Chapter 6

SIX

Josie trudged along the sidewalk, Turner trailing behind her. She heard a snap of the tab on his energy drink, followed by a fizz and then him guzzling it down. Wishing for another latte, she kept her gaze straight ahead to where Dougherty stood talking with a woman in her thirties. He had texted them that he had a lead. They were only five minutes from the main entrance of the park, striding past the line of houses directly across from the park’s tree-lined perimeter.

Josie heard Turner crumple his can. Over her shoulder, she said, “Do not litter.”

He huffed. “So bossy. Does your husband?—”

She stopped walking and whirled on him, sending him staggering back a step with her glare. He put his hands up. “All right, all right. I didn’t even say it.”

“You were about to.”

“But I didn’t, Quinn. I told you I’d work on my”—here he used air quotes—“‘inappropriate comments,’ and I am.”

Rolling her eyes, Josie turned away from him and continued walking. “You should have a jar for those, too.”

He caught up to her, shortening his pace to stay at her side. “You and Park— Palmer are already putting me in the poorhouse with these dumbass jars. I’m not doing another one. But hey, I’m open to suggestions. Maybe one of those signs that says, ‘It’s been forty-seven days without an inappropriate comment from Kyle.’”

Josie scoffed. “As if you could make it forty-seven days without saying something completely inappropriate in the workplace. Now shut up. I want to hear what this witness has to say.”

She expected him to come back at her with some kind of scathing barb but instead all he did was sigh. Either that energy drink hadn’t kicked in yet or what she liked to think of as the “behavior modification” measures that Noah had put into place were working.

The strong odor of fresh paint coated Josie’s throat as they reached Dougherty and the witness. “This is Detective Josie Quinn and Detective Kyle Turner,” he told her.

The woman’s blonde hair was pushed back with a headband. She wore a yellow tank top under white overalls that were stained with bright blue paint. It was shiny, still wet. That explained the smell. As Dougherty stepped away and started speaking into his radio, Josie and Turner showed her their credentials. She gave them a cursory glance. “I’m Charlotte Thompson,” she said. She motioned toward the quaint two-story home behind her, showing off more paint smudged along her wrist and forearm. “I live here. Just bought the place.”

Turner eyed the streaks down her front. “What are you? Fifteen? You look young to have your own house.”

Josie elbowed him sharply but he ignored her. As usual. “Miss Thompson,” she said, unable to let this one slide. “I apologize for my colleague. Since he’s not going to do it himself.”

Turner eyed Josie with a deep frown. She could practically read his mind. What the hell’s your problem, sweetheart? Could she demand a dollar for the silent “sweetheart”?

He must have gotten her mental memo because he sighed again and turned back to Charlotte. “I’m sorry for being rude.”

Whether it was sincere or not, Josie couldn’t tell, but it satisfied her nonetheless.

Charlotte studied him for a moment. “I accept your apology. Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m twenty. My older brother co-signed. He’s inside.”

Turner decided to move on, gesturing to the paint on her overalls. “Are you some kind of artist or you just fixing this place up?”

“Fixing it up,” she answered. “You like the color? Blue is supposed to be soothing.”

Turner opened his mouth and Josie just knew he was about to say something like “not really,” so she asked Charlotte, “You saw Cleo Tate this morning?”

She pointed across the street to where several cars were parked. “I told the other officer that this morning, there was a white car parked over there. I came out onto my porch to get a package that UPS dropped off and I saw this couple—at least, I thought they were a couple—walking down the street. On that side.”

A door slammed and Josie looked up at the porch to see a man in a white T-shirt and painter’s pants emerge. Dark hair, broody face. He leaned against the house and crossed his arms, watching them.

“He seems pleasant,” Turner muttered.

Josie was grateful that Charlotte seemed not to hear him. “What made you think they were a couple?”

Charlotte scratched her face, smearing blue across her cheek. Her eyes were still fixed on the line of cars across from them. “He was holding her arm. Like this.” She sidled up to Turner and curled a hand around his tricep. He looked down in alarm. Josie knew he was worried about his suit. He was always worried about his suits. Miraculously, he didn’t protest. Instead, he said, “Usually couples hold hands, don’t they?”

Charlotte released him. Josie wondered if it was wrong that she felt so much satisfaction in the blue fingerprint smudged on Turner’s jacket. “Right,” said Charlotte. “At first I thought maybe she didn’t feel well and he was kind of helping her along. Even from over here, I thought she looked super pale. It wasn’t until they got closer that I got a weird vibe. They were walking really fast, and she looked uncomfortable, afraid. Then I thought maybe it was like a domestic violence thing. Her one hand was wrapped up in some kind of white cloth. Like a shirt or something.”

A onesie from Gracie’s diaper bag?

“Did you see any blood?” asked Josie.

“No blood.”

“Did she look over here?” Josie looked from Charlotte’s home to the vehicle across the street. “Did she see you?”

Charlotte nodded. “Yeah. We made eye contact and she immediately looked away. He was talking into her ear. She kept her eyes straight ahead. I couldn’t hear anything he said. Too far away. Then they stopped at this white car—it was directly across from here—and he kind of pushed her into the passenger’s seat. He got in the other side, and they drove off. I was going to call the police but then I thought, ‘What would I say?’ That the woman’s hand was wrapped up? That she looked afraid? Nothing actually happened. I put it out of my mind until this officer showed up asking questions and had me look at that photo. It was the same woman, based on what she was wearing, and her hair color. I’m sure of it.”

