I'll Find You (32 page)

The minute Callie entered the house she decided she never wanted to come back here again. There were only bad and sad memories associated with it. She’d hung on because of Sean. Because this was where she’d lived when he was born. Because this was the only home he’d ever known.

But Sean was gone and her memories of him were inside her heart. There was nothing about the house that meant anything to her any longer, and apart from the satisfaction she felt in thwarting the Cantrells, there was very little reason to hang on to it.

Tucker ran past Callie and tore through the rooms much as he had at Laughlin Ranch. “We staying here?” he asked.

“For the time being,” Callie said distractedly.

“I like this place,” he yelled. “It loud!”

Callie half-smiled. Jonathan had always complained about Sean’s lack of volume control. He had one setting: high.

For a moment she got that same niggling sensation of a memory just outside her reach. Did it have to do with Sean? Jonathan? It tantalized her and she struggled to grasp it, but it was gone too quickly.

Idly, she picked up her cell phone and examined it for new calls or texts, hoping to have missed a message from West. Diane Cantrell’s number popped up again, but she ignored it. There was no voice mail or other attempt at communication, so she assumed it was just another attempt by Diane to harass her.

Thinking of Diane, the Cantrells, and the house reminded her of the charge from Security One. Pulling the statement from the bottom of her shoulder bag, she called the number again, not expecting to be put through, so she was pleasantly surprised when a woman with a tired voice picked up. When Callie explained about the charge, the woman said it was company policy to bill accounts by automatic payment and that whoever had set up the account had asked to be billed annually.

“My husband set this up,” Callie told her, “but we don’t use you for our alarm system.”

“We’re not that kind of company. We rent out security boxes, kind of like safety-deposit boxes at a bank, but we’re a private company and you have twenty-four-hour access. Just sign in and use your key.”

The keys. Callie was standing in the kitchen, but she automatically looked toward the den where she’d left Jonathan’s keys in the box on his desk. The mystery key might very well open the security box. She almost told the woman that her husband was deceased but thought better of it at the last moment. Clearly she wasn’t a signer for access to the box account, which led her to believe that Jonathan had kept it secret from her on purpose. It didn’t take a huge leap of imagination to believe that, if there truly was money left over from the mortgage Jonathan had taken out, this was where he’d stashed it.

She asked the woman for the company’s address and found it was in Santa Monica, a block off Lincoln. As soon as she was off the phone she texted West, asking him to call her. She knew he was at work and preferred not to phone him, but she hoped he would get right back to her. When he didn’t she figured he was buried with work on his first day back. Frustrated, she glanced at the clock. One
P.M.
It might be hours before she heard from him.

Since there was nothing in the house to make for lunch, and she had time to kill, she rounded up Tucker and headed out to a sandwich shop she knew of that made sandwiches with croissants.

Whether it was because he was impatient and disinterested, or because he was fed up with the kind of woman whose every sentence is a lie, West didn’t respond well to Bonnie Burnham’s tears, wails, and clinging need. He didn’t play her friend. He didn’t invite confidences. He just laid out the fact that she wasn’t going to leave that room until she told enough of the truth to match the crime scene evidence already collected. Although it was counterintuitive, West’s distance worked like the proverbial charm and she broke in about an hour and a half, admitting that she basically shot her boyfriend in the back when he was walking away from their fight.

“He was leaving me for that fucking bitch!” she screamed as a defense.

West dropped her from his thoughts as soon as he left the room though she was still screaming. It was always about sex or money, he told himself again, his thoughts turning toward Teresa.

Dorcas swung away from his desk and computer as soon as West entered the room. “Good goin’ with Burnham,” he said admiringly. “New Laughlin record.” Then, “Diane Cantrell is on line two for you.”

“Don’t have time.” He sat down in his own chair and moved up to his computer screen. “You put together what I asked for?”

“She keeps callin’, and I’m done talkin’ to her,” he said. “I’m serious here. Pick up the goddamn phone. And I sent you the file. Hard copy’s on your desk.”

West had already spied the murder book and now he slid it his way. “Thanks,” he said. And then to show his gratitude, he made a big show of punching the button for line two. Dorcas said, “Good luck,” then turned away as West answered, “Detective Laughlin,” fleetingly enjoying the sound of that again before Diane Cantrell’s strident voice jumped into his ear.

“Thanks for taking my call,” she said sarcastically. “You’re the one who ordered information on Callie Shipley. I’m just trying to give it to you.”

