’t have a car.”

  “Then at least let me follow you. When you finish your interview, you can call me and I’ll follow you home. I have plenty that needs my attention in Memphis—like checking with Scott’s girlfriend to see if she’s heard from him.”

  She couldn’t deny she’d feel safer if Nick followed her. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Okay. No rushing me, though.”

  “Deal.”

  By the time Taylor pulled to the curb in front of Wilson’s house, her body screamed for her bed. Maybe she should rethink this.

  Nick tapped on her window, and she lowered it. “You sure you’re up to this?”

  He had no clue how bad her ribs hurt or her muscles throbbed. She forced a smile. “Don’t hover. Don’t you have to be somewhere?”

  “It can wait until Livy gets here.” He nodded toward Wilson’s open wooden door. “Looks like your guy is home.”

  Taylor climbed out of the Civic and limped to a shaded wrought-iron bench in Wilson’s front yard. A wave of nausea made her wish she’d eaten. Nick sat beside her on the bench. Down the street, a commercial lawnmower clattered, and the scent of fresh-cut grass wafted through the air. A house wren hopped at their feet. “Looking for crumbs, mama bird? I bet Lieutenant Wilson has been feeding you.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “What’s your thinking about who shot at you last night?”

  “Muddled. I can’t focus.” She uncapped her water bottle and took a sip. “Tell me again why you didn’t say anything about the poem the first time I met you.”

  He shrugged. “Because I didn’t believe my brother sent it to you. But you were so sure that Scott was your stalker, I was afraid if I mentioned it, you and the sheriff in Newton would focus on him instead of the real criminal.”

  “How can you be so sure the real criminal isn’t your brother?” After last night, Scott had jumped back on her suspect list. “He could’ve been my shooter last night—he had the opportunity.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  He looked away for a second. “My gut tells me it isn’t him.”

  “That could be indigestion. Give me something a little more concrete.”

  He was quiet for a minute. “You’re a psychologist. Do people change their basic personality? Can a person go from being compassionate, gentle, and mild mannered to violent, sadistic, even homicidal? In other words, can a boy who tended to wounded birds turn into a killer?”

  Nick was consistent, if nothing else. “Okay, so maybe he isn’t the one after me, but he knows something. Scott may not even be aware of what he knows.”

  “I know . . . but couldn’t this whole thing be about a past case? Or even a current one? What were you working on when you started getting the gifts and the photos?”

  “That’s just it. I hadn’t really worked on anything since Christmas. Except . . . I’ve been trying to find my dad.” A cold chill chased over her body. “But that would mean . . .” Her voice faded as Livy pulled to the curb and got out.

  Livy walked toward them. “Good to see you again, Nick. I’m glad she had company on the drive over.”

  “She didn’t want me to come.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” Taylor searched her purse for Tylenol. It’d been four hours since she had taken anything for pain. She pulled out the letters her mom had handed her, dropping one as she spied the bottle in the bottom of her purse. Livy picked up the letter as Taylor put two pills in her mouth and took a swig of water.

  “Thanks.” She took the envelope from Livy and glanced at it. No return address. Her heart skipped a beat. Neither had it been forwarded.

  “What’s wrong?” Nick asked.

  Taylor looked at Livy. “Do you have any latex gloves? I think I need a pair.”

  Silently, Livy pulled gloves from her back pocket and handed them to her. Taylor slipped them on and carefully removed the letter. Bracing herself, she unfolded it.

  Dear Taylor, the bold script began. She quickly scanned the words.

  “No. No!” Like a jackhammer, her heart thudded against her ribs. She choked back the thick lump that clogged her throat.

  Livy pulled on a pair of gloves and took the letter.

  It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. Taylor blinked back tears. “Read it out loud.”

  “Dear Taylor,” Livy read. “It is with great difficulty that I write you, but you must abandon this search for me. It will only bring heartache. I cannot and will not return to Logan Point. Things have happened that cannot be undone. If you love your mother, please honor this request.” Livy’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry, pipsqueak. Daddy.”

  The ground blurred, swimming before her eyes. Her father was alive and knew she was looking for him. He wanted her to stop. She wanted to throw up.

  “Is this your dad’s handwriting?” Livy asked.

  Taylor looked at the letter again. “It looks like the writing on some letters Mom gave me.” It would take a handwriting expert to tell for sure. Or Mom or Jonathan. But she’d rather not ask either of them. Or maybe she would. Jonathan, at least. Someone had to have told her father she was looking for him.

  “I’m sorry, Taylor.” Nick put his arm around her.

  “I’m going to find him.” She squared her shoulders and started to stuff the letter in her purse.

