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Twenty-Six

The address that Long have given them for Abbott led them to a middle-class neighborhood where most houses were rented out. It was a redbrick structure that could handle a fresh coat of paint to the trim, and the eaves were in desperate need of replacement.

Madison knocked and footsteps padded toward the door. It creaked loudly as it was opened.

“Yes?” A woman in her late sixties, a head of white hair, stood there watching them with marked curiosity.

Madison held up her badge, and so did Terry. “We’re Detectives Knight and Grant,” she said. “We’re looking for Saul Abbott. Would he be home?”

The woman clutched the fabric at the bosom of her shirt and looked past them. “I don’t know… Who did you say you were looking for?”

There was faraway look in her eyes that spoke to possible Alzheimer’s, but she seemed to be home alone—at least no caretaker had come to the door behind her—and she was dressed in a floral-pattern buttoned shirt and blue pants with an elastic waistband.

“Saul Abbott,” Madison repeated.

“No one here by that name.”

“And you are?”

“Mary Smith.”

“How long have you lived here?” Madison asked.

“A while.” The woman gave them a pleasant smile. “Time has a way of passing by.”

“It does,” Madison agreed, “but it could be helpful if you answered my question.”

“I moved in last November.”

Abbott would have moved into Carson’s house… She flipped the pages of a calendar in her mind. It was March now, and Carson and Abbott started dating eight months ago; he moved in about a month after that. So seven months ago. That would make it August. It was possible the rental remained empty for a bit. First, they needed to confirm that Abbott had even lived there and Long hadn’t lied to them. “Do you know who was here before you?”

Smith shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear.”

“Could you give us the name and number for the landlord?” Madison took a stab at it being a rental.

Smith seemed to consider the question for several seconds. “One minute.” She retreated down a hall behind her and called out, “You two stay right there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Madison mumbled under her breath.

Smith returned a few minutes later and handed Terry a piece of lined paper with swirly handwriting on it.

He held it up and said, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Smith smiled and added, “I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

“Thank you.”

The door was slowly closed in their faces.

Back in the car, Madison positioned her fingers over the keyboard of the on-board laptop. “Landlord’s name and number?” she prompted Terry.

He gave her the name of Jerrod Stevens and his phone number.

She keyed it in. “All right. He’s only a few blocks from here.” She put the car into gear and took them to the landlord’s house.

They were knocking on his front door about ten minutes later, and after the third time, it was obvious the landlord wasn’t home. She turned on the stoop and looked over the street. The sun was shining brightly, and the sky was a rich blue. A gorgeous day for March. Even the temperature was mild. It was like the weather mocked her mood. She was with Terry, working the case, but her thoughts kept slipping to Troy and that ring he had hidden away in the laundry room. What had made him change his mind? Or was he just waiting for the perfect time? Somehow the latter assured her and lightened her heart, soothed her stomach. She could understand that Cynthia’s wedding wasn’t the ideal time for him to propose, but he’d had three weeks since then to ask her, and he hadn’t.

The other thing killing her was seeing Roman Petrov’s name attached to the address for the mystery woman, but it wasn’t like she could sneak off and probe that any further right now.

She glanced back at the house, disappointed that Stevens wasn’t home, but she and Terry weren’t without leads. She glanced at the clock; it was going on eleven. “I think we should go talk to Carson’s banker, Alan Lowe. According to Lana Barrett, Carson added Abbott to her bank accounts and her mortgage. He may have gone to the bank for this to happen. Lowe might have Abbott’s details—”

“Except you’re forgetting that by his nature he’s a fraud. He very well could have provided fake ID with a fake address.”

“God, this is frustrating.”

“Since when does a lack of answers frustrate you?”

She glanced over at him ready to say, “Always,” but he was smiling.

“All the time,” he said in response to what had been a rhetorical question.

She waved him off. “Here’s the thing, I believe Saul Abbott would have had to give the bank something in the way of identification to be added to Carson’s account. We go have a talk with them, see if they’ll let us look.”

“Worth a try, I suppose, but can we stop for a bite to eat or a coffee? There’s a Starbucks a couple blocks over.”

She drove there, quite certain she wouldn’t be able to stomach a coffee or a cappuccino. But if she went in and got their order, she’d have some time alone to call her doctor’s office without Terry over her shoulder.

“I’ll go in,” she volunteered as she parked. “The usual drink?”

“Sounds good to me.”

He loved hazelnut caps.

“And to eat?”

“Turkey breast and swiss on rye.”

“You got it.” She went inside the coffee shop and got in line, then placed her call to her doctor’s office. She got through on the second ring and booked an appointment for four that afternoon. She should have just enough time to get from there to her shrink’s by five. It could be pushing it, but Dr. Talmadge usually saw his patients right on the mark.

She got Terry’s order and a chocolate chip muffin for herself, seeing as she’d left the cranberry muffin at the station. She handed Terry his coffee and sandwich and settled behind the wheel.

“Where’s yours?” Terry held up his cup.

“I’m coffeed out, but I was hungry.” That was the truth. Now if she could just keep it down…

“I’d say you’re feeling better, but a coffee limit?” Terry took a sip of his drink, then said, “You’re still not feeling well, are you?”

She sighed and smacked the sides of her hands on the steering wheel, stared out the windshield.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Terry.” That’s all she could get out, a warning, a plea to stop pressing her about her health, to stop worrying, to stop causing her to panic.

He raised his hands in surrender, which she caught out of her peripheral vision. “Excuse me for caring,” he mumbled.

“I’m sure I’m fine. Everyone gets a little bug now and then. It’s not the end of the world.”

“But you made a doctor’s appointment?” He started unwrapping his sandwich.

“I will,” she said, hating herself for lying. It was one thing for Terry to follow up on her making an appointment and another for him to know when it was—he’d be persistent in finding out the results.