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COMBS LIFTED THE BRASS knocker on September’s front door and fought déjà vu. He glanced at his watch. It had been less than nine hours since he and Pike had noticed the smoke. He banged four times and rang the bell and backed down the steps with one hand on his gun.
“She’s not here.” Gonzales joined him.
“You check the garage?” Combs kept his hand on his gun.
“Empty. I did a walk around.” He paused. “Last word we got, she’s driving Pam’s Jeep, but so far no sighting.”
Combs craned to see the brick carriage house September used as a garage. The old wood gates remained true to the historical design but must be a bitch to open and shut in bad weather. She’d been in a hurry when she left, and hadn’t bothered to close them. One door moved in the wind to carve an icy wedge in the drift. A covered walkway didn’t fit the architecture but connected a brick path from the outbuilding to a side door. He guessed it opened into her kitchen.
The two men climbed the steps together. Gonzales stomped his feet on the brick entry to knock off clots of ice. “There’s a lot of snow blown into the garage. She’s been gone for hours.”
“Not enough for a warrant. We’ll have to tread lightly.”
Gonzales pulled a keychain from his pocket with several keys. “Her folks gave me the keys and alarm code. They want her found.” He grinned. “I explained there’s probable cause she’s either kidnapped or on the run from killers.”
Combs smiled back. That would have to do.
The security was over the top. It took several minutes for Gonzales to find the right key to open each of the three locks in the fancy brass key plate. “Her folks were surprised September even left the house. She’s convinced some stalker from Chicago followed her to Indiana and killed her husband. No proof, though, they never arrested anyone.”
Combs struggled to concentrate. Uncle Stanley and Aunt Ethel expected him half an hour ago. He was the oldest. He should host the gathering. But they’d want answers he didn’t have, details he couldn’t bring himself to revisit, that no victim’s family ever needed to know. Mom’s murder had Stan panting to join the investigation, to hell with retirement. Uncle Stan was even more outside official boundaries than Combs.
At least with Gonzales, he’d make headway on the investigation. So far he’d not gotten any grief about the Fish radio incident, either, since it led to the park victim. September Day was the best lead they had.
Gonzales opened the final lock and pushed open the door. He stepped one foot inside, gun drawn. “Haloooo.” He listened for a beat, and holstered his weapon when the security system beeped a warning. “Feels empty. Play heads up, but I don’t think anyone’s here.” He located the alarm keypad beside the door and punched in the code September’s parents had provided.
The old two-story house, complete with a turret on one side, originally contained a warren of tiny rooms connected by narrow halls. From the outside, the gingerbread structure was the witch’s castle Combs and his friends whispered about when they were kids. But September’s contractors had gutted the house, leaving the massive vertical beams in place. The work-in-progress created an open airy floor plan of casual elegance. It must have taken a boatload of money. Combs followed the detective inside, and wiped his boots on the sisal “Cats Rule, Dogs Drool” welcome mat. “What else did the parents say?”
“Not a lot. Couldn’t say where the sisters might go. The mother talked to September this morning, and said she had seemed distracted and evasive. Also said there’s been recent friction between the sisters over the Thanksgiving meal. Both want to host it.” He shrugged as if it was no consequence. “Sounds familiar. My wife and her sister go round and round about that every year. But otherwise, they get along okay. September’s even helped with Steven’s treatment.”
“The dog, right?”
“Yeah, the dog. But also some pricy new treatment Childress refused to fund.” Gonzales looked around the house. “Nice place.”
“Money to burn, like Childress said.”
Gonzales shrugged. “He only had part of it right. The lottery paid out fifty grand or so after taxes. The big money came from life insurance on September’s husband, at least that’s what the parents say.” He smoothed his mustache. “Doty thinks the sisters cooked up the lost boy story.”
“Why?” Combs shook his head. “Does she think Steven got hurt or killed so they need a reason to disappear him?” Evil thought, but it did make sense.
“Maybe. Still no clue why either of them would shoot your mother.” Gonzales refused to look at Combs. “Some people go off their nut when they lose a spouse. September could have lots of guilt over that, and maybe the sisters fought, and April ended up dead so September ran with the little boy.”
Too complicated. Simple cause and effect was more likely. “We’re turning a couple of hoof prints into a zebra stampede. We’re too close to see the big picture.”
“So what do you call the bloody workout clothes in September’s car? With that Body Works logo, they belong to April and she’s missing. Why else would your girlfriend stash them?”
“Don’t call her my girlfriend.” His wet shoes squeaked. He knew about the evidence of a fight at April’s business, and acknowledged family feuds could lead to murder, but it just didn’t feel right. “Blood on the workout clothes looked more like it came from the outside, not that the person wearing them was injured. Next.”
Gonzales consulted his notes. “September’s husband worked special victims in Chicago before they moved to Indiana. He was off duty when he got killed.”
