Читать книгу Lock, Stock and McCullen - Rita Herron - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Maddox had considered calling the sheriff in Laramie, but without evidence of a body, he’d look like a fool.

Rose sank into the kitchen chair as if she was too exhausted to stand. “What do we do now?”

He joined Rose at the table, his hands splayed on top. “Technically there’s no crime to report. Well, except that you were attacked, and I’ll document that and your story. But there’s no body and the blood is minimal, so it’s not enough to warrant calling in any other law enforcement at this time.”

“But Thad Thoreau is either dead or missing.”

“I realize that,” Maddox said. “And I didn’t say I wouldn’t investigate. But I don’t plan to inform other authorities until I do some research myself.”

Rose fidgeted but looked relieved. “It was self-defense, Maddox. I swear it was.”

He might not believe a stranger, but he believed Rose.

Or was that his libido talking? He’d always been attracted to her, but his daddy had drilled into him not to chase a woman who was already attached to another man.

And Rose had been wearing that big diamond on her finger.

Her heart must have been broken at her fiancé’s betrayal.

“I’ll check hospitals, ERs, urgent-care facilities and the morgue in case the person Thoreau was talking to on the phone carried him for medical help.”

“You think he had an accomplice? That he cleaned up the blood to cover for Thad’s attack on me?”

“It’s possible.” Another thought occurred to Maddox. “I should search the land and woods surrounding the cabin in case he buried Thoreau there.”

Rose shuddered visibly. “I didn’t think of that.”

Maddox squeezed her hand again. Her fingers felt icy, a tremor running through her. “That’s my job, Rose. Why don’t you get some rest?”

Rose chewed her bottom lip. “I...I’m not sure I can sleep.”

Maddox sucked in a breath, forcing himself not to react physically to the way she folded her fingers into his palm and clung to him. She was suffering from shock and obviously scared to be alone.

Normal for a victim of a crime.

“I’ll stay here and make sure you’re safe.”

Her lips parted in surprise as she angled her face toward him. “I can’t ask you to do that, Sheriff.”

“Maddox,” he said, his voice gruff. “And you didn’t ask. I’m the law around here. I wouldn’t feel right leaving you unprotected, not until we find out what happened to your fiancé and find the person who made that threatening phone call.”

Rose’s gaze met his, shock still flaring in her eyes. “I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that Thad lied to me all along, that he...wanted me dead.”

“That’ll take time.” He slowly pulled his hand from hers. “By the way, do you have a photograph of Thoreau?”

Rose hesitated a moment, then reached inside her purse for her phone and accessed a selfie of her and the man. “Thad didn’t want formal pictures taken, but I managed to snap this one at dinner one night.”

Maddox scrutinized the man’s face. He looked to be in his midthirties, had an angular face, short brown hair, thick brows, a cleft in his chin and eyes that looked a muddy hazel.

“Will that help?” Rose asked.

“Yes, thanks. Now go to bed. I’m going to make some phone calls and see what I can find out.”

Rose pushed herself up from the table with a sigh. “Thank you, Maddox. I...appreciate all you’ve done tonight.”

He stood, tempted to pull her into his arms and comfort her again. But he needed to maintain his distance.

She had been involved in a crime, and he had to remain objective until he learned the truth about what happened earlier.

The cop voice in his head, the one that had been lied to by other suspects, warned him to tread carefully. Two years ago, an alleged victim who’d come running to him for help had actually turned out to be the mastermind of a criminal ring.

Actually he didn’t know that much about Rose herself. Only that she’d moved here a few months ago and opened an antiques shop.

It was far-fetched, but it was possible that she’d killed the man and buried him herself, then concocted this story about the attack.

* * *

ROSE CLIMBED THE STEPS to the bedroom, her emotions in a tailspin. Relief that Maddox was in her house calmed her nerves, but the moment she went into the bedroom and saw the music box Thad had given her the night he proposed, tears flooded her eyes.

The fact that he’d remembered her love of music boxes had moved her even more. It was the one special thing she and Ramona Worthington had bonded over. She’d thought that the gift was so romantic, that Thad really loved her, that they’d spend a lifetime together.

She’d had no idea he’d wooed her into trusting him so he could end her life.

