Eleventh Grave in Moonlight(26)
“What are you doing?” he said in lieu of a greeting.
“I’m not driving, if that’s what you mean. I was calling about Officer Taft. Is he okay?”
After a moment of silence, he asked, “David Taft?”
“That’s the one. His sister can’t find him.”
“He has a sister?”
“Departed.”
“Oh. Oh, right. I guess I didn’t realize you knew him that well. David Taft is on leave.”
“On leave? Since when?”
“Since about four months ago. It was really strange, though. He came in one day, talked to the captain, then cleaned out his desk and left. We haven’t seen him since.”
“Are you sure he didn’t get transferred?”
“Not according to our records.”
If Taft had just left his job, taken some time off, why couldn’t Strawberry see him? Not that she was the more reliable source, but still …
“Okay what’s your theory?” I asked.
“Theory?”
“Come on, Ubie. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know, pumpkin. He got burned out. It happens all the time.”
Not to the David Taft I knew and almost respected. He loved his job and he’d only been on the force a year or two. And, last I’d checked, he was training to be a sniper. He’d had hopes. Aspirations. And probably an STD from all the skanks he’d dated, according to Strawberry.
“That just doesn’t sound like something he’d do.”
“I don’t know, pumpkin. This life isn’t for everyone.”
I heard that. “Okay, thanks, Uncle Bob. Can you keep me updated on this?”
“Absolutely. Are you at home?”
I blinked. “Yes.”
“Good. Stay put. I’ll be home in about an hour.”
“Oh-kay.”
I hung up and was just about to ask Strawberry, a.k.a. Rebecca Taft, if she’d been to her brother’s house lately, when she turned to me and said, “I’ll be back.”
Damn. Her attention span was even shorter than mine. So much for using her as an investigator. Maybe I could call—
“I’m back!”
I jumped at her unexpected appearance.
“I needed a different brush.” She held up what looked like a used toothpick. She turned it over in her fingers then rolled her eyes and said, “Ugh.” And she was gone again.
The David Taft sabbatical really bothered me. Why would he just leave like that? And why couldn’t Strawberry find him?
Another side effect of law enforcement was the high rate of suicide. What if he really had gotten burned out? What if he’d done something or seen something he shouldn’t have? What if he was gone?
I waited until I got to a red light, bowed my head. “David Taft,” I said, summoning him. If he had passed and was still on this plane, he should appear beside me or in my lap or on my hood. I’d take any scenario. But he didn’t appear.
Sadly, that didn’t mean he hadn’t passed. He could have crossed to heaven moments after he died, and I couldn’t summon anyone back from heaven. Not that I knew of. Though Angel always swore I could, I’d never tried it.
Cookie called when I was only a couple of blocks away from the office.
I answered with a simple but elegant, “Hey, Cook.”
“Hey, hon. So, she’s been bonded out and is staying at her parents’ house.”
“Good for her. That seems like a good place. Help her unwind and figure things out. Who are we talking about?”
She chuckled. “Veronica Isom. The girl accused of killing her—”
“Right. Sorry.” The Taft conundrum had rattled my brain.
“They live in a mobile home park called Green Valley.”
“Oh, perfect. Shoot me the address, and I’ll head over.”
“Will do. So, why does Robert think you’re at home?”
“He does? That’s strange.”
“Charley,” she said, her voice taking on an ominous note. “I’m not going to lie to my husband for you.”
“What? Why? I’d totally lie for you.”
“Yes, but you like to lie. You see it as a challenge. Probably because you’re so bad at it.”
“Wow. And the hits just keep coming.”
“Be careful,” she said, her tone more amused than concerned.
“I’m not promising anything.” I hung up, pulled a U-ey to hit up the closest drive-thru, then headed off to find Veronica Isom, praying she’d talk to me.
