Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (18 page)

Nick’s heart broke as he laid a wet cloth on Scott’s forehead and
waited for the spasms to end. It killed him to see how Scott was wasting his life. The anger he’d harbored at the house dissolved as his brother writhed on the bed. Finally, the jerking subsided, and Scott lay limp and pale, panting for breath.

“Can I do anything to help?”

Scott drew a shaky breath. “Get the nurse,” he whispered.

Nick pressed the buzzer again. This time someone answered, and he explained what had happened.

“I’ll be right there.”

Seconds later, a ponytailed RN burst into the room. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sinclair. The technician watching your monitor was distracted by an emergency.”

She bent over him with a stethoscope, listening to his heart, then took his blood pressure. “You’re calming down.”

“Explains why I feel so good,” Scott rasped out.

“Scott, she’s trying to help you. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Just give me the Valium.”

The nurse glanced at Nick and winked as she wiped the cap on the IV catheter with an alcohol swab and inserted the needle. “If this doesn’t help, let me know.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Scott said.

The nurse patted Scott’s leg. “Buzz me if you need anything else, sugar.”

Scott closed his eyes, and Nick sat in the chair beside the bed while his brother feigned sleep. “You might as well look at me—I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”

With a groan, Scott opened his eyes. “No law against hoping, is there?”

Nick counted to five before he answered. “I’m waiting for an explanation.”

Their gazes locked. Scott looked away first. “What do you want me to say? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I was sorry.”

“Try me.”

Scott closed his eyes. He swallowed, and the corner of his mouth
twitched. “It was Angie’s kitchen. That’s what bothers me the most.” His voice cracked. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. But fixable. You could’ve died in that fire.”

“So? Everybody would be better off.”

Nick sat on the side of the bed. “You know better than that.”

“I . . . I didn’t mean for it to happen. But I had to have a drink.” Scott had opened his eyes but avoided looking at Nick.

“How’d you get the whiskey?”

“Walked to the corner. Threw up the first drink, took another. Then another. By the time the bottle was gone, I was hungry, and French fries sounded good. I remember pouring the oil in a pan and turning up the burner. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up here.”

Nick pressed his lips together. Did Scott think he was stupid? His brother had no more walked to the corner and bought a bottle of whiskey than Nick had. He’d already checked out the liquor store. They’d never seen Scott. Nick rewet the washcloth in the bathroom sink and wiped his brother’s face. “The clerk at the liquor store said she never saw you.”

Scott cracked an eye. “You think she’d admit she sold Jack Daniels to a minor?”

Nick flushed. “I talked to Dana. She said I ought to ask you about Digger. Who is he? And did he buy your whiskey?”

Scott rubbed his hand across his mouth. His chest heaved with short, shallow breaths.

“Scott, who is he?”

“A friend, that’s all.”

“I assume he has a name besides Digger.”

“It’s the only name I know,” Scott said, shrugging Nick off.

“How do you know him? Where’d you meet him?”

“At . . . the university, in the library.”

“Is he a student there?”

Scott shook his head. “He’s too old to go to college. He’s just a good friend. Helps me out sometimes.”

“And now he’s here, in Memphis?”

His brother licked his lips. “I . . . I don’t feel good.”

This was going nowhere fast. Nick tossed the cloth on the rolling table. “Can you handle some water? Or maybe ice chips?”

“Chips.”

Nick spooned slivers of ice into his brother’s mouth.

“I found your cell phone near the stove. Destroyed, by the way. So, who’d you call? Who brought it to you?”

“Nobody. I have a fake ID. It’s like I said. I found twenty dollars on your dresser.” Scott scowled at Nick. “You’re never going to believe me, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay, let’s talk about Dr. Martin.”

Scott’s head jerked up. “How do you know about her?”

“It’s a long story, but I know about the stalking.”

He tried to pull up and collapsed on the bed. “I wasn’t stalking her! Not really.”

“What do you mean, not really? Either you were or you weren’t. How about the gifts and those photos? And I understand this isn’t the first time you’ve been accused of stalking.”

“I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t this wait until I can think?”

“No, Scott, it can’t. You’re in serious trouble. Did you break into her house and attack her and that sheriff?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“Well, did you?”

