Hit and Run Page 14

  “My son!” His voice broke. “He’s only nineteen.”

  “Nothing personal. I don’t question the targets: you, the wife, both kids, any additional witnesses.” The man took a step closer. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. They felt nothing, never knew what happened.” He offered the words like a gift.

  The man’s words finally pierced his brain fog: Both kids. But Sharon hadn’t arrived. Yet.

  His wife and son were dead. But Sharon would live, by God!

  Southgate stood, chair toppled backwards into the wall. With one hand, he splashed rum down the hit man’s front, and with the other tossed a lighted candle against the fabric. He never felt the bullet that ended his life.

  SHARON SOUTHGATE PARKED in front of the big house, grateful the snow had abated. She’d managed to get past the worst of the weather before they closed major highways. Nothing new there. Regional snowstorms blew fast and furious, but the local road crews prepared in advance. When she and Paul were younger, they always crossed fingers any snowstorm lasted past midnight. If snow stopped earlier, the roads could be cleared in time for morning school buses.

  She smiled at the memory. Hard to imagine Paul at Notre Dame. He’d skipped two grades in school, and had always worked hard, like he had limited time or something. Sharon looked forward to the annual Christmas dinner, one of the few times everyone could enjoy just hanging out. With her mother’s volunteer schedule, father’s workload, Paul’s classes, and her new job demands, coordinating schedules required weeks of planning. She’d put in extra hours just so she could take the rest of the week off and spend time with family.

  Sharon swung out of the car, grabbed the overnight case, and trudged to the door. The sidewalk had been swept clean earlier in the day, but fresh powder caked the pathway. Her bag left twin roller marks as she dragged it behind.

  Snow on the front steps, though, curdled with a mess of footprints. Sharon squinted, and wrinkled her nose. Someone lost footing and slalomed off the top. She stifled another grin, betting that Paul and his visiting girlfriend missed a step. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’d been surprised he had time to date. Sharon wondered if he’d warned Mom?

  As a courtesy, she rang the doorbell before inserting her key. Her father’s job over the years made him the target of the occasional crazy, so they always kept the door locked. So her eyebrows climbed when the unlatched door swung open without benefit of the key.

  “Hello? Merry Christmas—early! I finally made it...” She hesitated. A foul, burned-hair smell choked the air. “Where is everyone?”

  Before she could step into the foyer, a twenty-pound flash of black and white fur leaped against her chest. Sharon reflexively caught the cat, the impact driving her two steps backwards onto the slick front steps. “Kahlua, what the hell?”

  She struggled to keep her balance, but tumbled backwards, fall broken somewhat by one of the forsythia bushes beside the entry. Sharon scrambled upright, reaching to recapture Kahlua before she raced away. Paul would kill her if she lost his cat.

  “Here kitty. Kahlua, don’t do this to me.” Sharon kept her voice soft, not wanting Paul to find out. With luck, she’d corral the intrepid feline, return her to the house, and Paul would never know. She sidled slowly toward the trembling feline, but as soon as she came close, Kahlua led her another half dozen steps away from the house.

  The cat finally crouched in the snow and allowed Sharon to scoop her up. Sharon buried her face in Kahlua’s long coat, nuzzling the beautiful black and white fur, but wrinkled her nose—again, that nasty smell. “Let’s get you back inside.”

  She turned, hugging the cat in her arms. Only then did she recognize the sticky copper smell, and blood that stained Kahlua’s fur. Before she’d taken two steps, the house exploded into a fireball.

  Chapter 31 (34 Years Ago)

  TANA STRUGGLED TO SHAKE off the effects of the anesthesia. Her body didn’t work right. The bed shuddered as the camper sped up. She tried to speak, but her throat hurt and words wouldn’t come. Her memory fragmented, she remembered nothing.

  A baby cried.

  She was going to have a baby soon, too. Tana felt for the familiar swelling. Gone. A foreign ridge of numb tissue, sutures bristling to hold it together, marked her bikini line beneath the smock. Her brow furled in concentration to make sense of the change.

