Chapter 4 Calder #3
One of the more fascinating aspects of the retrieval business was the wide berth in people’s definitions of important.
The things they thought were significant to tell me and the critical details they brushed off as unessential.
Like sharing that Brandon sent back his eggs three times, but not that he ended up in an argument with the police.
It was why I relied so heavily on observation, detailed questions, and following only facts I could prove.
“The police were here?” It was my next question, but it wasn’t my voice.
I gritted my teeth, watching as Lara ignored my instruction and injected herself into the conversation. She didn’t even wait for Marlene to answer before bombarding her with more questions.
“Why were the police called? Was it because of Brandon?”
This was why I didn’t bring loved ones along, especially when that loved one was used to being at the center of deduction—medical deduction, but deduction nonetheless.
This wasn’t the emergency room, and Lara wasn’t the one treating this case. I was. And it was for the exact same reasons that family members weren’t allowed in an operating room; her emotions were the kind of thing that could derail the surgical precision of my search.
“Oh, no, dear. Harry and Shelton were in here for lunch.”
“Harry Stokes and Shelton Boone are part of the Jackson police force,” I interjected, jotting their names in my notebook.
Harry and Shelton were stand-up cops and had known my family from back when Colton had been arrested.
They were some of the solid few who didn’t get territorial when we were hired to supplement a missing persons investigation, or insulted when we came up with more leads that panned out than they did.
In fact, last I knew, Creighton still consulted with them on certain police cases.
“Here you go, Calder.” The swinging door thumped forward and back as Ron came through it, his hand held high, a piece of notepaper suspended between his fingers. “I pulled the charge. The card belonged to a Brandon Westman.”
I scratched the name into my notebook, copying the spelling from Ron’s paper.
“Thanks, Ron.” I motioned that he could throw the note away; I had the information where I needed it.
“Marlene, you said Brandon was getting loud with the police. Could you describe what you saw exactly in the parking lot?”
There was little point in asking her whether she’d heard what they were saying.
Even if she’d been standing near the door where we were now, there was still a concert of other sounds going on around her.
Cooking from the kitchen. The customers’ conversations.
The radio. The TV. Add to that the physical barrier of the building and then, during a busy lunch hour, a reasonable distance to where Brandon would’ve literally parked, there was no way whatever Marlene thought she’d heard was reliable.
“Oh, I didn’t see much except the yelling.”
No point in correcting her that one couldn’t “see” yelling.
“Where were they standing? Close to the building? Farther away?”
“Oh, they were going back and forth by a camper parked at the very front of the lot by the road. The young man was hollerin’, and the police were pointing to the camper; maybe they were arguin’ about that, I can’t be sure.”
“Thank you so much, Marlene.” I jotted down camper, underlined it twice, and then flipped my notebook closed. “You’ve been so helpful. We really appreciate it.” I flashed her a quick smile and then waved at the owner. “You, too, Ron. Good seeing you.”
“Anytime, Calder. Don’t be a stranger.”
My hand was on the door when Lara called, “Wait, Calder—”
I didn’t stop or even slow my stride into the parking lot. There was no more information to be gleaned from Marlene, though emotion would drive a person to believe they could draw water from a stone. No pun intended.
I had fished my cell from my pocket, starting a message to my brother, when Lara’s hand landed on my arm. Unexpected. I jerked away—uncontrollably—catching the flash of hurt in her gaze before she wiped it clean.
Dammit. I wasn’t trying to be a dick, but my dick was being a dick every time she came close. And every time she touched me, it only got worse.
“That’s it?” Lara demanded, her arms swinging wide. “Don’t you want to see security footage? They have cameras around the building. One of them might have the license plate of the camper—”
“Lara, enough,” I stopped her, my voice more growl than tenor. “Reverse the roles. How would you feel if I came into your emergency room and started questioning how you do your job?”
She blanched and bundled her arms over her front.
“You’re right.” Her throat bobbed. “I do know what it’s like when patients and Dr. Google try to tell me how to do my job. It’s just . . . my sister.” Her voice broke at the end, and she turned away before letting her shoulders sag. Like she didn’t want me to see the weight she carried.
An unfamiliar tightness banded around my chest as I watched her walk aimlessly away from me.
Lara was used to being the responsible one.
The caretaker. Something she’d been long before she became a doctor.
I recognized the trait because I felt the same for all my siblings, especially after what had happened to Mom; I felt responsible in a way that went too deep to be healthy.
For all the years Lara had spent looking out for her sister, caring for her mom and then for her patients, when was the last time someone had cared for her?
When had she last trusted someone to care for her?
“Lara.”
She turned her head slightly over her shoulder, but not far enough to meet my gaze. I had a feeling if she had, I’d see the tears bottled in her eyes.
“I’m good at what I do, and I’m going to find Rachel. I promise.” I heard myself carelessly break another rule. I never promised results. Not in this business. Not ever. It was for all the reasons easy to imagine, and yet I’d just made another exception. For her.
“I’m sorry,” Lara murmured, running her hands up and down the sides of her arms, though there was no chill in the air.
A different kind of frustration bubbled against my skin. The urge to kiss her, to coax her mouth open and drain the tension from her body, hit me. Unexpectedly.
Shit.
“It’s all right,” I grunted and returned to my text, watching in my periphery as she moved a few paces away.
I quickly tapped out Brandon’s name and sent it through to Callum. After two years of working with me, my brother knew exactly what information I needed and just how to get it.
When I looked up, Lara had started a slow 360 spin, scanning the parking lot like there were clues to be found if she just looked hard enough.
My gut clenched. Was this what everyone who hired me felt like while I worked?
Or was it only her because she was here with me now?
Whatever the answer, I didn’t like the heavy yoke of helplessness settled on her shoulders.
I more than didn’t like it. I felt a sear of anger burning through me, like I’d do anything to stop it.
So I did.
“Lara,” I called before I could stop myself, and a second later twin green orbs glittered at me.
“The security cameras—the brand, the model is cloud storage only, which holds footage for a maximum of two weeks, so whatever they captured would’ve already been overwritten.
” I cleared my throat, not used to having to explain my process, let alone wanting to.
“To store anything older, they’d need a dedicated physical server in the diner. ” Which they clearly didn’t have.
There wasn’t reason to say more except her strain started to ease.
Her shoulders softened and she looked at me with the same swell of gratitude that had propelled her to hug me.
And like an itch that needed to be scratched, I wanted to push her to that place again.
The place where she couldn’t stop herself from reaching for me.
“I sent Brandon’s information to Callum,” I continued. “He’ll be able to find any vehicles registered to him, including the camper.”
“What about the police? Are you going to call and find out what they were talking to Brandon about?”
My cell started to vibrate, and I gave her a single “hold on” finger as I picked up the call.
“Hey, Callum,” I answered, feeling Lara get closer to my back.
My brother’s terse voice sped through the information. “Brandon Westman has two vehicles registered to his name. A 2008 Ford pickup and a Timberleaf camper. The Ford was tagged a few weeks ago for an expired registration.”
“Got it. So police flagged him for the expired tags on the truck,” I confirmed loud enough for Lara to hear.
“Yeah . . .” Callum grunted; it wasn’t like me to repeat information back to him, but he wouldn’t ask.
For once, I was grateful for the dismal interest he held in anyone’s life.
“I also checked permits, and he paid for one three weeks ago at Bridger-Teton; his license plate registered as entering the park the day after it was flagged by the police as expired. The permit for the camper expires in three days, but he still hasn’t upped the registration on the truck. ”