“Makes no sense for September to run with the kid. On the radio play-back, April said Steven disappeared from the house. She called September for help. They both get Academy Awards if that was an act.”
“Don’t discount the possibility of a set up. Bet it’s a custody thing to get Steven away from his dad. More ex-husbands kill their wives than sisters, and Childress was hiding something.” He checked his watch. “Wonder if Doty’s still at the hospital. If the dog lady from the park pulls through, maybe she has a clue where they went.”
Combs shifted his weight. If anyone should feel resentful of moms getting custody over dads, it was him. He had to make an appointment to see his kids. “September’s Volvo was at the park. She wouldn’t shoot up her own car. Somebody wanted her stranded. The witness didn’t see a child. Didn’t see much.” He opened his coat.
“So why’d September run if she has nothing to hide? Hell, she insisted the neighbor call nine-one-one, but didn’t stick around to make sure her friend got help.”
That part bothered Combs. A lot.
“She grabbed the Jeep and beat it out of there before the EMTs could arrive.” Gonzales stepped further into the room. “She could have set up that rendezvous at the park just to get another car, trashing her own to make herself into a victim.”
“That’s a stretch.” Too many unanswered questions. “What makes a woman, the widow of a cop for God’s sake, go nuts? Kidnap a kid and kill anyone who gets in her way?” Combs hated the guesswork, and was eager for answers and hoped the latest vic would pull through and have some clues to share. “What’s the word on the dog lady’s status?”
“Last I heard, still in surgery. And it’s not looking good. Doty will call with any news.” Gonzales peered up the impressive front staircase, and his nose wrinkled like a silk shirt on a hot day. “Damn, smells like smoke. I’ll take the back, you take the front—”
“—and I’ll get to Scotland afore ye.” Combs looked around.
Gonzales suppressed a smile as he took the stairs two at a time.
Combs looked around the ground floor. Sheet-covered furniture leaned against walls. The room smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. Cherry crown molding contrasted with the cream walls and the carved stone mantel above a massive fireplace. He flicked up a dust sheet that covered a burgundy leather sofa and a matching overstuffed chair. Nothing here.
Combs passed through an arched doorway into a smaller room next to the kitchen meant to be the dining area. Instead, September used it for an office and music room. The rest of the house remained a work-in-progress, but this space was lived in. The cobalt carpet and matching blue ceiling contrasted with yellow walls. A small studio piano on the rear wall perched next to a large stringed instrument—cello? Bass?—that stood upright in a carved stand in the corner. Books and sheets of music overflowed the bench and a basket on the floor.
The opposite wall held a large bay window. September’s desk and chair, cherry wood again, took advantage of the view. The work space held a computer, phone, and a Tiffany-style rose lamp. Combs remembered how countless rose bushes used to turn the old house into a perfume factory each spring, and wondered if they’d survived years of neglect. The adjacent file cabinet also held a printer, and a wedding picture of a beaming man about Combs’s age with his arm around September. Her expression looked guarded, not that of a radiant bride.
“Talk to me, September.” Combs pulled off his gloves and sifted through papers on the desk. “Tell me why.”
Three gunshot victims in less than twelve hours, and September was the common denominator. Maybe she hadn’t killed his mom, but she’d been directly involved, he was sure of it, but no judge would issue a warrant based on a gut feeling. He and Gonzales were here because September, April and Steven were missing, and potential victims of foul play. That was the official version, anyway, and Doty signed off on it. She was as frustrated as the rest of them.
Combs flipped through September’s DayMinder, and checked the haphazard Post-It notes stuck to every surface of the desk top. He heard Gonzales clomping overhead. The hardwood floors, high ceilings and empty rooms made for great acoustics. You couldn’t sneak around in this house, unless barefoot.
People carry DayMinders with them. September must have rushed out the door to have left it behind. Today’s appointments, highlighted in a variety of colors, included the Pet Peeves radio show, and something called a temperament test. Each of the appointments had a checkmark, and the middle appointment included a phone number.
He dialed and got the city shelter with a prompt to leave a message. He didn’t. Combs flipped the pages. An appointment marked “deposition” also had a checkmark, so presumably it had been resolved. “Deposition” meant trial. That could be about child custody. Combs dialed. Gonzales’s footsteps thumped overhead.
“McIntyre, Devries, Ellis and Freeman, office hours are nine to five, please leave a message and someone will return your call,” said a bored-sounding woman.
Combs recognized the firm, one of the largest in Heartland. “This is Officer Jeffrey Combs. I’m investigating a homicide and need to speak with whoever had a deposition scheduled in two days with September Day.” He left his number and hung up. It had been a long shot anyone would answer at this hour.
Gonzales clattered down the distant stairs and hurried into the room, cell phone pressed to his ear. “I got Doty on the line. There’s news.” He listened, and hung up. “The victim from the park just died. Never made a statement.”
