Chapter 10

TEN

Saliva pooled in Josie’s mouth as she watched the barista at Komorrah’s Koffee prepare a blonde latte. The Chief’s preferred drink—a Red Eye—waited in a cupholder on the counter. Beside it was a paper bag filled with pastries. All the ones her team liked best. While most of the tables and booths in the café were full, Josie was the only person in line. She was too busy wondering if she should get herself two lattes to register the gust of hot air at her back as a new customer entered. A large presence loomed behind her, unusually close. Warm breath skated across her temple. It couldn’t possibly be Turner. There was no way he’d finished the warrant by now. For a split second, she considered the best way to enforce her personal space—use her words or accidentally hit him in the groin when she turned to confront him. Then the scent of her husband’s aftershave overtook the smell of coffee and pastries. Relief flooded her system. Noah pressed a hand against her lower back, and she sagged into him. As always, his touch soothed away some of the tension in her body.

He planted a kiss on her cheek. “The Chief called me.”

Josie looked up into his hazel eyes. He was freshly showered, his wavy dark hair still damp. She said, “Gretchen’s busy with a body in the river. She’s working on the reports now. It’s just me and Turner, but this is definitely an all-hands-on-deck situation. Turner’s working on the warrant for Bluelink as we speak. I hope.”

Noah smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips grazing her jaw in a way that quieted some of her frenetic anxiety. “I’m surprised you let him.”

The barista handed Josie her latte. Then she took Noah’s order, which included drinks for him and Gretchen as well as a second blonde latte for Josie. Already, half of the one in her hand was gone. While they waited for Noah’s order to be completed, he pulled Josie to the side of the counter. “I got the broad strokes from the Chief. I know about the polaroid. Saw the social media posts with Cleo Tate’s photo. I know the suspect stole the car that he used to abduct her. What else do I need to know?”

Josie told him about Remy Tate and Turner’s theory that he could be involved. Then she brought him up to speed on their interview with the Hamptons.

“When units canvassed their street, they found one neighbor at the other end of the block who has surveillance footage of the car driving past—away from the Hampton home—around threea.m. They followed it on camera about three blocks west and then lost it. LPRs didn’t pick it up anywhere until this morning when it left the park. Then once it left the park, Dougherty was able to catch it on camera passing a laundromat a few blocks away but then lost it. Although none of that will matter once we get the GPS report.”

“Let’s talk about Cleo Tate’s husband,” Noah said. “You said Turner thinks he could be involved. If he stole the car, he would have had to go to the Hamptons’ on foot. Could he have done that?”

Josie calculated the distance and timing. “It’s possible, but it would have been a lot of walking to get to the Hamptons’ neighborhood. Also, the Tates have a four-month-old. What are the chances the baby sleeps through the night and Cleo didn’t notice her husband wasn’t home in the early morning hours?”

Noah gave the barista a smile as she pushed his order across the counter in a cupholder. He put the Chief’s Red Eye in the last slot, grabbed the paper bag, and they walked out together. “But Cleo isn’t here to tell us if her husband was home or not in the middle of the night. Or maybe he does have a mistress and she helped him so he could get back in enough time that Cleo didn’t notice him going out at two or three in the morning.”

Josie sipped her latte as they headed down the street toward the stationhouse. “Also possible, but that doesn’t explain the polaroid.”

“True.”

One-handed, she slipped her phone from her back pocket and pulled up the photo to show Noah.

“That’s not cryptic at all.”

“I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean or why it was left behind,” Josie said. “Are we supposed to look for Cleo outdoors?”

“That picture could be from anywhere outdoors,” Noah said. “There’s no way to narrow it down. Even if it’s some kind of bank, the river goes for miles and there are too many creeks for us to search them all quickly enough. We can’t put resources behind the picture unless we have a reasonable expectation that it will lead us to Cleo.”

“I agree. Right now, our best bet is locating the car.”

The stationhouse came into view, the massive three-story stone structure towering over nearby buildings. Gray, with a bell tower in one corner, and double casement arched windows, it resembled a castle. It used to be the town hall but had been converted to police headquarters almost seventy years ago. It was on the city’s historic register, which pretty much prevented the police department from upgrading anything inside. Two WYEP vans were parked nearby. Noah said, “The reporters will be around back in the parking lot waiting for us. Let’s go in through the front.”

