A fluffy orange tabby cat brushed against Anna’s calf. She gave the soft feline a pat down the back of his neck and started toward the master bedroom. Pillows piled against the curved backboard of the canopy-covered king-sized bed. Nearby, a wardrobe dwarfed Anna. Jewelry spilled from half a dozen velvet boxes on Stacy’s makeup station: a pricey antique desk with four circular mirrors that opened around the user’s head like a menu. Facing the bed was a six-foot, hand-painted portrait of a faun being pulled on by four beautiful women. Hundreds of shirts and shoes packed the clothing closet nearby. Anna brushed her gloved palm along the side of the mattress while Rennard mimicked her on the other side.
“Good job with Stacy,” the agent complimented, his hand brushing by the far corner of the bed.
“Cain manipulated her with honesty and gifts. He convinced her that they shared a special unbreakable bond, that she was the only he could tell his secrets to, that she could be the remedy to his illness. It gave her purpose, and that’s worth a lot more than money.” Anna reached the front of the mattress. Finding no fissures, she doubled back.
“Maybe he truly loves her,” the agent suggested.
“Doubtful,” Anna replied. “It was a long con that backfired tremendously.”
By his expression, Rennard doubted that statement. They both moved their hands to the place where the mattress met the backboard and brushed against each other’s fingers.
“Found it,” Rennard announced and withdrew a slip of paper.
Anna moved next to him as he opened the folds. Printed out in tiny font were at least a hundred addresses.
“We can’t say she’s a liar,” said Rennard, and they began to count.
The rest of the investigators combed through the house and found little evidence that Cain had ever stayed there. There were no photographs of him. No notes. Stacy had admitted that he only stayed over once a month. The rest of their visits were at his properties. She also revealed that the boat was his idea, too, and he had her take lessons in case the cops were on to her. All in all, what Anna and Rennard had to go on was a list of one hundred and eighteen home addresses that Cain had anonymously bought and sold at one time or another over the last twenty-plus years.
The lead did not inspire confidence.
Anna went to the police and sheriff's department, searching for volunteers to go door to door, ask about sightings in the neighborhood, and call in backup if anything suspicious caught their eye. All and all, she recruited four officers and split the list accordingly, which equated to roughly twenty addresses per person, with Rennard and Anna taking on the outliers. She printed out copies of the list for the six of them and provided highlighters so they could mark off the unfruitful addresses. She also made a shareable Excel spreadsheet that could be updated by all the volunteers. However, Anna couldn’t access that with her father’s outdated flip phone. With the plan in motion, they set off, Anna exiting last.
Sheriff Greenbell saw her out. It felt like years had passed since they last saw each other. The wrinkles and droopy circles under his eyes made the sheriff look it too. Anna expected a jibe or sarcastic compliment from the man who had once blamed her and her brother for the abduction. Instead, he nodded respectfully and lit a cigarette without saying a word.
Reviewing the geological profile, Anna and Rennard began with the addresses clustered within the abduction sites and Cain’s confiscated properties. The listed homes were located in and around Van Buren, Fort Smith, Mulberry, Greenwood, and Durham. There was a single address far off in Prairie Grove about sixty miles away. If Anna and the rest of the volunteers spent an hour per property and counted the drive time, they were looking at thirtyish hours apiece, so it would take at least three days. Taking into account home life, work responsibilities, and the available hours of the residents of Cain’s previous properties, and that number significantly increased.
Anna visited her father before setting off. The bruises that flowered his chest, arms, and legs had shrunk slightly, but his broken bones had a long way to recover. The life support machine and tube down his throat kept him alive, and the doctor’s prognosis remained pessimistic.
“We’ve had a few close calls, but he’s stable. For how much longer, we cannot say. We might start weaning him off the machines, but only if we see significant improvement,” the doctor said as Anna clasped her father’s faintly warm and veiny hand. His wrapped leg hung on a sling. A small beard sprouted from his bruised square jaw.
