44
“So Rachel’s been married before,” Eddie said. He shook his head as he spooned sugar and cream into his coffee. “Damn, I don’t what to say. I’m sorry.”
That morning, Joshua and Eddie had met at a café on Abernathy in the West End called Buzz Coffee. Buzz had some of the best java in the city. With its New Age industrial design and minimal frills, it wasn’t somewhere you went to luxuriate in sensory impressions, but a Starbucks had opened a short distance away and Buzz was still packing in customers, so they obviously knew their stuff.
“Sorry is about all that can be said,” Joshua said. He sipped his double latte. After his late-night data mining session, he needed the massive caffeine dump to stay awake. “What I don’t understand, Eddie, is why did she lie to me? I wouldn’t have stopped dating her if she’d said she’d been married before. I wouldn’t have cared at all.”
Joshua had brought print-outs of the records he’d found. Eddie pointed at the inmate profile of Dexter Bates.
“If I’d been married to a crazy brother like this, someone who’d tried to kill me, I might not have told you about it, either,” Eddie said. “It’s gotta be tough for her to live with those memories, dawg. She probably wants to forget it ever happened.”
“I can understand that, but still, she should’ve told me.”
“She was trying to cover her tracks, I guess. Make it harder for him to find her if he got out. She couldn’t do that if she told the whole world about her past.”
“I’m not the ‘whole world’—I’m her
husband.”
Joshua set down his coffee cup so forcefully that liquid slopped over the lip.
Eddie raised his hands defensively. “Hey, you’re right. She should’ve told you the truth. I’m not agreeing with what she did. I’m only trying to see the situation from her perspective.”
“Joy Bates,” Joshua said, and the name felt like a four-letter word coming from his mouth. “That was her married name. Her maiden name back then was Joy Williams. Rachel is actually her middle name.”
“Where did Hall come from? That was her last name when you met her, right?”
“It’s her mother’s maiden surname,” Joshua said. “I found it on her marriage records.”
“I hate to ask, but you think she might’ve had any kids by this dude?”
Joshua thought about the child of his that Rachel claimed she was bearing. He wanted to believe that Rachel, in spite of all the lies she’d told him, hadn’t lied about her pregnancy, and that their child would be the first for her. He couldn’t explain why that last point was so important to him, but it was.
“I hope not,” Joshua said. “None of the records I looked at made any mention of a child.”
Eddie stirred his coffee. “What else did you find, then?”
“Basically, she married this guy Bates seven years ago, when she was twenty-three.”
“Pretty young to be getting hitched. Most people don’t know their heads from their assholes at twenty-three.”
“Three years into the marriage—an abusive marriage— Bates snaps and tries to kill her with a knife. She’s still got some scars from him attacking her. She told me they came from an accident.”
“An accident.” Eddie let out a grim laugh.
“Bates is nailed on attempted murder and gets a ten-year sentence. He’s in for barely a month when she files for divorce.”
“Good for her,” Eddie said. “Hell, good for you, too. Your marriage is legal.”
“For what it’s worth,” Joshua said sourly. “She was born in a suburb of Chicago called Waukegan. Both parents had passed by the time she was five. That lines up with what she told me before.”
“What else do you know about this dude, Bates?” Eddie asked. “Other than the fact that he’s crazy as hell and escaped from prison a few days ago?”
“He was a hotshot narcotics detective in Chicago. I looked up a few news stories about him. Had a great arrest record.”
“Meantime, he was beating his wife.”
Joshua glanced at Bates’s photo on the print-out, nodded tightly.
“There’s another thing,” Joshua said. “Rachel told me she was raised by her aunt Betty. I think Bates killed her.”
“Are you serious?”
“Rachel never told me much about her aunt—I knew she was alive, but Rachel sort of gave me the impression that the woman was up in age and never got around. But I found a news story that ran in a Waukegan-area newspaper. Betty Leonard, an elderly black woman, was found murdered in her home this past Tuesday. She’d been cut up with a switchblade.”