“I was looking for information about the accident that killed your brother and nephew and injured Mrs. Cantrell,” he corrected, sensing she’d used Callie’s maiden name purposely.

“She married my brother for money,” Diane snapped back, ignoring him. “And she’s still hiding funds that aren’t hers and living in the house my brother meant to leave our family. She’s no better than a thief. Jonathan was taken in by her. He collected conniving women like flannel collects lint. If I told you . . .”

West tuned out. He didn’t care why Callie had married Jonathan Cantrell. He knew she’d wanted a family and was still, and would always be to some degree, devastated over her son’s death.

His mind wandered back to Teresa as his eye traveled over the documents in the murder book. Where had she been between the time she and a partner had worked their con in Martinique? What had she been doing before she met Stephen at Laughlin BBQ? He’d assumed she’d been in Los Angeles because that’s what Stephen had told him. So, how come she’d been hanging around Castilla? It seemed an odd place to have her hunting grounds unless she’d specifically targeted the Laughlin family....

That made the most sense, the more he thought about it. Somehow she’d targeted Stephen after she’d returned to Los Angeles? She’d been living in LA before that last trip to Martinique as evidenced by her studio apartment she’d rented, so it seemed reasonable to assume LA was her home base. Was her male partner in Los Angeles, too? Maybe still here?

“. . . and you can’t tell me he didn’t pick up Callie because she was a replica of that other gold digger. Lucky for Ms. Shipley that he was interested in a ‘look’ rather than any substance or character. Once upon a time I was relieved that he’d chosen Callie to marry, but—”

“You know the woman who looked like Callie?” West interrupted, his attention snapping back.

“
Know
her? No. I couldn’t say that. She was slippery. Always unavailable for the family to meet. Callie Shipley, now . . . she made a point of meeting us. Her agenda was to become beloved by the family. It wasn’t—”

“Ms. Cantrell, what do you think happened in the accident that killed your brother?”

His direct question derailed her diatribe for a moment, but not for long. “Well, come on, Detective. Isn’t that your job? It’s still an unsolved crime.”

“I just wanted your take on it.”

“I have no
take
on it,” she said tightly. “There was a suggestion that they were racing, but Jonathan had his son in the car. He liked fast speed, sure, but come on. He wasn’t completely negligent.”

“All right. Thank you,” West said. “I’ll let you know when I have any further information about the accident.”

“You called me, Detective,” she reminded. “Or your partner did. I thought
you
knew something.”

“I’m just getting up to speed.”

Though she tried to hang on the phone, he managed to end the call a few moments later. He finished looking through the murder book, then went to the computer file and added a few notes of his own. He also listed a few questions:

Who was Teresa’s partner?

How did she learn about the Laughlin family, specifically Stephen Laughlin?

Did Jonathan Cantrell reconnect with her in LA?

Whom did she meet in Martinique on her last trip and why was she killed?

What is Aimee Thomas not saying?

He circled this last question. He’d never believed in Aimee’s protestations of innocence, but she had taken care of Tucker for three years or more. The Fort-de-France police had interviewed her thoroughly and though she’d been unwilling to give up Tucker, she’d been forced to in the end as she’d little legal choice but to let him go.

West had no jurisdiction over Teresa’s murder, but he had the link to Jonathan Cantrell and Cantrell’s death, and possible homicide, was definitely in his bailiwick.

He reread the report from the gendarmerie. He’d already noted that they’d found the boat on which Teresa had died, a rental, but the man who’d rented it had used identification in the name of John Bonner with a fake Pennsylvania address. The description of the man was vague: medium height, light brown hair, tan pants, and a light shirt. But at least he knew they were searching for a man, one who knew enough about boats to take one into the bay and maybe out to sea.

He examined the autopsy report again. It was confirmed that Teresa had died of a head injury, and that the marks around her neck from an apparent chain, maybe a piece of jewelry, had come after her death. Someone had wrapped the chain around her neck and tightened it. In a fit of fury? Because she was wearing a necklace and whoever killed her tightened it before slipping it off her head? Because it was valuable? The killer had left no fingerprints or any other identifying crime scene data. He was currently a ghost.

Teresa’s DNA had been sent to the crime lab and her fingerprints had been entered into the AFIS database. West wasn’t expecting much beyond a DNA confirmation since he already knew the body was Teresa’s and that Teresa was Tucker’s mother. He didn’t think Teresa had ever been arrested, but maybe there had been some cause to fingerprint her once upon a time. In any case, this was the waiting game he was playing. The DNA would take a few weeks at the earliest; the fingerprints should be back quicker, especially if there was a match.