After the doctor mentioned the cost-per-day--a number Anna struggled to repeat--he said, “Richard has lived a full life. There’s nothing wrong with sending him home.”
“There’s something I have to take care of,” Anna told the doctor as she brushed the thin, grey bangs to the side of her father’s forehead. “I’ll have my answer when I return.”
With a sober smile, the doctor left Anna with her father and vanished into the hall.
Anna squeezed Richard’s veiny hand as if to pump life back into his old, broken, and battered body. “Keep fighting, Dad. That’s what you’ve always told me.”
The breathing machine rose and fell at a steady pace while the heartbeat monitor beeped monotonously. Anna closed her eyes and took and held a breath, filling herself with the chilly, sterile hospital air. When she released her breath, she said, “I’ll find him, Dad, and when I do, you better wake up. If you can hear me, promise me. Promise me you’ll wake up.”
Anna stayed with Richard for a while, listening to the beeps and boops of various machines keeping him alive. When it felt right, Anna wiped her palms on her slacks, got up, and went to the first address on her section of the list.
It was a hot day for autumn and the late morning sun beat down on Anna’s neck. She wore tinted aviators to hide her sleepless eyes and a dark blue button up that didn’t fit as well as it once did. Her belly was skinny from her two days trapped underground last week and, during her morning shower, she noticed that her lower ribs still showed against her tan skin. The lack of sleep and coffee/pizza diet had not done wonders for her physique, either.
Nonetheless, she walked casually and confidently up the driveway and mashed her finger against the doorbell. She heard the chime from inside and tried to steal a peek through the wavy glass panes on the door. Her pistol pulled at her tightened belt, but she would not take chances leaving the truck without it. It would frighten some of the people she encountered, but that would hypothetically be interpreted as a sign of her seriousness.
A petite elderly woman shuffled her tiny feet toward the door and opened for Anna. With a grin to match the picture, Anna displayed her P.I. license contained in the transparent flap of her wallet. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. I was wondering if you had time to answer a few questions.”
Cautiously, the woman invited her inside and offered Anna refreshments. Anna accepted but ate and drank little, knowing that this would be the first stop of many. After complimenting the woman’s quaint and inviting home, Anna got to the questions one by one. “How long have you owned this home? Did you deal with the previous owner or someone else? In the past few days, have you noticed anything unusual or out of place around your home or in the neighboring houses? Any strange cars new in the neighborhood or people asking for food or lodging? What about an African-American child with a possibly bandaged hand and her Caucasian guardian? Do you feel as though you’re being watched or that someone may have gotten into your home over the last few days? Maybe you found the door unlocked or window creaked when you remember shutting them before leaving home? Was there anything that I’ve not asked that you’d like to mention?”
The elder woman told Anna that her late husband had bought the property fifteen years ago and for way under the list price. She had no relations to the previous owner, and the only change to the neighborhood in the past week was that the teenager in the neighbor's house had gotten new speakers, which drove her absolutely nuts.
Back at the truck, Anna held the list of properties against the steering w
heel and highlighted another address in hot pink. Sighing, she put her shifter into Drive and rolled out down the rural street to her next destination.
An African-American man greeted Anna from his covered porch and quickly recognized her from the news. His two-story house was nestled near a creek and had a spacious back yard where he contemplated building a shed. He sympathized with Anna for a while and displayed a passionate curiosity for the Rines case. When asked, he openly talked about the steal of a deal he got for the house and confirmed the picture of Wesley Jenkins, AKA Cain, to be the one who sold it to him.
“It’s one of those things, you know. Hard to tell what you’re getting and from who you’re getting it from, but the man didn’t steer me wrong,” the homeowner said.
Anna excused herself to use the restroom, the same that she’d done at the elderly woman’s house, and gave the other rooms a quick peek. There was nothing that hinted at a second person living within or that there ever had been. She returned to the living room and asked how he came to find the place originally.
