12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Donna
The record is buried beneath older documents and an address change that never made it into the public databases I checked first, but once I have the right name, the rest comes together quickly.
Elaine Monroe. Sixty-two. Widowed.
Lives about an hour outside Chicago in a town small enough to have one stop light. Her property records, utility accounts, and voting registration all point to the same address.
I write it down, then stare at the page for a moment.
Rachel has almost no public footprint, but her mother does. That gives me somewhere to start.
I pick up my phone and call Lorenzo.
He answers on the second ring.
“Donna.”
“I found Rachel’s adoptive mother.”
There is a brief pause.
“Where?”
“About an hour outside the city.”
“Is Rachel there?”
“I don’t know.”
“When are you going?”
“As soon as I finish this call.”
“I’ll meet you at your office.”
“No.”
His response comes without hesitation. “Yes.”
I lean back in my chair and look toward the front window.
“You do understand that private investigation does not typically involve bringing the client along for interviews.”
“This one does.”
“According to whom?”
“Me. The employer.”
“That’s not how employment works.”
“It is how this employment works.”
I rub my forehead. “We already discussed this.”
“We discussed you calling me before you approached Rachel.”
“I’m approaching her mother.”
“And Rachel may be there.”
“She probably isn’t.”
“Probably is not enough.”
“Lorenzo.”
“I will be at your office in twenty minutes.”
He hangs up.
I lower the phone and stare at it.
“Unbelievable.”
Mocha lifts his head from the floor near the filing cabinet.
“He thinks he can invite himself to an interview.”
Mocha watches me.
“He also hangs up on people.”
His ears twitch.
“I know. You would bite him if I let you.”
Mocha lowers his head again.
Twenty-three minutes later, Lorenzo walks through my office door without knocking.
I look at the clock.
“You’re late.”
“By three minutes.”
“Late.”
His gaze moves around the office before settling on me. “Are you ready?”
“I was ready twenty-three minutes ago.”
“Then we should go.”
I close the file on my desk and stand.
“I’m driving.”
“No.”
I reach for my bag. “You don’t know where we’re going.”
“But I will.”
“I’m beginning to see a pattern.”
“So am I.”
He opens the office door and waits.
I stop beside him.
“Why are you here, exactly?”
“To make sure you do not walk into another situation alone.”
“I haven't walked into any ‘situations’ alone. You're just a worrywart.”
He looks offended at that description.
“She’s a sixty-two-year-old widow,” I say.
“She is the adoptive mother of a woman who framed my son for murder, and probably killed her own sister.”
“And you think she learned it all from mommy?” I ask sarcastically.
“Could run in the family,” he quips.
I study him.
He is dressed for work in a dark suit and overcoat, looking entirely wrong for a drive into a quiet town outside Chicago to visit a sixty-two-year-old widow.
“You’re going to scare her.”
“I can be charming.”
“Prove it,” I say. I turn to Mocha and call him.
“The dog is coming?” Lorenzo asks.
“Yes. Still want to take your car?”
“I'll just get it cleaned,” he mutters.
“Ah, that charm. I just can't get enough of it.” I close the door to my office and lock it.
He gives me a look as Mocha falls into step beside me.
“You enjoy provoking me.”
“It passes the time.”
“I was under the impression finding Rachel was supposed to do that.”
“That too.”
We head toward the street, Lorenzo holding the outer door while Mocha and I pass through.
We take his car.
I object once more before letting Mocha in the back, mostly on principle. Lorenzo ignores me, which he appears to enjoy doing.
I crack the windows in the back, and Mocha immediately sticks his face out.
The city thins gradually as we drive. Buildings give way to wider roads, then open stretches of land broken by small commercial strips and clusters of houses.
Lorenzo drives with one hand on the wheel, his attention fixed ahead.
I keep the file open on my lap.
“Elaine Monroe adopted Rachel as an infant,” I say. “Her husband, Daniel, died six years ago. No other children in the household.”
“Rachel kept the surname.”
“Yes.”
“Current relationship?”
“No idea.”
“That is what we’re going to find out.”
“I’m aware.”
He glances at me. “You sound irritated.”
“You insisted on coming, took over the driving, and have now explained the purpose of my own interview to me.”
“I said I would let you lead.”
“You also said you could be charming.”
“I can.”
“So you're just saving it up for Elaine?”
His voice goes deep. “Do you want me to charm you, Donna?”
The change in his voice slides over my skin before I can stop it.
I turn my head.
His eyes remain on the road, but the slight curve at the corner of his mouth tells me he knows exactly what he just did.