“Jesus,” Eddie said. He looked ill. “That was the same day Rachel took off, wasn’t it?”
“Based on an anonymous tip, Bates was named as a person of interest in the murder,” Joshua said. “He’s still at large.”
Eddie looked warily around the coffee shop as if he would find Bates lurking nearby.
“Where’s your piece?” Eddie asked.
“Left it at home. I don’t have a permit. If I get pulled over for speeding or something and the cops find me with a gun in the car, I’ll be the next one in jail, man.”
“I wouldn’t go far without it. Not while this guy is running loose. Why the hell would he kill an old woman?”
“Maybe he thought she could tell him where Rachel had gone,” Joshua said.
“You think he’s in ATL?” Eddie asked.
“I don’t know if Rachel’s aunt knew where she lived. It seems to me that if Rachel had gone through all this trouble to change her name and all that she would’ve kept her address secret from everyone.”
“But Bates was a cop, Josh. A good one, like you said. If Rachel skipped town as soon as she found out about her aunt, you can bet it’s for a good reason. Be careful.”
“I’ll be careful. But I’m not running away like some punk.”
“I’ve never heard you talk like that.” Eddie made a show of looking underneath the table. “You grow a pair of steel balls in the past couple of days?”
Joshua didn’t laugh.
“Listen, this guy scared my wife so badly that she ran away. I’m pissed at her for lying to me—but I’m even more pissed at him for what I think he did to
her,
and what he probably thinks he’s gonna do to me, and to her again.”
And to our unborn child,
Joshua thought, but didn’t say. “So hell no, I’m not running. This is my life, Rachel’s life. I’m not gonna back down and let this son of a bitch take it all away. If he wants to throw down...” Joshua squeezed his hand into a fist as massive as a sledgehammer. “Let him bring it.”
45
After spending the night with Shakira, the next morning Dexter drove to his wife’s house.
The checkpoint he’d seen last night was gone. Not a cop in sight.
His wife lived in a subdivision called The Lakes at Pine Trace, a neighborhood of spacious homes with attached garages, brick fronts, and Hardiplank siding. Expansive lawns, many featuring holiday decorations, lay wheat-brown and dormant in the winter weather. Dense forestland bordered the perimeter of the community, giant pines stood like silent sentries, and the main road bended around a trio of modest lakes the color of gunmetal.
Her house was in a cul-de-sac at the end of the block. It was a two-story model standing on perhaps a third of an acre, with white siding and green plantation shutters. A Christmas wreath hung on the front door, and a tree was visible through the partly opened blinds on the bay window.
Cozy-looking house. He wondered if the bitch had used part of his money for the down payment.
There were no cars in the driveway, but the blinds on the other windows were closed, preventing him from ascertaining at a glance whether anyone was home.
A sign advertising a home security company was posted in the mulch-covered flower bed beside the walkway. Of course, she would have insisted on an alarm system.
He swung back to the prior intersection and veered around the corner. He parked in the driveway of a ranch house with a
FOR SALE
sign in the yard, a lockbox on the front door, and bare windows. Passersby might assume he was a prospective buyer.
For additional cover, that morning, he’d swiped a Georgia license plate and tacked it into the Chevy. Police often targeted out-of-state tags, and last night’s checkpoint had reminded him that he needed to be ever vigilant.
Rummaging in his duffel, he extracted a few pieces from the tool kit he had purchased. He slipped them into an inner pocket of his jacket and hiked back to the house.
Cold wind skirled down the streets, stirring up phantoms of dead leaves and debris. A fine drizzle had begun to fall from the tumorous gray sky.
There was a black wrought iron mail box at the corner of the driveway. The red arm pointed skyward. He opened it and found a payment envelope addressed to the city water department.
She might have gone on the lam, but it looked as if her new husband had stayed behind. He was paying bills, like a responsible spouse.
Using my money.
