Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (119 page)

“You know I didn’t mean it,” Mr. Tate replied.

I sat next to Cade, but not too close.

“Ask your questions.”

The next several minutes passed by in a mundane manner, with Cade asking many of the same questions Mr. Tate had grown not-so-fond-of. At one point, he looked like he was ready to shut down and show Cade the door, but he maintained his composure, keeping a straight face. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning, either. It wasn’t until Cade asked him if there was anything else he should know that Mr. Tate shifted his position in his seat and looked over at me.

“What have you found out since our meeting?” Mr. Tate said to me.

“Someone saw Olivia Hathaway in the parking lot the day she was taken.”

Cade’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. It was fine with me. Let him wonder. He deserved it.

“Why didn’t the person come forward when it happened?” Tate said.

I said, “It was a young boy. He was embarrassed because he didn’t do anything to keep it from happening. But I’ve convinced him to give a statement to the police.”

Once Todd realized I wasn’t going to leave him alone, he talked to his parents, and the three of them went to the police. At the pleading of his mother, the detectives promised to keep Todd’s name out of the papers—maybe not forever, but for now.

“How good was the description the boy gave?” Mr. Tate said.

“He remembered enough to get a sketch artist on it. He also knows the make and model of the vehicle the man was driving.”

“Unbelievable,” Mr. Tate said.

I looked at a still-confused Cade and then back at Tate. “You know what you have to do now.”

Cade turned one of his palms up and shook his head. “What is going on between you two?”

“I’ve got something I need to show you,” Mr. Tate said. “But I’d like your father to be here when I do.”

Detective McCoy arrived a half hour later looking far more haggard than he had earlier that morning. He apologized, saying he thought he was coming down with something. By the looks of him, he’d already come down with it.

Mr. Tate paced the floor like he was preparing to give the most important speech of his life. It wasn’t until he realized all eyes were on him and no one else was talking that he started in with his story. Cade and his father listened while Mr. Tate talked about his theory on the correlation between the two kidnappings. Then he switched gears, mentioning the coloring page he’d received in the mail. Detective McCoy seemed relieved the truth was finally coming out, but Cade looked like he wanted to blacken both of Tate’s eyes for withholding evidence. When Mr. Tate finished, no one said anything for a long time.

“At least we are all on the same page now,” I said. “Once the two cases come together, maybe we can find these girls.”

I hoped, alive. It was a lot to wish for, but I didn’t want to accept the worst until I had no other choice.

Cade shook his head. “What a mess.”

“We’ll have to get with the boys in Sublette County and sort all this stuff out,” Detective McCoy said. “Since we may have mutual interests, my hope is we can swap information with each other.”

He rose from the sofa and winced, placing a hand on his lower back and holding it there. When he caught me staring, his hand dropped to his side. “If you all will excuse me, I better call the chief and tell him what’s going on.”

Once Detective McCoy was out of the room, Cade started in on Mr. Tate. “How could you keep this critical piece of evidence from my father?”

Mr. Tate looked at me, but I didn’t want to interfere. Not yet. My turn was coming.

“Olivia’s parents said they never got the picture back once they handed it over to the police,” Mr. Tate said. “And once they had it, they still couldn’t find her, so why should I trust it with you?”

“It could help us find your daughter and the other girl, Olivia,” Cade said. “What good does it do sitting here in your house?”

“It helps my wife—gives her peace, gives her hope.”

Cade threw his hands in the air. “Hope for what? Your wife barely gets out of bed anymore!”

The words slipped out of Cade’s mouth just as Lily’s sweet face poked around the corner. I placed a hand on Cade’s arm and squeezed just enough for him to stop before it got any worse.

“I’ll be outside,” he whispered to me. “I can’t believe you knew about this and didn’t say anything. What was you thinkin’?”

“We’ll discuss this later,” I said. “Away from here.”

“Get the flippin’ paper, or whatever it is.”

I nodded.

Mr. Tate had already left the room, apparently to get the paper. When he returned, he said, “I hope you don’t get in trouble because of me.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.”

He handed the folded page to me. “There was an envelope, but I can’t find it. I swear. I saw it yesterday, but now it’s gone. Maybe my wife knows, but she’s sleeping right now, and I don’t want to—”

I took the paper from him and smiled. “No worries,” I said. “When you find it, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll make sure they get this.”

Mr. Tate closed his eyes. He looked worried. I didn’t know if it was because the envelope was missing, or if it had to do with something else. If it was over the envelope, he was fretting over nothing. I knew exactly where it was.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Where’s the rest of it?” Cade said.

I shrugged, handing him the coloring page.

“This is all he gave to me.”

Cade dangled the plastic baggie in front of me. “Paper doesn’t come in the mail without an envelope.”

“He said he’ll try to find it.”

