by Dan Padavona
“He doesn’t want to talk about the lung cancer.”
She presses her lips together and leans forward with her hands clasped over her knee.
“Not many people living on borrowed time wish to discuss their projected funeral dates. This was never about you and your father discussing his cancer. You need each other, because you are father and son.”
“We’ve never had a father-son relationship.”
“And yet you are. You can’t change the past, Thomas, and you can’t change your father. But you can be there for him, as his child, during his time of need.”
* * *
Thomas hung up the phone and scrunched his brow. He didn’t like this at all. Paige Sutton had just called because she hadn’t heard from Justine Adkins.
Lambert rapped his knuckles on the office door and brought Thomas out of his thoughts.
“Everything all right, Sheriff?”
Thomas let out a breath and rocked back in his chair, his hands clasped over his belly. If he added a few inches to his height and fifty pounds around his gut, he’d be the spitting image of Sheriff Gray in twenty years.
“That was Paige Sutton. She can’t locate Justine Adkins.”
Lambert frowned and lowered himself into a chair.
“Perhaps she blew out of town and drove home. You said you sensed a riff between the women.”
“I did. But Aguilar pawed around the bed-and-breakfast last evening. Justine’s car wasn’t in the lot, yet the owner claimed she hadn’t checked out.”
“She had a room in Kane Grove, right?”
“At a place called the Orange Tulip.”
“I’ll make a few calls and check with Kane Grove PD.”
“Thank you, Deputy.”
Lambert exited the room and left Thomas alone with his fears. He felt the investigation spinning out of control, as the Thea Barlow case had a month ago. He drummed a pen against his desk as he considered his next move. Then he lifted the receiver, called the Orange Tulip, and waited while the clerk transferred him to Justine’s room. No answer. Next, he phoned the front desk at the Orange Tulip. The manager sounded harried and too busy to talk after confirming the woman hadn’t checked out this morning.
“Is her car in the parking lot? She drives a red Acura.”
The manager gave Thomas an exaggerated sigh.
“Hold one moment.” Acoustic guitar played over the phone while Thomas waited. “I don’t see a red Acura, Sheriff. If you locate Ms. Adkins, she needs to tell me if she intends to keep the room past tomorrow morning. I have many guests clamoring for the room, and I can’t wait any longer.”
The manager ended the call before Thomas could reply.
Rising from his chair, Thomas wandered into the operations center and rested his back against the wall. He watched Lambert across the room, the deputy’s head bobbing as he jotted notes on a sheet of paper. Lambert hung up the phone and turned his chair around.
“We found her car.”
“Justine Adkins’s Acura?”
“I put a call into Kane Grove PD. Turns out they received a complaint about an abandoned vehicle at the KG Shopping Market. The owner assumed somebody’s car broke down. But when nobody showed up to tow it away, he called the police.”
Thomas grabbed his hat.
“Call Kane Grove PD and have them meet me at the grocery store.”
“Will do.”
Thomas hopped into his cruiser and gunned the engine. He sensed time was running out on Justine Adkins, as if someone set an hourglass on its head. As he turned onto the highway, he radioed Lambert and had him run a check on Justine’s credit cards. Lambert confirmed she’d used her credit card at the KG Shopping Market after ten o’clock last evening, around the time Aguilar had searched for Adkins at the Orange Tulip.
The detective awaiting Thomas was a lanky woman in a dark blue pants suit and heels, her almond colored hair cut in a shaggy, angled bob.
“Thanks for coming over, Sheriff. I’m Detective Presley.”
“Thomas Shepherd,” he said, offering his hand.
“We’re fortunate your deputy called when he did. The manager wanted the Acura towed. Any idea what happened to the owner?”
Thomas gave Detective Presley the background surrounding Justine Adkins and her two friends.
“So this might be related to a missing persons case from six years ago?” she asked.
“It might very well be. This must be the car.”
Thomas followed Presley to the red Acura. The tires straddled the line, suggesting the missing woman struggled to park the car in the fog. With gloves on his hands, Thomas grabbed the handle. The unlocked door opened.
Presley turned away and plugged her nose. The interior smelled like roadkill, and he almost expected to find Justine’s dead body tucked between the seats.
Thomas nodded at the bag on the passenger seat. Justine’s wallet sat atop a folded sweatshirt. Snatching the wallet, he opened it and found a hundred dollars in cash and two credit cards.
“This wasn’t a robbery. If someone took her, he left her bag with the wallet inside.”
Presley popped the trunk.
“I found where the smell is coming from. I guess cold cuts don’t last long inside a hot car. I’ll radio the station and have the crime techs check the car for evidence. But it appears someone snatched her out of the parking lot and drove off.”
“I take it the shopping market has security cameras.”
“They do, but it was foggy last night. Not sure how much we’ll see.”
Presley followed Thomas inside. The store manager led them to a gloomy room in the back and copied the security camera footage. Thomas gave the video a quick scan and came to the same conclusion as Presley. Too foggy. Between the poor camera quality and the dense mist, he couldn’t spot the Acura, though he caught Adkins pushing a shopping cart through the automatic doors.