He crossed the driveway to the left side of the house. A big plastic trash bin stood over there, behind a small bush. The gray phone box, gas meter, and satellite TV dish were affixed to the wall of the house.
DON’T EVER TELL 243
The house next door was quiet, the blinds shut, the residents surely at work.
Using his tools, he opened the phone box and disconnected the wires, effectively disabling the home security system from notifying the police via the landline. Although it was possible that they had cellular backup installed, which would transmit an alarm even if the regular landlines were severed, in his experience, most people settled for the basics and didn’t bother with add-on services, trusting mostly in the
appearance
of high security to ward away intruders.
He crossed to the rear of the property. A large wooden deck was attached to the back. It was furnished with patio furniture: a table, four chairs. A big barbeque grill, covered with a blue tarp, stood off to one side.
He imagined his wife and her punk-ass husband on the deck, grilling burgers and hot dogs and then sitting down to eat, like a happily married suburban couple. Burning through
his
goddamn money.
Fire licked his heart.
Beyond the perimeter of the backyard, the land was given to woods: pine trees, skeletal elms and oaks, bone-thin shrubbery. Wind howled through the forest and nipped at his earlobes.
A French-style patio door opened onto the deck, the square segments of windows covered with blinds. He tried the knob. Locked.
Inside, a dog started yapping. Annoying, high-pitched barks that could have only come from a small dog.
His wife had always wanted to get a dog. He hadn’t allowed it. A dog demanded time, money, energy, attention. A married woman had no business taking care of a dog; she ought to be taking care of her husband.
The dog pressed its nose to one of the lower window panes, parting the blinds. He glimpsed the animal’s small, bulbous head. It looked like one of those ugly little Mexican dogs.
No one came running to check out the reason for the barking, a good a sign as any that no one was home.
He knelt and put his lips to the door.
“Keep up that barking you fucking mutt, and I’ll crush your head under my boot like a grape when I get inside.”
The dog whimpered. He heard the patter of tiny feet as it skittered away.
He applied duct tape to one of the window panes and broke the glass with a hammer. Although no one was home and he had killed the security hookup, why get careless? Success was a matter of developing good habits.
He stuck his gloved hand through the jagged maw. His fingers found the dead bolt lock, and twisted.
The door opened, and the alarm didn’t make a peep.
46
Prescott Property Management was located downtown, on Auburn Avenue. Auburn Avenue, known as “Sweet Auburn,” was a stretch of roadway that once had been called “the richest Negro street in the world.” In the segregated, pre–Civil Rights era, it had been a showcase for black-owned financial institutions, churches, markets, professionals, entertainers, and politicians.
After desegregation allowed black businesses to spread across the metro area, the money left, and economic turmoil settled in for a decades-long stay. In the past several years, however, as urban revitalization projects swept the city, Auburn Avenue was on the upswing, too, with new office buildings, mixed-use developments, and condos springing up regularly.
Joshua swung his Explorer into the parking lot beside the company’s office. Wind slashed at his face as he trudged toward the building, and the mottled gray sky spat an icy drizzle that weather forecasters predicted would soon become a full-fledged winter storm. He hoped to conclude his business downtown and get home before conditions worsened, because everyone knew Atlantans couldn’t drive in bad weather.
Prescott Property Management operated out of a onestory, red brick building, sandwiched between a law firm and a realtor’s office. An
OPEN
sign hung on the glass entrance.
Inside, there was a small waiting area and a receptionist, a grandmotherly woman, at a front desk. Behind her, there was a work area with a woman and a man sitting in cubicles, and an enclosed office in which the woman whose photo he’d seen on their Web site was talking on the phone.
“Good morning, young man,” the receptionist said. “How may I help you?”
He’d been hoping to fabricate a story he could use to uncover clues about Rachel’s relationship with this company, but nothing had come to mind.
“I’d like to talk to someone about managing a rental property of mine.”
“Certainly. What is your name?”
“Joshua Moore.”
