Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft (4 page)

“I got Fink,” I said to Amerson over
the phone.

He asked and I briefly
explained how I happened across Fink.

“See,” he said.
“That’s exactly what we need for Danielle Dillon.”

“Don’t hold your
breath.”
I
sure wasn’t. “Does Dillon have a vehicle registered with the
DMV?”

I was sitting in the
truck outside the detention center, Dillon’s file open on my lap, leaning
against the steering wheel. I’d read through it, including the notes of those
who had already tried locating her. All of her information was useless; it was
like starting from scratch. With less than three days to do it.

“I don’t think so.
There should be a note in her file.” I heard the tapping of a keyboard over the
line.

“I don’t see one.”

“Okay, I’ll find out
and call you back.”

I thanked him and
disconnected.

There were four
addresses known to be associated with Dillon, all local. There was also her
grandmother’s house, which was about to become Sands and Meeker’s new house if
I couldn’t find Dillon in time. No other friends or family were listed. In the
spirit of being thorough, I started the truck and motored off to the first
address before I hit campus. I didn’t think I’d find Dillon today, but I’d
start turning over the rocks on my way to pick up Dix, who I did think I’d
find.

The address was near
the country club and on a lake. Technically a reservoir, the lake isn’t big as
far as lakes go, but it means the price tags on the houses in this neighborhood
are huge. Born and raised in Fort Collins, I’d never been to this neighborhood
or the Country Club. I don’t like golf, but I especially don’t like rich
people. I used to run with that crowd, wearing thousands of dollars’ worth of
clothes, jewelry, makeup, and perfume, eating and drinking in places with
black-tie dress codes. I’d gotten more than my fill then, and I never wanted to
go back. I was sort of annoyed Dillon had this address in her file and that I
had to check it out.

There was a large iron
gate at the perimeter of the property, which I could see was spacious, and it
was standing open. I drove through and parked in the circular drive in front of
the door. I picked up the yellow legal pad I use for taking notes while working
cases and wrote down the make, model, and license plate number of both cars
parked in the driveway. I would do the same with any cars parked in the
immediate vicinity as I left, with the intention of running them later. This is
a technique that has worked for me in the past, and I never know what will pop
up. I didn’t think it’d blow this case wide open, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

I half expected
someone in a uniform to answer the door when I rang the bell, but instead it
was a woman in her fifties with ash-blonde hair. She was wearing heels with her
trousers and pearls with her blouse. I managed not to roll my eyes.

“Yes?”

I handed her a card.
She didn’t invite me in, but through the open door I could see the elaborate
interior of the enormous house. The furniture was big and expensive, overly
ornate, and there was art everywhere. Paintings adorned the walls, but it also
appeared this woman or someone else living here had a penchant for sculpture.

The three-foot
sculpture in the entryway behind her appeared to be made of marble and looked
very much like what I remembered seeing in history books about the Ancient
Romans. The sculpture was a nude woman with curly hair flowing over her
shoulders and a garment of some kind pooled at her feet. Whatever it was, I
could guess it was expensive. And just like all the other art in the house, it
was taking up space and needing to be dusted. I hate rich people.

“My name is Zoe Grey.
I work for Sideline Investigations and Bail Bonds. I’m looking for a woman
named Danielle Dillon and have this address listed for her. Do you know anyone
by that name?”

“My goodness!” she
said, putting a hand across her chest. “No, I don’t. Why would she have used
this address? What’s she done?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I
can’t discuss the details.” I reached for Dillon’s picture and handed it to the
woman. “Recognize her?”

“No, I most certainly
do not. She looks
deranged
in this photo.  What’s wrong with her? What’s
she done?”

“I just have a couple
more questions,” I said, taking the picture back. “Could you tell me your
name?”

“Virginia Burbank. I’m
Henry Burbank’s wife.”

She announced this as
if it should mean something to me. It didn’t.

“How long have you and
Mr. Burbank lived in this house?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Do you employ any
house staff?” This was a wild guess, but I threw it out all the same. Sometimes
I get lucky this way.

“Yes. We have a
housekeeper and a gardener.”

This was one of those
times.

“I’ll need their names
and home addresses, please.”

“I’ll have my
accountant get that to you.” She looked at the card. “He’ll call this number.”

“That would be great.
Thank you, Mrs. Burbank. You’ve been very helpful.”

I’d barely gotten the
last part out before she retreated into the house and shut the door.

“Thank you so much for
your hospitality, Mrs. Burbank,” I said cheerfully to the door. I gave a small
wave then turned and went back to my truck.

She had agreed to cooperate,
so I resisted the urge to do a couple of hand gestures. It seemed unsporting.

I drove out to Highway
1 and found the address I was looking for in another expensive neighborhood.
The houses here were very big, possibly bigger than those in the Country Club
area, but the lots were definitely bigger, the properties more spread out, and
they had a much more rustic, woodsy feel. All of the properties had abundant
foliage and dozens of huge, old trees. The roads were gravel, and even though
we were only a few miles from town, it was impossible not to feel completely
removed, almost isolated.

The address I had for
Dillon stuck out from the others like a sore thumb. The place was run-down,
abandoned, and forgotten-looking. A RE/MAX
for
sale
sign was stuck in the grass near the edge of the lawn, leaning
slightly. After noting all the plate numbers, I climbed out of the truck and
walked to the front door, keeping my eyes open. The windows were closed and the
lawn was brown, dead, and overgrown. It was still covered with leaves from last
fall. Weeds had overtaken the flowerbeds in front of the house on both sides of
the door. It was June, the days long and sunny and increasingly hotter.
Everyone else’s yard was green and their flowers in full bloom. No one had been
here to water the lawn since last summer, I guessed.

