by Karen Rose
She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘You were sitting here for less than thirty minutes while I started dinner.’
‘I started this afternoon in my office at the Ledger.’ He frowned in clear irritation. ‘I can usually dig to the bottom of a shell much faster than this.’
‘So whoever bought Brewer’s house is very smart, or has employed someone who is. That tells you something.’
‘Yeah,’ he muttered, sounding disgruntled. ‘What I do know, though, is that the house was the boys’ mother’s. It had belonged to her first husband, their father. He died before Joshua was born. He was Army. Died in Iraq. She transferred the title to Brewer only two weeks ago.’
‘Not at the time they were married?’
‘Nope.’
‘What did Brewer do for a living?’ she asked.
‘He was an attorney, but it doesn’t appear that he’d practiced for quite some time – a few years at least. There may be another explanation for what happened to the money he got for the house, other than gambling or drugs.’ Hesitating, Diesel glanced over his shoulder at the closed basement door. ‘Blackmail.’
A shiver ran down Dani’s spine. Mindful that Joshua was upstairs, could come down at any moment and hear them, she leaned toward Diesel and whispered, ‘Someone knew about Brewer molesting Michael?’
Diesel’s jaw clenched and her feeling of trepidation grew.
‘What?’ she demanded in a harsh whisper. ‘Tell me.’
He leaned in to whisper in her ear. ‘Brewer had photos on his hard drive.’
‘Oh my God.’ Dani mouthed the words, her voice having fled from her throat. ‘Of the boys?’
Diesel nodded grimly.
She covered her mouth, tears stinging her eyes. ‘No.’
‘I’m not telling the cops unless I have to. If they find them, then they find them, but I don’t want anyone to have any more reasons to suspect Michael.’
Dani nodded, swiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. ‘Dammit. I hate this. I hate to know this. I hate that it’s true.’
Diesel looked away. ‘I thought you should know. But maybe I shouldn’t have told you.’
Instinctively she reached for his face, cupping his cheek and pulling him so that he looked at her again. ‘Yes, you should have. You did the right thing. Doesn’t mean it’s not hard to know.’ Think of it as a mugging. If she’d been unsure that Diesel had been speaking from experience, the shame in his eyes drove all uncertainty away. ‘The boys did nothing wrong. I hate that they were hurt, but they did nothing wrong.’ And neither did you, she wanted to add, but of course she did not. ‘I needed to know so that we can get them the right help, but this changes nothing. I will care for them – and about them – regardless.’
Gratitude flickered in Diesel’s dark eyes and Dani wanted to cry again.
‘I don’t think Michael knows about the photos,’ he murmured, gesturing to the basement door. ‘In them, he appears to be either asleep or in the shower.’
Bile clawed at her throat at the thought of Michael being photographed when he thought he was alone and safe. ‘Let’s not tell him unless we have to.’
Diesel shook his head. ‘I think whether or not we tell him depends on whether any of the photos were uploaded. If they were, he needs to know how to protect himself should he ever be recognized. Either way, those kids are gonna need therapy. Lots of therapy. Both of them.’
He suddenly looked exhausted, chin dipping, shoulders slumping, and Dani wanted – no, needed to comfort him. Before she could overthink it, she laid a hand on his forearm and felt his muscles twitch at the contact.
When he lifted his chin to look at her, she gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Meredith is a good place to start.’ Adam’s wife had helped a lot of kids, victims of all kinds of trauma. But she specialized in providing therapy to children and adolescents who’d been victims of sexual assault.
‘I know.’ Diesel dropped his gaze to where Dani was touching him, staring for a long, long moment before covering her hand with his, making her shiver at the unexpected warmth. ‘I’m going to ask her to take Michael on as a client. Unless you know of a therapist who signs.’
‘Faith does, but she’s not fluent. I can ask around. Until then, Mer can hire an interpreter.’ Dani knew that she should probably pull her hand away, but it felt too good sandwiched between his palm and his arm. ‘Can you find out if anyone else has hacked into the stepfather’s hard drive?’
