Cold Case Cop (8 page)

Wednesday, July 16, 6:48 a.m.

A
lex pulled up in front of Roxie’s minutes before seven and scanned the side streets for Tara’s rental car. There was no sign of the red Jeep.

He knew in an instant that she’d left him.

That annoyed him and even pissed him off, but it didn’t exactly surprise him. “Damn.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. She was determined to go this case alone, regardless of the risks. The woman had guts, which he could have admired if she had the least bit of common sense.

His cell phone vibrated. He removed it from the cradle on his hip and snapped it open. “Kirkland.”

“This is Brady.”

Brady’s shift didn’t start until eight and for him to be calling this early meant some kind of trouble. “What’s up?”

Brady wasn’t put off by Alex’s gruff tone. “Have you left the city yet?”

He stared at the empty spot where Tara’s car had been last night. His irritation grew. “No.”

“Good. You may want to stick around.”

“Why?” His first inclination was to track Tara down.

“We’ve got a homicide in the north end.”

Alex looked up through the car window at the quiet side street. “Something unusual about it?”

“Yeah. Remember Lenny Robinson, aka Frederick Robinson, the jeweler?”

He laid his head back against the headrest. “He was the guy that cleaned and marked Landover’s necklace for his wife.”

Brady nodded. “One and the same. He was shot point-blank last night in his apartment. Likely dead before he hit the floor. His store was cleaned out. Not a gem left in the place.”

Kirkland swore. There could be any number of reasons why Lenny had been killed—he’d made enough enemies in the past. But Kirkland knew in his gut this had to do with Tara’s article. “You have a forensics team there?”

“They should be here in the next hour. I’m holding the scene until they arrive.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Alex said.

He fired up the engine of his car and then dialed Mackey’s cell. The phone rang six times and then went to voice mail. She always had her phone with her, and caller ID would have told her it was him. She was dodging him.

When the machine beeped he said, “Very slick, Mackey. But like they say, you can run but you can’t hide. I will see you when you get back into town.”

He rang off, remembering the dream he’d had about her last night. She’d been on the deck of his sailboat and she’d been naked. Pale moonlight had washed over her creamy skin as he’d lowered his body down onto her. He’d cupped her full, ripe breasts and stroked his hand down her flat belly. The boat had rocked gently. She’d moaned his name into his ear as he’d driven inside her.

“She’s going to drive me insane.” Alex snapped the phone closed and dialed a second number.

A police operator answered, “Communications.”

“This is Detective Kirkland. I need you to trace the location of a cell phone.”

“Badge and verification numbers, please,” the operator said.

He gave the operator his badge number to verify his identify. When she gave him the go-ahead, he rattled off Tara’s phone number. “Find her for me.”

“Is she in the state?”

“She should be headed north to a coastal town called Cadence. If you find her there, keep tabs on her. I want to know where she is at all times.”

The officer agreed and signed off.

He moved into traffic. “Mackey, what have you stirred up?”

The streets of Cadence swelled with the cars of summer tourists who had filled the Main Street parking slots. Tara had to circle the block several times before she found a space two blocks away. A gust of wind caught Tara’s hair the instant she stepped out of her car.

Tara cursed the fact she hadn’t worn her hair in a ponytail. Kirkland had said he liked it down so she’d left it down even knowing she wouldn’t see him today.

She grabbed her briefcase, fed the meter and started down the cobblestone sidewalk. Cadence was a tiny coastal town that had no doubt gotten its start hundreds of years ago as a fishing village. The old buildings had been restored and the place had a more upscale feel now.

She moved down the busy street past antique shops, a café and a hardware store before she reached the stone steps that led to the courthouse’s large front door. She pushed through the doors.

During the two-hour drive, she’d decided to start with Brenda’s birth records and then check to see if there’d ever been a Kit Westgate born in Cadence. Tara pulled off her sunglasses as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.

“Can I help you?”

She turned in the direction of the voice and found an older woman sitting behind a reception desk. The woman wore her gray hair in tight curls and had glasses that magnified vivid blue eyes.

Tara smiled as she moved toward her. “Yes, I’ve come to search birth records. Ms…”

“Mrs. Shoemaker.” The woman nodded as she swiveled her chair around toward a computer screen. “We don’t get much call for that around here.”

Tara didn’t doubt it. She imagined there were few year-round residents left in this town. “I’d like to do a search on a Brenda Latimer.”

Mrs. Shoemaker nodded. “I knew the Latimer family. They were fishermen.”

Tara took the seat across from Mrs. Shoemaker’s desk, excited that she’d found someone who knew the family. “Brenda would be about thirty-two now.”