I stepped onto the
porch and rang the bell. I could hear it chime from the other side of the door.
I watched the windows closely for any sign of movement, any indication of
someone peering out to see who was on the porch. I saw none. After a moment, I
pulled the screen door open and knocked, then I tried the knob. It was locked.

I walked around to the
back of the house and went to the back door. The sliding glass door opened onto
a patio. I guessed it was off the kitchen, but vertical blinds tightly covered
the glass, so I couldn’t see inside. There was also a door to the garage. Both
were locked.

Returning to the
front, I stood on the sidewalk and looked around the neighborhood. Across the
street and down two houses (the equivalent of about two blocks), a middle-aged
woman wearing a visor and gardening gloves was holding a hose in one of the
flowerboxes on her porch and pretending not to stare at me. I thought she would
be exactly who I needed to talk to. I went across the street, and when I
reached her, the woman was busy watering one of a dozen pots that trailed off
the porch and down her front walk.

“Hello,” I called to
her as I started up the sidewalk.

She glanced at me, as
if noticing me for the first time. “Oh, hello. Can I help you?”

“I think you probably
can. I’m looking for a woman named Danielle Dillon.” I watched her face for
signs of recognition as I said the name. I didn’t see any. “Do you know her?”

She shook her head and
moved the hose to another pot. “No, I don’t think so.”

I pulled out the photo
and held it out to her. “What about her? Seen her before?”

“No. Why? What did she
do? That’s a police picture.”

It was Dillon’s latest
mug shot and the only photo I had of her. As Mrs. Burbank had pointed out, it
wasn’t a great one.

“I work for her
bondsman. I just have a couple questions for her. She gave that address over
there as hers.” I pointed to the house I’d just been to. “Do you know who lives
there?”

“No one,” she said, as
if surprised I didn’t know. “Not since last fall.”

“Why not? What
happened?”

“There was a young
couple living there. They had a son, eighteen months old. One night in August,
someone broke in and did horrible things to them. They were both cut up pretty
bad, and the wife was raped while the husband had to watch, or so I heard. They
were both killed. The next-door neighbor at the time heard the boy screaming
early that morning. We’d been out of town visiting friends in New Mexico. She
found them in the kitchen when she went to check. She moved a couple weeks
later. The boy is in foster care somewhere now. No one’s been in there since.
Someone came and put up the
for sale
sign, but I’ve never seen anyone look at it.”

“Do you know if
someone inherited the house?”

She shrugged. “Beats
me. I’ve only seen one man over there since, and that was shortly after the
murders. He hasn’t been back. Even if he did inherit it, how could he ever live
there? How could anyone ever live there?”

I didn’t plan to ask
the guy to move in. I just wanted to talk to him. Maybe he could tell me
something about Danielle Dillon, like how she was connected to his house.

“You remember the name
of this couple?”

“Melissa and Mitchell
Conrad. Their son’s name was Rusty, I believe. That should all be in the
papers; it was in the paper for weeks. Don’t you remember?”

“I’ll have to refresh
my memory,” I said, pulling a card from my pocket and handing it to her. “Will
you call me if you see Danielle? Or if you think of anything that might be
helpful?”

“Well, sure, I guess,
but that girl isn’t going to come around here, least of all to
that
house.”

“You’re probably
right. I appreciate your help, Mrs… .”

“Bonnie. Bonnie
Matheson.”

“Bonnie, thank you.”

I gave the house
another long, hard look as I walked back to my truck, more than a little
surprised to learn of its gruesome history. I thought it was a good analogy for
life, though. You never know what really goes on behind closed doors, and
nothing is what it seems.

__________

Cory Dix lived off Laurel a block
north of campus in a neighborhood very similar to the one Hobbs’s office was
located in. These houses, all built about a hundred years ago, are occupied by
college students. There are signs and posters and other items hanging in
windows, on doors, and from roofs. Porches are crammed with bikes and other
gear, and most yards look either neglected or abused. The streets and driveways
are lined with cars, and every sidewalk has heavy pedestrian traffic.

It was about two
o’clock in the afternoon, and many yards and porches held half-dressed college
kids lounging in lawn chairs, drinks in their hands. It used to be that the
college kids pretty well cleared out of town for summer and winter breaks
(something locals have always looked forward to), but that isn’t really the
case anymore. Now it seems like they never leave.

I snagged a spot at
the curb, in front of a fire hydrant, and got out, hoping no one set anything
on fire in the next ten minutes. My arm was beginning to feel stiff and achy
from the strain I’d put it under during therapy and from being immobilized in
the sling since. I slipped the sling off and left it in the truck, working my
arm around in a few small circles. I made sure the cuffs and capture paperwork
were in my back pockets and felt my phone in my right front pocket. I didn’t
foresee a repeat of this morning, but I didn’t want to be caught without it
again.

I cut across the
street and down several houses to the one listed as Dix’s. I compared the faces
of the kids on the lawn to the one I’d seen in Dix’s mug shot and decided none
of them matched. One of the boys, a blonde in white-framed sunglasses and
Hawaiian-print swimming trunks, whistled at me as I turned up the walk.

“Did you come to party
with us?” he asked, getting out of his lawn chair and walking over to me.

He held a mixed drink
in a plastic cup. A stereo on the porch was turned to some contemporary
station, currently playing Lady Gaga’s latest hit. All I smelled was rum and
sweat, and all I heard was noise.