“Shit.” Combs stretched and cracked his knuckles but it didn’t relieve the tension. “September made several calls today, probably to cancel appointments because of the snow. Her DayMinder has the number next to a note about a deposition. ”
“Her folks said she’s been an expert witness on dog bite cases.” Gonzales gestured with the phone. “Maybe some good news, though. Ran a search on gun registrations, and Childress owns guns. He’s a collector.”
“Gee, isn’t it funny he didn’t mention that. What’s Childress say?”
“He lawyered up.”
Oh goody, now there’s a surprise. “That’s convenient. Something to hide, after all. What about the park victim?” Gonzales had a rep in the department as a ballistics expert. He’d gone through FBI training and had an uncanny knack and passion for all things guns.
“Snow made it hard to recover any shell casings, but I’ll get to eyeball them as soon as I get back. That’s prelim until the hard science guys confirm, but the best we got under the circumstances. But we got an ID on the vic at Childress’s place. Dr. Henry Pottinger, divorced, no local family. Works out of Plano.”
“Plano? That’s an hour away. Visiting a patient?”
“Don’t think he’s that kind of doctor. Doty’s following up on that.” Gonzales tapped his foot with nervous energy. “Like everything else, the weather’s shut down most businesses. It may be tomorrow or later before Doty can find out about Pottinger. Hell, he got shot, wrapped in a knockoff Oriental rug, and left for us to find at April’s ex-husband’s house. Is she that dumb?” He tsk-tsked with his tongue. “Even amateurs do a better job of it.”
“Yeah, I can’t see either of the sisters manhandling the body into the car.” His eyes itched, maybe from the smoke still in the house. Combs noted the screensaver on the desktop computer—a gorgeous, brown German shepherd—and tapped the mouse. The password prompt came up. Shit.
Gonzales pocketed his cell phone. “Another tidbit. Animal Control showed up at the park after we left to take possession of the victim’s dog.”
“So?” That was standard.
“We didn’t call. September did.” He scanned the room, glanced at the musical instruments, the cluttered desk, and the baby gate entry into the kitchen. “Animal Control already knew the victim’s name, her address, that her veterinarian husband’s out of town and other animals in the home need attention. September clued ‘em in.” He shrugged at Combs’s scowl. “She doesn’t act like any killer I’ve ever seen.”
“So maybe she feels remorse?” He didn’t want to hear it. “She can be sorry all she wants in prison.” Combs played with the keyboard, typed in a few common passwords. No luck. “Find anything upstairs?”
“Upstairs is mostly bare, in various stages of reconstruction. There’s a finished bathroom and bedroom.” He hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Been in there yet?”
He nodded. “This morning with Pike. Laundry room connects to the kitchen. There’s another staircase to the second story, and an outside door to the covered walkway that connects the garage.” Combs gestured to the computer. “Want to take a crack at it? Maybe you’ll find something that points where the sisters might go.” Computers were not his strong suit.
“Sure.” Gonzales pulled out the chair and sat down. “Give me the DayMinder. People keep lists of passwords where anyone can find ‘em.”
“Sure, and maybe there’s secret message in the coffee canister.” Combs headed for the kitchen.
He’d seen the baby gate in the doorway, and walked through it that morning, but it hadn’t registered. It looked similar to one at April’s house, except this one stood taller—nearly four feet—and included a small inset latched gate in the bottom. It wasn’t for infants, it was for pets.
Combs scanned the room before he open the metal barrier. No dog sounds, but that didn’t mean a surprise wasn’t waiting. He liked animals, but he had a healthy respect for dogs, especially big ones. So far, the only sign of a dog was the screensaver.
Black ceramic stovetop. Empty bowl on the counter beside the double sink. Brushed steel dishwasher, oven, microwave and refrigerator. A magnetic wipe-off board on the fridge. Swirly gray and black marble countertops matched the mantel in the living room. Dark blue-green slate floor. Floor to ceiling stained glass windows with a view of snow-covered roses. Wall phone, the long cord looped up and caught on a hook. Stained-glass tabletop and four chairs, a coffee mug and saucer on the table. Sterilite storage box on the floor.
No dog.
Combs opened the gate and moved to the table. He picked up the oversize covered mug and it sloshed. Nearly full. He checked the cupboards, opened and shut drawers and cabinets. Moved to the refrigerator, noted the magnetic notepad filled with a grocery list.
Something tapped him on the head.
“Shit.” Combs ducked and leaped away. He leveled his gun in one smooth motion.
“What? Something wrong?” Gonzales was at the open gate in two long strides, hand on his own weapon.
Combs choked back a laugh and holstered his gun. Pointed at the top of the fridge.
A chocolate brown cat lounged on the perch, one paw still trailing down the front of the refrigerator. Green eyes shined. Yawning, the cat paused to lick his white front.
