Chapter Twenty-Six SCARLETT

Chapter Twenty-Six

S CARLETT

Tuesday, July 16, 2024

6:45 p.m.

As I washed the murky black ink from my hands, a restless urge passed through my body. My thoughts kept returning to Margo.

She’d texted me two hours ago. Drinks at my place tonight?

Sure.

A glance up toward her apartment told me the lights were on, and I saw Margo pass in front of the window. I showered and changed into clean jeans, a black graphic T-shirt, and sandals. I didn’t have a bottle of wine or anything to bring. So I set out across the street, waved to the front desk attendant, and entered the building.

“Hey,” I said. “Me again. I’m meeting Margo Larsen.”

“Fifth floor. Apartment 512.”

“Thanks. How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain. You talk to that redhead?”

“No.”

He grunted. “When you do, tell her not to sit on my front doorstep. It’s not a great look.”

“I’ll do my best.” Tiffany flaked often and it could be weeks before I saw her. Maybe I’d never see her again.

I strode toward the elevator and stepped inside. As the doors closed, I drew in a breath, easing the tightness. Glancing up, I watched as the buttons ticked toward the fifth floor. I had no idea what I was going to say to Margo or why I was here. She was a cop, but she had Della’s demeanor.

The doors opened, and I walked down the hallway to 512. I knocked, took a step back, and slid a nervous hand into my jeans pocket. Booted heels echoed in what sounded like a hollow space.

The door snapped open. Margo wore dark pants, a fitted top, and low-heeled boots. Her badge was hooked to her belt and her hair was brushed back. “Scarlett. Right on time.”

I looked into her eyes, and suddenly felt as if I was looking at Della. “Hey.”

“Come in.”

I stepped past her. The unit was stripped bare and was all hard angles, metal, and glass. It bordered on cold, but the soft glow of the evening sun streaming through the windows warmed up all the darkened corners.

“So, this is my new home,” Margo said. “What do you think?”

I cleared my throat. “Nice.”

“I’m lucky to have found it. I hear units in this area get snapped up quickly. Apparently, the last tenant just took off without warning and broke her lease.”

“It happens.” I crossed to the window and stared out over the warehouses across the street to the river beyond. People walked past my building, going about their lives, never really paying attention to their surroundings.

From this vantage, I could see directly into my warehouse. If Margo wanted to watch me, she could do it easily from here. Good. Let her watch.

“How did you find the place?” I asked.

“Nothing like staying in a second-rate hotel to motivate a house search. Found it online. My timing was perfect. The unit had only been listed for an hour.”

I faced her, staring into her eyes. “You’re a police officer?”

“That’s right.” She walked toward a granite countertop to an open bottle of wine and two paper cups. “For eight years now. I started in Northern Virginia, got a little tired of the traffic, and decided to move closer to the water.”

“You originally from the DC area?”

“Newport News.” The city was located across the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel on the mainland and in light traffic took twenty minutes to reach.

“So, like coming home.”

“If that’s possible.” She held up the wine. “Can I pour?”

“That would be great.”

Margo grabbed the wine bottle and filled the two cups. Joining me at the window, she handed me one. “Cheers to me and my new home.”

“Welcome,” I said. The wine was decent if not a tad bitter. “What kind of police work did you do in Northern Virginia?”

“Human trafficking.” She sipped.

“That must’ve been tough.”

“It was. But I’m very good with those cases. I have a knack. Nothing jazzes me more than really busting up a trafficker.”

“Arresting?”

“Sure. They also end up incarcerated.” Margo took a liberal sip. “I have a confession. I know your story.”

The comment was alive with too many unspoken meanings. “Do you?”

“I’m working with Dawson on the Sandra Taylor case. He told me about you.”

I tried to picture her with Dawson and couldn’t marry the two together. “Okay.”

“Tough break for you.”

A powerful understatement. “Nothing you haven’t seen on the job.”

“Still, never easy.”

“No.”

“Your backstory with Tiffany Patterson makes your interest in her odd.”

“Why’s that?”

“Seems you two would keep your distance. You feel like you owe her, don’t you?”

“Why do you say that? I saved her.”

“But you weren’t planning on it, were you? Something broke inside of you in the last moment?”

The assessment hit too close to home. “That about sums it up.”

“And now you’re trying to balance the old wheel of karma, am I right?” Her curiosity was palpable, layered with agendas I couldn’t define.

“Just trying to do the right thing.” The words traveled on a breathy whisper.

“Did you know Sandra Taylor?”

I marshaled a fake smile. “Is this a meet and greet or an interrogation?”

