Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3 Page 4

  “Good night, Mr. Holt.”

  Exhausted, annoyed, and feeling a little ridiculous, I turned to go back to my room.

  I slid my keycard into the slot and pushed the door open. I froze. My senses kicked into high gear and my focus sharpened.

  Without air conditioning to mask the room’s odors, I smelled the woodsy, metallic scent of aftershave mixed with sweat. The window was wide open. I scanned the room for anything out of place and zeroed in on the nightstand.

  The photo of the girls on the covered bridge was gone.

  Chapter 7

  I woke at sunrise to the buzzing alarm. My phone told me it was sixty-nine degrees on a partly cloudy day.

  Looking at the bright side, the stolen photo confirmed I was on the right track and someone was nervous. Who knew about my search for Janet Maxwell’s daughter? Either Mrs. Maxwell let it slip she hired a PI or someone kept tabs on her. I was betting on the latter.

  I was not without luck as fortune smiles on the prepared. I had scanned the photo to my phone as backup. While not as clear as the original, it would serve the purpose.

  After a full breakfast and two cups of coffee, I headed to the public library on River Street. I’ve found in small towns every little thing is big news and decided to sift through local newspapers for high school events. Two of the girls in the photo would have just graduated.

  As I moved about town, I was on the lookout for the Crown Victoria or a walking tail. I parked on a side street and strolled to the white clapboard, Greek Revival building. The massive double decker porch beckoned you to sit down and read your favorite book from start to finish.

  I was surprised to find the inside modern while maintaining the original look and feel. A large room with a tray ceiling was furnished with joined desks and lamps. I could see nooks with comfortable chairs and people reading newspapers.

  The woman at the front desk wore a bright, flowery dress, granny glasses, and an inviting smile. “How can I help you today, sir?”

  “Hi. I would like to look at local newspapers covering the last couple of years.”

  “Certainly. Go straight back through the Calvin Coolidge room, and make a right into Justin Morrill Hall. You should see current newspapers and magazines. Below each are shelves with editions going back two years.”

  The same architecture carried over to the next room. Individual desks stood in the middle of the space, and brown, faux leather club chairs lined the window walls. Shelves spanning the length of the opposite wall held newspapers and magazines.

  The Stowe Daily focused on everything local—news, sports, the arts, and high school events. Several editions showed pictures of Vermonters at the high school theater, on the links, or enjoying the picturesque countryside. I hoped to find one of the three girls from the covered bridge photo and get a name.

  Two hours later, I found a picture of seven students in a high school version of Thoroughly Modern Millie. An oval-faced cast member, with arms in the air, matched a girl at the covered bridge. The caption only mentioned the name of the star: Caitlin Jennings. Crosschecking the phone book with a map of Stowe allowed me to eliminate three Jennings as too far from the high school, leaving one on Houston Farm Lane.

  It was a five-minute drive to a weathered gray Cape Cod house with a red door and black shutters. As I pulled up, threatening dark clouds rolled in from the west. A heavyset woman opened the door, hurried to her car, and raised the windows.

  “Hello!” I gave her my irresistible smile and sauntered up the driveway.

  She eyed the front door. Her escape route was too far. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Jennings? My name is Lucas Holt. Could I have a moment of your time?” She gave me a look as if I were an insurance salesman. “I’m a private investigator.” I showed her my P.I. license. Annoyance replaced dread. I guessed I was the lesser of two evils.

  “Oh. What is this about?”

  “I have a client who is searching for a young lady she hasn’t seen in seventeen years.” I wasn’t able to tell her the whole truth. I showed her the picture on my phone. “Do you know any of these girls?”

  When she didn’t respond I added, “There’s a sum of money involved for the girl.”

  “That’s Barbara Hansen on the right. I don’t know the other two girls. They look like they could be sisters, though.”

