Cat in the Flock (Dreamslippers Book 1) Page 18

  Cat sat quietly in thought for a while, marveling at the insights into human nature her dreamslipping gave her. Granny Grace was right, she realized for the first time. It was a gift.

  Once the plane landed in Seattle, she turned on her phone to see that Granny Grace and Tim Schlein had both left her messages. After she exited the plane and got to the terminal, she ducked into an alcove and called Tim Schlein first.

  "What did you find?" she asked him.

  "They didn't really investigate Larry's death," he told her. "There wasn't a full forensics sweep, either. And what was done looks fishy to me. The blood splatter isn't consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot wound."

  "Let me guess," Cat said. "It suggests Larry was shot from behind, as he sat at his desk."

  "Bingo," Tim replied. "Listen—this, combined with your information about Jim being gone all summer and the wife and kid on the run… I think I can get this case reopened."

  "Thanks, Tim," smiled Cat. "I owe you one."

  "Watch out," he said, "I might try to collect."

  She said good-bye and listened to her grandmother's message. Cat had hopped a plane so fast that they hadn't had a chance to talk yet. Granny Grace said she couldn't pick her up from the airport and that Cat should come directly to Simon and Dave's place. There was also a text from Lee: I already miss you. That one made her feel a bit of heat. But she couldn't get distracted right now.

  Cat put away her cell phone and headed for ground transportation.

  It was already rainy and cold in Seattle, but it felt good to be back. She enjoyed the sloshy sound of wet shoes on linoleum in the airport and inhaled the smells of coffee and then the sea air when she stepped outside and hailed a cab.

  Dropped off at the Fletcher-Bander home, she rang the doorbell (an antique from a nineteenth-century schoolhouse), and Granny Grace answered. Her grandmother threw her arms around her and squeezed the breath out of her. "You're home, Cat!" she cried. "It's so good to see you!" Granny Grace was as stunning as always in a grey knit sweater and a long strand of pearls that clanged against her belt buckle.

  Cat made to walk further into the house to greet Dave and Simon, but Granny Grace stopped her. "Now, Cat, we've got Greg Swenson here, and he won't talk to any of us. He's a bit testy, too. We're hoping you can work some magic on him."

  At that point, Cat heard a familiar voice in the living room, a booming male voice, unmistakable. Instinctively, she hung back. "You brought him to Dave and Simon's? What if his sister killed Larry?"

  Granny Grace gave her a hard look. "My instincts tell me he's a good guy, Cat."

  "Oh, balls," Cat snorted. "That's the jerk who fired me."

  "Yes, Cat," Granny Grace said. "He fired you that day. But why? You weren't so much in the wrong, really. I mean, you broke the rules, but the rules were pretty silly to begin with, and you were just concerned about someone hiding in the condo. That's hardly a firing offense, and didn't Greg seem like an okay guy up till that point?"

  Suddenly, Cat saw what Granny Grace was aiming at. "He's the one who took them away that night. To safety. It wasn't Jim at all."

  Granny Grace made a fist and lightly chucked Cat on the chin. "You got it, kid," she said. "Now, go get him to spill his guts."

  Greg was sitting on the crescent-shaped couch, about mid-crescent. He was still in his M&O gear, which on him was a lot more intimidating than Cat's uniform had looked on her. Simon greeted Cat with a hug, and Dave followed close behind.

  "Grace told us what you did out there in St. Louis, Cat," said Dave. "That took cojones."

  "Oh, I just drew on some acting classes, is all," Cat replied.

  "I'm glad you're all right," said Simon. "Now maybe you can talk some sense into this one. He's tight-lipped with us. It was all we could do to get him here. He says he'll only talk to you."

  Cat turned to Greg, sitting down on the couch so she could face him. "Sherrie Plantation is your sister," she said.

  Greg was looking at Cat as if he couldn't believe she was there, that this was all actually happening. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, which fell across his temple again in defiance. He seemed to be struggling to make up his mind.

  "Yes," he finally acknowledged. "Did you really fly to St. Louis so you could try to save her and Ruthie from Jim?"

  "Yes," said Cat.

  Greg chuckled, this time bitterly. "After I fired you."