Margo grinned like Della. It was the way the left side of her mouth lifted in a half-sheepish and half-humorous way. “Both, I suppose.”

I set my cup on the counter. “I came to meet my neighbor, not to be interrogated.”

Margo was nonplussed. “We’re drinking wine. We’re getting to know each other. And you’re right: I focus on work too much.”

Hidden agendas bounced between us. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Nothing extraordinary. Divorced. I live to work.” She sipped her wine.

“Why do you do it?” I asked. “The police work, I mean?”

Margo shrugged. “That karmic wheel. Like you, I keep it tilted toward the positive.”

“You get what you want?”

“Always.”

Her unswerving gaze propelled tension through me. “And what do you want now?”

“To solve this case.” She raised her glass. “To get a big promotion. Rule the world, basically.”

“Keeping it simple?”

She laughed. “Exactly.”

I sensed I was a small, expendable obstacle on Della’s and Margo’s paths. I set my cup down. “Thanks for the wine, Margo. I better get going.”

That smile faded. “No need to rush off. This is just a friendly chat, Scarlett.”

“No such thing with a cop during an investigation.”

“That might be true. But I’d like to have your help. I’d really like to know what happened to Sandra Taylor.”

“So would I. I hope you find her killer.” I started toward the door.

“Do you think Tanner killed her?”

I stopped. “I don’t know. Seems possible.”

“You never saw her when you were in his house?”

The air grew thick, dense, and I could almost imagine the drip , drip of the pipes in Tanner’s basement. “No.”

“Why did you call in the location of the body to the cops?” Margo asked.

The comment rattled warnings. I faced her immediately. “I didn’t.”

“You were at Jeremy’s on July 2, right?”

“I was looking for Tiffany in early July. I don’t remember the exact date.”

“The call came into dispatch July 2, and Jeremy remembers you that night because it was his birthday. And you were fighting with Tiffany.”

“There were a lot of people there that night.”

She sipped and then set her cup down beside mine. “You and Sandra went to the same high school at the same time.”

“If you check my school records, you’ll realize I wasn’t the best student. I missed a lot and didn’t mix much with the other kids.”

“You had to know Sandra.”

“How many kids do you remember from high school?”

Again, the lopsided grin. “Point taken.”

“I can’t help you.”

“See it from my perspective. Sandra was seen with Tanner. She vanishes. Tanner took you for eighty-eight days. Someone on July 2 called in the tip from a location where witnesses can place you. I found Sandra’s body. See how you and Sandra keep showing up in this story?”

“I didn’t place that call. I never met Sandra in high school or in Tanner’s house. Della had told me about the Other Girl, but no one thinks Della is real.”

“You believe she’s real, and that’s all that matters.”

“I’m not delusional.”

“No one is saying you are.”

Time compressed, superimposing Della over Margo. “I have a piece of art that I think you might like. It would look great on the south wall.”

“I couldn’t.” Curious amusement sparked.

“Of course you can. Consider it a housewarming gift, and when you’ve found Sandra’s killer, reach out to me. We’ll do this again.”

I opened the door, and she followed me into the hallway. “Thanks for the wine.”

“Will we find your DNA on Sandra’s body?” Margo asked.

If Sandra was the Other Girl, we’d never spoken or touched, so it didn’t make sense that my DNA would be on her body. However, the tone rumbling under her words triggered an alarm bell. “Have a good evening, Margo.”

“Were you wearing any jewelry when Tanner took you?”

Why ask now about my bracelet and necklace? “I’m sure if I was it’s in my police file.”

Margo left her front door gaping as she followed me toward the elevator. “Lynn Yeats. When’s the last time you saw her?”

Lynn Yeats. Tanner’s girlfriend. “You’re full of questions.”

“I’ve only just begun.”

As I punched the elevator button, I felt her gaze on me. When the doors opened, I stepped in and faced her. She smiled and waved. Dawson might be the louder of the two, but she was the more dangerous.

Lynn Yeats. She was my closest living link to Tanner. According to Della, she’d been in his house many times, and if anyone might have known about the girls in the basement, it would be her.

Back in my warehouse, I glanced up toward Margo’s unit, still lit up. There was no sign of her when I reached for my phone and opened social media.

I kept an account for my business and used it to post pictures of my art and interface with clients. However, I never posted anything personal about myself. On my page, I noticed a couple of direct messages and responded to potential client queries.

I searched Lynn Yeats. There were a half dozen of them, but only one in this area. Oddly, her page wasn’t private, because maybe she no longer worried about anyone associating her with Tanner. And why would she? It had been a decade, and life had moved on for everyone but me. The world didn’t really remember Tanner, Sandra, Della, Tiffany, or me. I could almost imagine people when one of our names came up. Oh yeah, I remember that case. The girl survived. But she must be messed up. How could she not be?

