Dead Right (2 page)

“Door’s rusted shut,” Pontiff said. “Get a crowbar.”

Radcliffe, who was in his early twenties, returned to one of the police cars and produced the crowbar, which he carried to his chief.

As Pontiff began to pry open the door, the car complained loudly, ratcheting up the tension that made Madeline’s muscles ache. Then her heart lurched as the metal gave way and water from inside came pouring out over everyone’s shoes.

Pontiff didn’t seem to notice. No one did. They were al busy staring at the gush of water as if they expected parts of her father to come floating out with it.

How could this be happening? she wondered. How could she have lost her mother
and
her father—in two separate incidents?

She didn’t see anything that could be connected to a human being, so she inched closer, straining her eyes for human being, so she inched closer, straining her eyes for the smal est bit of clothing or—she grimaced—bone. At least, if her father’s remains were in the car, she’d know he hadn’t meant to leave her. She’d never been able to accept that he’d walked out on her. As the town’s beloved pastor, he was a God-fearing man, always ready to help out in an emergency, always a leader. He would never abandon his flock, his farm, his family.

Which meant someone must’ve kil ed him. But who?

As the water seeped over the ground to the lip of the quarry, mixing with the runoff from the rain, Madeline clenched her jaw. Nothing macabre. Yet.

They were opening the trunk. The Cadil ac’s keys had been left dangling in the ignition, but the locks were corroded so they were using the crowbar again.

Bile rose in Madeline’s throat as the minutes stretched on. She tried to keep her mind busy. But what did one think about at a time like this? The teenage girl they’d buried on Wednesday? The miserable weather? The years she’d lived without her father?

Pontiff lifted something with one hand. “You recognize this?”

Belatedly, Madeline realized he was speaking to her and nodded. It was the Polaroid camera she’d seen her father use on various occasions. A chil crawled down her spine. Seeing his camera made him seem so close, but it didn’t
tell
her anything.

“Is that al ?” she asked around the lump in her throat.

The police chief pul ed out some jumper cables, a couple of quarts of oil, a sopping blanket. Familiar items that could be found in any trunk.

There’ll be something that’ll finally reveal the truth.

Madeline was praying so hard she almost couldn’t believe it when she heard him say, “That’s it.”

“What?” she cried. “There’s nothing that tel s us where he went?”

Pontiff shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m afraid not.”

She didn’t move—felt absolutely rooted to the spot—as Clay wiped her tears with his thumb. “I’m sorry, Maddy.”

Sorry
didn’t have any meaning. She’d been expecting so much more. It couldn’t be over. If so, she was right back where she’d been before they discovered the car. Where she’d been al along—faced with this nagging mystery and the prospect that she might never know.

“There…” Her teeth chattered from the cold. “There h-has to be…something else here,” she said. “You’l …look, won’t you? You’l …let the car dry out and…and go over it inch by inch?”

Chief Pontiff nodded, but she could tel he wasn’t optimistic.

“Wil you let Al ie help?” Her sister-in-law had been a cold case detective in Chicago. Surely, she’d uncover some kind of clue.

With a grudging glance at Joe and Roger, Pontiff scowled. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Don’t let the…the Vincel is dictate how you handle this,”

Madeline said. “She’s the most qualified…p-person around here.”

“She’s also married to the man who did it!” Joe shouted.

The cleft in Joe’s chin was a little too deep to be attractive. Or maybe it was his close-set eyes that gave him a shifty air. He stood six feet tal and was almost as muscular as Clay, but Madeline had never found him good-looking. “Stop it,” she murmured, but he talked right over her.

“Give me a break! Wil you listen to yourself? Maddy, if you want to know what happened to your father, ask that man right there!”

He pointed at Clay, but wilted when Clay pinned him with a steely gaze. Not many men could stand up to Clay, and Joe was no exception. He shuffled back, muttering, “Tel

’em, Roger.”

Joe’s brother was even less handsome. His teeth were straighter, but he was thinner, a ful three inches shorter, and had a severely receding hairline. Although he was the older brother, he tended to stay in Joe’s shadow. “It’s true,”

he said, but weakly, as if he didn’t real y want to incite Clay.