She lifted the lid to the music box, once again mesmerized by the sound of the love song and the dove twirling on the top. Something about the antique music box stirred a distant memory, reminded her of a music box she’d seen before, maybe as a child.

But she couldn’t place what it looked like or the song it was playing.

An image of a woman’s hand teased at her memory, and a soft voice whispered to her that the music box had belonged to her grandmother.

But her mother had never mentioned a grandmother. In fact, when she’d asked about other relatives, her mother had clammed up.

Heart heavy, she stripped, pulled on a gown and brushed her teeth. But the sight of her ashen, tear-streaked face in the mirror reminded her of the horror of her near death.

She splashed cold water on her face, then fell into bed and drew the covers above her, clenching them as the nightmare of the evening played over and over in her head.

She had escaped Thad tonight.

But would he or the man on the phone come back and try to kill her?

* * *

MADDOX WAITED UNTIL Rose disappeared up the steps, then strode out to Thad’s sedan and searched the car. Nothing inside that looked suspicious. The vehicle was registered to Thad Thoreau.

He retrieved his kit from his car and dusted the interior for prints, then placed the prints in his kit to take to the lab the next morning.

Then he retrieved his computer. He set it up at Rose’s kitchen table, then accessed a list of local hospitals, ERs, urgent-care facilities and morgues. He sent them a picture of Thad for identification purposes.

A few phone calls later, and he’d found nothing. “Call me if this man turns up, or if you get a patient suffering from a gunshot wound.” He left his number, and reminded the nurse on the phone that the man he was looking for might be armed and dangerous, to alert security and not confront him.

Technically, doctors were required to report any gunshot wound, but sometimes things slipped between the cracks. Especially if the patient, or the person who brought the patient in, was armed and threatened the health care workers.

The fact that Thoreau hadn’t been admitted could mean that his accomplice had carried him somewhere off the grid for medical help.

Or that he was dead.

Another reason to search the property tomorrow.

He accessed the national police databases and ran a search on Thad Thoreau.

First of all, the man’s name didn’t pop up as having an arrest record. Neither did it appear that he’d served in the military.

In fact, when he plugged Thoreau’s name into the DMV database, he found three different Thad Thoreaus but none of them matched the picture Rose had shown him. One Thad Thoreau was ninety and in a nursing home, another was deceased and the third was a professor in Salt Lake City.

He checked each of their backgrounds to see if any one of them had a son named Thad, but hit a dead end.

Frustrated, he spent the next hour researching the company listed on Thad’s business card, but couldn’t find a company with that name. The company was bogus—part of Thad’s cover.

If Thoreau was a professional killer, he’d probably used an alias. He phoned Devon Littleman, the best IT analyst he knew at the lab, and emailed him Thoreau’s photograph. “We need to know his real name,” Maddox said after he’d explained the situation.

“This might take a while.”

“Let me know what you find. I’m dropping off his prints tomorrow.” Thoreau could have randomly pulled the identity from a source like a computer or a phone directory, or he could have chosen it from a gravestone or obituary notice.

Whatever his name, Thad Thoreau was not who he claimed to be.

So who was he?

And why had he come after Rose?

It had something to do with the girl on the milk carton...

“Can you put a trace on Rose Worthington’s phone in case the man who threatened her calls again?”

“I’m on it.”

“Devon, pull it up now. She received a threatening call tonight. I want to know where it came from.”

“Hang on.”

Maddox drummed his fingers on the table as he waited. Finally Devon came back.

“There was only one call made to her number tonight. Looks like it came from a burner phone. Sorry, but I can’t trace it.”

Damn. “Thanks. Call me if you find anything else.”

Maddox hung up. Curious, he plugged Rose’s name into the computer and ran a check on her. Guilt needled him for invading her privacy. But she needed his help, and he couldn’t uncover Thoreau’s motive for wanting her dead if he didn’t know more about her.

The wind picked up outside, rattling the windowpanes and whistling through the house. He glanced at the stairs to make sure Rose wasn’t coming back down, but didn’t see her or hear footsteps. Hopefully, she’d fallen asleep.

Maybe tomorrow she’d remember more details about her fiancé that would help his investigation.

