Hotline to Danger (6 page)

“Except you have to wonder what Paul and Rachel were arguing about the morning before he was murdered.” Suddenly Nancy snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. Tanya said Rachel came down from Paul's room. Maybe that's where she's hiding!”

“We already searched the place early this morning,” B.D. mumbled in a sleepy voice. “No one there.”

Nancy stood up. “Then you won't mind if I look for myself, right?”

He opened one eye. “You never give up, do you, Drew?” Groaning, he stood up. “Let me check with Mr. Rosensteel.”

Nancy followed him into the hall. A few minutes later, Mr. A was leading the two of them up the flight of steps. Arnold Rosensteel was a short, thin middle-aged man. His glasses were perched on the top of his bald head, and he was wearily rubbing his eyes.

“Paul worked for his room. Plus I used donation
money to pay for his classes at the college. And I lent him some money to buy an old car,” Mr. A said as they walked up to the third floor. “The deal worked out well for both of us. For years I'd been the only full-time employee at the center, and it was getting too much for me. Paul was a hard worker, and he kept his eye on the place.”

When they reached the third floor, Mr. A opened a door, then stood back. “His digs weren't the Taj Mahal, but from what he told me, it was the first place he ever had that he could call his own. He had been living in an abandoned building.”

“That sounds right,” B.D. said. “Remer's mother said she hadn't seen her son in years.”

Nancy stepped through the doorway first. The third-floor room was about the size of the downstairs rec room. To the right of the doorway, in a corner with finished walls, was a cot, a bedside table, and a reading lamp. An open entryway led to a bathroom. The walls of the rest of the large room had been stripped to the framing and brick. There were stacks of lumber and plasterboard, and sawdust sprinkled the floor.

A quick search told Nancy that B.D. was right. There was no place for someone to hide.

“The bathroom is finished,” Mr. A pointed out. “The rest will take longer to complete because, well, funds have sort of dried up.”

B.D. walked over to the bedside table and
leafed through several books. “Paul was studying accounting?”

“He decided to take business courses,” Mr. A said. “Paul had a good head for numbers.”

“So this is going to be the dorm,” Nancy said as she walked slowly past the bed.

Mr. A's face broke into a bright smile. “Yes. Too many kids run away from home with no idea where they're going or how rough it is on the streets. I hope the center will soon be a safe stop for them.”

With a frown of concentration, Nancy continued to study the room. Just then she spied scrape marks in the sawdust on the floor under the eaves. When she bent down and looked closer, she could just make out a partial footprint.

“B.D., did you stomp all over this place when you searched it?” Nancy asked.

“Not where you are. Why?” B.D. set down the book and walked over to where Nancy was crouching.

“Oh, it's probably nothing, except it seems like an odd place to find a footprint.”

Mr. A came up beside B.D. “Not if Paul was working over here.”

Nancy ran her gaze up the wall that stopped where the eaves began. One brick sticking out about two feet up caught her eye. There were fresh scratches on the edges, and when she ran her fingers along the front, she realized the brick was loose.

“Hey, B.D.,” Nancy said over her shoulder, “hand me a screwdriver or something so I can pry this brick out of the wall.”

“What did you find?” he asked. Stooping next to her, he passed her a screwdriver.

“I don't know, but from the scrape marks on this brick, I'd say someone worked pretty hard to get it out of the wall.” Nancy dug the end of the screwdriver into the loosest side, then used it like a lever until the brick moved enough so that she could pull it out.

Nancy peered into the hole left behind. An envelope had been pushed into it.

“Well, what do you know,” B.D. said. After putting on latex gloves, he reached inside and grabbed the envelope. Mr. A stepped closer, trying to get a better look. Nancy held her breath while B.D. lifted out the envelope and opened the unsealed flap.

His eyes grew wide as he looked inside. Slowly, he reached in with two fingers and withdrew a stack of money. On the top was a hundred-dollar bill.

Quickly, B.D. counted through the stack. “Whew. There are fifty hundred-dollar bills in here.” With raised brows, he looked over at Nancy, then up at Mr. A. “And I think when we figure out where this five thousand dollars came from, we may just find our murderer!”

F
IVE THOUSAND DOLLARS
!” Nancy repeated, her mind spinning.

Still holding the envelope, B.D. stood up and looked at Mr. Rosensteel. “Do you have any idea where it came from?”

The director shook his head.

After replacing the brick, Nancy stood up. She took one last glance around the room, then followed Mr. Rosensteel and B.D. toward the door. The detective had taken a plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket. After slipping the envelope inside, he sealed the bag and labeled it.

“I'll get the envelope checked for fingerprints,” the detective said. “Paul was arrested once and put on probation, so we have a record of his prints. His might not be the only prints on the
envelope, but one way or another, we're going to find out how he got hold of this much money.”

Mr. Rosensteel ran his hand over his bald head. “I can't imagine he was doing anything illegal,” he said. “He really wanted to make something of himself.”

Suddenly the squeak of old wood flooring made Nancy whirl toward the door to the hall. Another squeak told her someone was coming up the steps.

Putting his finger to his lips, B.D. motioned Nancy and Mr. A over to the corner by the bathroom. He dropped the evidence bag on the bed and then flattened himself against the wall by the door.

From her hiding place in the corner, Nancy could hear footsteps moving slowly up the stairs, then across the creaking floorboards of the hallway. Suddenly B.D. twirled from his position against the wall and landed in the doorway face-to-face with a woman.

When she saw him, she raised both hands in the air and screamed shrilly. “Don't hurt me! I'll give you everything I have!”