Twenty minutes and half a mocha latte later, I pulled into the Green Valley Mobile Home Park off Fourth. Her parents had a well-taken-care-of mobile. Avocado green. It made me hungry for guacamole. And in turn I realized how close the park was to El Bruno’s. So close I could smell the green chile roasting, flooding my mouth with anticipation. And saliva. Mostly saliva.
My stomach growled as I journeyed up the Isoms’ walk. I knocked on the metal door and waited. A TV played softly in the background, and there was a car in the drive, but I didn’t get an answer at the door until I’d knocked three more times. And the greeter was not happy that I’d been so persistent.
An older gentleman jerked open the door.
“Mr. Isom?” I asked, praying he’d give me a few seconds to convince him to give me more.
He glared. He had bushy brows and a faded blue work shirt with an Auto Crafters emblem on it. He was a body man. I could totally relate to body men. And, well, pretty much any men.
“I am so sorry to bother you, but I may—and this is a big may—be able to help in your daughter’s case.”
That got his attention, but not in the way I’d suspected. “The only thing my daughter needs help with is signing the plea agreement the DA offered. Can you help her do that?”
My heart sank. He, like probably the rest of the city, believed his daughter guilty of murdering her child. Either that or he saw no way to win regardless. This could be a tough sell.
“Is she here, Mr. Isom?”
He glared again, and I felt a distinct disdain wafting off him. My gut told me he was only helping her out of loyalty. Out of a sense of fatherly duty. But his heart had been raked over the coals. I could tell.
“My name is Charley Davidson. I’m a private investigator, and I think my current case directly relates to your daughter’s. Mr. Isom, I truly believe that your daughter is innocent of the charges against her.”
“And what makes you so sure?” he asked. But he only did so to prove me wrong. He didn’t believe for a minute she was innocent.
“Because the same people who pretended to have an adoption agency, the ones who took your granddaughter, kidnapped my husband when he was a baby, as well as at least one other boy that we know of.”
He straightened but still held the screen door, barring any thought I might have of entering. “There was no agency.”
“There was,” I argued. “And I have proof.” I didn’t, not anything physical, anyway, but he didn’t need to know that.
He stewed on my words a moment, then yelled, “Roni!”
A woman came to the door having just gotten out of the shower.
“This woman has bought your story hook, line, and sinker. You two should have a great time together.”
Okay. Well, that’d work.
“I’m Charley Davidson,” I said before he could throw any more sarcasm my way, “and I know you’re telling the truth.”
She went completely still. Mr. Isom walked away, the door almost closing behind him. But Veronica recovered and pushed the screen door wider.
“Come in.”
Veronica had long dark hair that hung over her shoulders in wet clumps, big bourbon-colored eyes, and a curvy figure. She’d been towel-drying her hair and picked up where she’d left off, squeezing the ends with the damp towel.
I navigated the steps to a rickety porch and stepped inside. There were toys strewn about the small mobile home.
“My nephew’s. He’s at the store with my mother,” she said, explaining the clutter. She kicked a few toys out of the way and offered me a seat. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
It was a sweet gesture. Inside, her pulse pounded like a war drum. Her hands shook as they pressed water from her hair. And there was something unnatural about her movements. They were stiff. Anxious. The strong elixir of hope and fear had rendered her partially paralyzed.
“No, thank you, I’m fine.”
When she sat down, she put the towel aside and pressed her shaking hands onto her lap. Then waited. No, hoped. Prayed. Begged.
“Veronica, the couple that approached you all those years ago, do you remember what looked like?”
“How did you hear about the case?” she asked, suddenly confused. “Are you working with my public defender?”
“No. I’m sorry, I should’ve explained. I’m a private investigator. I’m working on another case that is peripheral to yours.”
Her pretty brows cinched together. “In what way?”
“I can’t tell you. Confidentiality and all. But I will say I think I know who approached you and why.”
She bowed her head. “Because I was homeless with a newborn. That’s why they approached me.”
I wasn’t about to go into the fact that her baby probably had some kind of aura that caught the Fosters’ attention, so I went along with her story. “I’m sure. Why were you homeless?”