Paranoid(102)

Cade didn’t bother to correct him. “I’m looking for your son,” he said. “Do you know where he is?”

“Nate? At work, I suppose, or maybe on his way home.”

“He didn’t show up today. Called in sick.”

“Then at his house.”

“Don’t think so. I went there earlier and no one was around. His car is missing.”

“Then out of town.” Richard Moretti rolled his palms into the air. “I have no idea where he is, but maybe he decided to go camping, or on a trip, or whatever.”

“But he would have told his employees. Instead, he left them a message that he was too ill to come in today.”

“What?” Moretti pulled a face. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

An older model Camaro sped around the end of the lot and barreled toward them, speeding toward the exit, music blasting from the open windows.

Quickly Cade stepped closer to Moretti’s car, getting out of the Chevy’s path.

Moretti made frantic pat-pat motions in the air, signaling the driver to slow down, but she didn’t see him, was too interested in lighting a cigarette, and then sped across a walkway, leaving a trail of exhaust in her wake. “What’s wrong with her?” Moretti said in disgust. “A health care worker at that!”

“Know her?”

Shaking his head, he said, “No. I’m only here a few days a week and it’s a big hospital, well, at least by our standards. But I can probably find out by the description of her car.” He scowled at the retreating sports car as it sped down the street and rolled to a near stop before the driver gunned it, squeezing into a free space in front of a minivan. “What the devil is she thinking? If she isn’t careful, she’s going to kill someone. Now”—he turned his attention back to Cade, some of his supercilious attitude dissipating—“let me see if I can get hold of Nate.” He slid a phone from his pocket, punched a preset number, and put the phone to his ear.

Cade heard the phone ring, then be answered by the same recorded voice he’d listened to earlier. “Huh,” Richard said, then dialed again, and when someone answered said, “Hi, this is Nate’s father, Dr. Moretti. I’d like to speak to him.” A pause, then, “Well, when do you expect him in? . . . Yes, I know you’re getting ready to close . . . but you haven’t heard anything.... Yes, I’ll give Will a call.” He disconnected. “Maybe we should go out to his house,” he said, the lines across his forehead creasing more deeply. “I’ll call Will Hart on the way. He’s already gone home for the day.”

“Do you have a way to get in?” Cade asked.

“Yeah.” The doctor was nodding as he slid behind the wheel. “I know where he hides the spare.”

Cade crossed the lot, climbed into his truck, and followed the Audi to Nate Moretti’s A-frame in the hills. The house and grounds looked as deserted as ever, and once his dad located Moretti’s key, hidden on a crossbeam of the small porch, they walked inside.

“Nate?” Richard called, wasting no time as he walked through an open living room and kitchen, then straight to the downstairs bedroom. “Hey! What’s up?” But he was talking to open space. No one answered and the bed, sloppily made, was empty. The downstairs bath and extra bedroom were quiet, no one around. The upper loft, with its steeply angled walls, was used as an office that stretched the length of the building, a window on each end.

Nate Moretti was nowhere to be found.

“Odd,” his father said, and tried texting. Without a word he walked through a door off the kitchen, down a hallway that was used as a laundry room, and directly into the garage.

Which, of course, was empty.

“He’s gone,” he said, stating the obvious. Then, after a thoughtful moment, he strode back through the house to the master bedroom, where he opened a storage closet that was filled with luggage—one complete set, other smaller duffels and bags. “It doesn’t look like anything’s missing . . . but he could have gone fishing. . . .” He stared into the crammed space for a second, then closed the doors. “If he were really sick, he would have called me.” Worry pulled at the corners of his eyes as they returned to the living area. “Let me call my wife,” he said, and before Cade could say anything, he’d punched in her number and she picked up.

The conversation was short, the upshot being that she, too, had no idea where their son could be. As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, Cade asked, “What do you know about his relationship with Annessa Cooper?”

“Annessa? The woman who was found yesterday? A classmate of my son’s, yes, but what relationship?” He appeared absolutely confused. “Was he in one? You mean romantically?” His forehead furrowed as he thought. “You’re saying that he and Annessa were seeing each other?” He thought about it and shook his head. “I, um, I suspected he might have a new girlfriend, but he didn’t say anything.” Then he sighed. “She was married, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. And now she’s dead.”

“Oh. Wait. Nate had nothing to do with that. My son . . . he’s not a killer. Is that what you’re implying?”

“They were supposed to meet. Last night.”

“No . . .” He was shaking his head, denial his first instinct, but a wary light entered his eyes. “Oh, Christ.” And then when the situation gelled in his mind, his eyes sharpened. “Wait a second. What’re you getting at? What, exactly, are you saying, Detective?”