Cade slid into the seat of his truck, started the engine, and snatched his cowboy hat from the seat next to him. He put it on and said, “It doesn’t matter. Once they get a warrant, they’ll find it, along with whatever else the man has been hiding.”

“Why don’t you bring that high horse of yours down a couple notches?” I said. “They’re suffering. Do you really want to rip their entire home apart for an envelope? Your father certainly has told you what Mrs. Tate is going through—she’s barely coherent.”

Cade whipped his head around, staring at me. “Are you done giving me advice? If I want to know how you feel, I’ll ask.”

I felt an uncomfortable pain in my stomach over a man I’d just met.

He pulled the truck door shut and sped out of the driveway, leaving me alone with his father who had taken it all in like we were shooting the main scene of an old movie.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you later, maybe,” Detective McCoy said.

The way the words came out of his mouth was awkward—like he didn’t really know what to say, but he felt compelled to say something.

“Have you told him yet?” I said.

“I don’t follow.”

“That you’re sick,” I said.

“Why would I—it’s just a nasty virus. It’ll pass.”

“But it won’t, will it?” I said.

My accusation caught him off guard.

“What makes you say that?”

“You grabbed your back when you stood up in Mr. Tate’s house. And when you came by my hotel room this morning, I noticed your eyes. Even though it was early, they looked a bit yellow to me.”

Part of me was sorry for prying—whatever he was going through wasn’t my business.

Detective McCoy walked over to where I was standing and looked at me. “You assume a lot, Miss Monroe.”

“Am I wrong?”

There was a long pause and then he said, “Do you think Cade knows?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know your son very well. How’s he been acting since he moved back here?”

“Fine. A little on edge, maybe. But I just thought it had to do with the case, or looking after his teenage daughter. He’s got a lot of his own things he’s dealing with right now. I didn’t want to add one more thing to the list.”

“Do you mind me asking what’s wrong?” I said.

“Pancreatic cancer.”

“Are you getting treatment for it?”

He shook his head.

“Too late for that now. I felt fine at first, and by the time I realized something was wrong, the doctor told me it had spread. It’s too late to operate—too late to do anything but sit and wait to die. Doesn’t seem fair, but I suppose nothin’ ever does.”

I wanted to say something, but what could I say to a person who knew he was going to die? I was a fixer. I liked to fix things, make things whole again. I didn’t know how to be any other way.

“You won’t tell my boy, will you?” he said.

I grabbed Mr. McCoy’s hand, a gesture that shocked both of us. “Of course not. It’s not my secret to tell.”

He smiled.

“You know what? I like you, Miss Monroe. I like you a lot.”

I liked him too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Is it possible to lift a print from an envelope?” I said.

Maddie held her hand out. “Anything’s possible, sweetie. What do you have for me?”

I took the envelope out of my bag, using a tissue to handle the edges and handed it to her. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to put it in anything. I just grabbed it.”

She read the address on the front and peeked inside. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“Cade McCoy has it. They’re probably processing it now.”

“And you didn’t want this processed along with it?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really thinking. I saw it inside the top drawer of Mrs. Tate’s nightstand, and I couldn’t resist. I knew I had to leave the coloring page, but I thought I could get away with nabbing this part, so I did.”

She raised a brow. “All righty, then.”

“Can you do anything with it without being at your lab? I doubt we have access to the chemicals you’d need here.”

She raised a finger. “There is another way—a new technique we’ve been using lately in the lab. Believe it or not, I can get prints off this by using a ceramic hair straightener.”

“You’re not serious?” I said.

“Completely. I’ll need my glasses to see the prints though.”

“You don’t wear glasses,” I said.

“I’m not talking about regular glasses. They’re special goggles with orange lenses. Under a certain light, I’ll be able to see the prints. It would probably be easier just to mail this to my guys and let them do it, but then we run the risk of this getting lost somewhere along the way, not to mention what could happen if one of my guys screws up.”

“They know what they’re doing, don’t they?” I said.

“Lifting prints from paper is delicate. If the straightener is on the paper for too long, the paper turns brown, and the prints are lost. Once that happens, there are no do-overs. They’re lost forever.”

I sighed.

“I shouldn’t have taken it,” I said. “Even if you get a print that doesn’t belong to you, me, the mailman, the processors at the post office, and Mr. and Mrs. Tate, you still can’t run it. Not here.”

It was like my brain was running on half a cylinder. I was practical, not irrational. I thought things through. I didn’t talk first and think later. My words were orchestrated, almost rehearsed. So what the hell was I doing?

“Well, it’s too late now,” Maddie said. “What do you want me to do with this?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know.”

Maddie grabbed a container out of her suitcase, emptied it out, and placed the envelope inside. Then she shoved it into her purse. “While you’re thinking about things, I’ll go pick us up some dinner.”