Lynn Yeats, according to her page, liked wine tastings in New Kent County, lingering on the narrow beach rimming the Chesapeake Bay, and riding bikes along the Capital Trail. She worked at the local hospital as an oncology nurse. I guessed she’d always been a nurse, but that factoid had never reached me. Mrs. Rose had said Lynn brought lunches to Tanner at the renovation jobsite where Sandra’s body had been found. Della said she’d met Lynn once when Tanner had introduced her as his cousin.

Maybe Lynn had finally decided that she no longer had to keep Tanner’s secrets.

The sun dipped closer to the horizon as I drove to the hospital located fifteen minutes away. I didn’t know Lynn’s work schedule, but I was curious about her. I wanted to know what she knew about Della.

As I parked in the lot, I stared at the gray building, remembering this was where the rescue squad had taken me. I recalled the rumble of the gurney wheels, the quick conversations of the paramedic who gave the attending doctor my stats, and the curious stares of the nurses.

Officer Rogers, a six-foot-six man with graying short hair, had escorted me to an examination room. He’d said nothing to me, jogging alongside the gurney as if he were a football defensive end ready to block trouble. Officer Rogers was the kind of guy who kicked down doors, not a caretaker of a sketchy, broken girl suffering with injuries from a car accident and months of sexual assault. I didn’t look fixable, and that had made him feel helpless. When he looked down at me, I saw pain etched in his hard features. I suspected he had a daughter or a sister and saw his worst nightmare in me. His voice had been gruff, as if annoyance trumped tears. “Hang tough.”

Oddly, I’d appreciated his words.

I finished my coffee. Cool air gusted from vents, and soon my skin chilled and gooseflesh puckered the surface.

Out of the truck, I moved with a steady pace to the main entrance. I walked up to the front desk to an older woman sporting a gray bun and a blue hospital volunteer jacket. I remember someone just like her coming in my room when I’d been here and offering me a copy of Seventeen magazine.

“Hey, I’m looking for my next-door neighbor,” I said, smiling. “I don’t have her phone number or a key to her house but I’m hoping you can get a message to her.”

“I can’t give out the names of hospital personnel.”

“I know. I get that. But can you tell Lynn Yeats that I think a pipe burst in her place. I could hear water gushing. I don’t know how to reach her. We’ve chatted a few times and I know she works here. Maybe you can let her know.”

The older woman frowned. “Has anyone else tried to shut the water off? Most homes have a shutoff at the street.”

“A few guys were trying to figure that out. I think the meter at the street is fused or something. My job was to tell Lynn.”

“I’ll get word to her.”

“Thank you.”

I returned to my truck, turned on the engine, and sipped the cold dregs of my coffee. I figured I had a 25–40 percent chance Lynn would come running out of this door or one of the ones to the right or left. If this didn’t work, I’d find her some other way—I needed to discover what she knew. How could she not have known Della and I were in the basement?

Five minutes later a tall brunette wearing scrubs came running out the exit on the right. I watched as she hoisted her backpack on her shoulder under the parking lot’s rising lights and pressed a remote. The lights of a Jeep blinked.

The Jeep barreled out of the lot, pausing only briefly at a stop sign before heading east. I followed, keeping a reasonable distance. She didn’t appear to be worried about speed limits. No doubt the woman was imagining soggy rugs, ruined wallboard, and soaked wood floors. I shouldn’t have been enjoying her distress, but I was. A bit of payback for living her clueless life while metal rubbed my skin raw.

She took several rights and lefts, and we wound away from concrete toward tree-lined streets. Her brakes came to a screeching halt in front of a town house. The house wasn’t particularly interesting or memorable. The brick was new, the shutters green, and the wrought-iron rails thin. The number 6240 was painted on the front door.

Scrambling with her keys, she shoved one in the lock, turned the handle, and vanished inside. The keys dangled in the lock.

I parked across the street, shut off the engine, and lowered in my seat. I pictured her running from room to room searching for water, wetness, or damage. She’d find none. And soon relief would give way to anger and frustration: It’s a hell of a joke to play on a person. How could someone be so cruel?

If she thought this was unkind or unfair, she didn’t understand the true meaning of either.

When Lynn came outside, she was scowling and muttering to herself. She went to her neighbor’s door, banged on it, and waited until a young man appeared. Her animated hands pointing to her place said more than her words could. The guy shook his head, looking confused.

When she finally got back in her Jeep and drove toward the hospital, I sat in the silence, staring at the house. I knew where Lynn Yeats worked. I knew where she lived.