“I’m on it. But while we have Sarah’s consent to search the databases for
her
information, there are privacy issues if we look for anyone else. Birth certificates and death certificates and the like are protected. I only got access to this one because Sarah is listed as a parent.” TK’s glare stopped him. “Okay, you don’t care about privacy issues. But I can’t break any laws. Let me see what I can do.”
She leaned over his chair, toes bouncing. Finally, something concrete. Once they untangled Mr. Walter T. Putnam’s life and his relationship to Sarah, they could give Sarah back her life. Or at least a start to reclaiming it.
And if Mr. Walter T. was the reason why she was on the run, then TK would make sure he answered for his actions.
<><><>
VALENCIA
HAD ARRIVED
twenty minutes after Tommy’s call, striding into the interview room like a mother bear, fierce and protective. “Any questioning will cease until after I’ve had adequate time to confer with my client.”
“We simply requested Dr. Worth’s assistance—” Burroughs said, his tone markedly deferent compared to the way he’d spoken to Tommy.
“Are you charging my client with any offense?”
Burroughs looked to Harding, who merely frowned in return. It was clear they wanted to arrest Tommy but also wanted a rock solid case. Good to know he still had a little wiggle room. But it felt as if whatever time he had left to enjoy his freedom was quickly slipping away.
“No,” Burroughs answered. “We’re not prepared to arrest Dr. Worth at this time.”
Valencia gestured for Tommy to join her. Burroughs returned his key ring—all except the key to the Volvo—and escorted them out of the station. On the way, Tommy caught a glimpse of Harding talking on a phone but watching them leave, her gaze one of suspicion and appraisal. It was obvious the police had already made up their minds about what had happened to Charlotte. Which left it to Tommy to fight for the truth.
Valencia led him to her Audi, where Xander waited. Valencia never went anywhere without Xander. He was more than her personal assistant, more than a driver or bodyguard, but how much more Tommy had no idea.
Valencia slid into the front passenger seat while Tommy climbed into the back. Once they’d turned onto Arlington, she twisted in her seat to address him. “I’m going to make some calls, get you a criminal defense attorney.”
He scowled, feeling as petulant as Nellie during one of her Sugar Loops tantrums. “I don’t need one. I have you. Besides, I’m innocent.”
“Innocent men are arrested every day. Innocent men go to trial every day and are convicted every day. We need to get ahead of this.”
He nodded, his mind still reeling at the memory of the photos Harding had shown him. What a horrible way to die. It wouldn’t have been fast. He closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat. “Burroughs has it in for me.”
“Even police officers are only human.”
“The man hates me.” He opened his eyes. “If he’s in charge of the evidence, I’ll never get a fair shot at clearing my name.”
“In his own way, Detective Burroughs is just as protective of Charlotte as you are.” Tommy started to protest, but she continued, “You need to move past your personal feelings about the man and concentrate on protecting yourself.”
“But whoever did that to Charlotte is still out there, running free!”
“I know. And I know it’s difficult, maybe the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. But now’s the time to focus on your daughter, on your public image. It means a lot, more than people think, especially if it ever comes to a trial. You need to take care of yourself, Tommy. That means working with an attorney, telling them everything, good or bad, whether you think it might hurt your case or not.”
“I’ve already told you everything. The cops as well, not that they believe me.”
They turned down Tommy’s street. Thankfully, the news crews had gone and the street was empty. So was his driveway; Gloria and Peter had left already, taking Nellie to their home. He remembered how upset Nellie had been, how angry Peter and Gloria were. Valencia was right. He had to focus on protecting his family first.
Then he could deal with Burroughs and all the rest.
Xander parked the Audi and Tommy climbed out. “I’ll call you as soon as I have the name of an attorney,” Valencia promised. “In the meantime, take care. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
He nodded glumly and watched them leave. Then he trudged up his front walk, up the steps, and into his home. The house felt cold and empty. As if all the life had been sucked out of it.