“My credit was suffering and no one wanted to sell me a house. I started asking around and eventually the grapevine came back to me about this guy who’s willing to sell as long as the buyer makes payment in cash. I saved up a bit and met with the man to finalize the deal. He said that the property had been owned by the same couple since it was built in the 40s. When they passed, their inheritors wanted to sell quick and the day after the funeral, the man bought it at a low price. Sold it to me two weeks later.”
The cogs in Anna’s mind turned. “It’s almost like he searches the local obituaries to see what houses are open to purchase.”
“And snatches them up before they’re on the market? Could be,” the man replied with a chuckle. “Most of the folks around these parts have been here forever. With the youth all moving away nowadays, they don’t want to come back and deal with their parents’ mess.”
“Cain offers them a way out, albeit shady.”
The man chuckled again, holding a hand on his belly. “No one ever told me being a detective was this much fun.”
Anna thought of all the struggles she’d dealt with on this case alone. “It has its moments, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
The man waved her goodbye as Anna peeled out of the gravel driveway. She checked the time, realizing she’d spent over an hour and a half there. She gave Rennard a call.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“Nada,” the agent replied. “I found a woman who can cook some otherworldly cookies though.”
Anna cracked a smile. “How many you got left on your list?”
“Um, seventeen. I’m pulling up to sixteen now.”
“You’re making the rest of us look bad,” Anna joked as she headed across the bridge to the Fort Smith area. The wide Arkansas River rolled on below, its brown-green water twinkling in the sun.
“My grandfather was a traveling salesmen. It must run in the blood.”
“Alright, Rennard. Call if you learn anything.”
“That’s supposed to be my line, consultant.”
The next address took Anna into a developing neighborhood on the outer rim of Fort Smith. She parked across the street and rolled down her window. A breeze brushed through her short hair as she lowered her aviators down to the point of her nose. The house erected before her was little more than walls and a roof. The wood stood unpainted and the garage lacked a drop-down door.
Brows crinkled, Anna stepped out, looked both ways, and crossed the street. She bounced up the curb and marched through the grass. Plastic sheeting fortified the inside of the house’s windows and bowed inward at every gust of wind. The door was solid wood and had a metal knob that rattled when Anna shook it but did not give way. Hesitating for a moment, she stepped into the mouth of the garage. Its shade enveloped her in darkness. She pick locked inner door.
Sunlight barely slipped through the fogged plastic sheeting, thus rendering the spacious interior dark and gloomy. With every step, Anna’s shoes clacked against the wood flooring. Without thinking, her fingers unbuttoned the strap on her gun holster and her fingers coiled around the cold, rough grip of her pistol. Her eyes caught hold of a dry mud smudge on the floor. She knelt down, noticing the geometric pattern printed in the flaky dirt. There was a similar smudge a few feet away. Footprints, partial and days old. Anna followed the remnant of the trail to a door. It opened into stairs stepping down into a dark abyss.
A shiver scurried up Anna’s spine and prompted her to twist back, gun drawn. Over the barrel of her pistol were large, dark, seemingly empty rooms. With steady steps, she descended into darkness. Her eyes slowly adjusted when her foot hit the cement floor. Wood support beams were positioned intermittently through the room. Twisted and bent nails broke wood between horizontal two-by-fours checkering the ceiling above Anna’s head. With a click, her flashlight cast a beam across the open basement. She stepped forward, taking heed of the single wooden chair near the back wall.
Probing the room with her flashlight, Anna approached. The chair was old and scarred with scratches. It had arms and seemed to be built for a child. Swept behind were a few strands of white thread that took Anna two passes to recognize. Trash? Dockline hairs? Anna had no answers. After looking underneath the chair for any markings and scanning the walls for Cain’s signature phrases, Anna left the shell of the home unsatisfied.
