Thirteen Detective Walter Duncan
Thirteen
Detective Walter Duncan
I rap on the open door to Reynolds’s office. He didn’t call or text saying he had anything, but I just can’t let the day end without being sure. I need something to give Liv and me some definitive direction.
The burned-out barn is something, but unless remains are found, it could just be a sad accident. A coincidence. But I never have believed in coincidences.
Whatever the case, we have to keep digging and looking for Fanning and other potential scenarios to explain his disappearance.
“Walt.” Reynolds motions for me to come on in.
He appears to be doing paperwork, probably in an effort to get out of here. I doubt he’s happy to see someone like me at his door.
I take a seat in front of his desk. “I was about to head home and thought I’d check in to see if there’s anything back on the Fanning crime scene.”
“I wish.” He closes the manila folder in front of him. “The lab is running behind. Hopefully tomorrow. Nothing on that trace evidence, either. I know it’s frustrating, but we’re going as fast as we can.”
I nod. I figured this would be a waste of time.
Beyond the DNA, the rest probably isn’t anything that will help.
White cotton, potentially from a sheet or other piece of linen.
A hair that likely belonged to Fanning. Some animal fecal matter that could have gotten tracked in on Fanning’s or the perp’s/vic’s shoes.
“I understand.” I get up. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
The folks up in Chester County will likely be just as slow with answers about the burned-out barn. It’s the nature of the beast. These things take time.
Reynolds pushes to his feet, gives me a thorough once-over. “You’re looking a little more haggard than usual, Walt. Everything okay?”
No point lying to this guy. “Gotta see a cardiologist. The old ticker is misbehaving.”
He touches his chest. “I feel ya. Mine has me on a strict diet and exercise regimen. It’s no fun, but if it keeps me alive, I can deal with it.”
“No kidding.”
After living for a couple of weeks with the idea that I might have lung cancer, this is a piece of cake.
Outside, I climb into my Tahoe and kick aside the frustration with the case.
The worst part is that we still can’t be certain Fanning is even the victim.
He could be the perpetrator of whatever took place in that dump he calls home as well as in that barn belonging to Hyatt and Reeves.
What started out as two vics taking revenge may have turned into two women becoming victims all over again, considering we haven’t been able to reconnect with either of the two.
Either way, someone—two someones, actually—were injured, and we need to figure out what happened in Fanning’s rental.
And in that damned barn. Hopefully while we can still make a difference.
My cell vibrates with a text from Liv.
You need to come to the farm now.
I shoot off an answer: On my way.
I’m hoping she’s not sick or been in a fight with the fiancé.
I don’t want to have to kick the guy’s ass.
I park next to Liv’s Subaru. She waits at the front door of the house, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed over her chest.
She knows before I get out of the car the things I’ll ask first, and she’s ready to defend her feelings and choices.
You feeling okay? “I’m fine,” she would say.
“You don’t need to worry about me. A little headache isn’t going to keep me down.
” Have you been home? Aghast, she would demand, “How is that relevant? I’ll get there when I get there.
I called you here for an important reason, Walt. ”
I know her almost as well as I know myself.
I’ll bet she hasn’t been home yet. It’s almost seven.
The fact that she’s still wearing the gray jacket and black trousers she wore to work today tells me I would win that bet.
I wonder whether she’s even called him. As much as I dislike the guy—and really, I don’t even know him—I know she loves him.
I just can’t figure out why she’s working so hard to push him away.
Even when I play devil’s advocate, she won’t exactly say she doesn’t love him or that she wants to end the relationship. She’s confused and feeling uncertain.
If Stella were here, she’d tell me to mind my own business.
“But she’s like a daughter to me,” I mumble.
Stella would say, “I know.”
I climb out of the Tahoe and amble across the yard. “Traffic was murder.” As I take the steps up the porch, I ask the expected question, “You okay?”
Before she can even answer, a weariness washes over me and I resist the urge to sit down right there and just lean against the railing.
I am tired. More tired than I have felt since those all-night vigils with Stella.
I’d work all day while the nurse sat with her, and then I’d spend the night entertaining her or just watching her breathe.
I was terrified that if I closed my eyes, I’d wake up and she’d be gone.
“I don’t know,” Liv admits. “‘Okay’ is suddenly complicated.”
These words surprise me. Liv isn’t one to bemoan her lot in life. If she’s having a bad day, she usually pretends it’s merely challenging or that she has no idea what I’m talking about. She keeps her chin up. Always. Even, I’ve learned lately, when one of those headaches kicks her butt.
“How complicated?” I pause at the door as she steps aside to let me in.
“You should have a drink.”
“Oh.” I groan. “That complicated.”
Liv is not a drinker. The occasional glass of wine or beer, but she’s way too levelheaded to go overboard with either. Never smoked. Runs and works out. Eats all those natural, colorful veggies they say are good for you. The list of healthy stuff she does makes me exhausted just thinking about it.
I lower myself onto Dr. Newhouse’s leather sofa. Liv rounds the bar and pours me a scotch. My mouth waters. This won’t be the cheap stuff. Her daddy bought only the best. She returns to where I wait, but she’s carrying only one drink.
“What about you?” I accept the glass she offers.
“That’s part of the complication.”
I knock back a slug of the scotch, clear my throat. “All right. I’m listening.”
Liv sits down on the coffee table, her chin in her hands, elbows on her knees.
“All these migraines and feeling utterly exhausted all the time really had me worried. And I was late.” She glances up at me, and I nod in understanding.
