Chapter Four
Four
Fort Bragg, California
“Sara,” Elle whispered.
Sara glared at her. “Thanks for answering his questions without saying a fucking word.”
Elle understood Sara’s reticence in notifying the cops, but someone had died. Their informant had been murdered. “She was a nice lady, Sara. She didn’t deserve whatever happened to her.”
“We are not telling that detective anything.”
Elle dropped her gaze to her hands as she considered what to say, because “Yes, we are” was on the tip of her tongue. She loved Sara, but her friend could be stubborn.
At least the murder explained why she and Sara hadn’t been able to make reservations at Ms. Foster’s inn. All they’d been told was that it had been closed and they’d been referred to where they were now.
Elle exhaled and lifted her gaze to find Sara still glaring at her. “Our right to privacy ended the moment Dianne Foster was killed. Sara, Reece Miller knows we talked to her. He killed her.”
“Maybe not. Maybe it was a robbery.”
“Let’s find out.” Connecting her phone to the inn’s Wi-Fi because she had no bars at all, Elle googled Dianne Foster and skimmed the first article that popped up.
It had been published in the local newspaper and gave the bare bones of the case.
“This says that she was bludgeoned with a heavy object. Probably a trophy.” She looked up with a frown.
“I saw a trophy. I even picked it up. Commented on how heavy it was.”
“You are not telling that detective that,” Sara whispered fiercely.
“If I left prints on it, they’re going to know.”
“You do not tell them anything.” Sara jabbed the air with her forefinger. “I mean it, Elle.”
Elle shook her head. She could be stubborn, too. Especially when she was right. “We need to give him Miller’s name. This is bigger than our search now. You know it’s the right thing to do.”
Sara closed her eyes, and Elle knew she’d won.
She also knew better than to gloat about it.
“Fine,” Sara muttered. “But nothing about the missing painting. We’ve invested time and money into this case. If we don’t get the finder’s fee for Miller, we at least need to get the reward for the fucking painting.”
“All right,” Elle agreed, because that had been her plan all along.
The bail bondsman would pay them for finding Miller, but the art gallery would pay the reward for the painting’s safe return.
Getting paid for one without the other wasn’t ideal, but it would be better than nothing.
“We tell him only what is necessary. But we will tell him.”
“Fine.” Sara yanked the door open, revealing Detective Clarke, who’d clearly been trying to listen. He didn’t even look embarrassed to have been caught.
Elle took a moment to study him. He was a very handsome man. Tall and blond. He looked like he should be a surfer except that he was far too serious. He didn’t have the devil-may-care attitude that his looks suggested. He looked angry and…sad.
She wondered if he’d known the victim.
“You’re ready to talk to me?” he asked.
Sara impatiently gestured him in. “I’m not.”
He turned to Elle. “Ms. Randolph?”
Elle lowered herself into one of the chairs in Judith’s office and waited until the detective was sitting as well. Sara remained standing, arms crossed over her chest.
“We’re fugitive recovery agents,” Elle began, “but you knew that already.”
“I did,” he agreed. “Who are you hunting?”
“A man named Reece Miller. He robbed a business in San Francisco and shot a guard as he made his escape. The guard will live but will never walk again. He then shot a bystander when he carjacked their vehicle to get away. The bystander will also live, but she was in critical condition for a while. He jumped bail two weeks ago.”
Those were the facts. He could review Miller’s case himself if he wanted more information.
“Okay. Why Dianne Foster?”
“Miller grew up in this area.” And in Willits, but she wasn’t going to tell him that part. He didn’t have rights to the details of their investigation, especially since it hadn’t netted them anything. “Dianne Foster was his English teacher.”
He nodded. “She was mine, too. She was everyone’s high school English teacher. Everyone who grew up here, anyway. But I don’t remember Reece Miller. How old is he?”
Elle tilted her head. “You grew up here?” He might be a resource for information. He’d want information in return, but Elle thought she could walk that tightrope. Clarke got paid even if he didn’t catch the bad guy, unlike Elle and Sara. Hopefully he’d be a support and not a barrier.
“Lived here all my life except for a few years in San Francisco. Look, I knew Dianne Foster. Just about everyone did. She was a good person. She should still be alive. What did she tell you?”
