Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (118 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mr. Tate had the kind of home that made me question what he did for a living and whether Harrison Ford’s eight-hundred-acre ranch was anywhere nearby, but there were no signs, no Hollywood tour buses, nothing to indicate the Indiana Jones star even lived around there. Maybe that’s what attracted Mr. Tate to the area in the first place. It was quiet and had neighborhoods that reminded me a lot of Park City—with the exception of the magnificent Grand Tetons in the background.

The exterior of his home was made of part stone and part wood, although I couldn’t tell what kind of wood. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. A detached garage sat to the left of the house, and judging from its size, a half a dozen cars could have fit in it. On the front of the house an American flag was bolted into one of the two square wood columns on the porch.

Everything about the area was perfect, except for the black Dodge Ram parked across the street. Obviously my message from the previous evening had not been received. The two of us exited our vehicles at the same time. But Cade was the only person with a smile on his face.

“Mornin’,” he said. “You look…rested.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I knew you’d show up sooner or later,” he said.

“What if it was later?”

He shrugged.

“I would have waited. It’s not like I have other pressin’ matters to attend to right now.”

“If Noah Tate was interested in talking to you, he wouldn’t have hired me. What do you plan to achieve by hanging around?”

“I figure if anyone can get him to talk to me, it’s you,” he said, pointing in my direction.

“I wouldn’t stick around to find out if I were you.”

He folded his arms.

“You want to find Savannah, don’t you? So do I—so does my dad.” He threw his arms in the air. “Hell, so does everyone. I’ve been thinkin’, maybe if you can get him to talk, I’ll let you work with me.”

He’d let me? I tried to stifle the laugh I felt coming on.

“No thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Now don’t be hasty,” he said. “Just give it some time, let it simmer awhile before you make your final decision. We can talk more about it later.”

“I don’t need your help. And I’m not going anywhere until you leave.”

Cade shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the truck, allowing his cowboy hat to fall past his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

I felt the urge to throw a temper tantrum.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleepin’, I’m tired.” He winked at me. “You let me know when you change your mind, now.”

“I won’t, so you’d better—”

“Sloane?”

I turned.

Noah Tate approached us from behind. “What are you doing here—and who’s this?” he said, thumbing at Cade.

Before I could respond Cade’s hand shot forward. “Pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Tate. I’m Cade McCoy.”

Mr. Tate didn’t shake hands. He didn’t move. Without looking at me he said, “Next time you want to ambush me like this, Miss Monroe, call first!”

A few seconds later his front door slammed shut with a bang, locking us outside.

“Nice job,” I said. “Now he won’t talk to me either.”

Cade pulled on the tailgate of his truck. He eased it down and sat on the edge, patting the area next to him, like I’d be happy to oblige. I didn’t.

“Maybe we don’t need him to talk to us,” he said.

“Trust me, we do.”

He grinned.

“Is this the part where you tell me what you wouldn’t tell my dad?”

I crossed my arms.

“It isn’t.”

Several minutes went by. I stood, Cade sat. I passed the time by trying to decide how I could get Mr. Tate to let me into his house so I could somehow convince him to turn over the letter without involving any more people than I had to.

“It’s been ten minutes,” Cade said. “You got a plan?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “I can tell.”

“You stay here. Let me try and talk to him.”

Cade scooted off the tailgate.

I warned. “Take one more step and I’m leaving, and you can handle Mr. Tate on your own. You’ve been doing a great job so far.”

“Relax,” Cade said, spreading his hands out to the side. “Geez. I’m going to get in my truck. I’ll even close the door if it makes you feel better. Maybe that’ll help things. You can even tell him I’m leavin’ if you like.”

We both knew it wasn’t true.

I approached the front door and knocked. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing, and there was no sound coming from inside, even though I knew at least one person was there. On the third try, the door cracked open. A small child around three years old peeked out.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“How are you?” I said.

“My daddy’s mad.”

“What’s your name?” I said.

She looked down at her hands and whispered, “Lily.”

I knelt down until we were eye level. I’d heard once that little kids were more receptive and comfortable when adults didn’t tower over them like giants. Kids felt better when an adult lowered themselves to their level. “It’s nice to meet you, Lily. My name is Sloane. I’m a friend of your dad’s. Do you think you could get him for me?”

She glanced to the side, opening the door. “Come on.”

“Oh, sweetie, I don’t know if I should—”

“Come on, come on!” she insisted.

Lily turned and skipped down the hall yelling, “Daddy… daddy…daddy.”

But daddy didn’t come. So I went to him. I found Mr. Tate in his office, his eyes glued to a magazine, even though he wasn’t reading, not really. I made a fist and tapped gently on the open door.

“You’re fired, Miss Monroe. You have no right being in my house. Please go.”

I sat in a chair across from him. “Hand over the coloring page and I will.”

“It’s no longer in my possession.”

“Of course it is,” I said. “You wouldn’t let a precious item like that out of your sight. Give it to me and spare your family the embarrassment of having your house searched. Once the police know what you have and how it links up with the other kidnapping, they’ll get a warrant, and you’ll have cops all over this place. Is that what you want?”

He sighed.

“It doesn’t concern you anymore.”

“Of course it does,” I said. “I keep my word, Mr. Tate. And we had a deal. Firing me doesn’t change anything.”

He hurled the magazine to the side of his desk, but his aim was weak. It slid off the side, falling to the floor. I picked it up and set it down in front of him.

“I thought I was hiring a private investigator,” he said. “Obviously, I was mistaken. You said you wouldn’t involve the police.”

“I haven’t.”

