Buried Secrets Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mysteries, Book #14 (The Charlie Parker Mysteries) (20 page)

Well, rats.

I chewed at my lip and drummed my fingers on the doorjamb for a minute.

Okay, so the car wasn’t here. Maybe it had been Scout’s car. I could check that out later. I glanced at the sliding door that led from the den to a wide back patio. Hmm.

The idea that Tali Donovan might very well be living with one of her sisters still hung out there, a nagging thought that wouldn’t go away. Babe Freizel claimed that she’d not stayed in contact with Tali. But that didn’t mean her mother hadn’t. Or her other sister. Or that she wasn’t a terrific liar. I really only had her word for it.

I gave a tug at the sliding door. It moved about a quarter of an inch but the lock held firm. I could do the old rock through the window thing—petty drug dealers do it all the time. But I wanted to be more subtle than that. If I found something here, I didn’t want Babe or Roxanne to know they’d been discovered, not just yet. And I didn’t want them to have reason to call the police who would find my fingerprints all over the place. Nor did I want to risk an alarm system going off and alerting the police or the rest of the world.

Geez, Louise, Charlie—stop over-thinking everything. Just get in there!

The glass door was a cheap one and in the end I jostled it enough to get the latch to release. In a way it was the Freizel’s fault anyhow; they should have put a dowel in the damn track. I slid inside, closed it behind me and let my eyes adjust to the dim interior.

The place was every bit as depressing with the Christmas decorations gone as it had been before. I gave the kitchen, dining and living rooms a quick scan. The juicy stuff would surely be in a bedroom.

It was pretty easy to tell which room went with each woman. Babe’s reminded me of her—dumpy, frumpy, lacking color and all furnished in shades of brown—a feeling of temporary quarters, more like a hotel room than a home. Roxanne’s digs gave off more of a permanent air. She used lavender—both the color and the scent. I choked slightly as I walked into the room.

Okay, no dawdling, I reminded myself. Tempting as it might be to poke into all the little family secrets, it would be foolish to push my luck. I was, after all, uninvited and there was always the possibility that someone might have seen my little over-the-wall leap awhile ago. With the stealth of a light-footed feline I crossed to the dresser and ran my hands through the contents of the drawers.

Touching Roxanne’s undies was, frankly, somewhat creepy especially given the fact that I didn’t come across a single letter, photo, or signed confession from her missing daughter. One drawer contained paperwork, but it all seemed to consist of Roxanne’s bank statements and the receipts from her many entries into the Publisher’s Clearing House contests. I took a quick peek at the bank statement on top. Her balance was under five hundred dollars and no tantalizingly large money had passed in or out of the account. I stuck all that aside and closed the drawer.

The closet was organized with an obsessive precision. Clothing favored the red and purple color palette and was arranged by item: slacks, blouses, jackets followed by dresses and robes. A pair of slippers, walking shoes, and a pair clearly for the garden rested on the carpeted floor. On the shelf above were clear plastic bins with dress shoes neatly stored, again organized by color. Two cardboard shoe boxes had been shoved to the far side; of course anything unidentified was the first thing to interest me. I pulled them down.

The first one contained photos, a batch of ruffle-edged black and whites. Way before Tali’s time. The other box yielded keepsakes—of Tali. Along with photos that showed Roxanne with her youngest daughter in happier times, there were three Girl Scout badges that had never gotten sewn to the requisite sash—I had no idea what skills they represented—one of those second grade handprint mommy gifts, and a high school letter for choir. A cassette tape and some children’s birthday cards rounded out the collection.

The cards appeared to be for Tali, from her kids. I opened one. The signatures had been written by an adult, most likely Boyd. I swallowed hard when I saw ‘I Love You, Mommy” written there. The cassette being the only unknown, I stuck it in my pocket and closed the box, trying to put everything back in exactly the places I’d found them.

A quick scan of the room didn’t show anything else of interest. I took a quick peek in Babe’s room but nothing seemed promising. Plus I was getting the feeling that I’d overstayed my time here.