“Yep, and her half brother Scott Martin would be about thirty-five.”

“Is he still in town?”

She started punching keys on the computer and then sat back and waited for the machine to process her request. “No. He left at least fifteen years ago.”

“What about Brenda’s parents?”

“Dead. Died eighteen years ago.” The computer beeped. “Here are Brenda’s records.” She read off the woman’s statistics and then hit the print button. “We went automated about ten years ago. ’Course our computer is outdated and slow by today’s standards, but I’m happy to sit and wait on a slow computer rather than dig in the basement for dusty records.”

Tara tried to look interested. “What can you tell me about Brenda?”

“Mind my asking why you want to know so much about her? I mean the girl’s been gone about fifteen years from Cadence.”

“I’m a writer for the
Boston Globe
. I’m doing an article on young girls who lose their way in the big city. I stumbled across Brenda’s case file when I was working on another piece, and became intrigued.”

Mrs. Shoemaker nodded sadly. “She’s your typical story. Her folks were good, but they were poor and didn’t have their sights past the few beers they could afford on Saturday night. Scott was the same way. But Brenda, she always wanted more. She went to school with my boy Tommy. Did real well. Sharp as a tack. Graduated two years early and decided to head to New York to make her fortune.”

As Tara scribbled notes, she thought about the photo in Brenda’s police file. “How old was she when she left town?”

Mrs. Shoemaker scratched her head. “Sixteen.”

“And she never came back again?”

“Not that I know of.” The printer under the desk spat out a piece of paper and Mrs. Shoemaker handed it to Tara.

“Can you search one more record for me?”

“Sure.”

“Kit or maybe Katherine Westgate.”

Mrs. Shoemaker frowned. “That’s the name of that socialite that vanished last year. I can tell you she wasn’t born here.”

“Could you just check to see if there is a Westgate name on file?”

“The name does not ring a bell. And I know just about everyone in this town who lived here the last fifty years.”

“Please?”

The woman nodded and slowly typed the name into the computer and hit Enter. “Now what do you want with this gal?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just got a hunch about her.”

Mrs. Shoemaker leaned back in her chair. “You reporters still go on hunches?”

Tara smiled. “Sometimes that’s all I’ve got to go on.”

“I bet you see all kinds of crazy folks in your line of work.”

“You have no idea.”

The computer dinged again. “Here we go.” Squinting, Mrs. Shoemaker leaned forward and read the screen. “Well, this little gal won’t do you any good. Elizabeth Katherine Westgate died when she was two days old.”

“What year was she born?”

She rattled off the year as she hit the print button. “Two years older than Brenda.”

If Brenda had found a way to hack into this system and steal little Katherine’s identity, then she could easily do it a second time. “Okay, one last favor?”

Mrs. Shoemaker stared over the edge of her pink half glasses. “You’re asking a lot.”

Tara leaned forward. “I know. I know. Just one more?”

“Fine. But one’s all. It’s about my coffee break and it’s half-price donuts at Ernie’s on Wednesdays.”

“Can you search girls born within five years of Brenda’s birth year who also died young?”

“Sure.” Again, she henpecked out the letters. The computer started to click as it searched its data banks.

Tara tried to make small talk. “So you were born here?”

“All my life. Sixty-two years and counting. Been at the courthouse forty of those.” The computer dinged and Mrs. Shoemaker leaned forward, squinting as she read, and hit Print. “You got two matches. One is a Robin Johnson, died of crib death at five days. She was four years older than Brenda. And the other is Bess Conway, died at age seven in a fire. She was two years younger than Brenda.” Mrs. Shoemaker nodded. “Now, Bess I do remember. That fire was a real tragedy. Whole family got out but Bess. Fact, Brenda would have known about it.”

Tara scribbled down the names of the little girls who had all died so young. She thought about the people who had mourned those little girls and what they’d think if they knew their daughter’s identities could have been stolen.

“Mrs. Shoemaker, you have been great. Thank you so much for your help.” She pulled a twenty out of her wallet. “Lunch today is on me.”

The older lady rose gingerly as if her knees hurt and handed Tara the other two birth records. “Well, thank you very much.” She pocketed the bill. “So when can we read this article?”

“I’m not sure yet. Haven’t put all the pieces together. But it should be very soon.”

“Be sure to send me a copy.”

Tara agreed and wrote down Mrs. Shoemaker’s mailing address. She also got directions to the local high school that Brenda attended.