  The cries came again.

  Had she already given birth? She couldn’t remember. Tana whimpered and pulled herself into an awkward seated position. Her muscles wouldn’t obey, and the weakness made Tana tilt and nearly fall sideways onto the floor. She squinted. Three car seats sat on the floor with an infant strapped securely in each. The twin girls slept, oblivious, but the tiny newborn screamed.

  Her baby! Tana’s eyes brimmed and an overwhelming joy bubbled from deep inside. Never mind she couldn’t remember anything, she’d puzzle it out later. Right now, she needed to hold her baby.

  Tana stumbled across the jouncing camper and fell to her knees. She clutched her abdomen. Something deep inside ached, muffled by the drugged fog. She marveled at the beautiful newborn. Unstrapped the infant, snuggled it close.

  The camper stopped. Footsteps. The driver stood over her, surprised and then angry she’d awakened.

  He wrestled her baby away and held the screaming infant beyond her reach. Told her lies. Said Tana’s baby died. Said the newborn belonged to Rosalee, already signed away. Three sets of adoptive parents awaited. Tana must leave. Now.

  She shook her head, tears streaming, arguing, pleading with him, offering anything. But he lifted her upright and dragged her to the exit. Tana grabbed hold of anything to impede his progress: the chair back, the kitchenette table, the door frame.

  He unlatched and kicked open the door, then stepped down onto the dirt path. He dragged Tana after him.

  Her hand grappled and found an empty wine bottle toppled off the table. In a repeat of the action that set her on this path, Tana hit him. He dropped like a stone.

  Tana closed and locked the camper door, scrambled to reach the screaming baby. She crooned softly, smoothing the down-soft blond hair for only a moment. The doorknob rattled, followed by pounding. The flimsy lock wouldn’t hold for long.

  The other two babies awoke. The camper resounded with whimpers and sobs. Tana’s own cries drowned out the infant chorus.

  He’d left the keys in the ignition. She forced herself to strap the baby back in the carrier. Then Tana lurched into the driver’s seat, shoved the camper into gear, and drove away, into her new life.

  Chapter 32 (Present Day)

  SEPTEMBER PULLED INTO the dog park beside the only other car. Tee raised a hand in a wave of acknowledgment before climbing out.

  Shadow paced on the back seat, tail waving, and woofing under his breath. Tee opened her rear car door and the black Rottweiler hopped out. Shadow’s soft whines morphed into gargled trills of excitement and he pawed the back window. It scrolled downward, the icy breath of wind splashing into the warm car.

  “Hey, stop that. Shadow, wait!” Had she hit the wrong button on the key fob again? The new car’s settings, different than her old vehicle, confused her. September fiddled with the door console, but stopped the action too late.

  In delight, Shadow stuck his face out, breathing in the familiar scent. He puffed his cheeks with anticipation and leaped through the window. September sighed, and scrolled the window closed, before she joined Tee outside the car. After releasing them into the enclosed area, together they watched the dogs greet each other.

  Karma transformed from serious police dog into a simpering coquette, spinning in the snow. The dogs took turns sniffing each other, offering play-bows and happy woofs interspersed with growls of joy.

  “She’s got some filling out to do, but looks good.” September watched the pair race around the field. “Doing well? Training regularly, Tee?”

  “It’s only been a week. But she’s doing great. Karma reminds me she wants to play her games so I don’t f
orget.” Tee rubbed her eyes. “The past two days I’ve let it slide.”

  September looked more closely at the woman’s pale face. “You feeling okay? You look tired. Sorry I missed your calls about the change in plans. I kind of got sidetracked.” She grimaced and rubbed the bruise on her thigh from escaping Angela’s car.

  “Headache I can’t seem to shake, that’s all. Life goes on. Can’t let that get in the way.” Tee squared her shoulders, a half smile turning her usually stoic expression softer as she watched the dogs’ joyous interplay. “I hate snow. It’s pretty, but messy. Nothing like the Islands.” She nodded at the dogs dashing about, leaving blizzards in their wake. “But nothing dampens Karma’s enthusiasm. Lia said not even her spay surgery slowed her down. How are her puppies?”