Rose’s name appeared on the DMV database, the photograph taken two years before. She had no arrest record, had lived with parents named Ramona and Syd Worthington before moving to Pistol Whip. Ramona, now in her fifties, worked in a gardening center while Syd worked with a freight company.

He studied the picture of the couple, looking for similarities to Rose, but her features were softer, rounder, her eyes a deep amber instead of Ramona’s blue or Syd’s brown.

Rose said she and her parents were estranged. What had happened between them?

Not that it was pertinent to the case, but if he wanted to know the reason someone wanted to kill Rose, he had to learn everything he could about her.

And that included tracking down the girl on the milk carton.

How old was Rose now? He checked her birth date on the driver’s license photo. Twenty-five.

Which meant that the photograph of the missing child—hadn’t she said she was around four or five?—would have been posted about twenty years ago.

Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, he accessed the database for missing and exploited children and searched for girls who’d disappeared around that time. Hundreds of pictures showed up, enough to make him sweat under the collar.

He entered Rose’s name to narrow down the search, and waited, but that yielded nothing.

If he knew the state where the girl disappeared from, it would help.

It was also possible that since the photo had been circulated, she’d been found alive and returned to her family, or she was...dead.

He compared Rose’s name with a list of children reported as deceased during that time frame. There were two other girls with the last name Worthington, but one was a teen found dead from an overdose, the other a runaway who’d eventually gone home on her own.

The search led to countless other girls named Rose, and it took him nearly an hour to sort through them and run a comparison.

Dammit, he needed better software to show age progression. Something he’d have to speak to the county about, although he doubted it would do much good. Pistol Whip was such a blip on the Wyoming map that the big cities rated the nicer, more sophisticated equipment.

His eyes were starting to blur from fatigue, so he decided to rest his head for a while. It was already 4:00 a.m.

Tomorrow he had to go back to the cabin and search for a grave.

Weary from the night’s events, he closed the laptop. He walked to the window and checked out the front, then to the rear and surveyed the wooded backyard.

Everything seemed quiet. Peaceful.

Rose was safe.

But as he stretched out on her sofa, he laid his gun on his chest just in case Thoreau or his partner returned to kill her in the night.

* * *

HANDS TIGHTENED AROUND Rose’s throat. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t make a sound come out.

Terrified she was going to die, she struggled to pry the man’s hands from around her neck, but he was so strong she couldn’t budge his fingers, and his nails cut into her skin.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as her body began to convulse. Still she kicked and clawed...

Then the hands lifted from her throat, and the cold blunt edge of a gun barrel settled against her temple. “You can run, but you can’t hide, Rose. I’ll find you.”

She struggled to see, but darkness surrounded her. Then the red...so much red...blood everywhere. Splattering the walls and the floors...splattering her. Her knees. Her hands.

Her face...

A scream tore from her throat and she tried to move, but fear paralyzed her.

Then the sound of gunfire exploded into the room. Bullets pinging off the wall. A man’s voice. A woman’s cry for help.

She closed her eyes and tried to crawl toward her, but the world was fading away into gray...

“Rose?” Another hand gripped her arm, this time firm but gentle. “Rose, it’s me, Maddox. Wake up.”

She jerked her eyes open at the sound of that familiar voice, but she was trembling so badly that fear immobilized her. She could only look into his eyes and whisper his name.

His gaze connected with hers. He soothed her tearstained face, then pulled her into his arms.

She buried her head against him, hating to be weak, but terrified of what she’d seen in her nightmare. The room where she’d been—she didn’t know where it was, except there were antiques there and lace curtains, and music had been playing, a soft lyrical tune like the one in the music box Thad had given her.

Only she hadn’t been at the cabin...and it wasn’t Thad holding the gun to her head. She’d seen this man’s eyes.

They were black, the blackest of black, as if they were hollowed empty holes in his face.

As if they were the devil’s eyes.

Was the man a figment of her imagination, the face she’d conjured up to go with the man who’d threatened her on the phone?

And all that blood...it was almost as if she’d been there. Seen someone die.

Someone she’d loved...

But that was impossible. If she’d witnessed a death or murder, she would remember it, wouldn’t she?