Perfect Victim, The (40 page)

Caught up in the moment, Addison didn't seem to notice the barmaid's reaction. Randall watched the exchange, knowing
that
if Addison didn't slow down, she could very well spook Dixie and blow the opportunity.

"What was she like?" Addison asked
.

"Well ..." Dixie's face pinched. "She was a damn good waitress. Hard worker
.
Fast
,
too. K
e
pt up with the orders."

"What about personally?"

The waitress's eyes flicked from Addison to Randall and then back
.
"Darlin', she kept to herself mostly. Lived in that little trailer park at the edge of town."

"Did she ever mention .
.
. family?"

"Can't say she did. Lived with a guy for a while. A trucker, I think. From what I understand, she never had any kids."

Randall didn't miss the hurt that flashed across Addison's face. Something inside him winced at her pain.

"You kin?" Dixie asked.

"We're friends of the family," he cut in. Reaching across the table, he took Addison's hand, not surprised when he found it cold.

He looked at Dixie. "Do you know where we might be able to find a fellow by the name of Al Stukins?"

The waitress wrinkled her nose and put the pencil eraser against her temple. "Stukins," she repeated slowly. "An old guy?"

"That's right."

"There used to be a Stukins lived down on County Line Road just past the railroad trestle. Raised Appaloosa horses until just a few years ago."

Randall leaned forward. "So he's still around?"

"Last I heard, his son moved him into the old folks home over on Route 40. Shitty thing to do, considering the old man didn't want to go. Billy Cruz was tellin' me he put up a hell of a fight, but he has that old person's disease, Al Heimer's. Poor old guy. Gettin' old's a bitch, ya know?"

Randall groaned inwardly when he realized she was referring to Alzheimer's disease. He couldn't think of a worse affliction for a person he was going to question about an incident that took place more than twenty-five years ago.

"Where's the old folks home?"

"The old schoolhouse. Small place. Red brick building half a mile west on Route 40. Can't miss it." She slid her rear from the table and poised her pencil on the pad. "Randy, what's it going to be? Cheeseburger, fries, and a double bourbon on the rocks?"

Pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, Randall pressed it into her palm. "We don't have time right now, Dixie. Thanks for the info."

Rising, he reached for Addison's hand
.
"Let's go. I think we just got our first break."

Parson’s Home for the Retired was a two-story
r
ed brick building set back from the highway and nestled among the winter skeletons of fifty-year-old maples and oaks. Outside the double front doors, a stately blue spruce blazed with a colorful array of Christmas lights.

"How can you call this a break?" Addison asked, annoyed that he'd interrupted before she'd gotten the chance to thoroughly question Dixie about Agnes Beckett
.
If she didn't know better, she might have thought he'd done it on purpose.

"Stukins might remember something," Randall said.

"He's got Alzheimer's, for chrissake."

He pulled into a parking space and stopped the car. "Don't get cynical on me now, Ace
.
"

"Of course not
.
That's your job
.
"

Ignoring her
,
he swung open
the car door and stepped into the cold. "Hopefully, we can get in without any trouble."

Addison met him on the sidewalk
,
wondering how a man with Alzheimer's disease was going to remember something that happened twenty-five years ago. She hated it, but things were beginning to look hopeless again.
.

"If anyone asks, you're his granddaughter," Randall said
.
"You're in for the holidays from Ohio State and you want to see dear old Grandpappy, Can you handle that?"

If she hadn't been so annoyed, she might have thought twice about what they were about to do
.
Admittedly, lying wasn't one of her strengths. But with so much at stake she felt she could pull it off. "I can handle it
.
"

"Goddamn Alzheimer's," he hissed, practically dragging her down the sidewalk
.
"I just hope he's not in the advanced stages
.
"

They ascended the steps and reached the double set of doors
.
Through the glass, Addison saw a small artificial Christmas tree blinking merrily. Randall opened the door.
She walked in, feeling her palms dampen with anxiety.

The first thing she noticed was the distinctly unpleasant smell. It was the medicinal smell of a hospital tinged with the dust and lemon wax redolence of a church. It reached into her, the smell of the old, of the neglected, saddening and offending everything inside her that was human.

Parson's Home for the Retired had looked different from the highway. Addison had expected to find caroling grandchildren, gossiping parents, and the smiling faces of the elderly. Instead, she had walked into an atmosphere that more resembled an ill-kept funeral home.