  “Hey, wait. I want to bag that,” Livy said.

  “What? This is personal.”

  Livy raised her eyebrows. “Someone’s trying to kill you. Anything you receive—”

  “Surely you don’t believe my dad tried . . .” The thought was too terrible to say out loud.

  “I didn’t say that. I just think that letter needs to be treated as evidence.”

  Taylor clamped her mouth shut and handed it to Livy, then glanced toward Wilson�
��s door as she pulled off the gloves. “Are we ready to talk to the lieutenant? Maybe he knows something about my dad.”

  Nick stood. “Call me when you’re ready to go home.”

  “Nick, there’s no need. I’ll be fine.”

  “Call me.”

  After Nick drove away, they walked toward the porch and Livy rang the bell. “I like Nick,” she said.

  “Me too.” Taylor peered through the glass security door into the dark living room.

  “Wood door is open. I’m certain he’s here.” Livy rapped on the glass then glanced uneasily at Taylor.

  “Maybe he can’t hear you. Or maybe he’s ill.” Taylor remembered the difficulty Wilson had breathing during their phone conversation.

  Livy tried the glass door. It was unlocked, and she opened it. “Hello? Anyone here?” she called over the rattling window unit in the living room. “Lieutenant Wilson? It’s Detective Reynolds.”

  “Let’s try the kitchen,” Taylor said.

  “I don’t like this.” Livy pulled her gun and cautiously pushed open a swinging door that separated the living room from the kitchen. She stepped through it, sweeping the room with her gun.

  “Oh no,” she said softly.

  Taylor looked over Livy’s shoulder. An old man lay sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor, oxygen hissing against his cheek.

  Livy pulled more latex gloves from her pocket, handing a pair to Taylor. As Taylor tugged on the gloves, Livy checked for a pulse. “Dead.”

  As Taylor knelt on the other side of the body, Livy slipped a billfold from his back pocket and looked through it. “It’s Wilson. Think he had a heart attack?”

  “No. There’s a scalp wound on the back of his head. Someone attacked him.”

  Livy sat back on her heels and scanned his body. “Livor mortis on the legs.”

  Taylor followed Livy’s gaze toward the purplish-red blotches on Wilson’s bare calves. The detective pressed her finger against one of the blotches, and the color momentarily faded. “Couldn’t have been dead more than twenty minutes.” She took out her phone and punched in a number. “Mac, Wilson’s dead. Murdered.”

  Taylor stared at the body. Why would anyone want to murder a harmless old man? And murder it was. Taylor was certain of that. Burglars usually didn’t kill unless they felt threatened, and she didn’t see how this frail shell of a man could have threatened anyone. As Livy spoke with Mac, Taylor noticed a bruise above his lip. Maybe the blow hadn’t killed him.

  She stood and scanned the kitchen, mentally cataloging the scene. Mail stacked neatly on the counter. Glass of tea on the table, no dirty dishes. Everything neat and tidy except for the sheets of typed notepaper scattered on the table beside a milk crate filled with folders. She glanced in the sink. Wet. As was the dishcloth.

  Her gaze traveled back to the milk crate. Wilson’s files. Taylor curbed the impulse to flip though them. She knew the importance of not compromising the crime scene.

  Livy closed the cell phone. “The crime scene unit will be here soon. Let’s clear out until they’re done.”

  “Have them check for asphyxiation.”

  “You think he might’ve been smothered?”

  Taylor nodded. “Look at the head wound. The scalp is cut, which would account for all the blood, but there’s no noticeable swelling.”

  Livy pointed to the slight discoloration just below the nose. “Shape he was in, it wouldn’t have been hard.”

  They retraced their way to the front steps to await the technicians. Silence settled between them. Another person connected to her dad’s case dead. A letter from her father. Why now? How did he know she was looking for him? Too many questions and too few answers. She broke the quiet. “Does it strike you as odd that both detectives who investigated my dad’s case are dead?”

  “I was thinking the same thing. When we get back to the Criminal Justice Center, I’ll have Allen Yates’s records pulled.”

  “I don’t believe Lieutenant Wilson thought his partner committed suicide.”

  “He may have been right.”

  Hungry and thirsty, Scott slouched on a shaded bench across from Ethan’s building. Office workers filled the sidewalk, barely acknowledging him as they trudged to work. A police cruiser passed by, and Scott tugged the Cardinals cap he’d found in Charlie’s pickup lower over his forehead.

  During the long night, he’d made a decision. He couldn’t live on the run like this, but he didn’t want to be captured. He would turn himself in with his lawyer at his side.