  Cat smiled. "You did me a favor. I learned a lot in St. Louis."

  Greg looked at her, his eyes narrowing, but he didn't say anything.

  "Did Sherrie do it?" Cat asked. "Is that why you were hiding her?"

  Greg bolted to his feet. "That's it. I'm out of here."

  "Wait," Cat said, standing up to face him. She placed her hand on his arm. "If she's not the one who killed Larry Price, we need to find out who did."

  Greg shrugged off her touch. "Now why should I trust you? I don't even know you people."

  "Then why'd you come here, Greg?" Cat countered. "You could have said no. I mean, Granny Grace is persuasive, but you're a big guy. With a firearm." She gestured to the weapon in his holster. "Why, Greg? Tell me why you're here."

  Greg sat down. "I'm having trouble getting them set up in Canada," he admitted. "I thought I could do it—little brother saves the day. But I'm just a glorified security guard. I had some friends who said they'd help her get a work visa, but... it's not happening. She'd have to stay there as a tourist, but who's got that kind of money?"

  Cat sat down next to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. "You've been in this all alone, haven't you?" she asked. "Sherrie came to you, her brother—she's got no one else—and you hid her where you thought Jim would never look. You couldn't have them at your place. You knew he'd check the hotels. The condo was perfect, or so you thought."

  Just then, Granny Grace, who'd been standing in the doorway, spoke up. "How did Jim find them at the condo?"

  Greg sighed. "It was her cell phone. I thought she'd got rid of it, but she still had it. Ruthie has this game she likes to play, something with ladybugs the kid's crazy for, and she turned Sherrie's phone on while her mom was sleeping."

  "And Jim triangulated the signal," Cat guessed.

  "Not even that sophisticated, Nancy Drew," Greg said. "He has one of those security plans for his family that shows the location of any phone. Jim's a paranoid control freak. He handled all that stuff, and Sherrie probably doesn't even know the half of it."

  Greg continued. "I found the software app on Sherrie's phone after the fact. I should have thought to look for it when she first got to Seattle." He paused, then looked at Cat, his eyes softening. "We owe you a big thanks, Cat. You saved Sherrie's life. If you hadn't tipped me off that he was out there..."

  "That's my girl," Granny Grace beamed.

  "So it was you," Cat said. "You got Sherrie and Ruthie out of there that morning. You made me think Jim took them."

  Greg looked apologetic. "I didn't know if I could trust you. When Sherrie told me that you said Jim was out there, I just reacted. I had to get them out of there as soon as I could, and I needed you to stay away. I had no idea you'd go to St. Louis."

  He snorted. "I had no idea you were a budding PI. Boy, Tony didn't know what he was getting when he hired you."

  Then he shook his head. "But I'm sorry you got so involved. I'm glad no one at that freak show of a church hurt you."

  "There are some good people there, Greg," Cat said, but she elicited no response from him on that point. She turned to the matter at hand. "Listen, we think Larry was murdered. That was no suicide."

  "Of course it wasn't," Greg agreed. "But Sherrie didn't do it. She has evidence—it was Jim."

  "I knew it," said Dave, who'd come into the room behind Granny Grace. Simon put his hand on Dave's shoulder, both to comfort him and hold him back from interfering.

  "What evidence?" Cat asked.

  "An e-mail. Larry was planning to blow the cover on their love affair. Jim killed him to s
hut him up."

  "Where's Sherrie now? I'd like to see this e-mail."

  "She's staying with an old buddy of mine in Tacoma," Greg said. "Someone I trust. We were on the force together down there. He's retired now."

  "I think it's time for them to stop running, Greg," said Cat.

  Cat and Granny Grace drove with Greg to Tacoma, about forty-five minutes south of Seattle. On the drive down, Cat briefed him on everything she'd found out during her stay in the church and let him know that the case would most likely be reopened. "It might be enough for them to take Jim into custody," Cat speculated. "That, along with this e-mail Sherrie has."

  "All the e-mail does is provide motive," Greg said. "It's not an admission of guilt. You've seen how thick those church leaders are. And Sherrie..." He paused as if considering whether or not to say it, and then pressed on. "Her record's not exactly clean. Jim's threatened to take Ruthie away from her before."