The sliding door presented two possibilities: go out that way and just leave it unlocked. They would notice but since nothing was disturbed in the house the two women would each accuse the other of being forgetful. But that put me leaving by the same way I’d come, which might be remembered by someone in a nearby house. I opted for another form of exit that has worked for me in the past. I locked the slider from the inside and went out the front door.

Immediately after closing it behind me (latch thingy turned to the locked position) I acted as if I’d just arrived and knocked at the door. Any neighbor or passerby who happened to see me there might do a double-take, but they would probably question their own eyesight before they would confront me.

After a long moment I simply walked down the steps to the sidewalk, my survey-taker notebook at the ready. I was about to cross the entrance to the Freizel’s driveway when a blue car slowed and pulled in.

My heart pounded at the close call. One more minute inside that house and I would have been toast.

Then the thought hit me. Blue car. I pretended to tie my shoe, watching to see Roxanne Freizel get out of the small Honda sedan. As she walked away from me—quickly enough to avoid taking my survey—I checked out the car. The front headlight was intact.

Chapter 21

Roxanne lingered a few seconds too long on her front porch. She’d noticed me and that wasn’t good. I dropped the shoelace and stood up, remembering her plate number without appearing to look at it. It’s not easy. I got beyond her driveway before I heard her front door close. I kept my pace steady until I was three houses away and then went into a light jog until I reached my Jeep on the next street over.

By the time I settled into my seat my breath was coming hard and it wasn’t only because I’m not used to jogging. I shakily wrote down the plate number of the blue car then started my engine and got the heck out of that neighborhood. In fact I made it completely out of Santa Fe before my pulse slowed down.

I came down La Bajada Hill and thought of Chet. It was somewhere around here that his accident happened. A car following, a bump in the dark, Chet steering his rental to the breakdown lane but still hitting the center divider. I put those thoughts out of my mind. What I had to do now was to honor his memory by solving the case. Which reminded me of Tali; which reminded me of the tape in my pocket. I pulled it out and put it into the player in the Jeep.

The sounds of laughing and shrieking came through. Kids having a good time. Probably a birthday party. That would be the kind of thing a mom would keep. I listened for about ten minutes, wondering when they would get around to the singing and cake. Or a game of kick the can. Or something. I pushed the Eject button and looked at the plastic cassette. It was a sixty-minute tape, generic brand. No label on it. It might have been Tali’s children, or it might have been Tali and her sisters at a young age. Hm. I wound it to the beginning, thinking someone would say what the occasion was. Maybe the Happy Birthday stuff came at the very beginning and someone had forgotten to turn the recorder off, so it had recorded until the tape ran its length. But I played it all the way through and it was the same. A very strange keepsake.

It was mid-afternoon when I got back to Albuquerque and instead of going back to the office or, better yet, going home to snuggle in with Drake and the dog, I decided to scope out the Stiles house and see if I could get a glimpse of their vehicles.

I parked a few doors down from the cul-de-sac entrance and leaned back in my seat to observe. The next thing I knew I was snapping awake to see the Stiles garage door closing. Was that a blue vehicle disappearing into the shadows?

Maybe it would still have its bashed headlight.

But the garage was fully enclosed—not a window or door for me to peer through. Then there was always the possibility that the car which caused the accident was Roxanne’s and she’d somehow managed to get it repaired off the police radar.

I was second-guessing myself again and dozing off made me realize I was tired. This week had been too long, with too many cities and too many people coming in and out of my life. I wasn’t thinking straight and knew this was no time to attempt sneaking around to look at cars or speaking with Scout to get information. I powered my window down and drove all the way home with the freezing air blasting me in the face.

The house smelled of meaty deliciousness when I walked in. Drake had put a roast in the oven earlier. I slid my arms around his neck, gave him a
very
grateful kiss, and promised him a suitable reward later on. We put together a salad and some veggies and the feast was complete. The result of a feast, as we all know, is that wonderfully lazy crash afterward. I fell victim to it on the sofa and next thing I knew Drake was giving my leg a gentle pat, suggesting that I call it a night. His reward for being the chef would have to wait until morning.