  By ten o’clock, the shade had fled, and Scott walked up to the next block, keeping an eye out for his attorney. His heartbeat pounded in his temples, and with the sleeve of his T-shirt, he swiped the sweat that beaded his face. Where was Ethan?

  Finally, Scott spied his attorney striding down the sidewalk toward his office. Scott crossed the street. Ethan barely broke stride when he saw him.

  “I thought you were coming to the house last night,” the attorney said. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

  “I’m here now.”

  They rode the elevator to the second floor in silence.

  “Good morning, Ms. Leeds,” Ethan said as they passed the secretary. “No calls for the next hour, please.”

  Ms. Leeds’s eyes widened, and Scott looked away. She remembered his last visit.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scott felt her eyes boring into his back as they walked to the end of the hall. He could use one of those nerve pills about now.

  Ethan closed the door. “You look shaky. Why don’t you sit on the couch?”

  “Good idea.” Scott sank into the leather couch. “Getting sober isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “I hope you stay sober.” Ethan sat behind his desk. “You have enough problems without adding alcohol to the mix.”

  “I know.” Scott leaned forward, rubbing his hands on the top of his thighs. He couldn’t keep his body from shaking. “I didn’t do any of this stuff they’re accusing me of. I didn’t stalk Dr. Martin, and I didn’t hurt her.”

  “Slow down, Scott. Take a deep breath.”

  Scott leaned back into the couch, his insides quivering like a strummed guitar.

  “You don’t look well.” Concern flitted across Ethan’s face. “Want a soda? I have one in the fridge.”

  His parched throat ached for something cold. Perspiration beaded his upper lip, and he wiped it away as he nodded.

  Ethan took a canned drink from his mini refrigerator and popped the top. “Ice?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, that’ll be good.”

  Ice crackled, then Ethan handed him the napkin-wrapped glass.

  “I don’t have any real food, other than these.” The lawyer held out a dish of cashews mixed with almonds.

  Starved, Scott popped a handful of nuts into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of the drink. The salty taste burned his tongue. His stomach growled, and he ate another handful, chasing it with the rest of the drink.

  “So, let’s decide what you’re going to do.” Ethan took a notepad from his desk.

  “I want to turn—” The room moved, and he shook his head. Should have eaten before now. Scott pressed his hands to his temples. Why did his head feel so heavy?

  “Would you like more peanuts? Or soda?”

  Two Ethans hovered in front of him. Scott squinted and blinked his eyes. For a second the two images merged and Ethan’s mouth moved up and down, his words sounding like they came straight from a horror movie. He tried to focus, to understand. Ethan’s voice faded. The glass slipped from Scott’s hand. He gulped for air. A ton of weight crushed his chest, cutting off his breath. He clawed at his shirt.

  Help me . . .

  Seconds stretched like hours. Light caught Scott in a tunnel and sucked him downward.

  “Scott . . . what’s wrong?”

  He could barely hear Ethan. Call 911. His frozen lips trapped the words. Ethan lifted him from the couch. His bo
dy hit the floor hard. Why doesn’t he call 911?

  Minutes ticked by. Scott’s breathing finally stopped. Ethan knelt beside him and placed his fingers on the boy’s neck. No pulse. He waited to be sure Scott’s chest didn’t rise and fall again. When it didn’t, he released a pent-up breath.

  He scooped up the ice that had skittered across the carpet and dumped it in the sink, then scrubbed Scott’s glass and returned it to the cabinet. Just in case the police checked, there would not be any lingering trace of the gamma-hydroxybutric. Ethan nudged Scott’s body before checking again for a pulse in his neck. He took out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  “I need an ambulance. I have a young man in my office, unconscious.” Ethan injected the right note of panic, knowing that everything he did from the moment the operator answered would be scrutinized. He gave the dispatcher his name and address. “I’m on the second floor.”

  “Can you tell if he’s breathing?”

  “I think so.” If he said no, the 911 operator might expect him to administer CPR.

  “Is there a pulse?”

  He touched Scott’s cool arm. No pulse. “Barely.”

  “I’m dispatching an ambulance. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “He was just talking to me and passed out. I can’t wake him.”

  “Okay, sir. Let me relay this to the paramedics.”

  Cell phone pressed to his ear, Ethan hurried down the hall to his secretary’s desk. “Ms. Leeds, there’s an ambulance on its way. Go downstairs and wait for it.”

  The secretary stood and shot a wild look toward his office. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Scott. He’s passed out. Go!”

  His command scrambled her into action, and she rushed out the door. Ethan hurried back to Scott. The 911 dispatcher came on the line again. “Are you still there?”

  He assured her he was.