Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(77)

In the mountain of received messages from Todd Hatcher, it took a few seconds for me to locate the correct one. Once I found it, I copied it and pressed send. Moments later I heard the sound of an arriving text on Tracy’s end of the line.

Tracy’s response was instantaneous and pure gold. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “That’s not him at all! What should I do now, call the cops?”

“Where do you keep your notary files?”

“In a desk drawer at work. Why?”

“Can you get into your bank branch today?”

“Of course,” she replied. “I’m the manager.”

“If you could text me copies of Roger Adams’s supposed driver’s license, that would give me a better idea of who Shelley’s co-conspirator might be. Once I know that, I’ll have an idea of where to take this next.”

“But what about contacting law enforcement?” she said. “Shouldn’t that be done first?”

“I’m working with a Homer PD detective named Marvin Price. As soon as I have the information from you, I’ll pass it along to him. Or, if you like, I can give you his information and you can forward what you have directly to him.”

There was another moment of silence on the phone before Tracy Hamilton made up her mind. “It’ll take me about forty-five minutes to get to the office, copy the photos, and send them to you. Will that be all right?”

Her offer was way more than all right, but I was afraid that a display of too much enthusiasm on my part would spook her.

“That would be incredibly helpful, Ms. Hamilton,” I told her. “And I appreciate your help more than I can say.”

Fifty-five minutes later a text announcement pinged my phone. I was still opening the text when the phone rang.

“Is it him?” Tracy asked.

In order to see the photo more clearly, I needed to enlarge it, so I opened the text again on my iPad. As soon as I did, I recognized the face, because I had seen the guy in the photo only the day before—the husband of Shelley Adams’s cousin. She had referred to the guy as Dunk when she told me he did odd jobs for her, like keeping the wood boxes full and the vehicles running. From the photo I knew at once that his other task assignment was helping to cheat Roger Adams out of his hard-earned assets.

“No,” I said after a moment. “This guy is most definitely not the real Roger Adams.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“I’ve seen him, but don’t really know him,” I answered. “His first name is Duncan. I don’t have a last name.”

“So what should I do?” Tracy asked desperately. “Who should I call?”

“Please don’t do anything or call anyone right now,” I begged. “It’s going to take law enforcement time to pull all these threads together and build a case. Based on the closing documents I’ve seen on Shelley’s real-estate dealings, these people have more than enough cash on hand to flee the country. If they have any inkling that someone is onto them, I’m afraid they’ll take off.”

“I don’t want them to get away with this,” Tracy said, “so I should just keep quiet?”

“For the time being,” I told her. “As soon as Lieutenant Price gives me the go-ahead, I’ll be in touch. At that point you’ll have my wholehearted permission to tell anyone you like. In fact, you can sing it to the high heavens as far as I’m concerned.”

“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”





Chapter 27




There comes a time in every case when I realize I’ve finally made a breakthrough, and that phone call with Tracy Hamilton was it. Suddenly I knew exactly how Eliza Doolittle felt when she finally said that “rain in Spain” line correctly. That’s when Professor Higgins jubilantly announces, “By George, she’s got it!” Because right that minute, I knew we did.

Maybe what Marvin Price and I had didn’t add up to enough on Shelley Adams to for sure link her to the disappearance and/or death of Christopher Danielson—or to the supposed suicide of her first husband either—but we had enough to put her away for a long time on fraud charges, and that was good enough for me.

But now if this was about to turn into a court case, I had to have all my ducks in a row. I went back through Todd’s e-mails and scrubbed away anything that hadn’t come from regular, open-to-the-public sources. I copied everything else into e-mails addressed to Marvin Price, which I stored in my waiting-to-be-sent file. I wanted to be able to talk about what was coming and let him know some of Todd Hatcher’s background before I actually sent him the info.

About that time Mel called. She had just woken up, but she sounded weary beyond words—the kind of tired that comes from an overdose of despair rather than hard work. “How are you?” I asked.

“I’ve been better,” she said.

My heart ached for her. I wanted to be there with her and tell her that it would be all right, even though it wasn’t right and never would be, not with an orphaned four-month-old baby involved.

“Care to talk about it?” I asked.

Mel took a deep breath. “A shots-fired call came in about midnight from an apartment complex near campus.”

Bellingham, Washington, is a college town and home to Western Washington University.