Family Ties (Flesh & Blood Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

“Annie Larson.”

“So you believe Annie Larson gave birth to a son here in 1972?”

“I’m pretty certain of it.”

“All right…hang on.”

She placed me on hold for another few minutes and returned to the line quicker than I had thought.

“Okay, I found a file for Annie Larson. Let’s see…” I could hear her rustling through pages. “Hold on…well, I found Annie Larson…but this is strange.”

“What is strange?”

“It appears Annie was scheduled to give her child up for adoption, but the day the adoptive parents showed up to pick up her baby, both mother and child disappeared.”

Disappearing seemed to be a favorite pastime for Annie Larson, I thought, but did not say out loud.

“Is there a birth certificate for the baby?”

“I’m really not supposed to give out this information…”

“Please? I understand your predicament. But I won’t tell a soul you gave me this information. I promise. I just need to find my brother. All I need is a name and date of birth.”

“All right. Looks like the birth certificate lists his name as Brian Randall Larson. Date of birth is August 24, 1972.”

Randall. Annie had named her son after my father, the boy who had humiliated her publicly in high school. But she had loved him too. Apparently, she carried a torch for him, as well as his child.

“Is there anything else in there that might help me find him?”

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve already told you more than I should. But there really is nothing else. Miss Larson disappeared with her son and no one has ever heard from her since. The police came and investigated, since she was only sixteen at the time, but they couldn’t find anything either. It looks like one of our staff members reached out to her parents, but they claimed not to have any idea where she might be.”

“I see. Well, thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hung up the phone and turned back to my laptop. I pulled up one of my favorite skip trace programs and entered in the name Brian Randall Larson and his date of birth. After a few seconds of watching an hourglass spin in circles, the results page popped up. To my astonishment, there was only one possible result.

The only Brian R. Larson born on August 24, 1972, most recently resided in Nashville, Tennessee. But the strange thing was that the last known address was last confirmed two years ago. There was no updated address after 2013. I let out a frustrated growl. Once again, I had hit a dead end.

Think, Libby. Think.
Why would a person not have an address for over two years? Everyone lives somewhere. DMV records are updated every year when a person renews their vehicle registration and you have to provide an address. So why had Brian not renewed his registration, license, or other contact information in over two years?

The realization smacked me between the eyes like one of those hammers that farmers used to use to kill a cow. Jail. Brian was in jail. That’s why he had no listed address for so long. I quickly pulled up another Google page and typed “Tennessee inmate search” into the search bar. Sure enough, the Tennessee Department of Corrections had a website. I searched Brian’s name, both with and without his middle name, but to my dismay, there were no
current
records of Brian being incarcerated anywhere in Tennessee. That left two options. He was either not incarcerated at all or not incarcerated in Tennessee.

Unless…

Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

I pulled up the Tennessee Court Record database and entered Brian’s name. His criminal history yielded twenty-three results dating back to 1990 when he would have been eighteen. Drug possession. Petty larceny. Shoplifting. Cold checks. All misdemeanors. No felonies. His most recent conviction was for menacing and terroristic threatening. I opened the court record and scanned through the entries made by the court clerk.

The very last entry, dated October 3, 2013, answered all my questions. My brother, Brian Larson, had been committed by the State to Pleasant Valley in Clarksville, Tennessee. Pleasant Valley, I knew, was a home for the mentally unstable.

Chapter 13

Harper was walking through the front door as soon as I made it to the bottom of the stairs.

“Learn anything new today?” she asked as she set grocery bags on the kitchen counter.

“I found my brother. Well, sort of.”

“Already? How on earth did you manage that?” She poured herself a glass of sweet tea. “Want a refill?”

“Yes, please. It wasn’t that hard, really. I’ll explain it all to you later. Right now, I have a job for you.”

“I’m all ears,” she said as she topped off my glass.

“I need you to contact Pleasant Valley in Clarksville, Tennessee.”

“Is that where your brother is?”

“I’m pretty sure. Call them and set up a meeting for me tomorrow afternoon.”

“What do you want me to tell them? Are you a PI this time or a family member?”

I thought for a moment on which was the better way to approach my brother. I didn’t know how stable—or unstable—he may be. On one hand, they may not let me visit him if I wasn’t family. On the other hand, I had to assume Brian did not know I existed and I wanted to be the one to explain it to him.

“Investigator. Tell them I want to speak with him regarding a case, but be as vague as you can be.”

“Can do. I’ll go take care of that now.”

Harper took off up the stairs toward the office, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my sweet tea. I looked at the clock. It was already dinner time. I looked through the groceries Harper had just bought and found some pasta noodles, roasted garlic pasta sauce, and frozen garlic bread. I quickly threw together some spaghetti and within fifteen minutes, I had made the first real meal I had cooked in several weeks.

Harper came down just as I was setting the table.

“You’re not going to believe this, Libby,” Harper said as she sat down in one of the chairs.

“What now?”

