Parker stared ahead at the ribbon of highway they coursed along, like so many others around here in need of the blessing of new asphalt. Tears of a very different type from those just a few hours ago formed in her eyes.
Her daughter leaned as far away as she could and reached instinctively for her rear hip, before recalling that the phone was no longer in attendance. She crossed her arms and looked blankly at farmworkers burning the residue from a recent corn harvest, the low orange flames sending pale, aromatic smoke rising uneasily into the air.
47
Jon Merritt parked his pickup in a shady portion of a public park in northwest Ferrington.
Few people were present. Some joggers lost in the zone. Some businesspeople striding decisively, heads tilted sideways or down, concentrating on their phones. Some teens — dressed the sweatshirty way that Hannah dressed — walked or hung out in clusters or did their fine acrobatics on gravity-defying skateboards.
He’d learned that his ex and daughter had been staying at a place called the Sunny Acres in Marshall County. He’d been on his way there when he got the news they’d vanished. Maybe their trail would be picked up again, but until then he himself would search elsewhere for their whereabouts. He had braked hard, spun his truck into a wide, lawn-destroying U-turn, and, ignoring the horns, sped south.
And now it was:
Butterfly time...
Theodore Roosevelt Park was lush, one of the few urban spaces whose lawns, arboretums, planting beds, ponds and stream were kept up. Benches painted, graffiti scrubbed. Parks elsewhere got hardly a dollar for maintenance. But this was the Garden District, the poshest of ’hoods in Ferrington, and though that was a low bar, the area was really quite nice. Merritt didn’t know it well; FPD made few calls here. A doctor was collared for skimming opioids. There was the occasional break-in or Mercedes-jacking. One business partner shot another — and the case wound up on the cable series When the Rich Murder. The producer had interviewed Jon and his partner.
Not Danny. A different partner.
Before Danny.
He shut the engine off, climbed out and started toward the address handwritten neatly — and conveniently — in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope that contained the cannibalistic-insect greeting card.
The sender was Dorella Muñoz Elizondo, who his ex would have met within the past year. Merritt didn’t know her, hadn’t heard the distinctive name. Yes, there’d been blackouts, but he would have remembered Alli’s friends.
It was possible Allison could have confided in her. She might’ve given Dorella her new phone number. Dom Ryan was helping him in the search. If Merritt could find the number, Ryan could get a location out of a greedy or intimidated underling at her mobile service provider.
Dorella lived in the heart of the ritzy Garden District.
Merritt recalled the inscription in the butterfly card, penned by Dorella to his ex.
Sometimes the love for new friends can be as deep and enduring as the ones we’ve known since childhood. Hang in there, Alli, you’ll get through this...
He supposed he could search her house for anything that might relate to his wife. But he really hoped she was home. He’d make sure she shared everything she knew about her.
Walking with purpose, he strode to the gate in the picket fence and unlatched it. He stepped through, closed it behind him and continued to the house.
Glancing up, he saw the door open, and out stepped a tall, handsome woman, wearing what was called, he believed, a sundress. Yellow, frilly, thick straps. A hem not far below the knees. She carried a watering can and paused en route to a half-dozen opulent pots. Her glance toward him was of curiosity but more friendly than frown.
“Can I help you?”
“Good morning. Dorella Elizondo?”
She nodded a pleasant greeting. “That’s right.”
He walked to the bottom step, no farther. He held up his old badge, tucked it away. Then, using his best canvassing voice, confident but friendly: “I’m Detective White, Ferrington Police. I’m trying to locate Allison Parker and her daughter. We understand you’re friends. Have you heard from her in the past couple of days?”
“Oh, my,” she whispered, her face troubled. “Is Alli all right?”
“I’m sorry to say they’ve been missing since last night. Her husband was released from prison yesterday and violated a restraining order. We think they’ve fled. We’d like to find them, get them into protective custody until he’s recaptured.”
Lines furrowed her carefully dusted brow. “Alli told me he was abusive. Missing? Do you think he... hurt her? And Hannah?”
“No reason to believe that at this time. We’re just trying to find her.” A placid voice. Jon Merritt knew the rule: always stay calm when talking with victims, witnesses and the suspects themselves. The voice of Jon the Charmer-Detective.
“Well, Detective, we haven’t been in touch for a week or so, I guess.”
“You have any thoughts about where she might’ve gone? Outside of Ferrington? We heard she was headed north.”
“North?” the woman mused and set down the watering can, which seemed heavy. “I remember Alli mentioned some place she was interested in going to. She thought maybe we could go together. Her daughter too. It’s a spa. Ladies’ weekend, you know. Near Spartanburg.”
The town, a quaint tourist attraction, was northeast, nearly two hours from Ferrington. A good place for his ex and daughter to hide.
“I think I’ve got the address.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Of course.”
She walked inside.
A few minutes later, he heard Dorella’s voice. “Found it!”
A lead, at last.
He saw her approaching through the screen.
As the door swung open she said in an amused voice, “I’m just curious, Jon. Did you really think Alli never showed me your picture?”
She calmly leveled the shotgun and fired one round into Merritt’s right thigh, racked the gun, then parked another center mass in his belly.
48
“Private eye?”
“No,” Shaw said. “Not licensed. I’m a security consultant.”
The county deputy, about Shaw’s age, was writing in her notebook. She was blond — the shade slightly darker than Nilsson’s, he found himself thinking. The thick strands were pulled tight into a severe bun, as women cops often wore it. Her face was angular, her hips narrow. A shadow of a tat peeked from her left blouse cuff.
“I’m helping to find the woman and her daughter who were here. The FPD’re underwater.”
She took this in with a knowing nod, though she said nothing critical about LEA in a different jurisdiction.
“The name on the material witness wire. Allison Parker.”
Well, overworked Detective Kemp was true to his word.
The radio clattered. “No warrants. CCP’s good.”
“Roger,” she said into the Motorola mic speaker attached to the left shoulder of her blouse. She handed back his license and concealed carry permit. On her chest was a name tag, dep. kristi donahue.
They were in the parking lot of the Sunny Acres motel. Her cruiser sat beside the Winnebago, and two more official cars were in the parking lot. One was printed with crime scene. An ambulance was near the front door. The medics were inside, tending to the clerk. Who, Shaw had assessed, needed little tending.
An audience of a dozen stood outside, this scenario probably being more interesting than most of what Thompson Hills had to offer.
Shaw’s documents had been validated but the deputy wasn’t completely at ease yet. The situation was, of course, a complicated one. “And her husband broke out of detention and is after her?”