In the lobby, WYEP’s newest and most ambitious reporter, Dallas Jones, paced. Pressing a cell phone to his ear, he whisper-shouted angrily. “Vicky, I told you. I’m doing the best I can. They’re not saying anything. All I’m getting is ‘no comment.’ I can’t make them give me information.”

Behind the glass-encased front desk, Sergeant Dan Lamay shook his head as if to say he couldn’t get rid of the kid.

Dallas stopped walking when he saw Josie and Noah. “Detectives!” Lowering the cell phone to his side, he blocked them from walking through the door that led to the rest of the first floor. “Please, wait.”

“No comment,” Noah said.

Dallas’s shoulders slumped. A lock of his dark hair had come loose from his shellacked hairdo, hanging along the side of his face. His white button-down shirt was wrinkled. Sweat stains peeked from beneath his armpits. Josie was glad to see that he wasn’t immune to the heat. It always bothered her how reporters looked perfect, no matter what the weather. She still couldn’t figure out how Trinity woke up looking camera-ready.

“Please.” Dallas lifted his cell phone and told Vicky he’d call her back before hanging up. “Our viewers want to know what you’re doing to find Cleo Tate.”

“Your viewers? Or your producer?” She pointed to his phone. “That was her, right?”

Dallas pursed his lips. He was young, only a few years out of college, and trying to prove himself. “Yes. She’s been breathing down my neck, but that’s her job. This is a big story. Our viewers are worried. Is it safe for people to go into the city park?”

“We’re aware of the public’s concern for safety,” said Josie. “We’ll hold a press conference later.” She muscled past him to the door with Noah in tow.

“Come on,” Dallas pleaded. “Give me something. Do you have any suspects? Any leads? Something I can give the public?”

He was hoping to make a name in Denton so he could get on the national stage. Just like Trinity had done. While Josie respected his drive, she would never compromise an investigation. “No comment.”

Noah held the door open for Josie to pass through. “We have work to do. We’ll see you at the press conference.”

“We did a story on Cleo’s husband!” Dallas called.

Josie and Noah froze, partway through the door, waiting for him to go on.

“It was about three months ago.”

“We’ll watch it on the WYEP website,” Noah said.

“You can’t. Vicky wouldn’t air it.” He let his words hang in the air, dangling like bait.

Josie glared at him. “I hope you’re not trying to trade for information here, Mr. Jones. If you or your producer know something that may help locate Cleo Tate, you need to tell us now. Otherwise you’re looking at obstruction charges.”

Dallas tried to push the errant lock of hair back in place, but it wouldn’t stay. “I know that. I’m not trying to trade but if you could just give me something?—”

Noah shook his head. “That’s not how this works.”

“I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” said Josie. “If you know something material to our investigation then just say it. We don’t have all day to play this game with you. We’re trying to find a missing mother.”

Dallas had the sense to look shamed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that when I did the story on Remy Tate, he seemed…I don’t know. Off. It was a filler story. Boring as hell, but Vicky said they’d save it for a slow news day. He works for the Clerk of Courts. He’s in charge of the records. The story was about them finally digitizing all the old files. You know, Denton getting with modern times and stuff. I’m telling you though, there was something just…off about him.”

Noah met Josie’s eyes briefly. She knew he was thinking the same thing. Dallas Jones was hoping they would slip and give some indication that Remy Tate was a suspect—or at least a person of interest—or a hint that they’d already cleared him.

Noah took a step toward him, the cupholder in his hands practically touching Dallas’s chest. “Are you really coming at us with this nonsense? You spent five minutes with a guy for a story, what? A few months ago? And you think your opinion of him is relevant to our investigation? Listen, Jones. ‘Off’ doesn’t mean anything. Maybe you caught him on a bad day. He has a new baby. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he just didn’t like you. What I know for certain is that Cleo Tate doesn’t have time for your bullshit.”

Dallas’s phone rang. The screen showed a woman with long blonde hair wearing a grim smile. The name above her photo read Vicky Platt. Dallas sent the call to voicemail. “I didn’t know about the baby at the time. We didn’t talk about his personal life. But I’m telling you—when I played back the footage for Vicky, even she thought something was up with this guy. It was the reason she didn’t run the piece.”

“Stop wasting our time,” Josie said as she and Noah walked through the door and let it close in Dallas’s face.