  She was right. Maxwell’s daughter and one of the girls had the same golden hair, round face, and athletic build. Barbara Hansen, taller and heavier, had dark hair and a pronounced nose. Mrs. Jennings didn’t know Janet Maxwell’s daughter. I had hoped she would name all three girls.

  “I wonder if your daughter, Caitlin, would mind looking at the picture.” I flashed my winning smile again. How could she refuse?

  She frowned. Did I have something in my teeth?

  “Wait here,” she said after a moment.

  She entered the house and closed the door. I noticed Caitlin peeking through white lace curtains upstairs. While waiting, I glanced up and down the street. There were few places one could hide without being deemed suspicious by a neighbor. Every car, as far as I could see, was in a driveway.

  The door opened. Mrs. Jennings and her daughter appeared, Caitlin’s arms folded across her chest.

  “Hi. Thanks so much for taking time to talk to me.”

  Caitlin was silent. Mom responded, “Sorry we took so long. Can we see the picture again?”

  I handed my phone to Caitlin. She stared at the picture and her expression changed to a grimace. Finally, she looked up, pointed at the girl on the right.

  “Barbara Hansen and I are friends. That’s Karen Martin in the middle and Mary Wells on the left. I don’t know them very well.”

  I had a name. Janet Maxwell’s daughter was Karen Martin.

  “Thank you. Do you know if these girls still live in this area?”

  I sensed Caitlin’s reluctance to speak. An interrogator’s trick is to let the silence linger, and it would soon be filled. “Barbara does. I think Karen moved. I don’t know where.”

  “Perhaps Barbara can help me locate Karen. Does she live nearby?”

  “I’ll ask her if she’ll talk to you.” Caitlin spun around, pulled out her cellphone, and walked a short distance.

  I turned to Mrs. Jennings. “I think I may have intimidated Caitlin a bit.”

  “It’s okay. I told her I saw your license and photo. You are who you say you are.”

  Caitlin returned. “Barbara lives five houses down on the opposite side of the street. The house is a white split level.”

  “Thanks again, to both of you.” I started to walk back to the car when Caitlin spoke.

  “You know…you’re not the first person to show me that picture.”

  Chapter 8

  “Someone else showed you this picture?” I held out the photo of the girls at the covered bridge.

  “Yes.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “At our soccer game. I thought he was a parent until I noticed him walking around, showing something to a lot of people. Now I think it must have been the photograph.”

  Initially Caitlin was reluctant to speak. Then she became more willing and provided a key piece of information. I wanted to keep the flow going, so I used my engaging smile.

  “Did your team win?” Her mom nodded from behind her.

  “This isn’t funny.” Mrs. Jennings was getting ready to interject when I apologized.

  “Okay. Sorry.” Kids, huh? “Did he show you any identification?”

  “He showed me a police badge, but I’ve seen police badges. This one looked fake.”

  Mr. Crown Vic was likely the person who stole the picture from my hotel room.

  “Can you remember his name?”

  “No. I barely got a look at his ID.”

  “Last question, Caitlin. Can you describe the man?”

  “He wasn’t much taller than me and thin. His face was long, and he had a black mustache that curled down around his lips. He brus
hed his hair straight back. And he carried a black cap.”

  As I’d only seen him in the shadows, her description filled in some blanks.

  “I thought he looked like a creep and didn’t tell him anything,” she added.

  A break for the good guys.

  Her face scrunched up, and she pointed her index finger at me. “And he smiled at me the same lame way you did.”

  ***

  Parked in one of the neighboring driveways, Ronnie Glick removed his cap and scratched his head. He sat slumped in the seat of his rented Jeep Cherokee. Caitlin Jennings’ house was within sight. Lucas Holt had returned to his car after his conversation with the girl. Glick waited for Holt to drive off, intending to follow him. His cellphone rang.

  “Glick here.”

  “It’s Cain. What’s going on? What’s Holt up to?”

  “He was talking to a teenager and her mother.”

  “So he’s making progress. Remember why you’re there. You need to find out what he knows. What have you done to that end?”