‘I’m going to try after dinner. But first I’m going to identify who owns the shell corporation that bought their house.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Whatever you’re making smells really good.’
‘Macaroni and cheese casserole. Comfort food for Michael and Joshua. My stepfather Bruce used to make it for us if we’d had a bad day.’
‘So your mom remarried?’
‘After my father died, yes, but not for several years. And we didn’t have Bruce that long. He and Mom died in a car accident when Greg was a baby. We ended up back with Tammy and Jim. But for a while, when we lived with Mom and Bruce, we were really happy.’
Diesel’s smile was sweet. ‘I’m glad you had that for even a little while.’
He hadn’t had any happiness. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she could tell. She also strongly suspected he wouldn’t want to talk about it. Rising, she pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, clearly surprising him as much as she surprised herself. ‘You’ll figure out the shell corporation,’ she said confidently. ‘Maybe you just need to feed your brain. Bruce’s mac-a-chee is a most excellent source of carbs.’
She started to back away, but her hand was still trapped between his arm and palm. He scooped it into his and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before letting her go.
He stared her squarely in the eye, his earlier weariness nowhere to be seen. He was all challenge now. ‘Then bring it on.’
For a moment she couldn’t draw a breath. Then his mouth quirked up and she laughed. How was it that this man could make her laugh when she should be telling him ‘no’ in no uncertain terms?
She opened her mouth to say exactly that, but instead heard herself say, ‘All right.’
Nine
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, 16 March, 10.15 P.M.
Grant Masterson stood in the enormous walk-in closet of his brother’s Cincinnati apartment, mouth agape once again. He’d never seen so many suits outside of a clothing store. And they were expensive suits. He recognized a few of the designers, ones he’d overheard on the television when Cora was watching some fancy awards show.
And shoes. My God. How many shoes could one man wear? He blinked, doing another dazed three-sixty. And then his gaze fell on a mirror.
That was slightly ajar. Because it was a door.
He’d pulled on the latex gloves he’d found in Wes’s Cleveland safe before he’d touched anything in this building – even the elevator button. He’d been in luck, because the doorman’s post was empty, a sign saying he’d be back in five minutes, so there had been no one to ask him questions about Wes that he couldn’t answer.
Wes’s Cincinnati apartment was astonishing. A wall of windows allowed a view of the river that Grant expected was a main factor in the price.
But the contents of this closet alone had to be worth more than fifty grand. Grant thought of the brick of heroin that he’d carefully replaced in the safe, and wondered how many other bricks there had been.
A quick Google search had revealed that the street price for the single brick was close to six hundred grand. When he’d added up all the receipts he’d found and added the five hundred grand still in the safe . . . Wes had to have started out with at least three of the bricks. That was nearly two million dollars’ worth of heroin.
It had left him dizzy and nauseated.
His cop brother had sold
heroin. Those drugs were on the streets of Cleveland, being shot into the arms of addicts of all ages. And why?
For this apartment. These suits. Those shoes. And whatever was hidden behind the mirror.
He opened the mirror enough to peer in, and frowned. There were more clothes hanging on a rack. He activated the flashlight on his cell phone and walked into the hidden room, about the size of a normal person’s closet.
His frown deepened. Uniforms. He grabbed the sleeve of one and pulled it out enough to see that it was a repairman’s coveralls. A Velcro patch on the left breast pocket was empty, but a strip of Velcro attached to the hanger held at least a dozen nametags, all with the name of a different local business – the cable company, power company, gas company, phone company, plumbers, electricians, and a pest control firm. Next to the coveralls were a priest’s cassock and doctor’s scrubs.
Grant backed out of the closet, drawing a deep breath as he positioned the mirror as he’d found it. Wes had done undercover work during his years in the vice department. Those uniforms might be for that.