The lobby was deserted. Recessed lighting illuminated a large reception desk. On the wall behind it, a bland oil painting depicted a huge tree covered with pink flowers. A spindly ficus in a plastic pot stood near the front door, soaking up more cold than light.

"Nice place," Randall said dryly, closing the door behind them. "Let's skip the front desk."

Even as he said the words, a skinny, black-haired man with a thin mustache appeared behind the desk and looked over at them.

Pasting a smile to her face, Addison squared her shoulders and approached him.

The man offered a plastic smile. "May I help you?"

"We're here to see Al Stukins," she said with her best college student inflection.

Smiling spuriously, the man opened a notebook and began paging through it while she held her breath. "Your name?"

“
Addie Fox.”

His brows went together as he flipped the page over and then back again. "You don't seem to be on the list to see Mr. Stukins."

"I don't get home very often." Addison forced another smile, hoping it didn't look as phony as it felt. She didn't like this little man, and she'd never been good at hiding her emotions. "I'm home for the holidays. He's my grandfather."

"Well, you're not on the list." He folded his arms across
his chest
.
"I'm sorry, but I can't let you in to see Mr. Stukins without permission from his family."

"I
am
his family." The lie came easily, and she let it fly with the fervor of truth.

"You can have his son give me a call tomorrow to put you on the list
.
" He closed the book. "Until then, I'm afraid I can't let you in."

She was just beginning to think they'd met another dead end when Randall leaned forward and flipped open the notebook, ripping the list in question from inside.

"We didn't drive all the way from Columbus to be told we're not on the goddamn list," he growled.

Addison's heart began to pound.

The man's mouth opened, rivaling the width of his eyes.

"Sir
,
you can't do that
.
"

''When's the last time that man had a visitor?" Randall looked like an incensed bull about to maul a cowering matador
.

"Uh, I don't
—
" The man stepped back, eyeing the notebook, not daring to reach for it
.
"I .
.
. I need my register back
.
"

''What the hell's your name?" Without waiting for an answer, Randall plucked the man's name tag from his shirt, leaving a hole the size of a dime in the fabric. "I'll need this for my lawyer."

"Sir!"

"Who owns this dump?"

"You can't do this!"

"Watch me." Turning the tag over in his palm, Randall read it aloud with great distaste." Adrian Grigsby." His eyes were black with anger when they swept to the terrified clerk
.
''When's the last time the health department inspected this dirty little hellhole of yours, Adrian?
"

Ad
d
i
s
on stepped back, astonished.

Adrian's Adam's apple bobbed twice in quick succession
.

"I bet they'd love to get their bureaucratic hands on you, wouldn't they? You'd probably be able to keep them busy
for days, wouldn't you?" Randall smiled wickedly before turning to Addison. "Let's go."

She was so caught up in the drama, she had to clamp her mouth shut against a protest. If poor old Adrian didn't fall for it, they were sunk. Praying Randall knew what he was doing, she took his hand and they started toward the door.

"Wait a moment!"

Relief bubbled through her. Next to her, Randall stopped. Simultaneously, they swung around to face Adrian.

The man was panting, his slicked-back hair falling about his forehead as he came around the desk. "I can let you see him tonight and add you to the list tomorrow," he said.

Randall stared at the clerk as if he were trying to decide whether to punch him or strangle him. "Now, why didn't I think of that?"

A skinny hand clutched the fabric where his name tag had been stripped away. "After all, it is the holiday season."

"Yeah, no need to be unreasonable." Randall tossed the name tag and wrinkled list onto the desk. "Where's his room?"

Adrian led them down a wide, tiled hall trimmed with stainless steel handrails and wheelchair ramps.

"You drive a hard bargain, Talbot," Addison whispered as they made a right and started down another hall.

"No thanks to you." He grinned. "You're a terrible liar."

"Thanks, I think."

"When we get to the room, I'll deal with Stukins," he said. "You get rid of the skinny jerk."

"Shouldn't be too hard since you've got him warmed up for me."

The unpleasant smell of neglect seemed to emanate from beneath the doors they passed. Only then did she realize Randall had been dead serious about calling the health department. Parson's Home for the Retired was as inhumane as Adrian was irritating, and Addison promised herself that when all of this was over if Randall didn't call them, she would.