* * *

By the time I arrived at the office, nicely satiated, Ron was already at work with his duties as background checker. I told him that I hadn’t really gotten anything valuable from my little jaunt to Santa Fe. I didn’t go into the details about leaping the wall or nearly falling asleep in front of Scout’s house.

“So, have you been at this computer all night?” I asked.

He barely looked up. “Nah. Vic and I took the boys to get new coats. Justin grows about six inches a day. His stuff could get handed down to Jason but he’s so rough on everything. His clothes are worn out an hour after he puts them on.”

“Fun stuff.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to say that when you’re spending a hundred dollars per kid because they’ll only wear a certain brand.”

I wanted to tell him he could thank his ex for engendering that attitude but he’d already tuned me out as he typed away at the keyboard. I gave Freckles a doggie cookie and started down the stairs for coffee. Came to a dead stop when a thought hit me.

Coats.

You don’t buy your kid more than one coat because they’ll outgrow it too fast.

I spun around and dashed back up to my office. Pawing through the photos Chet had left with us, I found it. I dialed Boyd Donovan’s number and got sent to voice mail. This wasn’t something I could quickly or painlessly say in a recorded message. I told him to call me as soon as he could.

I walked to my bay window and looked down on the street. Frost clung to the grass in shaded areas while those in the sun glistened with dew. The seasons passed normally and life went on, no matter what grisly events happened in the world. It made me feel a little sad.

On my desk, my cell phone rang.

“Charlie? You called?” Boyd sounded all right. He’d had five years to prepare for this week’s revelations. Apparently you really can absorb almost anything, eventually.

I picked up a photo that showed the Donovan’s laundry room, with a bentwood coat rack next to the back door.

“Did Deni and Ethan have more than one coat each?”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. Detective Cunningham didn’t say anything about there being winter coats along with the clothing they found at the, um, gravesite.”

“No, he didn’t. I don’t think there were any.”

“Do you see what this means?” I put it together as I talked. “One of the photographs shows two child-sized coats on the rack near the back door of your house. Yet Tali said they were playing outside when they were grabbed by the stranger. The kids wouldn’t have been playing outside in December without coats on. So, they weren’t snatched from the yard. However it was that they left that house, they were dressed for the indoors.”

The phone was silent as he thought about that.

“They may have very well been unconscious or—or even worse,” I said. “Tali wrapped them in that blanket.”

“They were probably already dead.” His words fell flat.

I caught myself nodding, even though there was no way he could know that.

“But does that fact really change anything?” he asked. “Could the prosecutor reopen the case with it?”

“I don’t know. But be sure to tell your attorney about it. This little fact helps blow Tali’s story to bits. She stuck by the ‘dark hooded stranger’ story and even got her family to buy into it. We’ve just proved that was impossible, and it proves premeditation.”

He blew out a long breath. “Wow. I can’t believe I didn’t spot that, right from the beginning. I feel so—”

“You can’t blame yourself. Even if you’d noticed the coats the minute you walked into the house, the kids were already gone. Somehow, she had gotten them out to the woods and she’d come back home before you got there.”

“I should have seen it, though. I could have testified. If I’d only known.”

“I’m sure she manipulated you, Boyd. She misdirected your attention.”

“And appealed to my stupid male ego to stick by her and protect her. I was so dumb.”

For the next few minutes I tried to reassure him, say little things to lessen the pain. But it was something he would have to work through. I hung up feeling unsettled, as if there was still something I should be seeing. This wasn’t the only piece of the puzzle yet to be set in place.

I meandered downstairs for that cup of coffee I’d never poured and doctored it with plenty of sugar. The fuel only served to keep me pacing my office until the phone rang. I growled under my breath. I missed having Sally here to field the calls.

“I just got off the phone with Boyd Donovan,” Detective Cunningham said. “He told me how you’d spotted the kids’ winter coats in one of the crime photos.”

Oops. Maybe I should have told the police first.

“I seem to remember that we noticed the coats at the time. When we questioned her, Tali said each of the children had two coats. I don’t recall if we got anyone to verify that—I would have to go back to the interrogation transcripts. I’m glad you thought to ask Boyd about it now. Good catch.”