Noticing that Callie had left him a text, asking him to call, West checked his recent phone calls and clicked on her number, calling her back. She answered right away, sounding somewhat strained. “What’s wrong?” he demanded instantly.

“Just getting used to being around here. Think you’ll be off by six, or seven?”

“Probably closer to seven. What about dinner? Is that too late for Tucker?”

“We had lunch around one, so maybe not. Can’t wait for you to get here,” she added lightly.

“Me, too.” He hung up, wondering why that phone conversation seemed off.

West’s chair backed up to Dorcas’s, who swiveled around again in his chair and said, “Jesus, man. You got a hit.”

“What do you mean?” West asked, turning to look at him.

“I put all that French stuff through my e-mail ’cause you got me going on this case before you came back.”

“What kind of hit?” West demanded impatiently.

“Those fingerprints from Martinique for your sister-in-law? The ones for Teresa DuPres Laughlin? Her thumbprint matches one found on the steering wheel of the car that rammed the Cantrell Mercedes and sent it over the cliff.”

“
What?
” West jumped up to look at Dorcas’s computer screen.

“At some point, she was inside the car that ran them off the road. Probably driving. And they didn’t find anyone else’s prints, so . . .”

“She did it,” West said.

“Not for sure.”

“She did it,” he said again, with certainty. “Maybe I can’t prove it yet, but I know it.”

Dorcas grinned. “This is the kind of thing that pissed off the captain.”

“Paulsen was pissed off because I broke up with his daughter.”

“Yes and no. See, I’m glad you’re back, because I’ve been meanin’ to point some things out. You jump to conclusions, and what really chapped Paulsen’s hide was that you were always right.”

“Not always.” West’s head was buzzing with the news about Teresa.

“Always,” Dorcas argued. “When you’d get that bloodhound look like you’ve got now. He wanted you to be wrong, but you never were.”

“You’re giving me way too much credit.”

“Just tellin’ it like it is.”

“Teresa knew Jonathan Cantrell. If she ran him off the road, she did it on purpose.”

“Where you goin’?” Dorcas asked as West swung away from his desk and toward the door.

“The stolen vehicle that slammed into the Cantrell Mercedes was impounded, but eventually it was returned to its owner. I’m going to check with him.”

“You got that from my notes on the Cantrells?” Dorcas asked.

“You do good work, Pete. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

“And here I thought I was just a pretty face.”

The doorbell rang, scattering Callie’s disjointed thoughts. She’d broken down earlier and called Diane back, getting her voice mail, which was a boon. She really hadn’t wanted to talk to her, but knew she needed to head her off at the pass or risk a series of ever more angry phone calls. “I’m back in LA,” she’d told Diane’s voice mail, not without some misgivings, but she was ready to sever connections with the Cantrells once and for all.

Hurrying to answer the door, she looked through the peephole and spied Derek Cantrell standing on the front porch. “Damn,” she muttered, pulling back, wondering if it was too late to pretend she wasn’t home. Damn, damn, damn. Phoning Diane back hadn’t been such a hot idea, apparently, as it had sent her brother right to Callie’s door.

Cautiously opening the door, she said to Jonathan’s brother, “My message for Diane was just to let her know I was back. I wasn’t expecting a house call.”

“I won’t stay long,” Derek said to her, stepping across the threshold quickly as if afraid she might shut the door on him.

“What can I do for you, Derek?”

They were standing in the foyer and when Callie showed no signs of inviting him in, Derek asked uncomfortably, “Can we sit down for a few minutes?”

“We’ve said everything there is to say. I’m here temporarily. I told you that. I’m moving out very soon. I just need a little time. Don’t push me or I could change my mind and fight you for every Cantrell dime.”

“It isn’t just about money. This house has been in the family for years.”

“It’s totally about money,” she disagreed.

“Callie, don’t be this way.”

“This way,” she repeated. “You mean, honest?”

“You don’t even like this house, do you?”

She didn’t immediately answer, trying to read his expression. He seemed sincere but Derek, like his brother, was a chameleon. She never really knew what was beneath their changing skins. The Security One box Jonathan had rented popped into her head and she considered telling Derek about it. She couldn’t access it anyway, and really didn’t want the legal wrangle. If they worked together, though, they might find a way to open the box. Whatever was inside was probably Cantrell property and there was nothing she wanted from them anyway.

As if reading her mind, he asked, “You haven’t found any trace of the mortgage money?”

“Not so far.”