What to do next? Taking a shower and changing his clothes would be a start; he was still wearing what he’d had on last night when he fell asleep on the couch after talking with Lucy. And then packing. Both Nellie’s things and his. If Peter and Gloria would have him, they could hide out at the farm, away from the press. If not, then he’d take Nellie to a hotel or rent an apartment. Any place but this suddenly lifeless house that used to be a home.
He climbed the steps and passed Nellie’s room, then stopped. The door was ajar. He pushed it open. Her bed had been stripped. All her stuffed animals and toys were gone—not just her favorite, couldn’t-spend-the-night-without ones, the ones she usually took to Gloria and Peter’s.
Stalking across the room, he opened her closet door. Everything, even the hangers, had been taken. The dresser drawers were also empty.
He stood frozen, his hand gripping the edge of the dresser, the wood biting into his palm. All the rage that had been building during the long morning finally burned its way to the surface, coalescing into a single spike of fury.
He’d lost his wife. He was not about to lose his daughter.
Whirling, he ran down the stairs and out the garage door. His car was gone, so he had no choice but to take Charlotte’s SUV. He wrenched the driver’s door open and climbed into the seat. It was already adjusted for him, because this was his silent shrine to Charlotte. On long, weary nights he would come out here and sit where she’d last sat, touch the steering wheel—maybe the last thing she’d touched—and listen to her music.
Opera. He hated opera, but she’d loved it. One of her favorites was Maria Callas singing
Tosca
. She’d tried to explain the story to him, translated the Italian, but in the end, it was all a mystery to him. Part of the mystery that was Charlotte. He had loved that even after all these years she could still surprise him, still had hidden depths to be explored.
Until last year, when those mysteries had turned into nightmare questions, taunting him. How many nights had he tried and failed to put himself in her shoes, to figure out why she’d gone or how or where? Mostly why. He’d hated feeling so sorry for himself, despised the weakness and powerlessness it brought with him. He’d thought if he understood the why, he could regain some semblance of control instead of faking his way through every moment of every day.
He jabbed the Pathfinder’s ignition switch, ignoring the silver fingerprint powder that still covered it and every other surface of the car. He’d planned to get the car detailed or clean it himself, but had never found the strength to face the job. It was too much like cleaning Charlotte out of his life, erasing the last known traces of her.
The SUV roared to life, anxious to hit the streets, the plaintive voices of lovers facing tragedy filling the air. It still stank of chemicals—Luminol or some other forensic testing compound, he guessed—but the engine worked just fine. He backed out of the driveway, tires screeching as he yanked the wheel and shifted into drive, then sped down the street.
Nellie was the one thought that drove him, unrelenting, insistent. He had to get his daughter back. With him she was safe.
A faint whisper of doubt forced its way through his rage. Was that really what he believed? Or was he using Nellie as a crutch, a way to avoid facing the truth?
Maybe it wasn’t he who kept Nellie safe. Maybe it was Nellie who protected
him
. With her he could deny the truth, pretend that everything would be all right.
Pretend he still had a family.
LUCY ORDERED LUNCH
and reviewed her notes, still at the booth at the Eat ’n Park. The waitress was now giving her the stink eye, one patron taking up a table that could seat four during the lunch rush, but Lucy ignored her.
Finally, after scouring the files for a third time, Lucy conceded defeat. If Charlotte had been helping one of the shelter’s clients that last day, there was no record of it, no one to question about it. The trail was long cold and dead.
Her phone rang. Valencia. “I wanted to update you on Tommy’s situation,” she started in her cultured tone. “The police brought him in for questioning. Apparently something they found at the crime scene may link him to the dead woman found there.”
“Like what? Did they arrest him?”
“They showed him photos of a baseball jersey that belonged to him and that had been in the grave. Also they searched his car for a tire iron but didn’t find one. They did, however, find Charlotte’s charm bracelet—the one she was wearing when she vanished.”
“Damn.” More than circumstantial. Once forensics were in, Burroughs would be arresting Tommy, no doubt about it. Unless the state’s attorney wanted to wait for a grand jury indictment; sometimes with potential capital crimes, they liked to hedge their bet that way.
“Have you found anything that might help?”
Lucy slid her plate with its half-eaten burger aside and began to gather her stuff. “Not yet, nothing concrete. But we’ll keep hammering at it.”