  “Lia swears the Magical-Pup reads her mind—or vice versa. I’ll show you pictures later. But for now—” September shivered, flexing her bare hands. “Can we get out of this weather? I’m not a fan of cold, either.”

  “I’ve got the file in my car. It’s pretty sparse.” The women hurried to Tee’s rental and September climbed into the passenger seat, relishing the warm air blast from the dashboard. “It goes back more than twenty years and only has a few entries. Probably she kept digital files more recently, but her computer was clean.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re here, Tee. What does a cat breeder have to do with your investigation?” September kept one eye on the two dogs gamboling about the snow-covered area.

  Tee pulled off her gloves to better access the accordion file. “Sissie Turpin kept the books for some sketchy folks, including that Detweiller character you asked about.”

  “Oh.” She wished she’d looked closer at Chris’s files before they were stolen. “Chris apparently investigated Detweiller several years ago. Detweiller got caught with some discrepancies in his lab results more recently. Is that why he killed himself? Does it have anything to do with Chris’s notes from before?”

  The inference was the lockbox files had everything to do with September, but she couldn’t figure out any connection with Clear Choice Lab. She flexed her feet. The feeling had finally started to return, but her sopping wet socks and shoes weren’t helping.

  Tee leaned forward. “We’ve got no record that Detective Chris Day ever investigated Detweiller. That’s brand-new intel and we have no way of knowing what he found out. With Detweiller’s records destroyed, our best hope was his bookkeeper kept duplicates.” She patted the thin accordion file of documents. “This has nothing to do with Detweiller, but there’s some kind of connection. Both Detweiller and Turpin were staged to look like suicide.”

  Just like Angela, she thought.

  “Detective Redford—that’s my boss—said not to waste my time. But a name jumped out at me, so take a look. If you see what I suspect, it’s worth a deeper look and maybe Detective Steele would give it an eyeball.” She stared at September with rapt attention.

  Curious, September took the file, balancing it on her lap, and shuffled through the various pockets. Each slot contained sales documents for a particular year. But rather than the dozens of annual kittens one would expect from an average size cattery, only one to three kittens were placed in any given year over the past thirty-odd years.

  “It’s the most recent file. Familiar name, don’t you think?” Tee urged her to flip ahead, her eyes bright with anticipation, fairly bouncing in her seat. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  September scanned the document, then slowly nodded. “Yes, that’s me. Male kitten, registered name Sissypurrz Amazing Amaretto. That’s my Macy.”

  “I knew it! So that’s a second connection. Your husband investigated Detweiller because of you. And now the woman keeping Detweiller’s secret books gave you a cat, too. But what does that mean?” She took out her phone and texted Redford with an update. Tee grimaced, breath hissing through her teeth at whatever response she received.

  September didn’t correct Tee. Victor arranged for Macy, not as a kindness, but as leverage. Abusers often threatened to hurt a beloved pet to keep victims in line. But Tee didn’t know that detail of her history. Besides, September couldn’t imagine what ancient kitten sales had to do with a corrupt laboratory operation.

  Tee took back the file and shuffled further. “Here, looks like two cats were sold at about the same time seventeen years ago. What’s up with the funny names? Sissypurrz Caramel Capucino, and Sissypurrz Karaoke Kahlua.”

  “Sissypurrz is the cattery name, a clever play on words with Turpin’s first name. It can be a challenge to find a descriptive name that’s not already in use. Catteries often incorporate funky spelling. The rest specifically identifies the individual cat, again often with unique spelling.” September shrugged, and added, “Different registering organizations have specific requirements. For instance, there’s a limit on the number of letters or characters in the name. And there’s no rule about it, but to keep track over the years, some breeders name litters according to a particular theme. Like the months the babies are born, or musical terms.” She waved at Shadow across the field, digging snow with his nose. “Some German Shepherd breeders use an alphabet system, so all the pups in a litter have registered names starting with the same letter. Shadow came from the “S” litter.” She looked closer at the paperwork in her hands. “Catteries might do that, or name a particular litter according to a theme. In this case, it’s drinks: Cappuccino, Kahlua.” She answered absently, focused on the other information on the attached pedigrees. The two cats were littermates.