Without being asked, Derek walked past her, but instead of going into the living room, he headed for the den. Irked, Callie followed him, standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest as Derek looked over the expanse of the walnut that was the desktop and the box with the ring of keys.

Tucker swooped in at that moment, skidding to a stop in the doorway beside Callie. He looked Derek over from head to toe. “Who is him?” he asked.

“Tucker Laughlin, meet Derek Cantrell.”

“Laughlin,” Derek repeated, examining Tucker as thoroughly as he was being checked out.

Something about the angle of his jaw jolted a memory of Jonathan. She could suddenly practically see her husband the way he’d looked that last evening. He’d been furious because they’d learned their sitter had come down with the flu and they were stuck taking Sean with them to the soiree put on by moneyed friends of the family. Callie had said she would be happy to stay home, but Jonathan wouldn’t hear of it. His face had turned brick red with annoyance and he’d sported a scowl well into the evening. Callie had spent most of her time that night trying to play cheerleader to Jonathan, hoping to keep his temper from exploding and taking out his fury on Sean.

And then the ride home. Suddenly that ethereal memory she’d been reaching for came close enough to grab. Jonathan driving fast. Looking in the rearview. The dark SUV on their tail. He’d been excited and Callie had sensed something else was going on. She’d screamed at him to slow down. She’d demanded to know who was in the other car. She’d shrieked that
their son
was in the backseat.

He’d ignored her and they’d hurtled forward to the wide curve about a half mile from their house....

“Callie? You okay?” Derek was suddenly right in front of her, his hands on her shoulders.

She drew back sharply. “Fine.”

Tucker’s hand had stolen into hers and he was pressed against her leg, alternately gazing up at her and then at Derek with suspicion and worry.

“You looked like you were going to faint,” Derek said. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Callie walked on unsteady legs to the desk chair and sank into it. The keys were directly in her line of vision.

It had been a woman driving intently behind them. Callie had seen the outline of her shoulder-length hair, the tightness of her knuckles on the steering wheel.

She meant to kill us. . . .

“Calleee,” Tucker said on a faint whimper.

Immediately, she reached out to him and he climbed onto her lap, his spindly legs draping over hers. “I’m okay. I just felt kind of dizzy for a moment.”

“You go away,” Tucker said determinedly to Derek.

“No, it’s okay,” Callie intervened. “Really. It’s not about Derek.”

“You really do look like hell,” Derek said.

That made her utter a short bark of laughter. “Thanks.”

“What happened?”

“I saw a vision of the past,” she said, holding on to Tucker a little too tightly. He started to squirm in her embrace and she let him go.

He jumped down and looked at her. “It okay?” he asked.

“Yes, yes . . . I hear the TV on in the family room . . . the room by the kitchen,” she added at the line drawn between his eyes. “Go see what’s on while I finish talking to Derek.”

“I stay with you.”

“Well, you can, but I’m all right. I think you might be missing something on TV.”

He frowned at her for another couple of moments before he moved toward the door, keeping himself facing both of them as he backed out.

“At this rate, I’ll turn him into a TV addict,” she said ruefully.

“What’s the deal with you and the Laughlin kid?” Derek asked.

She was immediately sorry she’d said anything. “Was there something else? I really think I should be talking to you through a lawyer.”

He looked around the room as if cataloging everything in Jonathan’s den. “I guess not,” he said reluctantly as his gaze drifted over the box of keys. “What are all these keys to?”

“Jonathan’s car . . . the house . . .”

It was then that Callie made a final decision about her life. She couldn’t move on completely until she’d dealt with the consequences of her husband and son’s deaths, and now was as good a time as any. “I’m pretty sure one of them is to a box at Security One.” She then told him about the charge on her bill and her suspicion that maybe the box was where Jonathan had stashed the remaining mortgage money.

Derek looked excited. “You haven’t looked yet?”

“I just found out and I’m not a signer.”

“Well, we’ve got the death certificate,” he said eagerly “You’re his widow. They have to let you in.”

“Maybe, but it’s bound to be a legal hiccup.”

“I could go as Jonathan,” he said as if the idea had just popped into his head. “People got us confused all the time, and I can copy his signature.”

“Can you?” Callie said quietly.

“Sure. I’m good at it. I mean . . . I haven’t done it in years, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t forgotten,” he added hastily.

“I don’t even have the death certificate.”

“Oh, I do. You were a mess . . . but we got all that stuff done. I’m calling Diane.” He immediately snatched his phone from his pocket and hit a saved number.