“I didn’t hurt her. I really liked Dr. Martin. She was always so nice to me. Sometimes, I just liked to be where she was.”

“Don’t you know that can be construed as stalking?”

“I promise, I didn’t stalk her. You have to believe me.”

The same eyes that so many years ago begged Nick to make the wounded bird live begged now. “Why, Scott? Why do I have to believe you?”

“Because . . . you’re my brother.”

Nick released a slow breath. A knot clogged his throat. Not
blood brothers, but maybe something more. “Okay, Scott, I believe you. Now, let’s see if we can get Dr. Martin to do the same.”

Scott’s body started shaking.

“C-can we w-wait?” Scott’s teeth chattered. He hugged his ribs. “Until I f-feel b-better?”

“Sure, Scott.” His brother’s thin body shook beneath the sheet. “Are you going to be okay?”

“You c-can’t help me. S-ee about more V-valium.”

“It’s too early for that, but I’ll see if I can get you something for nausea.” Nick pressed the call button, and a nurse arrived shortly. Slowly the tremors subsided and Scott dropped off to sleep. Nick checked his watch. Barely enough time to get home and meet the cleaners.

He stopped at the nurses’ station. “Could you put up a ‘no visitors’ sign?”

Until his brother’s condition improved, he didn’t need to answer questions from anyone, not even Taylor.

T
aylor wasted no time getting to the Criminal Justice Center after Livy’s call that her dad’s records were sitting on her friend’s desk. Finally, she would get answers, maybe even a lead on where her dad was.

Livy looked at her watch. “What’d you do, fly? It hasn’t been forty-five minutes since I called.”

“No in-coming traffic.” Taylor grinned. “It’s all going the other way. Besides, it’s almost five—I didn’t want to hold you up.”

“Don’t call me when a black-and-white pulls you over. I don’t fix tickets.”

“No, honestly, I didn’t speed.”

“Yeah, right. The small conference room down the hall is empty. Would you like company?”

Taylor wasn’t sure she wanted anyone with her as she examined the contents of the box. “Maybe later.”

She started toward the room and paused. “That woman who was murdered, were you assigned that case too?”

Livy shook her head. “Not this time. Looks like it might be a serial killing, and the feds want it. A couple of other detectives get to work with them on it.” Her grim look said “better them than me.”

Taylor walked down the hall to the conference room and put the box on the table and stared at the faded white card on the end.
James William Martin
. Her body tensed. What secrets did the box hold? Or had she been chasing a dead end? Taylor squared her shoulders and lifted the lid.

A few sheets of paper clipped together and what looked like pages torn from a small notebook lay in the bottom. One report, a few notes. And a letter-sized envelope—probably the letter her father mailed after he left.

She began with it, taking out an expensive-looking sheet of stationery. Bold handwriting that she remembered from the letters Mom let her read.
Dear Allison, I don
’t know where to start, only that I have to
leave. The pressure is too great. I’m sorry. Please
forgive me.

He’d signed it “James.” Taylor could not imagine how Mom felt when she received this bombshell that left the lingering question of why. She checked the envelope to see where it’d been mailed from. She blew out a breath. Dallas.

She set the letter aside and lifted the smaller sheets and counted eight. Then she took out the larger pages. Her father’s name appeared in the upper left corner and below that the name of the lead detective, Lt. Robert Wilson. Taylor removed the paper clip and began reading the two typewritten sheets.

She learned nothing new from the first paragraph. The second paragraph listed people Wilson interviewed. Her mother, Jonathan, Ethan Trask. Taylor hadn’t realized Ethan was there that day. The other names she recognized as her father’s friends and acquaintances. The next paragraph gave a brief summary of the day he left. Jonathan and Ethan took him to the airport.
Interview
with airline: manifest shows Martin boarded the plane.
Flight
attendant indicated she didn’t remember him per se, but
the crew had been short staffed that day.
A comment at the bottom of the page noted he never arrived at the Palace Hotel in Dallas.

The second page mentioned the missing ten thousand dollars from the safe, along with the name of a private investigator Jonathan had hired. Wayne Russo. She needed to check that out. Wilson
had ended the second page with the conclusion James Martin deserted the family and made off with ten thousand dollars. Case closed.