She drove past the city limits to the countryside, following Mrs. Shoemaker’s directions. She pulled up to the square brick building adorned with deco letters that read High School. She headed inside to the administrative office. Within five minutes, she’d explained what she needed and was sitting in the library with a stack of yearbooks. She chose the years corresponding with Brenda’s freshman and sophomore years. During her freshman year, Brenda was in the yearbook nine times. Brenda’s bright, fresh face appeared in the drama club, the chess club, cheerleaders and several other groups. Hints of the woman Brenda was to become were so clear as Tara looked at her face.

By Brenda’s sophomore year, she didn’t appear in any clubs. She was pictured with her class but her smile was less vibrant. This Brenda looked more like the girl in the New York Police Department mug shot. It didn’t take much to guess what had happened to Brenda when she’d arrived in New York. Her fate had been shared by countless other girls.

Tara photocopied the pages on the librarian’s copier. Whatever had gone wrong, Brenda had decided to reinvent herself and she’d stolen the identity of a little girl from her hometown to do it.

And Tara would bet money that if Kit were still alive, she’d returned to the same well for a new identity. Being a crime reporter, she’d learned that even criminals were creatures of habit.

Tara had two names to search. Bess Conway and Robin Johnson. From her laptop she logged into the paper’s server and searched the girls’ names plus their place of birth. There was nothing for Robin Johnson. However, Bess Conway’s name did have a hit. Bess Conway had a boat registered at a dock on Sable Point, Maine. The town was three hours north on a small peninsula.

If she hurried, she could make the town by nightfall.

Tara exited the library. The midday sun made her squint as she headed across the school parking lot to her car. She fished her keys out of her purse and slid behind the wheel. She grabbed her cell and checked to see if she’d had any calls.

She had three new calls. All were from Detective Alex Kirkland.

Tara tensed and ignored this call as she had his first and second.

But as she climbed into her car, she remembered his raspy voice from last night. “I know I’ll be thinking about you.”

She wondered if he had.

Wednesday, July 16, 7:00 p.m.

T
ara had driven straight from Cadence up the coast to Sable Point. She’d expected the trip to take a few hours. It had taken seven. There’d been backups and delays all the way up the coast, including a drawbridge that had opened for a sail boat. As she’d sat for a half hour waiting for the boat to pass by, she couldn’t help but think of Alex. The boat’s white sails flapped angrily in the growing winds.

By the time she reached Sable Point, dark storm clouds, thick with rain, loomed above. A large storm was brewing in the Atlantic.

Sable Point was little more than a run-down fishing village, and it didn’t look like the kind of place Kit Westgate would have fled to. Fiji or St. Moritz seemed more to Kit’s tastes. But then, if her theory held true, Kit was only a fabrication of Brenda’s and a place like this would have felt somewhat familiar to her. Cadence had been much like this place, twenty years ago.

The town’s battered wood and stone buildings didn’t possess the quaint charm that Cadence now had. Sable Point lacked picturesque inns and tiny seaside restaurants and seemed to tenaciously fight all pressures to welcome outsiders or join the twenty-first century.

Tara felt as if she’d landed on another planet.

She stopped at the town’s sole stoplight, which swayed back and forth in the wind. It blinked red. Gusts blew over the hood of her car, making the vehicle rock and sway.

Lights burned in the window of a small diner attached to a motel, so she pulled into the parking lot. Peeling white paint covered the one-story clapboard building. A neon Miller Beer sign blinked in the large picture window streaked with humidity. Inside, she could see booths but no people.

She shut off the engine, grabbed her purse and dashed inside. Bells jingled over her head as she hurried inside. She glanced around the dark-paneled dining room. A half-dozen booths covered in aging red vinyl patched with duct tape lined the room. Hundreds of black-and-white photos covered the wall. An old radio cracked and spit out the noonday news, and the smell of overcooked green beans permeated the diner. There was no one in sight.

Tara glanced back at the door. The sign read Open.

“Hello?” she shouted.

After a moment’s pause, an old woman pushed through the swinging doors behind the counter. Tall with hunched shoulders, the woman wore her graying hair in a thin ponytail. Her dark blue cotton dress washed out already pale skin. Stern lips flattened into a frown when she saw Tara. “What do you want?”

So much for warm welcomes. “Coffee. Food.”

The woman grunted and pulled a greasy menu from under the counter. “Then sit.”

Tara chose a seat with the least amount of patches so she didn’t snag her pants.

The old woman returned with a thick mug full of coffee, a spoon and a small silver pot of cream. She set it all on the table in front of Tara. “It’s fresh. Just brewed it five minutes ago.”

“Thanks.”

The woman lingered. “What brings you here?”

Tara hesitated. “I’ve come to see Bess Conway.”

Suspicion burned in the old woman’s eyes. “Why?”

Tara sipped her coffee. “Just have a few questions for her.”

