Part 14 (1/2)
”They weren't married to Anthony. Anyhow, what do you expect? They're going to say, 'Ah, I see you have a kid by Anthony Esposito'?”
”Let's not debate it. The question is can we get beyond this?”
”Can it work?” Rae pondered aloud, then quickly cut off Veronica's pending comment. ”Don't say anything. I'm asking myself, not you.”
Then suddenly Rae knew why Veronica had been caught off guard by her reaction to seeing Justin. A lover wouldn't have been surprised at a wife's recognition of even a minute resemblance to her mate. Anthony's indelible imprint was on every facet of Rae's body and soul. The recognition of him in the boy had been instantaneous. He'd left no such imprint on Veronica, though she obviously thought highly of him.
Now Rae knew without asking that there'd be no pictures of Anthony on Justin's dresser-no pictures of him anywhere in Veronica's house.
Veronica took a sip from her mug. ”Cold.” She got up, placed the mug on the countertop and moved toward the door. ”When you decide, give me a call. I'll let you know if the job's still open.” Pausing in the doorway, she added, ”If you want, I can get you my medical records.”
”No. I believe you.”
From her seat at the kitchen table, Rae watched Veronica walk away. Against her will, her anger dissolved into stifled giggles. The back of Veronica's pristine, perfect-fit black slacks was covered with pale gold cat hair from Rae's kitchen chair pad.
”What?” Veronica turned at the faint sound.
Rae let the laughter come. ”I'm sorry,” she said as she caught her breath. ”It's just that you've grown a pair of cat-hair chaps.”
Veronica looked over her shoulder at her backside, and then marched toward the front door.
Rae followed. ”I could offer you a lint roller.”
”No, thanks.” Veronica turned and looked Rae full in the eyes. ”You need to decide soon. The longer we wait, the colder the trail. Banks lose things. Doc.u.ments get shredded. Hard drives get erased.”
Rae knew the answer she wanted to give Veronica. But the words wouldn't come. Grandma's voice rattled in her head: You got a stiff back, Rae. Better learn to bend it.
”I'll do it.”
”Are you sure?”
”As sure as it's humanly possible to be.”
”I'll call you when the contract is ready.”
Veronica held out her hand. Rae gripped it firmly, noting its dry warmth.
Nate couldn't seem to shed the uneasy feeling that had first crept into his gut the day he'd heard that sliver of conversation between Morgan and Sam.
No more secrets between them, Morgan had said when Nate had questioned her. Really? It was obvious to him that she had read the Lakewood P.D. report before he'd obtained his copy.
Back to square one. What was different about Wheat Ridge's report? ”We've got to find out what she told Wheat Ridge.” Morgan's words to Sam festered away in his brain. Meanwhile, he was serving as an alibi for both Morgan and Sam. Did they need an alibi? The kicker was that the elusive villain, this Camacho person whom none of them claimed to ever have seen, was out there somewhere, but the cops didn't seem all that concerned.
Sam's sending Beth and Josh into hiding and not telling him or Morgan-no way did he buy the reasoning offered for this diversion. His imagination leapt ahead. Maybe neither Kevin nor Danny had been Camacho's contact. That chilling prospect erased any desire he had for returning to share his wife's bed. Not that he wished her migraines to continue. His suspicions could be way out in left field. Part of him hoped so. The truth was, giving up his lifestyle would be far more painful than sleeping alone.
When he'd gone back to Wheat Ridge P.D. armed with a printout of the Colorado Revised Statutes, he had demanded an interview with the station commander, an old fart with an att.i.tude who'd told him just what he could do with CRS 24-72-304.
When sleep eluded him, Nate reread the Lakewood reports until something jumped out at him.
The machine shop on Forty-second Avenue. James Joseph Camacho's apparent base of operation. The rented machine shop. He knew from his years of commercial real estate management that lease applications are often treasure troves of information.
The Harrisons, owners of the machine shop property, lived in a nondescript one-story with white aluminum siding on Reed Street, within minutes of the Bayfield offices. It had been easy for Nate to obtain this information from property records available on the net. Edwin and Betty Jean Harrison. He chose a morning visit.
”Mrs. Harrison?”
The sharp-faced woman who answered the door eyed him coldly and nodded.
”I'm Nathan Farris of Bayfield Enterprises.” He offered the woman his business card which she accepted with tobacco-stained fingers.
”No solicitations.” The woman pointed to a sign on the chain-link fence that bordered the property.
”Oh, no,” Nate flashed his pearly-whites, ”I'm not a salesman. I'm here about one of your former tenants. Mr. Camacho.”
”What about him?” Betty Jean Harrison opened the door a bit wider and took a drag on her cigarette.
”He's applied to rent one of our buildings and given you as a reference.”
Betty Jean shook her head and frowned. ”He's still in there.”
”He is?”
”Well, he's still paid up. Never said anything about moving.”
He had planned in advance for this scenario. ”Perhaps he's expanding.”
A snort from Betty Jean. ”You got a release?”
”A what?” He knew d.a.m.n well what she was after. ”Oh, sure, I must have...” He shuffled around in his briefcase.
”You come back after five. My husband's home then. You talk to him. And bring your release. We don't want no lawsuits.” Betty Jean let the screen door sag into place and disappeared from his view.
Nate's hours at Bayfield Enterprises had been dwindling, yet Sam never let on if he noticed this. Fat chance of him not noticing. Sam, who processed every flyspeck on the wall. Nate wasn't exactly neglecting his duties-it was just that looking for JJ Camacho seemed more important-a nasty job, but somebody had to do it.
By the time Nate had decided, over breakfast at his favorite restaurant, how to attack the problem of the release form, it was nearly ten o'clock. He'd better get to the office. He noticed Sam's and Fredricka's vehicles in the parking lot when he pulled in.
After picking up his phone messages from Fredricka, he retreated to his office to set about the task of creating the release form required by the Harrisons using the company's standard form. But, what to do about Camacho's signature? Betty Jean gave him the impression that she might be picky enough to compare it with the lease.
Sam was poring over something on his desk when Nate entered without knocking. Sam looked up at him, a pained look on his usually unflappable countenance.
”Bad news?” asked Nate.
”The coroner's report on Kevin.”
”Will they let us bury him now?”