“I’m counting on you, Lucy. So is Tommy.”
Lucy hung up, paid her bill, and retreated to her Subaru. As she drove to Beacon Falls, she called Burroughs. “What the hell? You arrest one of my people and don’t even give me the courtesy of calling?”
“We didn’t arrest him. Not yet anyway. And you know how it gets when a case is finally heating up. Calling friends of the main suspect isn’t part of my job.”
“I had to hear it from my boss. My boss, Burroughs.”
“Tough shit. This is a homicide investigation. I’m sorry you’ve been out of the field so long you’ve forgotten how the job goes.”
Ouch. She’d only left the FBI last month.
“Besides, how do you think I’ll feel, having to tell my boss that I trusted a witness to the suspect we’re getting ready to arrest?”
“Witness? You mean Sarah?”
“Where is she?” Burroughs asked.
“You don’t think she has anything to do with Charlotte?”
“Of course not. But that hiker who came forward says Sarah was arguing with a man. And from his description of their location, they were near Charlotte’s grave.”
“You think it was Tommy? That he chased Sarah off that mountain? Why?”
“Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t have. After all, we would have never found Charlotte without her photos.”
“You’re talking like it’s definitely Charlotte.”
“Yeah. This isn’t for the public, not yet, but you’ll hear it soon enough anyway. Dental records and the ring, her clothing, everything so far is a match. DNA should confirm it soon.”
“Did the witness positively ID Tommy?”
“Didn’t get that far. Not yet anyway.” They both knew that eyewitness identification was a minefield if not handled properly—if the witness didn’t ID Tommy, the defense would use it to decimate Burroughs’ case.
“Valencia said you were searching for a tire iron?”
“The probable murder weapon,” he replied grudgingly. “Buried with the victim. Wrapped in a baseball jersey belonging to Worth. State’s attorney wants to wait for forensics, but they’ll give us him, I’m sure.”
Aw, hell. Tommy was so in over his head. Funny, she’d started reviewing Charlotte’s case trying to be objective, to rule out Tommy based solely on facts, but it felt like her gut instinct had done that for her instead. If only she could find some hard evidence to prove his innocence.
“Where’s Sarah?” Burroughs asked again. “I’ll find someone else to help her. Someone without a conflict of interest,” he added, in case Lucy hadn’t gotten the point.
She had. It just didn’t help. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “She left this morning.”
“What? How could you—”
“She’s a grown woman. We had no right to stop her.”
“She has no memory. And a stalker. Not to mention Worth. Who knows what they said during their argument? He might go after her.”
“Tommy would never—”
“Sure he would. If he killed his wife, why not a witness? In fact, maybe that whole wedding dress-stalker thing is a smoke screen? Worth could have set the whole thing up.”
“In the little time he had after you brought Sarah to Beacon Falls? Now you’re reaching.”
“No. Think about it. There are tons of thrift stores between Beacon Falls and Sarah’s place. He stops in, grabs a wedding dress, pays cash, has them wrap it up, slips in the card—after wiping his prints, of course—and leaves it before he goes into her apartment. Then when she and TK show up and find it, surprise! Oh my, how did that get there?” The last came in a mincing tone that sounded nothing like Tommy but revealed just how invested in his guilt Burroughs had become.
“You’ve no proof.”
“But it’s a damn good theory. Even you have to admit.”
“Like hell I do. I think you’re too emotionally involved—in both Charlotte’s case and Sarah’s.”
“He used me, Guardino. Wake up. He’s using you, too. If anything happens to Sarah, we blame her so-called stalker and never look at Worth. And it’s all my own damn fault. I can’t believe I ever let a bunch of amateurs mess with my case.”
“First of all, we ‘amateurs’ have a better closure rate than any department in the state—including yours. Second of all, Sarah isn’t a case. She’s a civilian—”
“A civilian with a traumatic brain injury and amnesia. Not competent to—”
“A civilian cleared by the doctors to return to her own life. Which makes her actions out of our control.”
“Damn it, Guardino. I trusted you. I trusted her with you.”