“I’ll have our lab clean up the video and bring out the details,” Presley said.
Thomas didn’t think it would make a difference.
“I need the names of everyone working last night,” Thomas told the manager.
“I can get those for you. Harry Sims is here now. He’s my assistant manager. Harry closed the store at midnight.”
Sims remembered Adkins after Thomas showed him a picture of her driver’s license.
“There were only two or three shoppers in the store after ten,” Sims said, creasing his forehead as he remembered.
“Anyone following her or acting strangely?”
“No, but a van almost ran me over when I went outside to corral the shopping carts.”
“What time did this occur?”
“Sometime between ten-thirty and eleven. I figured it was a kid hot-rodding through the parking lot.”
“Did you get a look at the driver or read the license plate?”
“It was too damn foggy.”
“How about the make and model?”
“Couldn’t tell you. It was a dark color, maybe blue or black. Sorry I can’t help more.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friday, August 13th
11:45 a.m.
Raven followed Darren to the state park and left her black Nissan Rogue beside his truck. They split off after Darren noticed his trail cameras had arrived. Raven knocked on the door to Paul Phipps’s cabin and didn’t get an answer. She peeked through the windows. They hadn’t made the bed before they left, and a stack of dishes littered the sink.
She followed the trail into the forest, intent on catching up to Darren. Now that they were away from LeVar and Scout, she wanted to tell him about the lacerations on Chelsey’s chest. An unthinkable idea passed through her head. Was Chelsey cutting herself?
Darren was probably halfway to Lucifer Falls. The woods seemed darker than when she’d hiked with Darren. Being alone lent an ominous overtone to the forest. Leaves crunched in the distance as someone cut between the trails, breaking park rules by taking a shortcut. It could have
been Darren, or a hiker in a hurry. Or the Lucifer Falls killer.
She stopped beside a tree and listened as the footsteps moved away. Then she heard nothing except bird calls and animals rustling through the gloom. This was a bad idea. Darren was too far ahead, and her nerves were frayed. As she turned back to the cabins, she spotted footprints in the dirt circling cabin three. She wouldn’t have given the prints a second thought except they congregated in two places—outside the door and beneath the dusty window. It appeared someone had searched for a way inside the cabin.
She followed the prints and knelt to examine a cluster beneath the window. The prints fit a male sneaker, size ten or eleven.
Raven circled cabin three and knocked. Again, nobody answered. Most campers were out on the lake or walking the trails at this time of day, though she suspected some would return soon for lunch.
A dirt and stone path fronted the cabins and merged with the ridge trail. She walked down the path, her focus on the space between the cabins. Between cabins seven and eight, she found another set of prints. Again they converged beneath the window and at the door.
She stopped beside the prints and snapped a photograph with her phone. Everything appeared identical—the tread pattern, shoe size, and print depth. Someone was testing the locks on the doors and windows. This had to be the same person who swiped two-hundred dollars from Paul Phipps’s wife. She searched along the window. The pane was off its tracks, as if someone jostled it open recently.
“What are you doing there?”
Raven swung around to a lanky man with gray, wispy hair, a white mustache, and glasses.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. But did you notice anyone circling the cabins or trying to break inside the last few days?”
“Can’t say that I did, and I would have called the cops, anyhow. Who are you?”
“Raven Hopkins. I’m a private investigator with Wolf Lake Consulting.”
“A private eye, eh? You got identification?”
“I have my driver’s license, if that helps.”
Raven removed the license from her wallet and showed it to the man. He narrowed his eyes.
“Looks like you are who you say you are. But that doesn’t mean you’re a private investigator. What business do you have at the camp?”
“One of your neighbors hired me after his wife had money stolen from her wallet.”
“You don’t say.”
Raven removed a pen and notepad.
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“Shillingford. Cole Shillingford.”
“Mr. Shillingford, have you or your neighbors lost any items of value over the last week?”
He called over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Raven.
“Aileen, come out here.”
A gray-haired woman in a flannel shirt and jeans emerged from the cabin. She glanced at Raven and widened her eyes.
“Should I call the police, Cole?”
“She says she’s a private investigator. Claims a camper hired her to catch the thief running around these parts.” The woman edged away from the door and stood beside her husband. “Tell her about the money you lost.”
Raven’s eyes lit up.
“Someone stole your money, Mrs. Shillingford?”
“It wasn’t much. Twenty or thirty dollars. I don’t recall how much I left on the table before we took a walk.”
“When did this occur?”
She glanced at her husband.
“Monday afternoon, wasn’t it, Cole?”
He nodded and puffed out his mustache.
“How do we know you didn’t take it?”
Raven stared at the couple.
“What?”
“You appear out of nowhere, flash a driver’s license, and claim you’re a private investigator. That’s a pretty good story if you want to fool people. In the meantime, someone’s stealing money from campers. Where’s your badge?”
“I don’t have a badge.”
“Then there’s no way to verify you really are a private investigator.”
Raven took a composing breath.