Or Wes had been using them to buy and sell the drugs he’d hidden in his home safe.
His safe, which had the simplest of all combinations, one that Wes knew Grant would immediately try.
Had Wes wanted his brother to find his stash? To find all that cash? If so, why?
‘Undercover,’ Grant whispered. ‘Please let it be that.’
Drawing another breath, he detected the smell of cigarette smoke. Wes didn’t smoke.
Wes doesn’t sell drugs, either. Except that he does.
Grant turned to the suits, sniffing them, then stopping when he got to one that had a stronger scent of smoke than the others. Figuring that this would be the suit his brother had worn most recently, he hesitantly put his gloved hand in the pocket. Finding it empty, he checked the other and pulled out a matchbook and a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes.
I guess he does smoke. And then Grant saw the matchbook cover.
Oh. The background was black, both the lettering and the logo white. The lettering used an Old West font. LOTR. Below the letters was a simple drawing of an old-fashioned paddleboat on a winding river.
He held his phone to his mouth. ‘Siri, search Ohio River paddleboats and LOTR.’ He waited impatiently for the results screen, then gave a single nod. ‘Not Lord of the Rings,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Lady of the River.’
It was a riverboat casino, just over the state line in Indiana.
Of course it was. He added gambling to Wes’s growing list of sins. Then he thought of the detective’s obituary. Murder? Had his brother gone that far?
Where was Wesley? Grant knew where he had to start. Most of the casinos on the Indiana portion of the Ohio River were permanently docked, but the Lady of the River was not. According to their website, this was one of its selling points. The boat went out onto the river three times a week – Monday and Wednesday afternoons for business parties, and Friday evenings, where it was first come, first served until it sailed at 7 p.m. It remained docked during the rest of the week.
It offered a full range of games and slots, elegant bars, live entertainment, and a handful of well-appointed hotel rooms, which carried an ungodly price tag.
‘Lady of the River, here I come.’ He started to drop the matchbook back into the suit coat pocket, but paused, turning it over instead. Nothing was printed on the back, which surprised him. Usually a business would add an address, phone number, or at least a website somewhere. Not sure what he was expecting, he flipped the front of the matchbook up.
Bingo. A very small playing card – the Joker – was printed in gold, which made it pop from the black background. Below the card was the word Walden and what appeared to be a date, 03/08, also printed in gold. March eighth was two Fridays ago.
But what was Walden? ‘Hey, Siri, search for Walden.’
The first item in the results referred to Walden College, but the next was a Wikipedia link to a book by Henry David Thoreau. The bio for Thoreau answered the question.
Henry David Thoreau’s best friend was Ralph Waldo Emerson.
‘Blake Emerson,’ he muttered. The name on the rental agreement for this apartment. It could be a coincidence, but Grant didn’t think it was.
Pocketing the matchbook, he headed into the bedroom. He’d searched the living room for a safe, but found none.
He glanced around, noticing a throw rug that didn’t exactly match the decor. He was a little impressed with himself, he had to admit. I suppose all those HGTV shows that Cora watches are coming in handy.
He nudged at the rug with his toe, satisfied when he revealed the corner of an in-floor safe. It, too, opened with their sister’s birth date. The dread that had become his constant companion intensified as he lifted the door.
Reaching inside, he pulled out two wallets. One held Wes’s detective shield and police ID card. The other held his driver’s license and credit cards. He hid them because he’s undercover, he thought hopefully. Please let him be undercover. He opened the wallet with the detective shield and studied the photo of his older brother. They were three years apart, but looked enough alike that many people mistook them for twins, especially from a distance.
He hesitated, then put the shield in his own pocket. ‘In case he’s in trouble,’ he muttered to himself. If Wes was in trouble, he might need someone to vouch for him.