  “Well, last night I was able to get into his hotel room and remove a photo he had of three girls. Figured I could use it, and he wouldn’t have anything to show around.”

  Glick could hear Cain’s low audible breathing. He imagined a dragon breathing fire.

  “Did you rent a car to replace your own?”

  “I did, but not ’til this morning.”

  “I hope you were discreet.”

  “Yes sir, I’m pretty sure he didn’t see me. I saw an opportunity and managed to draw him out of his room. It took less than a minute to get in and out.”

  “What photo?” Glick described it to Cain. “Yeah, I know the one. What did you do with it?”

  “I used it to show around at the high school. No one would tell me anything. I’m tailing Holt. He spent a few hours in the library. Now, I’m sitting in a driveway a few houses down from where he is, waiting for him to pull away.”

  Glick could hear Cain’s heavy drawn breath again. “Sir?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Holt knows who you are already.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Cain.”

  “Glick, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. Never mind. It’s my fault for not thinking this through. You’re not there to investigate and call attention to yourself. I need to know where he goes. Tail him, but keep your distance. I’ll call back in a few hours.”

  “Sure thing, sir.” Glick barely said the words before Cain ended the call.

  Holt’s SUV still sat in front of the Jennings’ house. Ronnie Glick wiped his forehead, took a swig of his bottled water, and slouched back against the seat to wait.

  ***

  I sat in the Rover, mesmerized by the steady stream of pelting rain on my windshield.

  Turning on the wipers, I looked ahead and behind me. The black Crown Victoria was not in sight. I asked myself, if I were Mr. Crown Vic, what would I do? I’d follow Lucas Holt. I’d know Holt spotted my car and possibly my North Carolina license plate. I’d rent another ride.

  I glanced in the side rearview mirror and spotted someone sitting in a white Jeep Cherokee parked in a driveway. The driver wasn’t clearly visible. As I pulled away and rounded a curve, the Jeep backed out. I parked on the opposite side of the street near the house of Caitlin’s friend Barbara. The Jeep followed and came to a near stop before accelerating away.

  Running between raindrops up the walk, I approached a stained-glass door with two frosted side panels. Before I could ring the bell, the door opened. A plump, dark-haired girl came outside and smiled. We stood under a portico.

  “Hi. I’m Barbara.”

  “Hi, Barbara, I’m Lucas Holt. Did Caitlin tell you about our conversation?”

  “Just that you were looking for Karen Martin.”

  “Yes. I understand she moved away. Do you know where?”

  “Not sure, I think Pennsylvania or maybe that’s where she said she was going to college. She told me it was somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I know she was bummed to be moving again after making friends here.”

  “It’s always tough to leave your friends. Did you know her parents?”

  “Yes, they were very nice. Her mom was quiet, hardly left the house. I don’t think she knew how to drive because we used to pick up Karen for school sometimes. Her dad worked at the Snow Drift Lodge as an instructor. I took a few lessons from him. He liked his job, and I wondered why they moved.”

  “Maybe another job opportunity.”

  Barbara shrugged.

  “Do you know Mary Wells?”

  “Yes. She was best friends with Karen. They were like sisters.”

  “Do you know where Mary Wells lives? Maybe she could tell me where Karen is.”

  “Yeah, she might. She lives on Cranbury Road. I think number forty-nine. I haven’t seen her around since school ended.”

  I wrote down the address.

  “You told Caitlin there was money involved. Did someone die and leave Karen money?”

  “Something like that.” I changed the subject following that white lie. “The photo I have is two years old. Do you have anything more recent?”

  “I can check my Facebook photos. We used to be friends but she closed her account. Wait here.”

  Barbara appeared eager to help. She came back in ten minutes with a picture.

  “This photo is not clear,” Barbara said, handing me a piece of copy paper.