“That Miller was a troubled boy. He did some time in juvie as a teenager, then got arrested right out of high school and did time.”
“How old is Miller?” he asked again.
“Thirty-three,” Elle said.
Sara was still scowling.
She’ll get over it.
“After my graduating class, then. I’ll check into his family, see if I knew any of them.”
“I don’t think he’s got any family left,” Elle said, “but if you find some, that would be great to know.”
He just looked at her. “Uh-huh. What else did Mrs. Foster say?”
“She was so disappointed when he was arrested out of school. Said his parents tried, but he was wild. He liked her class, though. He enjoyed reading so she sent him books when he was in prison. He wrote her letters and she wrote him back. They lost touch when he was released. She didn’t know he’d moved to San Francisco. ”
“Did she keep any of the letters?”
“She said she didn’t. Detective, if you think Reece Miller had something to do with Ms. Foster’s murder, that means he knows we’re the ones looking for him and that we talked to her.
That indicates he’s been following us, but we haven’t noticed a tail.
And we watch for things like that. It doesn’t make sense that he’d even know Dianne Foster was involved. ”
“Unless someone told him.”
Elle shared a glance with Sara. “I thought we were the only ones around that night we talked to her, but clearly someone else was there because they noticed us. Did you see anyone?”
Sara gave a grudging nod. “There was that mother with the baby.”
“Oh, right.” Elle remembered. “She said her baby had colic and she had to walk with him at night to keep him from crying and waking everyone up. I did see her. I didn’t think she was close enough to hear us, though.”
“She wasn’t,” Sara said. “Or else Detective Clarke wouldn’t have had to ask us. He’d already know.”
“Fair,” Clarke said. “How did you know to contact Dianne? How did you know she was his teacher?”
“Old yearbooks,” Elle replied. “Everyone takes English, so we started with the English teachers. Dianne Foster owned an inn and we needed a place to stay, so she was the natural first choice.”
Every word of which was true. Not complete, but true. She wasn’t going to mention that they had a secret weapon in Sara’s wife, Felicia, who could find out any information about anyone. It was Felicia who’d learned that Reece Miller had a juvenile record for assault and theft.
“That makes sense,” Clarke admitted. “Did you talk to anyone else about Miller?”
“Not the same way. We showed his photo around in a few of the stores—gift shops, the grocery store, places like that.” The pharmacy, too. “But no one had seen him.”
That was one hundred percent true. Steve Garfield had seen Wendy Miller, not Reece.
They’d also shown his photo to a few storeowners in Willits, but the detective didn’t need to know that.
Unless Miller knew about those people as well.
If he went after someone else and killed them…
I couldn’t live with myself.
She’d opened her mouth to share this information, but Sara horned in.
“We’ve answered your questions, Detective. We really do want to see Glass Beach. Do you have anything else you need to ask us?”
Clarke looked at Sara, then at Elle.
He knew she’d been about to give him more information. He knew Sara had derailed it. He’d be coming back. Elle would bet money on it.
“That’s enough for now. How long will you two be in town?”
“Until we find Reece Miller,” Sara said tartly.
Clarke only nodded. “Ladies. Have a good day.”
Then he was gone, leaving Sara fuming.
“You were going to tell him about Willits,” Sara accused in a harsh whisper.
“I don’t want to be responsible for anyone over there getting hurt. Or worse.”
Sara closed her eyes, her mouth moving like she was praying for patience.
“Elle. We are not responsible for Dianne Foster’s murder.
If someone gets hurt, we are not responsible for them, either.
Miller is. Or whoever killed the Foster woman.
It doesn’t make sense that it was Miller who killed her.
Let the detective do his job and we will do ours.
Which we need to be doing. Let’s drop our bags in our room and then set up those cameras in the pharmacy parking lots.
I want to know when Miller’s wife goes shopping again. ”
Elle wanted to argue. She wanted to go after Ronan Clarke. Wanted to tell him the whole truth.
But she’d given Clarke more than he’d had earlier—Reece Miller’s name. For now, that would have to be enough.
Willits, California
Wednesday, January 21, 10:45 a.m.