“I would have called you. Will it help? If you ever arrest Tali, I mean?”

“At this point, we’re weighing a lot of options. We can’t retry her on murder charges. The DA jumped the gun on the original trial and lost it. But new evidence is coming out. The medical examiner has found evidence of long-term abuse of both kids. The older child had broken ribs at some point in her life. They had healed, imperfectly. According to all the medical records we’ve been able to get hold of so far, the child was never seen by a doctor for that.”

“They don’t do a lot for broken ribs anyway, do they?”

“It depends. But a responsible parent would at least have x-rays done and have the child under a doctor’s care. The autopsy on the baby boy shows he had a broken arm at some point. The family doctor had a record of treating that, but he thought it remarkable that it happened at such a young age. Little boys don’t usually get those types of injuries until they’re old enough to ride bikes and climb trees. The autopsy results appear to be pointing toward circumstances that weren’t addressed in the original case against Tali.”

“So you might be able to prove charges of child abuse or something like that?”

“We’re looking at that. Building a case slowly. I don’t want to present any of this to the prosecutor until we have a lot more information. Too many variables. The mother might not have been the responsible party. The injuries could have been accidental. The father might have been culpable, or another family member or even a daycare worker. We’ve got a long way to go with this yet.”

“And I’m to stay mum about this with Boyd Donovan, right?”

“Absolutely. I’m only telling you this much because, one, you were working with Chet Flowers and might come across something in his notes that backs up our case and, two, we’ll obviously need to know where Tali Donovan is before we can question or arrest her.”

“If you believe she really has come to New Mexico, won’t you want the authorities here to work this case along with you?”

“Absolutely. At some point. Right now we still don’t have the concrete evidence we need to show that she ever arrived in your state, much less that she’s living there now. What I’m hoping you can contribute is to go back through Chet’s material, weed out the unusable—the legwork every detective does to get to the goal—and report to me the bottom line: how close was he to finding Tali? And, if he got close, where is she?”

His voice got low and serious. “Do not attempt to confront her or apprehend her. That’s for law enforcement to do.”

“Do you think she’ll be dangerous? To me?”

“I think anyone backed into a corner can get dangerous. She may have harmed only her children in the past, but faced with another trial she could very well strike out at anybody who is in her way. She’s gone to a lot of trouble to disappear. More trouble, in my opinion, than an innocent person acquitted of a crime would normally do.”

Good point. I had always assumed she went into hiding to avoid the press and the outpouring of public hatred toward her. But it could very well be that she was avoiding this very situation unfolding in front of us. I thanked Cunningham for sharing as much as he had, and I promised to stay in touch.

Two things kept bothering me about Tali Donovan. Foremost was what my conversation with the police detective had just been about—where was Tali now? But also, I couldn’t figure out how she had managed to kill and bury the two children and then cover up her actions that day, even to the point where her own husband hadn’t figured out what she was up to.

Of course, I was still trusting Chet’s assessment of Boyd Donovan, believing that the now ex-husband truly never understood what his wife was up to until it was too late. I reminded myself to keep an open mind to all possibilities. My eyes landed on the note I’d scribbled with Roxanne’s plate number, sending my thoughts back to that angle of the case.

Ron buzzed me on the intercom just as I was picking up the phone to call Sergeant Ramirez. “Is it lunch time yet?”

I rolled my eyes. “Is that a hint for me to go out and get something?”

“It would be nice,” he said with completely hokey politeness.

“I’ll do it if you’ll call Ramirez and see if he’ll tell you about this DMV trace,” I told him, slipping across the hall to his office and handing him the note.

Since his phone was already resting against his shoulder, he starting punching buttons to dial the policeman’s number. When I got back from the deli three blocks away, he delivered his report.

“Ramirez says the plate can’t be from the same car as the hit-and-run. The plate is registered to a Honda. The paint transfer from Chet’s rental came from a Ford. Midnight Blue. They use it on several models, including SUVs manufactured in the last two years, the F150 pickup line, and a minivan. That’s about all he could tell us right now.”