Saving Scott (Kobo) (36 page)

“Hey,” Kovak
said. “He’s a guy. That’s a reasonable assumption, especially if he’s living
alone.”

“He’d
probably get rid of all her channels rather than have to flip through them to
get to his.” Detweiler bobbed his head in Scott’s direction. “Good catch. I’ll
have to remember that one.”

“Check the
kitchen again, too,” Scott said.

“Looks like
a normal kitchen,” Kovak said.

“Because you’re
used to seeing all this stuff.” Scott opened several cabinets. “Why does a guy
who seems to live on pizza and beer need all these pots and pans? Slow cooker.
Waffle iron. Three sets of mixing bowls.”

“Okay, so he’s
recently divorced.” Kovak said.

“She left
him,” Scott said. “Too soon for a divorce, or the landlord would know about it.
She took her clothes. Pictures. But didn’t have time to deal with her kitchen
paraphernalia.”

“So, where
is she? If she’s still married to him, we need to notify her of his death. Odds
are, she’s going to inherit all this magnificence.” Kovak swept his arm around
the room.

Both Scott
and Detweiler stared at Kovak. He blinked, recognition showing in his eyes. He
slapped himself on the forehead. “She’s on our suspect list now, isn’t she?”

“Position
number one,” Detweiler said.

“But that
would mean—” Kovak said.

Scott
finished Kovak’s sentence. “That we have to connect the wife to our first
victim.” A burst of adrenaline cleared most of the fuzz from his brain.

“Would help
if we knew why she left,” Detweiler said. “Or who her friends are.”

“Sounds like
it’s time for my all time favorite cop task. Knocking on doors,” Kovak said,
his sarcastic tone making his feelings clear.

“I’ll go
east, you go west,” Detweiler said to Kovak. “Whelan—”

“I know.
Back to the station,” Scott said. “Paper and computers.”

Detweiler
looked at his watch. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get some answers and join you in an
hour or so.”

“With lunch?”
Scott asked, not really kidding.

When he got
back to the station, he went straight to the war room. He pulled the white
board to the center of the room so he could walk around it, absorbing vibes
from both victims. Not very scientific, but it seemed to work for him.

Felicity
Anne Markham. Theodore “Sparky” Young. Both early thirties. Both white. Both
dead from an overdose, administered in cocoa. Felicity was found in an
unfinished bakery. Sparky worked there. He could have had a key. But his body
was found miles away.

Suicide
pact? They hadn’t totally ruled out suicide as manner of death. Both victims
could have drunk the cocoa. It hits her first. He leaves her, drives off.

Didn’t make
sense. His vehicle wasn’t anywhere near there. They’d found it in a shopping
center parking lot in Salem, and it matched the descriptions given by the
witnesses who’d seen a truck where his body had been found.

What if
Sparky walked from the bakery to the vacant lot? He could have been alive that
long. But why not die together? That’s what double suicides did. No, suicide
wasn’t working for him.

His gut said
that someone drove the truck and dropped off the body. Which brought a third
player into the mix. The wife? Or would they find her body somewhere else?
Which would add yet another player.

Find her,
find some answers. He wondered if Ashley knew her. He was tempted to call, but
knew she’d be flooded with her bakeoff.

And you’re
not ready to face her.

Kovak and
Detweiler were on the wife. Scott needed to connect the two victims. He went
back to studying paper. Once they’d identified their victim, with a little
string pulling thanks to yours truly, they had the basics. Phone records,
credit card and bank statements.

Because he
hated staring at numbers, he decided to get the phone records out of the way
before his eyes crossed. And there it was. Dozens of calls in both directions.
Theodore Young’s cell to Felicity Markham’s home line, her line to his cell.

All
right, you two. You knew each other. Tell me more.

He walked
round and round the board, staring at the pictures, the notes. Hoping the
answer would appear.

Kovak and
Detweiler returned an hour later. The three of them munched on a late lunch of
subs while they discussed the search for the elusive wife. Knocking on doors
had yielded very little. Scott’s mind wandered, repeatedly sneaking into Ashley
territory.

Kovak
crumpled his sandwich wrapper and two-pointed it into the wastebasket. “Neighbors
said she was quiet. No job. Housewife, always kept her place spotless. Avoided
socialization. A recluse.”