Chief Pontiff ignored them both. Madeline knew he was wel aware of the suspicion and accusations of the past.

He’d been on the force when Clay’s future wife had returned to town and begun fol owing up on the Barker case. He’d been around when Al ie’s father, the former chief of police, charged Clay with murder and put him in jail last summer. He’d also been around when they let Clay go because there wasn’t, and never had been, any real evidence linking him to the crime.

“This car has been submerged for more than half our lives,” Pontiff said, his attention on Madeline. “Look at it.

Even the metal’s begun to corrode. Much as I hate to say it, the Caddy might not tel us what we want to know. You need to prepare yourself, just in case.”

“No!” She hugged herself to stop the shaking. “There could be a…a tooth, or a comb stuck way down between the seats.
Some
evidence,
some
lead.” She watched those forensics shows on TV religiously, recorded them if she wasn’t going to be home. She’d seen dozens of cases solved with the tiniest scrap of evidence.

“We’l check, like I said, but…” His words dwindled away.

“Oh, Maddy,” Grace said softly.

Madeline didn’t respond to her stepsister. She wanted to calm down, for her family’s sake. They didn’t need the added stress of her breaking down. They’d been through a lot, too. At least no one had blamed
her
for her father’s disappearance. But she couldn’t seem to restrain herself.

Not this time. “Don’t prepare an excuse before you even try,” she said. “Find s-something. I want to know what happened. I
need
to know what happened.” She grabbed Chief Pontiff’s arm.
“Do your job!”

Pontiff blinked in surprise, and Clay quickly pul ed her into his arms. “Maddy, stop,” he murmured against her hair.

If anyone else had asked her, she wouldn’t have

—
couldn’t
have—gained control of her wayward emotions.

But regardless of the turmoil inside her, she had too much respect for Clay to ignore his wishes or embarrass him further. Burying her face in his chest, she started to cry as she hadn’t cried since she was a child, with big wracking sobs that shook her whole body.

He hugged her close. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

“You’re hugging the man who kil ed him,” Joe whispered.

“Shut up, Joe,” she snapped. Clay had been the one to keep their family safe through the dark years after her father was gone. At times, he’d been the only thing standing between them and destitution.

“I’m sorry,” she told Clay. She didn’t want to draw attention to him. She knew he simply wanted to go on with his life and forget. She wished
she
could forget. But it was impossible. She’d tried.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he said.

With a sniff, she pul ed away and dashed a hand across her cheeks. “I’m going home.”

“I’l cal you if we find anything,” Pontiff said.

Joe and his brother were stil there, but one look from Clay kept them shuffling around the perimeter of the group like jackals attracted to a carcass. They obviously wanted to come closer, to say more, but were afraid to risk the consequences.

Madeline turned to her car. The police always said they’d keep digging, keep asking questions, go back through the files, whatever. But they never found anything solid. They didn’t real y care about the truth. They just wanted to pin it on the Montgomerys to satisfy the Vincel is, who held political power in this town. Maybe Pontiff was a friend of sorts, but he was subject to the same political pressures as his predecessors and would probably fol ow in their footsteps. Nothing would change.

But Madeline couldn’t accept “nothing” any longer. She had to take more aggressive action, do something that would final y provide answers.

She was pretty sure what that something had to be. But her stepfamily wouldn’t like it. And there was no guarantee it’d work.

2

M
adeline longed to cal Kirk. She hadn’t talked to him since they’d broken up. But al owing herself to do what was comfortable and convenient would only land her in the same old rut. She and Kirk had no real hope of long-term happiness together. She wanted children; he was adamantly opposed to them. He wanted to leave Stil water, travel the world; she wanted to stay close to her family and maintain her home and business. It was better to let go and move on, better for both of them.

Maybe she was doing the right thing. But life was damn lonely in the meantime. Especial y since she hadn’t gone to her office today. Although she had no staff, just three people who earned a little extra money delivering papers for her once a week, the smal office she leased for
The
Stillwater Independent
was located on Main Street and a lot of people dropped in on her. She usual y enjoyed the company—a journalist had to stay connected to the community. Today, however, she hadn’t wanted to face the questions, the sympathy, the reaction that recovering the Cadil ac would evoke.