“So I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. That’s really why I went to the doctor.
With all the headaches, I thought something might be wrong. ”
The wind goes right out of my sails. I’m nodding again, like a cheap bobblehead doll. “What does your fiancé have to say about this?”
I recognize my tone is accusing as if the man has done something bad and needs taking down a couple of notches. When she smiles, some of the heaviness lifts from my chest.
“You’re the only person besides my doctor who knows.”
My smile turns into a grin. “He won’t like that you told me first.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s the least of my worries. I don’t know if I’m properly equipped to be a mother, Walt. This is seriously complicated.”
I reach out, take her hand in mine. “First, yes, it’s complicated, but it’s also amazing and crazy wonderful. Stella and I wanted children so badly. It’s a blessing. After losing your father, it’s a miracle. That’s what it is. Second, you’ll be an incredible mother. The best. No question.”
“I wish I could feel as sure as you do.”
My mind goes back to the logistics of all this. “So is the pregnancy causing the headaches?”
I’m hoping the answer is yes and that there isn’t some other underlying issue.
“Dr. Raiford said it’s a combination of the pregnancy hormones and all the loss and stress I’ve experienced lately. She thinks it’ll pass or at least ease up in the next few weeks as I move into the second trimester.”
Anticipation has me asking, “So when is this baby due? I have to start making plans, kid.”
“December fourteenth, give or take a few days. We’ll know more after an ultrasound.” She shakes her head. “Merry Christmas to me.”
The pages of the calendar—the days, weeks, months—whirl in my head. I have to get to that cardiologist and get my act together. I need to be here for Liv . . . for the baby.
I square my shoulders and do the fatherly thing. “You have to talk to Preston about this. It’s not right to leave him out.”
“I know.” She nods. “I will talk to him, I promise. I just need to get used to the idea myself before I go there. He’ll want to tell his parents, and, well, you understand. Particularly right now, with this case. I just can’t handle all that.”
I do understand. Which is part of why I haven’t told her about my own complications.
No matter that the latest twist in the story is better than the previous one, her father died of a heart attack.
I don’t want her looking at me and worrying about the same fate.
After I see the cardiologist, I will tell her.
“So, how does he feel about dogs?”
I can’t exactly ask her to take Sandy if something were to happen to me without telling her the reason I started worrying about the issue. For now, feeling out how her future husband might react to having a pet around the house will have to do.
When she looks confused, I add, “You know, they say men who like animals make better fathers.” I have no idea if this is true, but it seems reasonable.
“He loves dogs.” She says this as if she finds the answer surprising herself. “He had a border collie for twelve years, she died just before he and I met. He hasn’t had the heart to get another one.” A smile tugs at her lips. “So I guess that’s a good sign.”
I nod, relieved. “Definitely a good sign.”
“There’s more.” She stands. “This is complicated in a different way. I need you to look at something for me.”
“Okay.” This does sound ominous. I stand, leaving my glass on the coffee table, and follow her across the room and down the hall. In her father’s office, she crosses to the desk and picks up a few pages of paper that look as if they’ve been crumpled and then smoothed out.
“You starting with your father’s office on your packing, or was he doing some housekeeping before he passed?” Doesn’t take a crystal ball to see either scenario is possible. There are a couple packing boxes taped and ready to fill on the floor. Several file folders lay in a neat stack on the desk.
“A little of both.” She hands me the pages. “There are several notes about a man he spoke with or treated.” She shrugs. “Or had some sort of dealings with.”
I scan the first page but don’t see a name until I reach the second. My gaze crashes into hers. “Mario Sanchez?”
“Yeah. The notes don’t make a lot of sense. It’s mostly dates and locations. But there are initials noted on that last page. I think he was referring to Fanning.”
I scan the third page again, more slowly this time.
I see what she means. CF. “Okay, I see it. The rest of the notations are mostly dates.” The realization of what I’m looking at suddenly sinks in, and I tap the page.
“These are dates from the time period of Fanning’s trial.
” The bastard was arrested in June, but he didn’t go to trial until the next year.
“Maybe my father evaluated the victims, assessed their reliability. Something like that.”
“Have you found any files related to Fanning or Sanchez or any of the others?” I don’t have to tell her that Dr. Newhouse’s name is not in the official case file.
If he was officially involved in any capacity, it was for the defense and was never revealed.
Not something Liv will want to discover, I’m sure.
“Not so far.” She turns to the row of filing cabinets on the far wall. “I’ve been through all those, and there are no names from our list—unless the patients were listed under aliases. I suppose that’s possible, in which case, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Before I can pull together a reasonable theory, she warns, “It gets worse. While I was waiting for you to get here, I did a little more looking around.” She picks up the leather-bound calendar from her father’s desk.
As she shuffles through to find whatever she’s looking for, I see numerous notes on page after page.
Like me, her father preferred making notes the old-fashioned way.
“Have a look at this.” She passes me the calendar.
I stare at January twentieth. Just over two weeks before her father died. C. F. Riverbend.
“Why in the world would my father visit Carl Fanning in prison?”
Although, knowing her father, I’m certain there is a perfectly logical explanation, I can’t for the life of me think what it would be.
“The CF on his calendar and on that page might not be Carl Fanning,” I offer.
She cocks her head and gives me a look. “Get real, Walt. I guess the Mario Sanchez in those notations isn’t the same one climbing mountains down in Mexico, either.”
“I guess we need to find out.”
Maybe Liv and I aren’t the only ones keeping secrets.