“For starters, you were right, Brian was sent to Pleasant Valley in 2013. However, get this…he just left there a few months ago.”

“What do you mean by ‘he left’? Did they release him?”

“Sort of. He was supposed to be there for two years and he only had a few months left on his stay, but he just walked away in June. No one knows where he went.”

“That’s just fucking great,” I said as I plopped the large pot of spaghetti on a hot pad in the middle of the kitchen table.

Harper reached over and spooned out a good portion of the pasta onto her plate. “Smells delicious. So what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” I said, scooping out my own spaghetti. “Maybe I’ll still go down there and poke around a bit…see what I can find out.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Harper said with a wry smile. “Which is why I went ahead and made an appointment for you at Pleasant Valley.”

“See,” I said, pointing my fork at her. “This is why we work so well together. Great thinking!”

“You’re supposed to be there at two o’clock. You’re meeting with Dr. Frank Detweiler, Brian’s psychiatrist. Need me to go with you?”

“Nah. Stay here in case I need you to research anything. I’ll call you if I need you.”

We finished up our pasta dinner, cleaned up the kitchen table, and headed our separate ways for the night.

I had been so busy with work lately, I had not had any time to read for leisure, so I went to my bookshelf, picked up the latest Philippa Gregory novel,
The Taming of the Queen
, and read for a good three hours until I finally dozed off, dreaming I was a medieval queen dancing in a ballroom full of courtiers. Finally, a handsome stranger tapped me on my shoulder and asked for a dance. It took me a bit to recognize his face. It was Detective Webster. He twirled me around the ballroom until I was dizzy and then whisked me away behind a curtain where he promptly ravaged me, completely ignoring courtly etiquette.

I awoke feeling refreshed and ready for the day. It was the first time in weeks I had slept more than four or five hours. Since I was in such a good mood, thanks to my fantastic dream, I took extra time picking out my clothes for the day. I wanted to make a good first impression. I wound up choosing my favorite pair of dark blue Seven jeans and a black cowl neck cable-knit sweater. It was now October and the weather had turned on a dime, as it so often does in Kentucky. Residents like to joke—if you don’t like the weather in Kentucky, wait five minutes. I pulled on a pair of long black boots with short heels which I rarely wore, but they completed the outfit.

In the bathroom, I pulled my dirty blonde hair back into a loose ponytail, dabbed on some light makeup, and finished the look with a pair of silver hoop earrings. This was the most effort I had put into my appearance since before Ryan died. I wondered if my attraction to Detective Webster had anything to do with my sudden attention to my appearance. Probably.

Harper had written down the address for the facility so I could enter it into my phone’s GPS. Once I did, my phone advised me it would take three hours and forty-five minutes. Since I was leaving right at ten a.m., I would arrive just in time.

On the long drive to Clarksville, I put Ryan’s favorite Scott Miller CD,
Thus Always Tyrants
into the CD player. Scott Miller, a singer-songwriter originally from Virginia, was our favorite musician. We had seen him live many times and his cover of the Statler Brothers’ folksy ballad, “I’ll Go to My Grave Loving You” was our song. We’d even played it in our wedding. Listening to the singer’s smooth, melodic voice brought tears to my eyes. Although Ryan crossed my mind nearly every day, I was usually so busy I could push away the pain. But all alone, in the car, listening to our favorite musician, I was overcome with nostalgia and sorrow.

Rather than pushing away the sad feelings, I gave in to them. I let tears pour down my cheeks, down my neck, and between my breasts without wiping them away. I had loved Ryan with all my heart. Even when I learned of his affair, it did nothing to diminish the feelings I had for him. I was angry, yes, but I would always love him. Plus, I had more great memories than bad ones and I had forgiven him months ago.

Eventually, my thoughts turned from Ryan to my current situation. Rather, situations. I had a lot on my plate at the time. First, I had my father’s case to work on. That had led me to the discovery of the existence of my half-brother. And, as if that wasn’t enough, I was a witness in Joanna Baker’s murder case, and there was no telling how involved I might become in that investigation. Part of me secretly hoped I’d be
very
involved, so I could see Sebastian Webster again. If you counted Ryan’s murder and the subsequent fallout, I had been through so much in the past several months, it was quite surprising I hadn’t had a nervous breakdown. I really needed some peace and quiet, but it didn’t look like I’d be getting that anytime soon. Perhaps I should check into Pleasant Valley myself—take a much-needed mental vacation.

I arrived at Pleasant Valley about quarter-to-two. The building was new, sleek, and modern in its design. A large, artsy, asymmetrical fountain spurted water into a tiny pond in front of the building. I parked and walked in with only a few moments to spare. Not sure exactly where to go, I opted for the reception desk off to the left. A very pleasant older lady with cotton ball hair looked up from her computer and asked if she could help me. I gave her my name and told her I was scheduled to meet with Dr. Frank Detweiler at two o’clock. She smiled and began typing away at her computer…click, click, click. Then she looked back up at me and asked me to please wait in the lobby. Someone would be with me shortly.