  "She has a few drug convictions," pointed out Granny Grace, who'd done her research well, Cat observed. That must be why Greg's having trouble getting Sherrie a work visa, thought Cat, and why Canadian citizenship would be a problem. Cat knew from studying for the PI exam that Sherrie would have to wait four years for her record to clear before she'd be eligible. It would be awfully hard for someone like Sherrie to start over that way.

  Cat checked her cell phone for messages from Tim Schlein. Nothing. She called and left him a message that there was an e-mail somewhere that could show that Jim had a motive for killing Larry. She hoped Tim would be able to scrub the server and find the digital version, since for legal reasons, all e-mail is automatically saved on most organizations' networks.

  While Greg drove, Cat took the opportunity to text Lee. She felt a surge of fear as she typed in the message, but she took the plunge anyway: I miss you, too.

  But then she self-analyzed her statement. She didn't actually miss Lee at that moment; she'd only tapped out the message because that seemed like the proper response. Right now Cat felt caught up in her case, and satisfyingly so. She felt as if she were finally using her dreamslipping ability—as well as her training in other skills—to help someone.

  When can I see you? came the reply.

  Don't know, she responded. Things happening on the case. Can't talk now.

  It was always a longer drive down to Tacoma than one would think, looking at the city's proximity to Seattle. Lee's place was another thirty-minute drive further. She thought about how she and Lee would make it work with a ninety-minute drive each way between them. It suddenly felt like an insurmountable distance. Then there were their different paths in life. She knew Lee wanted children, and probably soon. He'd always talked about it. It was also likely that he'd return to Iraq for another tour or get stationed somewhere else. It was tough for military wives to maintain careers, with the constant need to move and start over at the whim of the military, regardless of where they were in their current position... Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, she thought.

  When they arrived at the Tacoma house, a squat little brick bungalow with an immaculate yard, the front door was wide open, and no one was there.

  Cat and Granny Grace ran through the house but found it empty. There were no signs of struggle, either—just an empty house sitting with the door wide open.

  Greg immediately tried to reach his buddy by phone, who picked up, saying he was out running errands. "You were just here, and they were fine?" Greg asked, incredulous. Cat felt him trying to control the panic in his voice.

  His buddy was relaying more information as Greg listened intently, nodding. "Okay," he said. "We'll try there, but with the front door left wide open, this doesn't look good."

  Greg shoved his cell phone back into his pocket and said, "There's a park around the block that Sherrie's been taking Ruthie to. I told them not to ever leave the house, but the kid was restless. It's been weeks."

  Greg, Cat, and Granny Grace began to run down the street. As they turned the corner toward the park, Cat saw movement out of the corner of her eye first, and then a car with its doors standing open. There was Jim, with Ruthie under one arm. He was dragging Sherrie by the wrist with his other hand. Ruthie's stuffed bear dangled from Jim's embrace. Sherrie was putting up a really good fight trying to wrest herself away from Jim.

  Greg ran faster, with Cat behind him and Granny Grace following. They had to catch them before Jim loaded them into the car. Sherrie saw the three runners coming her way, and then so did Jim, who must have loosened his grip at the sight. Sherrie broke free long enough to pull Ruthie away from Jim.

  "Run, Ruthie!" she screamed, shoving her daughter in their direction. "It's Uncle Greg, Ruthie! Run to him!" The girl did as Sherrie said, while Sherrie whirled on Jim and kicked him in the groin. Jim pushed Sherrie into the back seat of his car just as Greg swooped in and grabbed Ruthie.

  By the time the three runners caught up with the car, Jim was behind the wheel and gunning the engine. He took off as fast as he could.

  Greg knelt down and inspected Ruthie, who began to cry. "Mommy!" she screamed. "I want Mommy!"

  She was otherwise all right, not so much as a bruise or scrape. Greg looked at Granny Grace. "Can you take her? I've got to go after Sherrie."

  "I'm coming with you," said Cat, and Granny Grace nodded. She took Ruthie's hand and began walking her back to the house.

  Cat and Greg ran to his car and took off in the direction they saw Jim go.