Nothing new, but seeing the detective’s words along with her father’s in black and white made it so final. When her dad had gotten on that plane, he had never intended to return. He deserted them. Jonathan was right—her dad didn’t want to be found. The heaviness in her heart spread through her body. She’d pinned so much hope on this case file.

Taylor pulled her thoughts together and picked up the handwritten notes. That was odd
.
Unlike the report, the note pages were in random order. Reading the report, she’d imagined a meticulous lawman and not someone who’d just toss the notes in the box.

When she finally put them in order, she noticed that the last page ended in midsentence. Why would any part of these notes be missing? She examined the papers. Most cases had two detectives working them, and they worked on the report together. This looked like the work of one person. Maybe there was another report somewhere.

She looked over Wilson’s working notes again that showed the lieutenant’s penchant for concise statements. He would have made sure all his notes were in the file. If one thing was missing, could other items be missing as well? Was it possible Wilson was still around?

“Livy,” Taylor called as she came out of the conference room. “Do you know—” She halted. Livy was engaged in conversation with her partner, Mac. They both looked toward her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Taylor turned to go back into the conference room.

“You’re not interrupting anything important,” Livy said. “I’m sending the boy here to get coffee. Hazelnut, to be exact. Want some?”

“You bet.” Taylor glanced down at the report in her hands. “You guys know a Lieutenant Robert Wilson?”

Livy shook her head while Mac repeated the name. “Robert Wilson . . . Rob . . . yeah, I remember him. He retired at least ten years ago. Why?”

“He was the investigator on my father’s case,” Taylor replied. “I wonder if he’s still around.”

“I can check and see.” Livy picked up the phone. A few minutes later she jotted a number on a sticky note and broke the connection. “Jody in personnel says he’s still kicking.” She handed Taylor the note. “This is his address and phone number.”

“Can I use your phone?” Livy nodded and Taylor dialed the number. Rob Wilson answered on the seventh ring.

“Hello?” his voice wheezed over the line.

“Lieutenant Wilson?”

“That’s me.”

Taylor identified herself and explained she was investigating her father’s disappearance. “Mac McCord and Livy Reynolds will be sitting in on our conversation,” she added as she put the call on speaker.

“That you, Mac?” Wilson’s breathy voice rasped into the room.

“How’re you doing, Rob?”

“Gettin’ by.”

“I know that feeling,” Mac replied. “Appreciate it if you’d help us.”

“The James Martin case,” Wilson said slowly. “It’s odd. Y’all are the second ones to ask about that case lately. Hasn’t been a week since a reporter came out and interviewed me for a story on it. Said he was doing a series on unsolved crimes in Memphis. I haven’t seen the article yet.”

“What did you tell him?” Taylor asked.

“You say you’re the daughter?”

“Yes. What did you tell the reporter?”

“Didn’t remember anything at first. Then, it came back to me. Told him Martin lived over in Logan Point. I got the case because the Memphis airport was the last place he was reported seen. The
way I recollect, the Martin fellow just up and left. Took some money with him.” The old man paused, and Taylor heard him suck in air. “There was always something about that case that bothered me, though. Some things just never added up—that’s what I told that reporter that came around. Got my personal notes out—the ones I kept so I could write a book someday.”

“Did you figure it out?” Taylor’s hopes rose.

“I think so.” Wilson’s wheezing filled the room as he stopped once again to get his breath.

“Can you tell me?”

“Don’t have time right now. My daughter is sitting in the driveway, waiting to take me to her house.”

“Could I visit you and talk about the case?” Taylor asked. “Maybe I could take a look at your personal notes.”

Wilson hesitated. “Have to be the first part of the week. I’d have to find the notes again, and my daughter won’t bring me home until she goes to work Monday morning, but I ought to find those notes real quick. Come Monday morning around ten.”

“I’ll see you then.” As she thanked him for his time, a thought struck her. “Lieutenant Wilson,” she said before he could disconnect. “Do you remember your partner on that case?”

This time there was no hesitation. “Sorriest partner I ever had. Allen Yates. He committed suicide a few years later, or so the story goes. Got my doubts about that too. Look, my daughter’s honking, so I need to go.” He broke the connection.

Taylor handed the phone back to Livy. “Well, guess that’s that until Monday. Except for checking out the detective Jonathan hired.”