The woman planted an arthritic hand on her hip. “What kind of questions?”

She had no intention of sharing her theories about Bess/Kit/Brenda. If she could find the woman alive, the headlines and story would be priceless. “It’s personal. Family business.”

The old woman grunted. “Bess doesn’t have any family. She keeps to herself. We hardly ever see her in town.”

A woman in hiding wouldn’t go out of her way to make friends or come into town much. “Can you tell me where she lives?”

“She lives at the east end of the peninsula in the lighthouse cottage. Follow the main road through town and it’ll take you straight there. Can’t miss it.”

“There’s a lighthouse here?”

“No. It vanished in a storm over a hundred years ago. But the cottage still remains. That’s why it’s called the lighthouse cottage.”

“Great.”

“You might want to wait until morning. The storm is going to make it hard going, dangerous even. The road to the cottage is steep and rocky. My inn’s got a few vacancies.”

“I’d really like to push forward. I’ve come a long way and want to talk to her.”

“She ain’t going nowhere,” the woman said. “Everyone’s gonna be stuck in town until the storm passes.”

Tara hated being this close to Bess and not being able to speak to her. Outside the wind howled. The rain started to fall harder. Like it or not she would have to wait. “Where can I register?”

“My brother runs registration. Around the corner of the building.”

Tara wasn’t thrilled about going back outside, so she ordered coffee and a sandwich. While she waited she checked her voice mail again. Roxie had called. So had Miriam. But nothing from Kirkland. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

After she returned her phone calls and finished her sandwich and a couple of coffees, Tara drove around the building to the neon sign that read Registration. She parked and pushed through the glass doors. A lone clerk sat behind the counter. The man’s back was to her and he was watching a game show on a small television.

The place had a creepy feel and she flashed back to
Psycho
, the Hitchcock movie. She thought of the lone female guest checking into a hotel only to be stabbed in the shower by the man running the inn.

Tara shook off the image. “I’d like a room.”

The guy turned. He was in his sixties, and had thinning gray hair and stooped shoulders. He peered over the top edge of his reading glasses at her. “What on earth would bring you out here at a time like this?”

“I’ve come to visit a distant relative. Bess Conway.”

He frowned. “I didn’t know she had family.”

“Yeah. I hear she keeps to herself. Can I have a room?”

He shrugged. “Sure. I got several to choose from.”

She filled out the registration card he gave her. “You don’t get many tourists here, do you?”

“We get a few bird-watchers in the summer and the stray tourist but, no, we don’t get much in the way of visitors. Rocky beaches and bad weather don’t appeal to most.” He glanced at the card she’d filled out. “Boston? You’ve come a ways.”

“Yeah.”

He grabbed a key from the Peg-Board. It had a number six on it. “When you leave the office, go right and then up the stairs. It’s the third room on the left.”

“Thanks.”

She picked up her bag and followed his directions. Exterior steps led to the second floor where the room doors faced the outside breezeway. Each room had a large curtained window by the door. She opened the door to room six, flipped on the light and closed the door behind her. She turned the dead bolt and locked the chain for extra measure. She then checked the shower stall to make sure it was empty. Satisfied she was safe, she sat down on the bed.

The room was basic—one double bed, TV on a dresser and a coffeemaker. She set down her bag and turned on the TV. She flipped through several channels before she found one that wasn’t covered in static.

A few minutes later, she stripped and got into the shower. The hot water felt good on her still-aching muscles. A bruise darkened her left shoulder and her ribs felt a little tender. She flashed to the moment her car had tumbled over. A chill slid down her back. She’d been damn lucky.

She washed her hair and when the hot water started to dwindle, she got out and toweled off. After putting on an oversize T-shirt, she made herself a cup of coffee in the courtesy machine on the dresser.

She got into bed and focused back on the TV. There was no cable and the reception was poor due to the storm. After she’d watched two reruns of
The Brady Bunch
, she switched off the TV. Better to get a good night’s sleep so she could head up to Bess’s place early.

Outside howling wind and rain pounded her door. Nothing about this place was welcoming. “This is the Bates motel.”

Tara cut off the light and laid her head on the pillow. The walls creaked as the wind whooshed. Shadows danced on the walls. It wasn’t like her to get the creeps but Sable Point managed to do it.

She closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she drifted off into a restless sleep.

A rattling sound woke her. She sat up in her bed and shoved long fingers through her hair, trying to shake the sleep from her mind. She glanced at her hotel-room door and saw the knob turn. She jumped out of bed and pressed her ear to the door.

“Who is it?” she shouted.

There was no answer and the rattling door handle stopped.

