Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (67 page)

“I don’t think I’d want her doctoring me either.” Robbins
watched the door swing closed. Questioning her was probably pointless. She
seemed the kind who’d throw confidentiality over everything. Still…

“Do you have contact information for her?”

Robbins dropped the receiver back into the cradle and
checked off another relative who hadn’t heard from their father, grandfather,
or great-grandfather. He hoped the evening news report generated more tips
about the old man’s—or his car’s—location. He turned pages in the leather-bound
address book, searching for another name from his contact list. At last he found
the youngest daughter—currently living in Camden according to the long list of
crossed out address and phone numbers. He tapped in the digits and once again
explained why a Newberry, SC detective was calling.

“No, we don’t have any evidence of a crime”—other than the
dead dog—“but a neighbor asked us to check on him and we found he was not at
his residence. At his age, he’s considered a vulnerable adult. We issued a
missing person alert.”

“My father hasn’t been vulnerable for a day in his life.”

The guy was pushing eighty. That equaled vulnerable in
Robbins’ book.

“That busybody next door reported it, didn’t she?”

The icy tone of her voice grated across Robbins’ ear. “If
you hear from your father, please let us know. The missing person file will
stay open until he’s located.”

“Really officer, I appreciate the non-discriminatory effort
to find him, but this is a complete waste of time. I’m sure he’s off enjoying
himself somewhere. Why weren’t you this eager to investigate when my mother
died?”

Silence.

He let it grow for a bit. What was she asking? “Your
mother?” Robbins prompted.

“He killed her. None of you people would do a thing about
it.”

Robbins scrubbed a hand over his face. What the hell? “Your
father killed your mother?”

“Yes.” Her tone added,
Finally. Someone gets it.

“You reported this.”

“Of course. She was ill, but she could’ve lived a long time
if he hadn’t decided to play God. I don’t know if it was the money or he was
tired of taking care of her or what he was thinking. But one day she had hope
for a future and the next day she was dead.”

Fuck.

“I’m not aware of the particulars of the case. Was an
autopsy performed? An investigation?”

“His doctor covered up everything and you people wouldn’t
listen.” She was angry now. A volcano ready to erupt. “He could’ve smothered
her with a pillow or overdosed her with morphine. God knows he kept her doped
up.”

How angry was she? Mad enough to lash out at her father? To
take matters into her own hands?

“She was fine when I visited her. She perked right up, asked
about my job.”

Robbins jotted Gloria Beason Washington’s name on his note
pad and added a few question marks. He wanted to ask how often she visited, and
for how long. He’d seen older people put on a good front for visiting kids.
Instead he said, “Like I said, I’m not familiar with the case, but either of
those circumstances would’ve shown up in an autopsy.”

“You’re just like the rest of them. My psychiatrist said I
should accept that I can’t change the past. That I should concentrate on
finding my own resolution. You’ve heard of Dr. McKinley? She’s a leading
innovator in grief management and family reconciliation.”

Cat Woman. No wonder she reacted to the Beason name.

“Obviously I couldn’t reconcile things, so I solved it my
way.”

Robbins’ hand tightened around the receiver. Solved it? Did
she do something to her father? Years of practice kept his tone level. “That
helped? How do you feel about your dad now?”

“I have no intention of discussing my personal feelings with
you. When you’re serious about investigating my mother’s death—and I won’t hold
my breath—you can call me.”

With that, the daughter hung up.

Robbins was still staring at the phone, trying to decide if
the daughter’s claims were a lead or a shit pit he didn’t want to crawl through
when Jerry Jordan came through the door carrying a greasy bag from Bojangles.
Tall and gangly, the kid wore khakis and a navy blue blazer. He looked like a
nerdy prep instead of a detective.

Jordan dumped the food on his desk and said, “A couple of
the neighbors mentioned a car leaving around four AM, but no one heard a dog
barking.”

“Why didn’t the dog bark?” Robbins laced his fingers behind
his head and studied the ceiling. “Either the neighbors’ hearing’s gone or the
dog didn’t bark because she recognized whoever entered the house.”

“Or they slept right through it.”