  The grainy photocopy showed Karen Martin as she sat on a large rock on the edge of a wooded area. Her knees touched her chest and she hugged her legs. Her matured features drew a striking resemblance to her mother. I could see a hint of the senator’s contribution in her expression.

  “You said she closed her Facebook account. I imagine you don’t keep in touch any other way.”

  “No, not really. But people reactivate their accounts all the time.”

  “Barbara, thank you. You’ve been a big help. Here’s my card. If Karen happens to reopen her account or you have anything else you can tell me, contact me any time. When I find Karen, I’ll tell her how helpful you were.”

  The rain finally let up. I punched Mary Wells’ address into my GPS. I was going to head over there when Ray Scully called. I noticed the time. It was late afternoon.

  “Hey, buddy, did they take you off the night shift?”

  “No, it’s my day off. I’m on my sixth cup of coffee. My body is telling me I should be asleep, but my wife is saying otherwise. Her parents are coming for dinner. They’re in town and want to see the kids. If my father-in-law starts describing his golf game to me, I’m in trouble. No amount of coffee will keep me awake for that.”

  “I still envy you, pal. You have something for me?”

  “Yeah, that plate is registered to a retired North Carolina police officer named Ronald Glick. He retired almost two years ago. Last known address, eight twenty five Maple Leaf Avenue, Black Mountain, North Carolina.”

  “A police officer? The guy has balls. He climbed in my window and stole a photo of the missing girl.”

  “Where were you when he climbed through the window?”

  I thought about how Glick was able to get me to leave my room.

  “Never mind.” I skirted around that line of questioning. “Thanks for the info. I’ll be out of town for a couple of weeks, but when I get back you can buy me a beer.”

  “Buy you a beer? I’m still living on a detective’s salary. The beer’s on you.”

  “Okay, sure, I might even throw in a steak. It’ll be a change from all the mac and cheese you’re used to eating. Give my love to Regina and the kids.”

  “I will. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Yep, will do.”

  I really did envy Scully. As lucrative as my line of work is, the comforts it provides are only superficial. My former partner enjoys true luxury—the kind money can’t buy.

  ***

  The rain clouds moved further west, and I followed them on my way
to Mary Wells’ house. I turned off a main road to a lane that wound through a wooded incline. The blacktop was slippery and masses of towering red oaks and pine trees blocked out most of the natural light. I opened the window and inhaled the fresh pine scent.

  A sudden clearing at the end of the road split into two driveways. I took the one on the right and pulled up to a large farmhouse, which backed up to acres of mowed lawn. There were no cars in the driveway. I climbed the porch steps, rang the bell, and knocked on the door. No one answered.

  I turned to the railing and glanced out toward another house in the distance—the one at the end of the left driveway. A woman stood on her porch, peering at me. Since she appeared interested, I decided to alleviate her curiosity and mine.

  Dressed for gardening in short-cropped pants, a long-sleeved blouse and huge straw hat, the Wells’ neighbor greeted me with a nod as I pulled up her driveway.

  “Good evening, ma’am, I’m Lucas Holt.” I held out my card. She accepted it with her garden-gloved hand.

  “Evening. You looking for the Wells?”

  “Yes, but I see they’re not home.”

  She gave me a tight-lipped, “No.”

  “Do you know if they’ll be back tonight or tomorrow—I’m sorry what did you say your name was?”

  She raised a penciled eyebrow. “I didn’t, and I’m not going to give out any information about the comings and goings of my neighbors.”

  “Okay, well I’m looking for the Martins. I was told Mary Wells was a friend of their daughter’s.”

  “I knew the Martins. They moved.”

  “Do you know where they moved to?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thank you.” I turned toward the Rover, thinking the only good thing about the lead was the drive up the mountain. Then the woman spoke.

  “You could ask Kathryn Sullivan.”

  Chapter 9

  “Who’s Kathryn Sullivan?” I asked.

  “She and her husband live in the Martin house now. She works at the library at the reference desk. It’s open ‘til seven tonight.”