Reaching into the safe again, he pulled out a gun he recognized as Wes’s service weapon. He checked the chamber and the magazine. It was unloaded, so he set it aside. His breath caught in his throat, because the next gun he pulled out was not one he recognized. It had no serial number, the plate having been filed off.
Shoulders bowing with dread, he checked the chamber. One bullet, ready to go. He studied it until he figured out the release mechanism to empty the magazine.
It was a nine-bullet clip, but he counted only five bullets. Plus the one in the chamber. Three were missing.
Once again he thought of the dead detective, and swallowed audibly.
Hands shaking, he replaced the clip and released the slide, covering the chamber. Setting the weapon aside, he reached into the safe once again and pulled out a cell phone.
A single tap to the screen had his eyes filling with tears. It was Wes’s phone. No question. The wallpaper was a photo of . . .
Grant blinked, sending the tears down his cheeks. ‘Baby girl,’ he whispered hoarsely. It was their sister in her cap and gown and Wes in his dress uniform, arms around each other, smiling. A huge sign behind them read: CONGRATULATIONS, GRADUATES!
Grant remembered the day. He’d taken the photo. They’d been so damn happy.
And then she was gone.
Please don’t be gone, Wes. I can’t lose you, too.
Grant swiped upward, certain he’d need a password. But he didn’t. He frowned, wondering why Wes would be so careless. He started to touch the apps on the screen, then hesitated. What if this was a trap and the phone was set to auto-wipe itself if anyone tried to look at its contents?
He shook his head. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. Now he was getting paranoid.
He checked the screen, but he’d waited too long and it had gone dark. He swiped up again, but the angle was now different and the words ‘Face ID’ popped up.
Grant had a similar phone, so he held it to his face. But it wouldn’t wor—
‘Well, shit.’ Apparently, facial recognition wasn’t completely precise in its discrimination, because Grant could open his brother’s phone.
Encouraged, he touched Wes’s calendar and swiped back day after day until a single entry popped onto the screen. LOTR. Poker. The date was two Fridays before, at 9 p.m. The same date he’d found on the matchbook.
Relief soothed him. At least he had a lead. He found another calendar entry on Wes’s phone, on 1 March, the Friday be
fore the matchbook date. LOTR. Richard.
Grant continued to swipe, but found nothing more than a few shopping lists.
He checked the contacts for a Richard but found nothing. There were only Wes’s known friends, family, and co-workers. Other than the wallpaper photo, the only photos on the phone were of Grant’s kids.
Grant returned everything to the floor safe, hesitating when he handled the loaded gun. Should he take it? Would he need it?
Maybe, but he decided it was safer to put it back. If he were caught with an unregistered gun, he’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble.
He walked back to the living room and took another look at the amazing view. ‘I hope whatever you’re doing is worth it, Wes.’
Then he found the riverboat on Google Maps and plotted a route.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, 16 March, 10.45 P.M.
Michael sat back in his chair with a sigh. His plate was scraped clean, his stomach truly full for the first time in weeks. He glanced up to see Dr Dani smiling.
‘It was good?’ she asked.
‘Really good,’ Joshua said enthusiastically, shoving another bite into his mouth. He’d padded down the stairs midway through dinner, rubbing his eyes sleepily and claiming the smells had woken him up. He pointed to the creamy noodles in his bowl. ‘This is my favorite.’
‘It’s really good,’ Michael echoed. He liked the Kraft macaroni and cheese out of the blue box – it was better than the crap they served at the school cafeteria – but Dr Dani’s was the best he’d ever had. He wondered if she’d show him how to make it, so that he could make it for Joshua when they left this house.
It was only temporary foster care, after all.
She tilted her head, studying him with those weird, mismatched eyes that seemed to see a lot more than he wanted to show. ‘How long since you’ve eaten a good meal, Michael?’
Joshua’s spoon froze midway to his mouth, his smile fading as he waited for his brother to answer. Michael tried to laugh it off. ‘Well, I usually make dinner, but I wouldn’t call it good.’