Dougherty was back. “I showed her the still of Cleo leaving the house.”

Cleo had looked afraid but when he put her into the car, she hadn’t tried to escape. He must have threatened her with a knife. He’d already drawn blood once. That was likely how he’d gotten her to leave baby Gracie behind. The two of them must have passed more than one person exiting the park and coming down this street and yet, Cleo had made no attempt to run or even to signal for help—not even when she made eye contact with Charlotte Thompson—which meant that she believed she was in mortal danger. Fighting back could result in her being stabbed to death. Going along with him was an act of self-preservation.

Cleo Tate was hoping to survive so she could come home to her baby.

From the corner of her eye, Josie saw Charlotte’s brother move from the wall to the railing, resting his forearms against it, leaning his body forward. Watching. It was almost unsettling.

Turner shuffled to the side, blocking Josie from the brother’s view. “Could you tell whether or not he was armed? Did you see a knife? Anything that looked like a weapon?”

“No, no. I definitely would have called 911 if he was armed. Although now that you say that…” She wiped sweat from her forehead. “His other arm was crossed over his middle, sort of tucked under her elbow. Like this.”

Again, she clutched Turner’s tricep. His eyes bulged. He looked at Josie helplessly but all she could do was give a little shrug. Charlotte positioned her other arm over her abdomen like a lap bar, her paint-stained hand disappearing beneath her elbow, between hers and Turner’s bodies. “Maybe he had something and was holding it like this.” Turner jerked as she poked him in the ribs. Honestly, this was the best shift with him that Josie had ever worked. Charlotte continued, “But I couldn’t see it from the way they were walking because they were so close together.”

Turner extricated himself, giving her a tight smile. “How about the guy? What did he look like?”

“Definitely not as tall as you,” Charlotte said, tipping her head back to meet his eyes. “Maybe a little shorter than this officer, here.”

Turner was well over six feet. Dougherty was slightly shorter. “Five foot nine or ten, maybe?” Josie suggested.

“Yeah, I think so. White, not too thin, not overweight. Average, I guess.”

“You know who else is average?” Turner said to Josie, and she knew he was referring to Remy Tate.

“Not now,” she said. “Go on, Charlotte.”

Charlotte looked at Turner, as if waiting to see if he’d say more. When he didn’t, she continued, “He had on long pants, like the kind that landscapers wear in the summer? Or, mechanics? Black. A navy-blue T-shirt. He was wearing a hat, just like her, so I couldn’t see his hair color.”

“What kind of hat?” asked Josie.

“You mean like a logo or something? I couldn’t tell from here,” Charlotte replied. “Just that it had one of those leafy patterns all the hunters around here usually wear. I’m sorry. I didn’t get a good look at his face either.”

“That’s okay,” Josie told her. “This is very helpful. Is there anything else you can tell us about the man? Any tattoos? Scars? Facial hair? Anything distinguishing?”

Charlotte shook her head. “None of those things. At least, I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

“Was he wearing gloves?” Josie asked.

“I don’t think so. Unless they were like those clear vinyl ones? They were too far for me to tell. Oh, wait! He had some kind of a bag with him. You know, those weird, one-strap backpacks that go across your body? It was black.”

“Was there anything distinguishing about it?” asked Josie.

She’d looked so proud of herself a moment ago, remembering the bag. Now her expression faltered. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re doing great. This is all helpful. I’d like to show you something.” Josie took out her phone and easily found Cleo Tate’s Instagram account. It was private but the profile photo featured her, Remy, and Gracie. It was a professional photo. “One second.”

Turner sidled up to her, watching as she cropped Gracie and Cleo out of the picture. If Charlotte didn’t recognize Remy, Josie didn’t want her potentially telling others that the police were looking at Cleo’s husband as a person of interest. As Josie turned the screen toward Charlotte, she asked, “Is this the man you saw?”

Charlotte studied the picture for a long moment and then slowly shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Maybe? Like I said, I just didn’t get a close enough look at him.”

Turner tugged at his sleeve, craning his neck to get a look at the paint left on his jacket. “How about Mr. Sunshine up there? He see anything?”

Charlotte shaded her eyes with her palm and looked up at her brother. Apparently not offended by Turner’s insult, she said, “No, he was in the house.”

“Any idea what kind of car?”

“A Hyundai, maybe? Or a Honda? I’m not really sure. Like I said, it was white. Four doors. I didn’t take notice of the license plate. I didn’t think it was important.”

Dougherty said, “One of the LPRs picked up a white Hyundai about three blocks from here. Registered to Sheila Hampton. She lives on the other side of town.”

LPRs, or license plate readers, had been installed on three of Denton PD’s patrol vehicles. They scanned the license plates of all moving and parked vehicles nearby and alerted on any that had warrants out on them, had been stolen, or had expired tags. They were lucky that one of the LPR devices had been within the vicinity at the time that Cleo Tate was being abducted. They might have a viable lead.

Josie said, “Do you have units trying to find the car on cameras to see if we can follow it?”

“They’re already on it,” Dougherty said. “If we get something, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Guess we’re off to meet Sheila Hampton then,” Turner said.