Mac tapped his lips. “I remember the Yates story. It happened right after I got out of academy. There were rumors Yates was a dirty cop, extorting some of the drug dealers downtown, but nothing concrete ever developed—drug dealers aren’t known for cooperating.”

“
Was
it a suicide?” Taylor asked.

“I think there was a note.” He shook his head. “Happened at least fifteen years ago, and the details are a little murky.”

Strange that one of the detectives involved in her dad’s case was dead under questionable circumstances. Or was she making too much of his death? After all, people died every day. “Thanks for the help,” Taylor said. “As soon as I copy my dad’s files, I’m out of here.”

“I’ll help you,” Livy said and walked with Taylor to the conference room.

“Let that be your last official act of the week,” Mac called to Livy’s back. “You’re working way too many overtime hours for this month. Take the weekend off.”

“I might just do that,” Livy called over her shoulder.

Taylor grinned. “Good. You can run interference for me tomorrow at the picnic.”

“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Adams.” The appointment with the restorers had taken longer than Nick had expected, and then he’d stopped to purchase clothes for him and Scott, along with a pair of sneakers. Not one article of clothing for Scott was black.

“Call me Kate—none of that Mrs. Adams stuff. And I’ll call you Nick.”

He set his overnight bag in the foyer and followed her as she showed him around the old Victorian. Upstairs, Kate gave him his choice of two bedrooms. Both were large and airy and furnished with antiques. The one he chose had a private shower and separate dressing room. He liked the solid lines of the oak bedstead and dresser.

“Once you get settled, come downstairs. I’ll be in the kitchen. Most days I make supper, and you’re welcome to eat here, no extra charge.”

Nick’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten lunch. “Thanks. I may take you up on that.”

“Supper will be in one hour.”

When he returned to the main floor, the rich aroma of corn bread baking in the oven drew him to the kitchen. The sunny room with its country curtains and cross-stitched verses on the wall reminded him of his childhood home. Kate even made him think of his stepmother as she stood at the stove, stirring three different pots of vegetables.

“You go ahead and fix your plate,” she said.

Nick hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in days. He helped himself to the vegetables while Kate took the corn bread from the oven and flipped it onto a plate.

She frowned at his small portions. “That chicken is my specialty.”

He obliged her by forking another piece onto his plate. Kate joined him at the table. “How is your brother?”

“Getting better. I’ll be going back to the hospital after I finish eating. I should be back in a couple of hours.” But he wasn’t leaving the hospital until he got the information he wanted.

“I always stay up for the ten o’clock news.” Kate gave Nick a gentle smile. “Taylor told me about Scott. Is he going to rehab?”

“I hope so, but I’m not sure he’ll agree to it.” Nick looked around the kitchen, recognizing the Bible verse from Jeremiah. This was a happy place, much like the home he grew up in. “You know, this would be a good place to bring Scott. Maybe fatten—” He stopped, his face burning. “I’m sorry. This is your home, not a hospital. I shouldn’t assume that it would be okay for Scott to stay here. And Taylor lives close by, doesn’t she?”

“Taylor is like family. My daughter married her brother.” Kate tilted her head. “Taylor has already mentioned you might want to bring him here. Do you think the police will release Scott to your custody?”

“He hasn’t been charged with anything.”

“Oh.” She seemed puzzled. “I just thought this thing with Taylor . . .”

“My brother is not the one stalking her.”

“How do you know? And are you willing to risk her life to prove it?”

Was he?

“Let me tell you a story,” Nick said. “I came home from school one day. Scott was under the old elm tree in our backyard, and he held a small wren with a broken wing in his hands. He held that bird up to me with tears in his eyes and said, ‘Fix it, Nick. It’s hurting.’ I don’t think that little boy could grow up and intentionally hurt anyone. I know he has an alcohol problem, but violence is so foreign to his nature. Taylor doesn’t have anything to worry about from him.”

Kate’s eyes softened. “I believe you’re right. And he won’t be the first person staying here who has problems.”

“Oh?” Nick forked a piece of chicken into his mouth, savoring the spicy chipotle flavor.

“My daughter took off a couple of years ago. Can’t figure out how we went wrong.”

Taylor hadn’t mentioned that. “Maybe it wasn’t anything you did.”