“Look, I’m just trying to help. If I catch the person who’s stealing from you, maybe I’ll get your money back. I’m friends with Ranger Holt. He’ll vouch for me.”
Cole glared at Raven. Aileen shrugged her shoulders and sauntered back to the cabin.
Opening her wallet, Raven handed Cole a business card.
“This is the firm I work for. Should you see anyone hanging around the cabins who doesn’t belong, call me. And be sure to tell Ranger Holt.”
Cole turned the card over in his hands as Raven walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday, August 13th
3:00 p.m.
Deputy Aguilar arrived for the swing shift at the same time Thomas returned from interviewing Paige Sutton again. He kept thinking about what the assistant manager at the supermarket said—a dark blue or black van raced through the parking lot around the time Justine Adkins went missing. Unlike larger villages, Wolf Lake didn’t have traffic cameras scattered around town. He hoped someone would come forward and remember seeing the van.
Inside the kitchen, he stirred sugar into his coffee. Aguilar shook her head.
“You don’t approve of coffee. I remember.”
“It’s not that I disapprove of coffee or caffeine. But you’re loading it with sugar. You might as well chug a Coke or one of those heart-disease-causing energy drinks.”
Thomas scowled down at the mug. He figured it was a good idea not to tell her he’d dumped two packets of cream into the coffee.
“What would you suggest? Diet soda?”
Aguilar palmed her face.
“Those are even worse. Artificial sweeteners are linked to brain tumors and bladder cancer.”
“So the weight loss isn’t worth the risk.”
She propped herself up on the counter, not an ounce of fat on her chiseled arms.
“Believe it or not, those zero calorie sweeteners you’re addicted to cause weight gain.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Check out the science. You’ll never put that garbage in your body again.”
Thomas poured the coffee down the drain and scrubbed the mug clean.
“You convinced me.”
She lifted her chin at him.
“Try green tea or matcha, if you need an afternoon energy boost. I drink tea first thing in the morning, then space out cups throughout the day. That keeps my blood sugar steady and cuts down on cravings.”
“I could do that. I like green tea.”
“And instead of wasting your money on an oily sub from the deli, make a protein drink for lunch. You’re welcome to use my blender.”
“Thanks, Aguilar. I appreciate the tips.”
All at-once, she seemed to realize she’d engaged in casual chitchat with her superior. She cleared her throat and hopped off the counter. Thomas smiled to himself. He’d tricked her into talking.
“So,” she said, sliding her food into the refrigerator. “What’s the latest on your missing person?”
“Nothing new since Kane Grove PD found her vehicle in the grocery store parking lot. I’m about to drive over to Kane Grove and check out the place she’s staying at. Why don’t you ride with me?”
Thomas took the lake road back to the highway. It took a few minutes longer than cutting through the village center. But the view was worth it. Aguilar sat ramrod straight in the passenger seat, her radio on her shoulder, the hat propped on her head as her hair blew around. Thomas preferred to drive with the windows down.
“You should get a place down here,” he said, tilting his head toward the water. “I saw two places go up for sale last week.”
“I like my ranch house. These properties are too labor intensive.”
He fiddled with the radio while she stared straight ahead through the windshield. Sifting through a catalog of conversation starters in his head, he glanced across the cruiser.
<
br /> “I’m thinking about weight lifting.”
It wasn’t a lie, though he had no reason to bring it up, except to strike up a conversation.
“Oh?”
“I’ve got a spare room I’m not using. Figured it would be the perfect spot for a bench and free weights.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Do you even lift, bro?”
He burst out laughing, and Aguilar couldn’t help but grin. Good. He’d found the magic elixir for making her lighten up.
“This may be hard to believe, but I had a gym membership when I lived in Los Angeles.”
“Probably one of those pink and purple gyms with treadmills and exercise bikes,” Aguilar said, making air quotes around gyms.
“You’d be surprised. It was a hole in the wall near Manhattan Beach. My partner’s brother owned the place. The gym was nothing but squat racks, pull up bars, and benches.
“I’m impressed. How often did you workout?”
“Two or three times per week at first.”
“And then?”
He watched the lake pass by the window.
“Two or three times per year.”
“Could have guessed.”
When they passed a sprawling mansion on the west side of the lake, he spotted a florist delivery van parked in the driveway. Thomas snickered.
“That was the place that sold me the bouquet.”
“The bouquet?”
“You know, when we attended the Magnolia Dance together.”
The week after Thomas started working for the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department, Lambert convinced Thomas to ask Aguilar to the April dance, Wolf Lake’s most popular festival. Aguilar feigned coughing to cover a laugh.
“That was quite the night,” Thomas continued.
“You picked me up late, sweating like a schoolboy on his first date. Ten minutes after we sat down to eat, you started a fight, and we had to leave.”
“The fight wasn’t my fault.”
“Sure, it wasn’t. Everyone who attends the Magnolia Dance ends up punking his ex’s new boyfriend.”
Chelsey attended the dance with Ray Welch, a heavy drinker who’d bullied Thomas during high school.
