Simon inhaled his last gulp of brandy. “Why don’t you come back another time, and we’ll see about that DNA.” The man’s eyes flashed a message that the interview was over.
Rich’s fingers itched to snatch the glass out of Simon’s hand. That item would do very nicely for DNA, but he had no choice except to leave. For now.
He jerked his chin toward the Elling patriarch. “I’ll stay in touch.”
“Be sure you do. Maybe I’ll give Judge Becker a call. Let him know you’re on top of a hot case and need your docket cleared.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll visit with the D.A. in the morning.” If Simon Elling could play the old-buddy card with his lifelong pal, Judge Becker, Rich could remind him that the prosecuting attorney was from a different era and not in his pocket. And it was the D.A. he’d report developments to, not to either of the judges that served the county, especially not Becker.
Rich saw himself to the door, footsteps echoing in the empty foyer. He’d known this family was strange, but why would Simon balk at the surest way to prove his son had been found? He needed to look at the case file from the time of the kidnapping and see how closely family had been looked at as suspects. The personal touches in the clandestine burial indicated some level of caring. Of course, he hadn’t seen any such thing in the hard eyes of Simon Elling.
Dusk had gripped the land when Rich stepped outside. He deeply inhaled the cooling air, relieved to be out of that house’s oppressive atmosphere. He went down the stairs and up the walk toward his vehicle. At the curb, Rich did a one-eighty observation of the property. As he turned toward the house, a curtain moved in a lit room upstairs. Fern or Melody?
The roar of a motor drew his attention. Headlights barreled up the driveway toward him, and a low-slung sports car rumbled to a halt behind his SUV. A male figure climbed out of the passenger side. Mason Wright. Now the gang’s all here. Rich hooked a thumb in his front jeans pocket and watched the young man move toward him, swaying as if he were a sailor at sea. Three sheets to the wind all right, and it wasn’t even 10:00 p.m.
If Mason had been behind the wheel, Rich could have arrested him. Maybe this third time would have been the charm, and the D.U.I. would stick. Or maybe not, if Judge Becker heard the case. The Elling fortunes might be in the tank, but their influence still loomed large.
Whip-slender and inches shorter than Rich’s six feet one, Melody’s son halted in front of Rich and snapped a sloppy salute. “If it ain’t the chief. Come to harash me again? Shorry to dishappoint you.” The twenty-six-year-old delinquent burped in Rich’s face.
“I think you’ve disappointed yourself enough for the both of us.” Rich went to the sports car and knocked on the window.
The glass whooshed down, and Taylor Mead, Dr. Sharla’s daughter and Mason’s newest girlfriend, stared up at him. “Don’t mind me, Chief, I’m clean and sober.” Her gaze fell away.
Rich shook his head. She’d probably had a soft drink, that was the kind of girl she was. But how long would she maintain her standards if she hung around Mason and his crowd? The doctor’s family went to the same little community church that Rich did. He’d taught Taylor in youth group, and she was a classmate of his daughter Katrina’s, though not a close friend.
He leaned closer. “Does your mom know you’re rocketing around in this death trap with a drunken passenger?”
Taylor glared. “Hey, he called me up and asked me to drive him home from Sparky’s Bar. He knows you guys are waiting for him to slip up again. He’s not so bad, you know. Just needs someone to understand him.”
Right. He’d heard that same song from women with black eyes and busted jaws, courtesy of the poor, misunderstood dirtball they called boyfriend or husband. He didn’t want Taylor to end up another statistic. Mason was known to have the Elling temper.
“At least let me give you a lift back to your own car.” Rich offered a smile.
She tucked her lower lip between straight white teeth that must have cost her folks a hunk of change, and then shook her head. Her gaze was fixed on the young man who stood swaying on the entrance walk.
“I’ll probably hang out here awhile. Play video games. Whatever.” She opened the car door, and Rich stepped out of the way as she emerged. “I’m nineteen years old and headed for college in a few weeks. I appreciate your concern, but you and my parents will have to stop mother-henning me.” She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and stomped off.
“If you think you need a ride,” he spoke after her, “call me no matter what time it is.”
Heart heavy, he got into his SUV. Something was seriously funky in that household, and a bright girl with a promising future like Taylor didn’t belong in all that darkness. But he couldn’t control her choices. Just like he couldn’t control Jan Keller’s choice not to tell him what she knew about the baby that was buried in her backyard.
He guided his vehicle out of the driveway and onto one of the torn-up city streets. Behind him a pair of headlights came up quickly, bouncing over the bumpy track. Whoever it was needed to slow down and keep their distance. Frowning, Rich’s hand moved toward the control for his bubble lights, then froze. The car behind flashed its headlights and signaled to pull over. Rich eased to the side of the road, and the other vehicle stopped behind him. The car’s door opened, and the dome light revealed Nicole climbing out. Rich met her between their vehicles. The headlights from her car outlined her figure but left her features in shadows.
“Hi.” He ventured a small wave. “Thanks for handling matters so well back there.”
She let out a small laugh. “Here, I thought you were going to scold me for horning in on the investigation.”
“I probably should, but I get the sense that you were caught up in the moment and ended up where you didn’t expect.”
Her shoulders slumped. “The whole day has been like that. More like the past year.”
Was something heavy going on in Nicole’s life even before her husband was killed? Rich stopped the question from popping out of his mouth. He didn’t have the right to ask anything like that yet.
“What have you got there?” He motioned toward a bag she cupped in a palm as if it were fragile and precious.
“I was waiting at the intersection up the street for you to leave the Ellings so I could give you this. It’s from Hannah. Baby Samuel’s hairbrush. Maybe there’s still usable DNA on it.” Nicole held the bag out to him.
Rich let out a low whistle and took the offering. “Thanks. I knew you’d handle Hannah like a pro.”
“No handling necessary.” She crossed her arms. “She volunteered. At least one person in that house wants the poor child identified.”
Rich nodded. “We need an ID to have any hope of finding out who might have buried the infant on your grandparents’ property.”
“You’re giving them the benefit of the doubt?”
Her breathless hope sent a shaft through Rich’s heart. He steeled his emotions. “No more than I would any other citizen in good standing. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”
She cleared her throat. “Well, thanks for that anyway.”
An awkward silence stretched between them.
“Good night,” she ventured first and turned away.
“Good night,” Rich called after her.