“Maybe. Old people are usually light sleepers.”

Jordan roamed the squad room, nearly bouncing on his toes
with enthusiasm. “What’s our theory? Think Beason left on his own?”

“Doesn’t look like it. The dog. The ransacked house.” He
left out the daughter’s accusations for now.

“Old man like him. Not the most likely kidnapping target.”
Jordan moved to the white-board where they’d listed the known chronology and
points of contact.

“For that community, Beason had money. He owned an
electronics shop downtown. The big box stores and a
throw-it-away-instead-of-fix-it world shut him down a while ago.” Robbins
opened the Bojangles sack. Chicken sandwich and dirty fries. He fished a few
fries out of the packet. Sharon might not want him to die of lung cancer, but
she hadn’t started in on a heart attack.

Yet.

“Some of these dirt bags will kill you for a dollar if they
need a fix bad enough. But the dog would’ve barked at a druggie.” He bit into
the fries. They had enough pepper to kick start his taste buds.

“I heard burglars will throw a dog drug-laced meat so it
doesn’t bark.”

Robbins unwrapped his sandwich—a Cajun Filet. Was it as
simple as a burglary turned ugly? “That implies planning. I don’t see it.
Someone went through Beason’s house on a rampage.”

Then again, he hadn’t seen anything that looked like a
baseball bat. “The missing wallet makes me wonder if Beason left on his own.”

Like the daughter said.

“Because?” Jordan dropped into his chair and dove into his
food.

“If you’re being hustled or dragged out the door, you don’t
usually say, ‘scuse me, I need to grab my wallet.”

Jordan chewed on that along with his sandwich. “If someone
broke in and cleaned out the wallet—the cash and credit cards—they’d have
dumped the wallet. What if they forced him into the car to hit an ATM for more
cash?”

“Could be. Did you find a bank statement in that mess of
paper?”

“First Community.”

“Makes sense the guy would choose a local instead of one of
the big, national banks. Let’s get some paper ready for them. Drop it off first
thing tomorrow and pull the security tapes for the ATM.”

Jordan scribbled on a note pad. “I’ll make the warrant
broader and watch for current activity on the account. It could lead us right
to him.”

Robbins hid a grin behind a few more fries. The kid might be
worthwhile after all.

“You want me to stay with this tonight or get back on those
car prowls? I also have the vandalism at the cemetery. Some kids spray-painted
the outside wall.” Jordan finished his sandwich, crumpled the paper and lobbed
it at the trash. The wad tapped the rim but tumbled into the can. “Score.”

“Lucky shot. Work the car prowl tonight, and see if anything
comes up on the cemetery tagging. The chief’s catching heat over both of those.
He wants some visibility there. I’m going to check one more thing before I head
home.”

Robbins rummaged through records for a while. He didn’t find
anything on Beason, but he finally found the daughter’s complaint. There was no
paperwork, no file, but he recognized the patrol officer’s name. He dialed a
number.

“Carl Moses.”

Moses had recently moved to Columbia, taking a sergeant’s
position in the larger agency. “Hey, it’s Robbins. I got a question for you.
Maybe a theoretical.”

“I do love the theater.”

“You and the drag queens. Listen, I’m working a report on an
old man who maybe wandered off. The neighbor thinks maybe he got dragged off,
but I just talked to a family member who thought he might be taking a
sabbatical from the rest of his life.”

“It happens.”

“Well, she was… You remember a case, not so much a case as a
call from about a year ago.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“It happened right before you left. Old lady died and the
daughter claimed the dad killed her.”

Silence, but it was the kind of silence that said Moses was
thinking about it.

“I kinda remember, ‘cause it ain’t your usual call. About
all I remember is everybody thought the daughter was over-reacting. Having
hysterics ‘cause her mama died.”

“All I found was the initial complaint. Any follow-up?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Okay. Thanks. Beason has family in Columbia. Let me know if
you run across him or his gold Caddy.”

“Will do.”