Feeling guilty for hiding out, she scooped up her cat and rubbed her chin on Sophie’s fur. If it hadn’t been her own father who’d gone missing, she would already have produced an article on the incident at the quarry, slapped it on the front page and given it a huge headline: Reverend’s Car Found. But she was too close to the story, and after the flurry of activity fol owing the drowning of Rachel Simmons

—the search, the funeral, the outpouring of sympathy for the family—she was emotional y exhausted.

She couldn’t write about what she’d been through this morning. Not yet. She hadn’t done much of anything today except scour the Internet for someone who might be able to help her, and pace.

Putting Sophie down, she took her mother’s old quilt from the couch where she’d been curled up a few minutes earlier, wrapped it around her shoulders and crossed to the window. It was getting late. And it was stil raining.

God, she was tired of the constant drizzle, tired of the cold. The steady drumming against the roof made her feel hol ow. And everything looked soggy and beaten down and smel ed of mold.

She glanced at her car keys, lying on the antique secretary by the door. Maybe she should go out, visit her family. But the soft chime of the clock in the hal told her it was far too late. She didn’t want to go to the farm where Clay and Al ie lived, anyway. She’d grown up there and wouldn’t be able to return without thinking of her father.

Images of her parents’ Cadil ac, rusty and encrusted with dirt, once again flitted through Madeline’s mind.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, but she could stil see Pontiff holding up her father’s camera. She also heard the squeak of the metal, the splash of the water that had poured out of the open door and the echo of Chief Pontiff’s voice when he’d said, “That’s it.”

Heading to the smal desk in her old-fashioned kitchen, she picked up the listing of private investigators she’d printed off from the Internet. She’d cal ed several of them earlier but had been disappointed by their responses. They were too busy. They wouldn’t be able to come to Stil water to do the necessary research. They specialized in lost children or cheating husbands.

However, a few had recommended a man named Hunter Solozano. They said he could find anyone or anything and often accepted unusual jobs for the chal enge.

But when she’d cal ed the number they’d given her, his voice mail had indicated there was no room for new messages.

Swal owing a sigh, she picked up the handset and tried Mr. Solozano again. It was past midnight, but she didn’t care. Surely it was an office phone, which meant it wouldn’t matter. Maybe she’d final y be able to leave a message so she could feel as if there was
some
hope.

She’d expected at least three rings—so she jerked upright when a deep voice answered almost immediately.

“Damn it, Antoinette, you’ve already got your pound of flesh!”

Madeline stiffened in surprise. “And if this isn’t Antoinette?” she ventured.

There was a moment of startled silence. “That depends,”

he drawled, smoothly recovering. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“That also depends,” she replied. “Are you Hunter Solozano?”

“Yes.”

“And are you as good as they say?” she asked eagerly.

He chuckled. “Better. Particularly if you’re talking about sex.”

Thanks to her preoccupation, she’d walked right into that one. Embarrassed and annoyed, she cleared her throat.

“I’m talking about your
professional
skil s.”

“So this is a business cal .”

“Yes.”

“At ten-thirty at night.”

His
time. She’d wondered about the area code.

Fortunately, he lived to the west of her and not the east or he’d have a lot more reason to complain. “You sound like you’re awake to me,” she said hesitantly, tapping a pencil on the desk.

“Thanks to you and my ex-wife.” His voice dropped meaningful y. “In case you haven’t guessed, that doesn’t put you in very good company.”

A touch of defensiveness made Madeline rub her furrowed brow. “I assumed I was cal ing an office number.”

“That means you weren’t expecting a response. Great.

This can wait until morning, then.”

“No!” she cried before he could disconnect.

The fact that she didn’t hear a click encouraged her.

“You weren’t picking up earlier. And your voice mail was ful .”

He didn’t make any excuses. Neither did he promise her she’d be able to reach him later. So she kept talking, trying to keep him on the line until she had a better chance of enlisting his help. “How was I supposed to know I’d been given your home number?”