Scott
snapped to attention. “Under her husband’s thumb. Probably abused.”

“Nobody
would substantiate it, but under his fist is the rumor.”

Scott
reached for the phone. “We need to check with the local hospitals.”

“HIPAA makes
that a bitch,” Detweiler said. “His records would be easy. He’s dead, so I’m
sure a judge would sign off on it. Hers are going to be more troublesome.”

“What if she’s
dead, too?” Kovak said. “You think we could convince a judge to give us the
paper we need to start asking the hospitals and clinics if they’ve ever treated
her?”

“That’s a
stretch,” Detweiler said.

“But if she’s
not the killer, finding her might save her life,” Scott said. “We can use that
angle, see if a judge will sign off on a warrant.” He doubted it would fly, but
it might be worth a shot, especially if someone had the right connections with
a judge. A little social engineering often went a long way.

“Have we
checked her credit card usage and cell phone records?” Detweiler asked, cutting
his eyes to Scott.

“
We
are working on it.” Scott pointed to a stack of printouts. “The accounts are in
his name, but she has a credit card and cell phone.” He fished through the
stack for the papers he needed. “She hasn’t used the cell phone on their family
plan in over a week. No charges on her credit card other than groceries and
gas. And she doesn’t use the card often—once or twice a month. My hunch is that
he had her on a cash allowance and there had to be extenuating circumstances
before she’d use the card.”

“Shit,”
Kovak said. “Hard to believe there are still men like that. Or women who
tolerate it.”

“More than
you’d think,” Scott said. “And it’s beginning to look like she quit tolerating
it.”

“Two likely
possibilities,” Detweiler said, “assuming she’s not another victim. One, she’s
running from him. Two, she’s running because she killed him. Either way, she’s
not going to want to be found.”

“Then that’s
what we do,” Kovak said. “We’re detectives. We find her.” His words were
directed at Scott.

“Hey, I’m
just a civilian consultant who’s breaking the rules by being here today.
However, I doubt she could have affected an identity change this fast. If she’s
smart, she’s got cash and a disposable cell phone. If it were me, I’d hop the
first bus out of town and regroup from there.”

Kovak
sighed. “I’ll take her picture to the bus station.” He took the blowup of her
driver’s license photo off the white board.

“Cheer up,”
Detweiler said. “We don’t have a train station or an airport.”

After Kovak
left, Detweiler turned to Scott. “And I’ve got a dinner date with the best
search engine around.”

Scott lifted
his brows. He pushed back from the computer, gesturing that Detweiler could use
it. God knows, he was sick enough of it.

Detweiler
shook his head. “No, when you need to find out about a woman in this town, the
best place to start is with another woman. Sarah probably knows her, and if
there’s any real gossip that Sarah’s not aware of, her sometime assistant,
full-time mother-hen undoubtedly is. Between Sarah and Maggie Cooper, if there’s
any skinny on Lorna Young, I’ll have it before dessert.”

Ashley
rubbed her throbbing temples. But throbbing in a good way. She poured the last
cup of Lorna’s Irish Cream coffee from her pot. Had she really drunk it all? If
so, she should be having the ultimate caffeine buzz, but all she could think of
was going home and crawling into bed. Maybe Holly had helped herself to a cup
or two.

Adrenaline
overload, Scott had said. She must be having the crash now that everything was
over. And speaking of Scott …. No, she was
not
speaking of Scott. Or
to
him, either. She understood Detective Kovak and Randy had good reasons for not
showing up. They were real cops, and busy investigating two dead bodies. But
Scott wasn’t a cop. If he cared about her—and the success of her business—he’d
have been here, damn him. Elaine had texted her apologies when her car had
broken down on the way back from a last-minute photo shoot. Couldn’t Scott have
taken ten seconds to do that?

Even Porky,
bless him, had been willing to cover the event, which was probably better than
what Elaine could have done, since Porky had promised an article in the
Bee
along with his picture-taking. She smiled as she recalled the faces on the kids
in the Math Club when Porky—she really should stop thinking of him that way
now—had pulled out his notebook and interviewed them.