Robbins hung up the phone and stretched. He’d done all he
could tonight. The old man wasn’t senile or diabetic or anything. Normally, in
a situation like this, they’d call the BOLO and the guy would eventually turn
up—usually after a week at the beach or in Sin City. The captain had let him
run with it today. Robbins had made an issue about the dog—something similar
might’ve happened to the old guy—but probably the captain knew the old man was
black and figured pushing to find Beason helped the department’s image.

Robbins could give a shit about the PR. His efforts today
had been for Miz Rose.

Twenty minutes later, Robbins turned into his own street.
Like his neighbors’ houses, the brick ranch style house sat on an acre of
ground. His, however, was the place with the crummy looking yard.

Why had he ever thought that much land was a good idea? With
the kids grown and out of the house, cutting all that grass and trimming the
hedges were back on his Honey-Do list. And Sharon stayed pissed off because the
chore stayed on the list instead of getting done.

He pulled into his driveway. Maybe he should buy a cow or a
goat. Let it eat the grass all summer, then they’d eat the meat all winter.

He could hear Sharon’s reaction to piles of cowshit all over
the place.

He sighed. How was he supposed to plan to mow the lawn when
he couldn’t even plan what time he’d get home from work?

His headlights caught the roll cart—placed right where it
blocked the entrance to his side of the garage.

Damn.

Today had been trash day. The garbage truck wouldn’t be
around again until next week. There sat the bin, full, because he forgot to
roll the cart out to the street.

A flush of anger tightened his chest. Sharon had pushed the
cart in front of the garage door so he couldn’t miss it. If she could move it
there, why couldn’t she roll it to the curb?

He popped the car door, left the engine running and dragged
the bin over beside his pickup. He’d have to haul the bags to the dump.

Sometime.

He returned to the car, groaning a bit as he eased inside.
He was too old for fourteen-hour workdays. He’d have to let the kid take on
more of the leg work. Except Jordan was so green, he didn’t know where to start
without someone telling him every step to take.

Robbins looked across Miz Rose’s breakfast table at the
toddler.

Cute kid.

Tasha cut her eyes and smiled, a natural flirt.

Her daddy’s gonna need a shotgun when this one gets older,
he thought—then remembered she didn’t have a daddy.

Daintily pinching the Cheerio between forefinger and thumb,
Tasha offered him a cereal circle. Mouth open, he lowered his head. She dropped
the Cheerio inside. He kissed her fingers in return, a loud smack that drew
laughter.

“Don’t you be encouraging her,” Miz Rose said. “Tasha, you
eat that cereal. And use yore spoon.”

The child jammed the spoon into the bowl, spilling more
cereal onto the highchair tray, then lifted the mounded spoon toward her mouth.

“That’s right.” Miz Rose turned back to the sink and tackled
the older kids’ breakfast dishes. Sunlight reflected off the glass beads in her
hair. Overnight, she’d braided her hair into a bunch of cornrows, a sure sign
she was worried.

Robbins sipped his coffee, watching both Tasha and her. Two
months ago, when he and Child Services dropped the toddler off with Miz Rose,
the kid had been a clingy, weepy mess. “Tasha seems happy.”

“She just need to be where folks ain’t angry.”

“Don’t we all?” Robbins considered the mood at home. The
tension level there needed to drop below an “orange” threat level, but how was
he supposed to change Sharon’s attitude?

“Most peoples forget to think about the other person,” Miz
Rose said.

Robbins sat back. The woman had an eerie ability to say
things that mirrored his thoughts.

Miz Rose had a point, though. How often
did
he
consider Sharon’s feelings?

What would make her happy? Other than him taking out the
trash and cutting the grass? He slurped more coffee. To be fair, how much of
the tension in the house was his fault?

Miz Rose dried her hands and stepped across the kitchen. The
place—the house and the furniture—was old and worn, but other than the area
right around the highchair, it was clean. She wiped Tasha’s grubby face and
hands, then plucked the toddler from the high chair and kissed her chubby
cheek.

Tasha leaned into Miz Rose, molding against her body, stuck
her finger in her mouth and sucked—the picture of contentment.

“I ‘spect you didn’t come over here for my coffee or to
check on this chil’. You hear anything about George Beason?”