I found an empty spot on the chic, modern red-leather couch and sat with my back to the all-glass wall. To kill the time, I scanned my Facebook page on my phone. Nothing new or noteworthy. Same old stuff. People complaining about their bosses, spouses, and parents, posting stupid pictures of their cats they thought were hilarious. This was why I rarely checked my Facebook page anymore. I hadn’t even posted anything since earlier that year. The only reason I even kept my account was to find people I needed to find.

Finally, a tall, lean lady in light blue scrubs walked into the lobby and called my name.

“That’s me,” I said, as I grabbed my purse and slung it back over my shoulder.

“Follow me,” she said. I walked behind her, watching her ponytail swish from side to side, until we arrived at an office with the door shut. The nametag on the wall next to the door read,
‘Frank Detweiler, MD’.

She knocked on the door, poked her head in, and announced my arrival. He said something I couldn’t hear and she opened the door all the way, motioning for me to enter the office.

When I walked in, a very handsome older man stood up from where he’d been sitting. He had completely grey hair, which made him look very distinguished, and tanned skin, as if he spent every weekend on the golf course. When he smiled, perfectly aligned white teeth peeked out from behind his thin lips.

When we shook hands, I noticed how warm and firm his hands were.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

I obliged and took a seat in the padded blue chair. The doctor sat down in a large maroon leather chair opposite me and leaned back.

“My name is Frank Detweiler. I’m Brian’s psychiatrist. And you are…?”

Even though I had made the appointment as a private investigator, I decided the best course of action was to be completely frank and honest with Dr. Detweiler if I was going to expect the same from him.

“My name is Libby Carter. I’m Brian’s sister.”

“Sister? I wasn’t aware Brian had a sister.”

“Join the club,” I said more sarcastically than I meant to. “I only found out two days ago myself. We have the same father.”

“I was under the impression you were some sort of investigator.”

“I am. I’m a private investigator. But that’s not really why I’m here.”

“And why
are
you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I came because I just need to know more about him. I never had a brother or sister growing up and my family life is not exactly what you’d call normal.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your family history. Or at least, that of your father. Randall McLanahan, right?”

“That’s him,” I said with faux pride.

“So you’re not here in any official capacity?”

“Well, actually, I
am
technically working on a case. My father’s case, really. He now claims he’s innocent and he’s hired me to prove it. Only, I can’t prove it unless I find the real killer.”

“I’m sorry,” he said with a scowl. “I don’t see how that involves Brian.”

“I’m not exactly sure, either,” I admitted with a shrug. “All I know is that in the course of my investigation, I learned about Brian’s mother, and then, of course, Brian. I don’t think it’s connected, but I’m not sure it’s not, either. I’m sorry. That makes absolutely no sense.”

“I think I understand. But Mrs. Carter…”

“I’m not a Missus anymore. You can just call me Libby. My husband died this summer. Murdered, actually.” I wasn’t sure exactly why I told him that. Maybe he reminded me of my own psychiatrist, Dr. Lange, whom I hadn’t seen in months. I made a mental note to book an appointment. If I ever needed a shrink, it was now.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said sincerely. “But my first priority is to Brian’s well-being and mental health. May I ask your intentions?”

“Sure. I really need to find my brother. Get to know him a little. Maybe establish some form of a relationship. And, if in doing so, I learn something which may help with my father’s case, then all the better.”

“I see. So what can I do to help you? You may or may not be aware that Brian left our facility back in June. Perhaps I can be of assistance instead?”

I thought on this for a moment. Was there really anything he could tell me that would help me at all? I highly doubted it, but it was worth a shot.

“Tell me what you can about Brian,” I said matter-of-factly, as if conducting a very official interview.

He shifted slightly in his seat, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. “I’m not really sure there’s much I can tell you, due to patient confidentiality rules. They’ve become even stricter recently with the new HIPAA laws.”

“I know all about HIPAA. I was a paralegal for sixteen years before I became an investigator. But I also know you can speak to me in generalities. That’s all I’m asking.”

The doctor leaned back in his chair and sighed, clearly debating what he could ethically share with me. After an uncomfortable few seconds of silence, he finally spoke.

“Brian was diagnosed with schizophrenia around the time he turned twenty-five. Not by me. By some doctor in Virginia, I believe. He’s had a very tough time of it his entire life, from what I understand. He has been in and out of institutions and jail since he was eighteen. Mostly minor, non-violent crimes, but he does demonstrate some violent tendencies from time to time. Typically, he only becomes violent when he feels threatened. He was here this last time due to a minor scrape with the law involving a romantic situation gone wrong. The judge, knowing his mental…
difficulties
…took pity on him and sent him here to us rather than sending him to jail again. He was due to be released next month, but as I’ve already stated, Brian left here of his own accord a few months ago. No one has seen or heard from him since. That’s really all I can tell you.”