  But there was no sign of the maroon sedan he'd been driving, a different car than the one Cat had seen Jim driving that morning at the condo site. They didn't have a license plate number.

  They drove mainly in silence for a while, only swapping short phrases—"Try that hotel parking lot," or "Over there, the supermarket." There was no sign of them.

  "He might have hopped on the freeway," suggested Cat. Tacoma was situated on a promontory near the water with a major interstate highway hugging its midsection like a belt. Secondary highways headed across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge into the Olympic Peninsula in one direction, down south toward Portland in another, and then back up to Seattle. They could have gone anywhere in a matter of minutes.

  She didn't have to say any of this, because she knew Greg was thinking it. He kept driving, this time taking the exit for Highway 16 and heading across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. It was an impressive expanse, newly rebuilt, tall and commanding, with water churning around its legs. A low fog filled the Narrows. She could see the lights of a few boats in the distance, winking like fireflies.

  He drove to Gig Harbor and cruised the little dockside town slowly, pausing to look at every maroon sedan. They finally found one right by the marina, in the parking lot of a motel, the Driftwood Inn.

  He and Cat walked into the manager's office together. Cat let Greg take the lead.

  Greg held up his wallet to the man at the desk. "Have you seen this woman?" He showed him a picture of Sherrie, Jim, and Ruthie together. It was a family photo with a Christmas tree in the background and a gold cross stamped into the bottom-left corner.

  The man looked startled and instantly on guard. "Just who are you?"

  Cat intervened. "I'm Cat McCormick, a private investigator," she said, holding out her hand. The man shook it. "We're looking for this woman, who was abducted by him this afternoon," she said, pointing to the man in the photo.

  "Wouldn't that be her husband?"

  "Yes," Cat said. "But they're estranged. And he's dangerous."

  "I haven't seen them," the man said. He looked to be telling the truth.

  "Whose car is that?" Greg asked, pointing out the window at the maroon rental car.

  "An elderly couple's," the man said. "They come here every year to fish, but the old guy's slowing down. Now they just put a couple of crab pots out and call it a day."

  Greg looked immediately deflated. "Are you sure?" he asked. "What room are they in? I want to see for myself."

  "I can't let you disturb my guests," the man insisted.
<
br />   "Just a quick check," Cat pleaded. "It won't take long."

  The man sighed, stuffed his hands in the pocket of his flannel shirt, and nodded. "All right," he said. He led them outside and to a door that had once been painted bright green but had obviously faded to its present sea green, the paint peeling in jagged slices.

  An elderly woman answered, her skin weathered but tan, as if she'd just come up from a less sun-deprived part of the country. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with intrigue as she gazed at her unexpected visitors.

  "Why, hello!" she greeted them, and to the manager's apologies she said, "No trouble at all. Please, come in."

  It was a small, old-school motel room with a tiny kitchenette in the back and a single table under a lamp near the window, two chairs flanking it. Greg stood back, shrugging off her invitation to sit down.

  "We can't stay long," he said. "Sorry to trouble you. Is that your maroon rental car outside?"

  She looked disappointed, but maintained her polite demeanor. "Yes, it is."

  "Who wants to know?" said a voice behind her. It was clearly her husband, who was carrying a bucket of crabs.

  The manager spoke up. "They're investigating some joker with a car like yours," he explained.

  Cat and Greg made their apologies to all three people and got back into Greg's car. Once seated, he pulled out his keys and then slumped over the steering wheel.

  "I can't believe I lost her," he said.

  "We'll get her back," Cat promised, putting her hand on his. As she did this, she felt a current of electricity there. He looked into her eyes, and she could see the pain.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Let's get back to Ruthie," he said, turning from her and starting the car.

  They went back to Greg's buddy's house. The man—Boyd was his name—had returned long ago but was still visibly angry with himself that Jim had gotten to Sherrie and Ruthie on his watch.

  "It's not your fault," Greg told him, collapsing in an armchair. "It's mine."

  Boyd was an ex-cop whose formal uniform shots lined the walls in the foyer. He kept shaking his head and looking at Ruthie, who sat quietly in Granny Grace's arms on the couch.