The sunlight blinded her upon exiting and prompted her to lift the shades hanging on the top button of her shirt. Crunching grass underfoot, she distanced herself from the residence until she reached the curb. There was something butted against the cement . Curious, she knelt and lifted the black plastic with two fingers. The top had been snapped away and what she held was a number pad. Burner phone, she knew immediately. She twisted it around and removed the back casing. The battery remained intact. The sim card was gone. Anna looked up and down the street and lawn but couldn’t find the screen section of the phone or the sim.
Returning to her truck with the broken phone in hand, she pulled up her list and highlighted the address with a neon green stripe to remind herself that it was a place of interest. She sent a text to Rennard about the chair in the basement and broken phone in the curbside before driving to the next address.
Anna’s stomach rumbled as she rolled into a neighborhood a few miles down the road. Tacos for lunch? she thought with uncertainty. She looked up from the GPS in time to see the gaggle of children biking across the street. Anna stomped on her brakes and caught her breath.
“Sorry!” A freckled five-year-old yelled. Her little legs churned the bike pedals. She reclaimed her speed and the glittery pink handlebar tassels twisted in the wind. The other children beckoned her to hurry up.
A few houses down, Anna parked her car. Teenage boys with blond fuzz on their lips skateboarded and shot basketball next door. Across the street, a man had his garage door open while he worked under his jack-lifted muscle car and listened to classic rock on his radio. Farther down, an old woman watered her tiny front yard garden that wasn’t adapting well to the season. Saturday, Anna remembered as she unbuckled her seatbelt.
She stepped out of the truck and turned her face to the bench seat. Subtly, she untucked her shirt and used the bottom flaps to conceal her holstered pistol. Once finished, she slammed the door and looked up at the suburban home before her. It was made of red and brown brick and, like the rest of the neighborhood, was built on flat terrain, a common trait Anna noted the closer she got to the border of Oklahoma.
Thinking about lunch, Anna hiked up the driveway, past the plastic-covered newspaper, and to the front door. She mashed the doorbell with the tip of her finger, took off her sunshades, and withdrew her P.I. license. Waiting, she leaned out to get a better look at the open garage attached to the house and spotted the nose of a lime-colored Ford Mercury with a 1980s design.
Through the two vertical glass panes flanking both sides of the door, a figure approached. Anna smiled as the owner unlocked an
d opened the door.
“Sorry to disrupt your day,” Anna flashed her P.I. license. “I was wondering if you had time to answer a few questions? It will only take a few minutes.”
The man stood an inch taller than Anna and upped her by fifteen plus years, evident by the wrinkles on his forehead and alongside his mouth that he’d done well to hide with light cosmetics and a head of rich brown hair untouched by grey. Dyed, Anna assumed. His triangular-shaped face had an unassuming quality, bulb nose, and deep-set green eyes with clear contacts, while his outfit consisted of a two-tone polo, jeans, and sockless penny loafers perfect for a hot day.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and eyed the truck behind her. “Come on in.”
The man stepped aside and gestured for Anna to pass. She thanked him and stepped inside while he closed the door. Dark wood furnishings and shelves full of old books gave the house a comfortable, classy look that invited visitors to cozy up in the lounge and read the day. But when Anna passed by the sideboard, she noticed a few pictures of the man in snowboarding gear, standing triumphant on the top of various snowcapped peaks.
“Quite the thrill seeker,” Anna said, establishing some rapport before the questioning.
“It’s a hobby,” the man replied humbly.
Anna walked into the living room. The couch and recliner were upholstered with dark leather and the television mounted on the wall above a speaker system played soft piano music. Getting an idea of the exits--one to the kitchen, one to the hall, and one through the French doors that opened into the backyard--Anna moseyed into the center of the room and turned back for a proper introduction.
“Anna Dedrick,” she said with an arm extended.
“Allen Winslow,” the man replied and hesitantly shook her hand. His palms had a butter-soft quality like he had never touched a tool in his life.
“I have a good friend named Allen back in Miami,” Anna shared and headed to the couch. “Do you mind if we sit?”
Secrets Boxset: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery Collection Page 63