Not yet.

He pointed toward the window. “That McCoy kid is the police, is he not?”

I nodded.

“He’s the one who’s been trying to talk to you. And just so we’re clear, I was as surprised as you when he showed up here today. If you spent two seconds listening to our conversation, you would have understood I was only trying to convince him to leave.”

Mr. Tate raised a brow. “What’s he doing here?” he said.

“Cade followed you the other day. He saw us meet at the restaurant and watched you hand me the money.”

“He followed me?”

“He’s trying to take over things for his dad.”

Mr. Tate’s shoulders relaxed and he leaned forward in his chair. In a lowered voice he said, “Why?”

“Detective McCoy Senior is retiring. Cade will be assuming his position, and he had some crazy idea that if he showed up here with me, you’d give him a chance. After today, they’ll be involved whether you like it or not, but how you choose to go about it is up to you.”

I heard a swishing sound like sandpaper being scraped across a wood floor. Mr. Tate shifted his gaze from me to a woman standing in the doorway. She was pale and thin, and her hair was matted, as if it hadn’t been brushed in days.

“Noah, what’s going on?” She gazed in my direction. “Who’s she?”

Mr. Tate rose from his chair, a look of genuine concern and guilt on his face. “No one, honey. Go back to bed, okay?”

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Lily said, pulling on the ruffle of the woman’s nightgown.

“Mommy’s tired now, Lily,” Mr. Tate said. “Go play, and I’ll make you a sandwich in a few minutes.”

“But I don’t want a sandwich,” Lily said, stomping her foot on the ground, “mac and cheese, mac and cheese!”

“I don’t have time for that, sweetheart,” Mr. Tate said.

“I do,” I said.

All three of them looked over at me, understandably stunned.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. I had no doubt about who was on the other side of the door.

Sit in his vehicle and wait, my ass.

Mrs. Tate gripped the side of the door so tight I thought if she let go, her knees would buckle and she’d tumble to the ground.

“Miss Monroe, I’m sorry to ask,” Mr. Tate said, “especially after the way I’ve treated you today, but do you think you could help my wife back to her room?” He pointed toward the hallway. “It’s the last door on the left.”

I nodded, looked at Lily, and said, “I’m going to take your mommy back to her room, and when I’m done, we’ll see about making some macaroni and cheese, okay?”

The idea of a stranger offering to cook a meal was apparently too much for Lily to comprehend. She covered her eyes with her hands, pretending I wasn’t there, and then backed out of the room, her Dora the Explorer slippers bouncing up and down as she turned and ran down the hall. I didn’t blame her one bit.

I swung my arm around Mrs. Tate who clung to the door jamb at first, not willing to let go. Once she realized I wasn’t going away, she released her grip and sagged into me. We advanced down the hallway until we both stood next to her bed. I pulled the covers down so she could settle in, but she didn’t. She just stood there, staring at me. I didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything.

I could tell she’d internalized so much over the past six months, she didn’t know how to let her emotions out. I opened my mouth to offer some kind of sentiment and she slapped me—hard—across my left cheek. Then she slapped me again across my right. I should have been stunned, but I wasn’t. I got it. I wrapped my hands around her wrists, holding them out in front of her, making sure not to grip them too tightly. She didn’t know who I was, and she didn’t care. I was there because of Savannah, and I wasn’t doing anything. No one was, not in her eyes. She was in pain, and she wanted everyone else to feel it too.

I looked at her and said the only thing I could say. “I’m sorry.”

A wave of shame and regret spread across her face once she realized what she’d done. My face was hot. It felt like I’d burned my cheeks after sitting in the sun for too long. For a woman as frail as she was, she knew how to deliver a slap with an intense sting.

Mrs. Tate sniffled and then the tears came. First it was just a few, but by the time I released her wrists, she was crying uncontrollably. I just stood there, watching her stick her right hand in her pocket and pull it out, over and over again, like she had no control over her own limb. Every time it went in, she touched something before pulling it out again, but I couldn’t see what it was.

I helped Mrs. Tate into bed and then found some tissue so she could wipe her eyes. I held it out to her. She clutched something in her right hand. It looked like a piece of paper no bigger than the size of a mini notebook. She pressed it against her chest and began rocking back and forth, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. I tried to get her to lie down, but she shook her head furiously. I backed off.

When the rocking slowed, her eyelids began to open and shut, each time getting heavier until they no longer opened. I pulled the blankets up to her neck, making sure to fold the sheet over the top. Then I reached for the paper that had slipped out of her hand. It was a photograph of her and her missing daughter. It was bent and worn, like she’d been holding it for days, months even. In the photo, she looked like a completely different person. Her hair was long and lustrous, and she had a radiant smile. The photo depicted a woman with a fulfilling, invigorating life. She looked nothing like the person she was today.

The top drawer of the nightstand was cracked open just enough for me to glimpse inside. I did and then shifted my focus to the wide array of pill bottles lining the top of the nightstand. They were in all shapes and sizes. Some were in bottles, others in cardboard boxes, and a few were scattered around like they’d been spilled and no one had bothered to clean them up. The entire scene was grave. Mrs. Tate was barely clinging to life. The hope that her daughter was still out there somewhere was the only thing keeping her alive.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After making macaroni and cheese for maybe the third or fourth time in my life, I joined Mr. Tate and Cade in the living room. They were engaged in a civil conversation, which gave me a small assurance that the two of them might be able to work together after all.

Cade glanced at me when I walked in. “Mr. Tate has agreed to answer my questions, but only if you’re present.”

“I thought I was fired,” I said.