  “She had name-plates on the cage doors for the cats, too, but they weren’t long fancy ones. And there were more name-plates than cats. Guess it doesn’t matter.” Tee rubbed a spot of condensation clear on the window to better see where the two dogs played. They’d stopped chasing and now intently sniffed various spots along the fence. Shadow leg-lifted as she watched.

  “Call names can be abbreviations of the registered names, or something entirely different. My a-MAZ-ing cat chose to respond to Macy.” September smiled, knowing the explanation made little sense. “Dog registration names follow their own set of rules.”

  “With Turpin dead, what happens to her cats?”

  September’s stomach constricted at the thought. “Animal control for now. Responsible breeders take care of their cats, and of each other in the community. I can make some calls.” She thumbed through the other years. “Macy is the youngest on this list. By now, many of the others have passed. I don’t know what it means, though.” She handed the file back to Tee.

  “I’ll dig deeper, now I know there’s a real connection. Redford has to see that the cats are important.”

  “Yeah, Macy has always known he’s important. That’s part of being a cat.” September smiled. “Keep me posted, will you?” She shivered again, and hugged herself. “I came to find out what Chris wanted me to know, and to say goodbye for the last time. So I can move on. We’ll go home tomorrow, after I meet with Detective Steele and give him my official statement.” With the instant news hitting the internet, she needed to call Combs and bring him up to date before he heard it from colleagues. September dreaded that call. “I need a place to stay tonight that’ll accept big dogs and a cat. We can’t go back to Angela’s—not that I’d want to.”

  Tee rubbed her eyes. “Share with me and Karma. I’ll update the reservation.” She grinned. “They already expect a police dog. What’s another one, more or less?” She quickly made the call, and forwarded the confirmation numbers to September’s phone. “Head there now, so you can get cleaned up. I’m supposed to share this info with Detective Steele. But he’s at the hospital interviewing the hit-and-run victim.” At September’s puzzled look, she added, “A girl witnessed Turpin’s murder and got run off the road for her troubles. The driver sounds an awful lot like the guy who attacked you and stole Chris’s files.”

  September scowled. “Mr. Bleak got what he wanted. So at least we don’t have to worry about seeing him again.”

 
MR. BLEAK CHECKED THE scald marks around his eyes in the car’s rear-view mirror. When Southgate lit the alcohol, the sunglasses had saved his eyes, but he looked like a hobo caught in the rain. Both cat-bitten hands sustained burns when his gloves caught fire, and his watch cap melted against his head. He’d peeled them away, taking flesh along with the fabric. Scooping and applying snow stopped the pain temporarily, but he worried the damage might be permanent when the flesh remained numb. He had taken a few moments to head back inside and turn on the gas fireplace to ensure all traces of his presence, and the blasted cat, were erased.

  After changing clothes and donning a fresh paper cap that hid the worst of his injuries, nobody would question his presence. Never before in his long professional career had so many things gone awry. He took pride in providing the best cleanup service for his extraordinary clients. They rewarded him with generous paydays, and the leeway to improvise when needed. As a professional, he didn’t know or care about his targets. Nothing personal.

  Until now.

  He hung a disabled card on the car mirror and parked in the closest spot to be ready for a quick departure. Once he adjusted the surgical mask over his face, Mr. Bleak climbed out and jogged into the hospital. Nobody gave his scrubs a second look. His detached attitude appeared focused on vital medical questions.

  The girl witness saw his face, knew who he was, and too much more besides. He couldn’t believe she’d survived the car crash when he got the call to finish her. He’d correct that situation first, then address his unfinished business with September Day.