“I don’t want to do this, Derek.”

“No, no. This is good.” He cut off his call before it went through. “Tell you what. I’ll head out and pick up a copy of the death certificate, and I’ll talk to Diane then. But I still think it would be easier just to act like I’m Jonathan. Try it first and see what happens. They obviously don’t know he’s dead, so . . .”

“No, thanks.”

“Fine. I’ll get the death certificate and we’ll do it that way. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

He was out the door before she could protest further.

West put in several calls about the stolen vehicle that had been involved in the Cantrell accident before he finally connected with Bob Vincent, the rightful owner of the Acura MDX.

“Took forever to get reimbursed from the insurance company,” Vincent told him in a voice filled with gravel. “Damn bandits. The damage wasn’t that bad, but since it was used at a crime scene they ran me around and around. Talk, talk, talk. Blah-bidy, blah-bidy, blah-bidy. Good luck trying to get them to stop explaining over and over again why I couldn’t get my car back. Nobody would listen to me. Nobody cared that the car had been stolen, but I was out the money. And don’t get me started on my insurance company. My
previous
insurance company. Bastards were just looking for a reason not to replace it.”

“When was the vehicle stolen?” West asked.

“A couple of nights before the accident. I left it outside that construction job I had in Santa Clarita and when I came back it was just gone.”

“What construction job?”

“Theron Construction. We were putting up mini-storage, y’know? Tilt-up concrete. Check with Michael Theron. He’s the one hired the riffraff and kooks that took my car.”

West questioned, “You think one of the men on the job took your car?”

“You bet that’s what I think. That’s what I told you people, but nobody would listen. Those guys were always looking at my car. I knew what they were thinking. It was a damn fine vehicle. But you guys . . .” he muttered. “Told me that because it was taken after hours, it was probably some random theft, but I know one of them came back for it.”

West remembered Osbirg and Bibbs had been on the case. “You’re saying the police didn’t investigate thoroughly enough.”

“I left it there because I was being a safe driver. Y’all kept acting like me having a few beers with some friends was a crime or something. I don’t drive drunk, Detective. That’s something Bob Vincent doesn’t do.”

West had clashed with Osbirg on more than one occasion and currently, with Paulsen in the doghouse with Lieutenant Gundy, Osbirg wasn’t around. Bibbs had been moved to another station, but neither of them was known for being a top-grade investigator. “Can you give me names of the men you worked with?”

“Sure. Bubba, Dipshit, and Preacher.” He chuckled low in his throat. “That’s what I called ’em, anyway.”

“Got anything more concrete?”

“Nah . . . you’d better check with Mike.” Vincent then gave West the number for Mike Theron and as soon as West was off his call, he placed another one to the man who owned the construction company. That call went straight to voice mail, so he left a message, then tried Callie again.

This time she answered right away. “Hi,” she said warmly.

He felt himself heat from the inside out and thought,
Boy, you’ve got it bad.
“Hey, how’s it going? How’s Tucker getting along?” he asked.

“He keeps hoping we have furrall cats, but he’s doing okay. Have you heard anything on Victoria?”

“They’re ‘cautiously optimistic,’” he said, then explained that Talia had called earlier. “She seems to have calmed down a bit, but then she’s been spending time with Cal who’s divided his workload with Teddy until Victoria gets back on her feet. If she gets back on her feet . . .”

“So, it’s basically good news,” she said.

“Barring any unforeseen setback, looks like Victoria might be okay.”

“I hope so,” she said, sounding relieved. “What about Andre? Have they seen him around?”

“Talia didn’t say, and she would’ve, if he’d been there. Maybe he left. Figured it wasn’t the time to work his way back into the family with Victoria down.”

“No,” she said positively. “You didn’t meet him. He’s not going to give up.”

He really wished he’d met up with Andre, the way Callie had an aversion to him. They talked about Tucker for a few minutes, and he debated on telling her what he suspected about Teresa, that she’d been driving the car that rammed her husband’s Mercedes. Before he could decide, she knocked the thought right out of his head with news of her own.

“I may have found Jonathan’s secret hiding place. Maybe where he kept the money the Cantrells are so sure he had.” She told him about Security One, then really took him aback when she added, “I told Derek about it, and now he wants to try to get into the box by pretending he’s Jonathan.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I told him it wouldn’t work, that he should just go through legal channels, but he left before I could put the total kibosh on that. He said he’s coming back later with the death certificate, but I don’t know. He likes shortcuts . . . just like Jonathan.”