“Cat grabbed my hair. Scared the shit out of me.” Combs realized the storage box in the corner, about a third full of sandy material, was the biggest damn litter box he’d ever seen.
Gonzales smirked. “My sister has cats. Go in her house and the smell grabs you by the throat.” He sniffed elaborately. “All I smell is smoke. No wonder the big bad putty tat scared you.” He returned to the computer.
“I thought September trained dogs. Weird she’s got a cat, but no dog.” The cat stood on tiptoes, stretched, and jumped down to the countertop. Nosing the bowl beside the sink for one last kibble, the cat sat down and regarded Combs. And meowed.
“Nice cat. That’s a good girl. Boy. Whatever,” he said. “Close the gate, Gonzales. If this guy sleeps on the refrigerator, he must be some jumper.” His mom had a cat, big old Simba. She’d rescued the cat from the local shelter eight years ago and said Simba gave her someone to cuddle since her kids were grown and the grandkids on the go. Combs caught his breath. He’d have to do something about Simba, now that Mom was gone.
The cat mewed again, and cheek-rubbed the empty bowl. It scooted close to the edge and teetered.
“Any luck with the computer?” Combs caught the bowl before the cat’s gravity experiments sent it to the floor. He opened and closed several cupboards and checked the refrigerator, finding the cat’s food.
“We’ll have to get the experts in here.” Gonzales frowned. “What you doing?”
Combs shrugged. “Feeding the cat. With September on the run, it might be days before he gets fed.” He jostled a cup of dry stars into the bowl, shoved the bag back inside the fridge, and stroked the cat. The creature purred and began to eat. “Whatever’s going on with September, she didn’t plan it.” He hated to admit she wasn’t to blame. He massaged the cat’s shoulders, and his own loosened.
“So what changed your mind?” Gonzales stepped inside and latched the gate.
“Coffee cup’s still full. She rushed out without finishing. No notes on the fridge, and she’s a list maker, they’re all over the desk. And the biggie—if she’s an animal nut, why didn’t she leave food for the cat? Or at least make arrangements for it?” To him, that was most telling of all. “She called Animal Control for the park victim’s dog, but didn’t leave a few days’ food down for kitty?” He scratched the cat’s chin. “No way. She’s on the run, but it’s nothing she planned.”
Combs’s phone rang. Uncle Stan again, he thought, and pulled it out of his pocket. He’d remind him about Simba. The old cat’s arthritis needed watching and Mom had babied her—hell, they’d taken care of each other. Mom would have a fit if her cat was forgotten. When he didn’t recognize the number, he almost didn’t answer. “Combs here.”
“Jeff Combs? Officer Jeff Combs?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“We met this morning at my house when you saw smoke. You left me your card.”
He waved at Gonzales. “September? Where are you?”
Gonzales gnawed his mustache. “You have to be shitting me.”
Combs struggled to stay collected. “September, a lot of people are worried about you.”
“Did you find Pam? At Gentry Park. Is she okay?” Somebody else, a man, spoke in the background, but Combs couldn’t make out the words. “I...uh, you need to check out Star Mall. I’ve got to go.”
“No. Wait!” So many things to ask, he needed to keep her on the line. “Pam, is that your friend with the dog at the park?”
“Is she okay? Please tell me she’s going to be okay.”
“What’s at Star Mall?” Moving to the refrigerator, Combs jotted notes for Gonzales to read, and the man nodded and dialed his own phone.
“Tell me about Pam.”
“Her dog’s with Animal Control. You called them, right?” The cat mewed, and jumped back onto the fridge and began to wash. “What’s your cat’s name? Big brown and white fellow. He’s a hungry cuss.”
“You’re in my house? Is Macy okay?” She sounded angry. And scared.
“Tell her Pam’s dead,” Gonzales prompted. “Tell her more people will die if she doesn’t come in.” He paused, spoke into his own phone. “Combs has September on his cell phone, and we’ve got the number.” He read it from Combs’s scribbled note on the fridge.
“September, listen to me.” Combs paced. He had to get her to come in. “The police know you’re in trouble. We found a body at April’s house. Were you there when it happened?” If she knew the victim was his mother, she’d hang up. “We’re looking for you, looking for your sister and her son. Whoever shot that woman might be after you. Are you safe? Are April and Steven with you?”
“Oh, no. . .” She whispered the words, defeated.
“We know you were at Childress’s place, too. There’s another body there.” At Gonzales’ pointed expression, he added, “Your friend Pam’s dead, that’s three—”
“Pam? Oh God, what have I done?”
“Stay with me, September. I can help you. Just come in, we’ll sort things out.”
“You’re wrong. Nobody can help me. And it’s not three. Go to Star Mall.” Heavy breaths. “I’ll make them pay.” She hung up.