She slid a clipboard and pencil across the desk to him. The clipboard bore a sheet of white paper that listed questions about his property.
“Please complete this form, Mr. Moore. Mrs. Prescott will be with you shortly.”
He sat in the waiting area and skimmed the questionnaire. It asked for his property address, whether it was a singlefamily home, condo, duplex, or town house; whether it was currently leased; the rent that he charged or wished to charge; if he ever intended to use the property himself; and other questions.
Reading through the inquiries failed to give him any ideas. He twirled the pencil in his fingers, glanced around the area. Color photographs of properties for rent were tacked to the walls, but none of them sparked inspiration.
“Mr. Moore?” a woman asked.
It was LaVosha Prescott. She strode toward him, smartly dressed in a double-breasted plum-colored pantsuit and black pumps. She offered a professional smile and extended her hand.
He stood, dropping the clipboard in his haste. He picked it up, and shook her hand.
“Hi, nice to meet you.”
“You can give that to me,” she said. “Have you filled it out yet?”
“Not exactly.”
“No problem. We’ll review everything in my office. Follow me, please.”
In her office, he took one of the leather wingback chairs in front of her desk. On the desktop, she had a photo of a handsome man that he took to be her husband, and a shot of a young girl that was probably her daughter. No pictures that gave him any clues.
LaVosha sat in a high-backed executive chair and laced her fingers on the burnished oak desk. “Tell me about your property, Mr. Moore.”
“It’s a place that my wife and I own jointly, actually,” he said, wondering where the lie came from. “She’s already had dealings with your company. I was dropping by to check up on things.”
LaVosha gave him a quizzical look.
“And your wife’s name is?”
The office had been pleasantly warm, but it suddenly felt like a furnace. He was no good at lying.
“Rachel Moore. I think she called you earlier this week?”
LaVosha’s expression was guarded.
“Yes, she did call me.”
The woman didn’t offer anything else. Why? What had Rachel said to her? Had she warned this woman about him?
“Rachel sort of kept me in the dark about the property,” he said. “Matter of fact, it was all her idea to buy it. I wasn’t involved in the purchase. It’s not until recently that I found out that your company was managing the place.”
“We may be.”
“I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about your business arrangement with Rachel,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything, Mr. Moore. My dealings with your wife are confidential.”
“Is that your company policy, or is that by her request?”
“Does it matter?”
“Please, ma’am. This is important. This could be a matter of life and death—I’m not exaggerating. I need to know where my wife has gone, for her safety.”
LaVosha firmly shook her head.
“Mr. Moore, you’re asking me to divulge information that my client explicitly asked me to keep confidential. I can’t jeopardize her trust. It would be unethical, and I don’t do business that way.”
“But I have to help her!”
LaVosha pushed back from her desk, eyebrows arched. “Excuse me?”
“Look at this.” He placed the manila folder he’d brought inside on her desk and opened it to the inmate profile of Bates that he’d printed. “See this guy here? He was in prison for trying to kill Rachel, and he escaped last week. He’s already murdered her aunt, in Illinois.”
“Good Lord, that’s horrible.” LaVosha put her hand to her chest.
“He’s coming for Rachel next. He used to be a detective in Chicago—he’ll know how to find her. Wherever she is,
I have to be there to protect her.”
“You need to call the police, Mr. Moore. Seriously.”
“They’re already looking for him. But he’s still at large. I don’t know where this guy is—all I know is that he’s looking for Rachel.”
“Which means that the fewer people who know where she’s staying, the better.” Sighing, LaVosha rose from her chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moore. I can’t help you.”
Slumping forward, he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Can you tell me
anything?”
he asked.
LaVosha glanced at the photos of her family on her desk, brow knitted in thought. When she turned back to him, her eyes softened.
“I can tell you that Rachel loves her property dearly,” she said. “It’s been ...a part of her for a very long time.”
He frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
“If you love her as much I think you do, then you will soon enough.”