Her heart hammered as she stood by the door in her bare feet. Cold air blew into her room from under the door.

Finally after several minutes of silence, she got the courage to push the window curtain back and peer out onto the breezeway. The storm had passed and the moon was high in the sky, casting shadows on the wall of her room.

There was no one outside.

Closing the curtain, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 10:42 p.m.

An unsettled feeling washed over her.

She got back into bed. But Tara didn’t sleep very well for the rest of the night.

She dreamed about Kirkland. Of kissing him, smoothing her hands down his muscled chest and staring into his eyes, alight with a dark passion.

When Tara woke she felt stiff, tired and relieved the night was over. She got up, showered again and dressed, taking extra care with her appearance. This time she pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail.

If she was going to meet Bess Conway, she wanted to look professional. She checked her briefcase, pulled out the handheld video camera and rechecked the battery. She also made sure the flash of her digital camera worked, as well.

She glanced at the coffeepot full of cold coffee and then at her wristwatch. The diner downstairs would be open by now and she could snag breakfast before heading up the coastal road.

Tara grabbed her equipment and headed out, planning to lock her briefcase in the trunk of her car. As she came down the steps, she noticed a second car parked behind hers. She was completely blocked in.

“What kind of idiot parked that car?” Tara locked her bag in the trunk of her car and headed into the hotel’s office.

A woman now stood behind the counter. She was tall, heavyset and had bleached blond hair. The nameplate over her right breast read Florence. Gum snapped in her mouth as she glanced up from yesterday’s paper. “Can I help you?”

Tara approached the desk. “Tara Mackey, room six. There is a car parked behind my car. I’m completely blocked in.”

Florence peered out the window. “Right. He arrived about two in the morning.”

“
He
got a name?”

“We don’t give out our guests’ names.”

Frustration ate at Tara. “So
he
is staying here?”

“Sure is.” Florence lifted her paper and found a handwritten note. “You said your name was Mackey?”

Tara fisted her hands over her car keys. “That’s right.”

“He said for you to wait for him. He’d join you for breakfast by seven.”

Tara glanced at her watch. It was ten to seven. She could think of only one guy who would drive to Sable Point and make a point to block her car in the lot. “Can you tell me what room Detective Kirkland is in? I have a message for him.” She smiled, doing her best to keep her temper in check. “He and I work together.”

With a name supplied, Florence shrugged. “Room five, the one next to yours.”

The jagged edge of her room key dug into her hand as she tightened her fist. “Great. Thanks.”

Tara pushed through the lobby door and climbed the steps to the second floor two at a time. She pounded on the door of room five, Inside she heard the TV’s static reception of the morning news.

“Just a minute.” Kirkland’s baritone voice was unmistakable.

She beat on the door a second time knowing it would piss him off.

“Just a damn minute, I said.” Kirkland sounded annoyed.

Good. She was tired, generally irritated and ready for a fight. Kirkland was one of the few who didn’t mind going toe-to-toe with her.

The door snapped open. Kirkland stood dressed in long khakis and a white button-down shirt that he’d yet to fasten. Dark chest hair curled on a well-muscled chest and trailed down a flat belly to his black belt.

The wind in Tara’s argument deflated a fraction and she had to regroup. She was aware of snapping her mouth closed and raising her gaze to meet his blue eyes.

Tara straightened her shoulders. “Why are you parked behind my car?”

Kirkland removed his hand from behind his back and she realized he’d palmed his .38. He released the hammer on the gun and visibly relaxed. “Good morning to you, Mackey.”

She held out her hand. “How about you give me the keys to your car so I can move it? I’d like to be on my way.”

The hint of a smile tugged the edge of his lips. “We’ll head out to find Bess after breakfast.”

“How do you know about Bess?”

He stepped aside so she could come into the room. “I’ve been following your trail since yesterday.”

She moved into the room, careful not to touch him. He smelled of fresh soap. Nice. “How?”

He closed the door behind her. “Your cell phone signal. I had your location triangulated.”

“I had it turned off most of the time.”

“Yes. I know. I left you a few messages.” He slid the gun into his hip holster and started to tuck in his shirt. “But on enough to emit a traceable signal.”

Clever. He got points for that. “So you’ve been to Cadence.”

On his bed was an overnight bag and beside that a shaving kit which appeared to be packed with brutal efficiency. “Sure have. Spoke to a nice lady at the courthouse in Cadence. Mrs. Shoemaker. She remembered you and she said to thank you again for lunch.”

“Great.”

He looked almost cheerful. “Are we here to see Bess or Robin? I didn’t have a chance to run down the names. I fought the storm most of the way up.”