“That depends,” I say.
“On?”
“How convincing you think you can be.”
His hand tightens once around the steering wheel.
“I don’t usually have to try very hard.”
Heat gathers between my legs, irritating me. Damn him.
I close the file on my lap and fall back on my safety mechanism: sarcasm. “Arrogance again?”
“Confidence.”
I let my gaze travel over his profile, the firm line of his mouth, the open collar above his coat.
“Maybe you should keep your attention on the road.”
“Maybe you should stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Now he glances at me.
The look lasts only a second, but it is enough.
“Like you really do want me to prove it.”
My nipples harden, and I’m thankful for the thick sweater I’m wearing. I would die of embarrassment.
I turn toward the window before he can read anything else on my face.
“Elaine’s last known contact with Rachel was several months ago,” I say, reopening the file. “That is the part we need to focus on.”
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then his voice returns to normal. “What did Rachel want?”
“I don’t know yet. That is why we’re going.”
Elaine Monroe lives in a modest house on a quiet street lined with mature trees and older homes set farther apart than you typically see in the city. The yard is well maintained without being elaborate. A small ceramic planter sits near the steps, empty for the season.
There is one car in the driveway.
I check the plate against the information I found.
“It belongs to Elaine.”
Lorenzo parks along the curb.
“No sign of Rachel,” he says.
“Not from here.”
We get out.
I lean into the car and look at Mocha. “I'm sorry, boy, but you have to stay here. We won't be long.”
He gives me a sad look, but he lies back down with a huff.
I shut the door and look at Lorenzo across the roof of the car.
“Let me do the talking.”
“I know.”
“I'm serious.”
“I didn't think you were joking.”
“And do not intimidate her.”
“I know.”
“Do not make vaguely threatening statements.”
His eyebrows lift. “I don’t make a habit of threatening widows.”
I study him for a moment before I turn and start walking to the house.
I ring the bell.
Movement sounds from inside, followed by the click of a lock.
The woman who opens the door is slender, with short gray hair and cautious eyes. She looks from me to Lorenzo, then back again.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Donna Costa. I’m a private investigator. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your daughter.”
Her hand tightens on the edge of the door.
The reaction is quick, but I see it. Fear.
“What about her? I haven't heard from her,” Elaine says.
I keep my voice calm. “I was hoping you could answer a few questions about her.”
Her lips press together.
“Is she in trouble?”
“I'm not sure yet.”
“What do you mean you're not sure? Is she in trouble or not?” the woman snaps, but it’s not irritation. It's that fear again.
“A woman is dead, and I think Rachel may know what happened.”
The color drains from Elaine’s face.
She looks past us toward the street, then steps back.
“Come inside.”
The living room is warm and carefully maintained. Family photographs cover one wall and fill the shelves beside the fireplace.
I see Rachel immediately.
Childhood pictures. School portraits. A teenager in a graduation gown. A young woman standing between Elaine and a man who must have been her late husband, Daniel.
The resemblance to Genevieve is unmistakable.
Lorenzo stops near the photographs.
Elaine notices and says, “She always hated pictures.”
That would explain the lack of them online.
“Not a fan of social media?” I ask.
Elaine looks at me. “No, she never was interested in that.” She gestures toward the sofa. “Sit.”
Lorenzo and I take the sofa. Elaine sits across from us in an armchair, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
I take out my notebook but do not open it yet.
“When did you last see Rachel?”
“A long time ago.”
“How long?”
“More than a year.”
“Have you spoken to her since then?”
Elaine hesitates. “A few months ago.”
“Do you know how long?”
“Three, maybe four months.”
“What did she want?”
“Now, how would that be any of your business?”
“Because your daughter may be connected to a murder,” I say. “Anything she asked for or talked about could matter.”
Elaine’s gaze shifts briefly to Lorenzo.
He says nothing.
I keep my attention on her. “Did she want money? Documents? An address?”
Her fingers tighten together.
“She asked about her adoption papers.”
“Like court documents and medical information?” I ask.
“Yeah, things like that. We didn't have much information about her birth.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said she wanted to know more about where she came from.”
“Had she ever shown interest before?”
“Well, it's natural, ain't it?”
I smile, trying to calm the woman down. “Of course. Wanting to know more about where you came from.”
Elaine looks away, and I get the feeling that Rachel wanting to know more hurt her.
“When did the interest become serious?” I ask.
“After Daniel died.”
Six years ago.
That gives Rachel plenty of time.
“What changed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
Elaine looks at me again.
Lorenzo remains quiet, exactly as promised, but his presence makes noise anyway.