“Hey, relax.” B.D. quickly pulled his police shield from his pocket. “River Heights Homicide Squad. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Nancy stepped from the corner with Mr. A right behind her. The woman, who appeared to
be in her late forties, was wearing a calf-length camel hair coat and carrying an alligator purse that matched her high heels. Leather gloves and a silk scarf completed her outfit. She was attractive, except for the angry expression on her face.

“The police!” The woman dropped her hands. “Do you mean to say my taxes pay for this kind of rude treatment?”

“Lady,” B.D. said in a stern voice, “please tell me who you are and what you are doing here.”

“My name is Helen Tremain Thackett, and I am looking for my daughter, Rachel.”

Mr. Rosensteel hurried forward, his hand extended. “I'm so sorry Detective Hawkins frightened you, Mrs. Thackett,” he apologized, his face bright red. “We weren't expecting anyone up here.”

“B.D.,” Nancy whispered, coming to the detective's side. “I thought you interviewed Rachel's mom.”

“Two other cops did,” he whispered back. Then he turned his attention to the older woman. “I apologize, too, but as you know there's been a murder, so we're being extra cautious. As Mr. Rosensteel said, we weren't expecting anyone up here.”

“Hmmph.” Mrs. Thackett slid off her gloves and put them into her purse. “I looked for whoever is in charge downstairs, but there was only a mob of teenagers in dirty clothes who
directed me up here. I figured if the police couldn't find Rachel, then
I
had better do it.”

This time it was B.D.'s turn to bristle. “We're doing everything we possibly can.”

“That's true, Mrs. Thackett.” Holding out her hand, Nancy introduced herself, then added, “I'm the hotline volunteer who talked to Rachel.”

Mrs. Thackett's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she clasped Nancy's hand in her own. “Oh, if only she hadn't left home. If only she hadn't come—
here.”
She shuddered as she looked around the room.

Abruptly, she dropped Nancy's hand, and her eyes snapped angrily. “This is where that Paul stayed, isn't it?” she asked Mr. Rosensteel.

He nodded. “Yes. He was—”

Stepping forward, she shook her finger in the director's face. “I told Rachel that guy was no good,” she interrupted. “I told her if she lived down here, something terrible would happen. If people like you wouldn't encourage kids to stay away from their homes, none of this would happen!”

Mr. A's face reddened with anger. “Your daughter never lived here, Mrs. Thackett. Paul did.”

“Mrs. Thackett,” B.D. said in a calm voice before the woman could respond to Mr. A. The woman turned her icy gaze to the detective. “I thought you told the officers that you hadn't seen
or talked to your daughter since she left. If that's true, then when did you warn her about Paul?”

Good question, Nancy thought. And from the flush creeping up Mrs. Thackett's face, Nancy knew the woman realized she'd made a big mistake.

“Uh, um,” Mrs. Thackett stammered. She reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and dabbed at her cheeks and forehead. “I did talk to her once on the phone. I guess I forgot to tell the officers.”

B.D. raised one brow. “Perhaps you'd better accompany me outside. I'd be interested to hear if there's anything else you forgot to mention.” Reaching down, he picked the evidence bag off the bed. A couple of bills that had slipped from the envelope inside showed through the plastic.

Nancy saw Mrs. Thackett's gaze dart to it. A glimmer of alarm showed in the woman's eyes, then just as quickly disappeared.

“So are you any closer to capturing the murderer?” Mrs. Thackett asked B.D. as he escorted her from the room.

“Before you go, Mrs. Thackett,” Nancy said quickly, “do you have a picture of Rachel? I'd like to have one to show around.”

Again, tears filled the older woman's eyes. “Of course.” She reached in her handbag for her wallet, then gave Nancy what looked like a photo from a high school yearbook. “She graduated last spring. Straight A student, chorus, band, debate
team, voted Most Likely to Succeed. And here she is nine months later, hiding out like a criminal!”

B.D. murmured soothingly, then put his hand under Mrs. Thackett's elbow and escorted her from the room. When the two left, Mr. A made a disgusted noise in his throat.

“With a mother like that, no wonder Rachel ran away,” he said. “She's a cross between a strutting peacock and a man-eating barracuda.”

Nancy laughed at the director's description. Then she looked down at the photo. Rachel had thick, wavy red hair, laughing green eyes, and a cheerleader smile. “This should help us find her,” she said. “Maybe we can get some copies made and pass them around.”

“Good idea.” The director sighed. “Things are complicated enough at the center without a murder and a disappearance. I still have a group of teens downstairs waiting to learn how to write résumés and go on job interviews.”

As Nancy followed him out the door, his shoulders slumped. “And I'll teach them how to make a good impression, only you know what?”

He stopped on the top step and looked at Nancy. “There aren't any jobs out there for high school dropouts with no skills. I tell the kids to stay in school, but do they listen?” Anger flared in his eyes. “No.”

Nancy nodded sympathetically. She knew the director must be under a lot of stress. Even
though the center had a board of directors, he was solely responsible for running it.

“Let me know if there's anything I can do,” she offered as they went down to the second floor.

Turning, he patted her hand. “Keep looking for Rachel. That will help.”

“Okay.” Nancy paused outside the door of the hotline office while he continued down the steps to the first floor. For a second, she leaned over the banister. She watched him walk down the steps and disappear. A moment later she caught a glimpse of someone walking in the direction of the front door. Nancy recognized the thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

It was Billie Peters.

Nancy took a deep breath. She had lots of questions to ask Billie, and this time she wasn't going to lose her.

Nancy raced down the stairs. Billie was standing at the open front door, looking at something. She didn't see Nancy come up to her.

“Billie,” Nancy said in a firm voice. Taking hold of the girl's lower arm, she pulled her away from the door.