Jon Merritt knew very well that a case might be closed thanks to the smallest of jottings. If he found something that might be helpful he didn’t read it carefully now but shoved it into his backpack; he didn’t want to spend any more time here than was necessary. A police visit was unlikely but not impossible.
Digging, digging, sorting, discarding, stuffing...
God, there was a lot of crap, much of it for work: schematics, diagrams, spreadsheets and long, complicated reports. He didn’t remember her bringing home this much when they lived together. There was a policy against taking most documents out of the office.
Once the desk was depleted, it was on to the bedside tables, the dresser, vanity, closets. A search of those yielded only marginal prizes. In the end he hefted the backpack onto his shoulder and estimated he’d collected a good five or six pounds of Allison Parker’s Personal Life.
Now on to his daughter’s room, though he didn’t think he’d have much luck there. For one thing, it would be his ex who had their destination in mind, not Hannah. Also, a typical teen, the girl kept her existence mostly digital. No diary, no address book, no Post-its. Some doodlings on class assignments. A pink scrap of torn paper that said Kyle is crushing on you. I am serious!! There were two other references to the kid, who Merritt had never heard of.
Were Kyle’s parents among those unknown friends they might stay with?
Merritt was flipping through a thick stack of poetry, photos and school assignments when he heard the rattle of a motorcycle outside. The engine gunned and stopped. He stuffed the papers into his backpack and peered out.
In the front yard was a trim man, in his thirties, resting a helmet on the seat of a Yamaha dirt bike. He was in a brown leather jacket, black jeans and black shoes. The jacket wasn’t zipped and Merritt believe he saw the butt of a pistol on his right hip, back and low. It was nestled in a gray inside-the-belt holster.
Who the hell was this?
Jon Merritt walked to the kitchen, opened the garage door and stepped inside, drawing his own weapon.
A two-hundred-dollar gun that had cost seven.
29
Following the agreeable voice of the GPS girl, Moll pulled into the parking lot in front of the one-story building. It was white clapboard, with black-trim windows.
The modest sign above the door read:
This was the third women’s shelter on the list. Allison Parker had had no connection with the one north of the city — which had been the most likely one, given the direction of her flight. The second was in Bakersville, the seediest part of Ferrington, and no one there knew Allison.
“Better be it.” Moll snagged an envelope, 8½ by 11, white. And stepped out of the Transit.
He was almost certain Allison Parker and her daughter weren’t here, since it was south of Ferrington. But she might’ve headed north, then circled back. Merritt had said she’d definitely spent some time in one of the shelters, and Moll’s hope was to find somebody she had become friendly with, somebody she might have spoken to after she fled. Maybe they’d even recommended another shelter in a different county. Nothing wrong with putting some miles between her and any threat.
Moll pushed the intercom button.
“Yes?” A woman’s voice floated out from the speaker below the camera. She seemed stern.
“Hi, delivery.” Moll was as professional as he could be. He held up the envelope. “Need a signature.”
The probing eye would see a man in a suit and tie. A white man. Made a difference, sad to say. The door lock buzzed, and he entered, thinking: careless of them.
The front office was paneled with cheap wood and was obviously a DIY job, with mispatched alignment and sloppy joints. Behind a scuffed desk sat a woman of around thirty-five in a white blouse and dark skirt. She had long brunette hair, ponytail strangled by two scrunchies or whatever they were called. One near her head and the other near the end of the tail.
She was not alone. A large dark-skinned man, wearing a security guard’s blue uniform, sat in the corner. He eyed Moll and went back to texting. He was armed.
With as pleasant an expression as a hulk of a man can muster, Moll displayed the envelope on which a label was pasted. He said, “Copy of a revised restraining order for Ms. Allison Parker.” He was going to pretend to hesitate and look at the name on the envelope. But that might be overacting. “The sheriff’s out serving Merritt now. If he can find him.”
“Allison?”
Moll’s bad day improved considerably with this. She hadn’t asked, “Who?” She knew Merritt’s ex.
“That’s right. She’s in residence here, isn’t she?”
The woman was then frowning as she glanced at the envelope, maybe expecting him to show her the contents, which wasn’t going to happen, since they were ten sheets of blank computer printer paper. Her response was “No.”
Moll now took on the same confused expression she was projecting. “The clerk of the court said she was in a shelter. I just assumed it was this one, since the paperwork said she was here before.”
“That’s right. But she’s not now. You better check with the magistrate’s office.”
“Has she talked to you recently about possibly coming in?”
It was not a question a process server would ask. She looked him over. Was there suspicion?
“Can I ask, why didn’t you just call first?”
Good question.
A shrug. “I was in the area on another delivery. Thanks for your help. You have a good evening now.”
The woman nodded and, fortunately for Moll, turned back to the screen, which gave him the chance to memorize her chest. For future reference.
Desmond had a problem. Moll had control. But he was, after all, a man.
Outside, he climbed into the driver’s seat. “The receptionist? She knows her.”
“Did she say anything we can use?”
Moll said, “Not yet. She will.”
30
Colter Shaw’s father, Ashton, had a rule: Never break the law.
Though the final word in that sentence was subject to some interpretation.
There were laws and then there were laws, and occasionally survival required you to redefine the concept of legal prohibitions.
You could also get good mileage out of the concept of affirmative defense: Your Honor, yes, I broke the law, but I did it to save a life. Nearly-a-lawyer Shaw had become very familiar with this concept in the reward business.
So he didn’t think twice about pushing open the unlocked back door of Allison Parker’s rental house on Maple View.
Besides, if the cops weren’t energized enough to track down an intended wife-killer, Shaw’s crime of trespass would not appear as the faintest blip on their radar.
He stepped into the dark kitchen and remained still, hand on his pistol, scanning what he could see from here: dining area, a portion of the living room, the pantry.
Listening.
The creaks of a settling house. The tap of branches and skittering of leaves; the breeze had picked up.
He needed light, but not until he cleared the small one-story house.
Room by room.
Shaw, who’d drawn his pistol, moved through the kitchen, the living room, a tiny bedroom in the back, a large bedroom in the front of the house and a smaller one across the hall. Bathrooms, clear. Closets, clear. No basement to search.