Natalie had
been thrilled with her second-place finish. Probably more so because Gemma the
redhead had come in third. Ashley had promised to feature all three of the
finalists’ recipes on her menu, although she’d have to modify Gemma’s caramel
brownies. The contest rules hadn’t stipulated “from scratch,” but Ashley wasn’t
going to be using a boxed mix in her bakery. The grand prize had gone to a
great-grandmother for her Double Chocolate Cream Cheese Brownie recipe, to the
rousing cheers of at least a dozen family members.

But best of
all, Confections by Ashley had over a thousand dollars to donate to the Women’s
Center.

She rubbed
her temples again. Time enough to replay everything tomorrow. She’d shooed the
cleanup committee members out the door early, wanting to savor the success in
private. Which she could do at home. In bed. Scrubbing the floors could wait.

She stood,
exhaustion making her knees wobble, to wash the coffee pot as her last task of
the day. A light knock came from the back door.

Scott? And
if it was, so what? She’d send him home. Too little, too late. She went to the
door. Not Scott.

“Lorna? What
are you doing here? I mean, I thought you were gone. You know, hiding.” The
words weren’t coming out right.

Lorna sidled
past Ashley. “I probably shouldn’t be here. But I had to find out how
everything went. I thought I could help with cleanup, since I’d said I would,
but it looks like I’m too late.”

“It’s done.
I was on my way home.”

Lorna
dropped her gaze. “I … um … I wanted to talk. You … um … you said you were in a
… problematical relationship once. I thought you might be willing to give me
some advice. About starting my life again. I know it’s late. But I don’t want
to be around during the day. You know, in case someone sees me and tells Thad.
Will you? Over coffee?”

Ashley’s
heart went out to Lorna. It wasn’t really that late—not even ten. She could put
off sleep for half an hour. “All right. But I’m coffeed out. I think I drank an
entire pot of your Irish Cream.”

Lorna
grinned. “I’m glad you liked it. I know this great, quiet place we can talk.”
She wrapped her arm around Ashley’s waist. “My car’s right outside.”

Ashley was
half-aware of being helped inside Lorna’s car. This was more than a post-rush
crash. There was something wrong with her brain.

Her stomach
roiled. Was she sick? Food poisoning? The flu? Oh, God, had she infected
everyone who’d been at the bakeoff?

“Lorna, I
don’t feel so well. Maybe we can talk another time.”

The words
felt like someone else was saying them. They were in her head, but she wasn’t
sure they were coming out her mouth. Lorna didn’t respond. She merely started
the car and drove away.

Before they’d
gone far, the motion of the car lulled her, drew her under. Then someone was
shaking her shoulder.

“We’re here.
Time to get out.”

“What?”
Ashley blinked into darkness. Lorna leaned into the car, her face illuminated
by the dome light.

“It won’t be
long now.” She tugged on Ashley’s arm. “I’m so glad you drank all that coffee.
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk you into having enough. You’ll just fall
asleep. Like the others.”

“Others?”
Ashley stumbled along. The chilly night air seemed to help clear a brain that
had turned to meringue.

“Oh, don’t
pretend you didn’t have a thing for Thad. I found your address in his desk. And
your name. With a heart around it. And all those nights working late. He couldn’t
keep it in his pants. Felicity. Elaine. You.”

“Me? Thad?
Who?”

Lorna tugged
harder, leading Ashley farther from the car. Where were they? It was too dark.
Her legs. She was walking. Why couldn’t she feel them?

“He was one
of your work crew.” Lorna’s voice floated in from far away. “Don’t tell me you
didn’t even bother to know his name before you slept with him. Or maybe you
knew him by his work name. Sparky.”

“Sparky?
Slept? No. Never.”

“As if I
believe you. But even if you hadn’t yet, you would have. Everyone jumped into
bed with him.”

Fear
counteracted some of the drug’s effects. Heart pounding, she struggled to
remain conscious. “What did you give me?”

Lorna
snorted. “One of the perks of all those beatings. I got a lot of prescriptions
for painkillers. I don’t remember exactly which one I used in your coffee. Oh,
and by the way, it was decaf. Couldn’t risk the caffeine counteracting the
effects of the drugs. And I didn’t think you’d go for cocoa.” They’d stopped
moving. “I think this is good. Sit down.”