A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(82)
“About two hundred.”
“That sounds about right.” Abby’s phone rang, Carver’s name showing up on the screen. She glanced at Sam apologetically. “I have to get this. It’ll be just a moment.”
“Whatever.”
She sighed and answered the call. “Hey.”
“Hey, Abby.” He sounded tired. “Listen, that friend of Gabrielle Fletcher’s, Eric, tried to reach me. Left a message with dispatch. I tried to call him back a few times, but there’s no answer. I’m about to start interviewing Liam’s customers from recent weeks. Can you call him, or drop by his place and see what he wants?”
“Sure. Text me the phone number and address.”
“Thanks.”
“Any update?” She eyed Samantha, making sure she wasn’t stewing up a new rage, but her daughter was focused on her own phone, tapping.
“We got Liam Washington’s recent debit card transactions. He bought a burger and fries at a place called Dallas Barbecue in the Bronx at nine forty-five p.m. on Saturday night.”
“Okay.”
“That matches his stomach contents. So our time of death according to the ME is between ten thirty and midnight on Saturday night. Turner went there to see if we have footage of him or if anyone happens to remember seeing him. Maybe he met someone there.”
“An accomplice?”
“Maybe.” Carver sounded doubtful. “Listen, did Will talk to you about Nathan’s room?”
“You mean the fake Nathan room?”
“Yeah. He sent me a few images. It’s crazy. They literally redrew some of Nathan’s drawings. Or they made Nathan redraw them; I don’t know. What do you make of it?”
“Well . . . whoever did this is highly obsessive. It could be an attempt to induce Nathan’s cooperation.”
“I thought along similar lines.”
“It’s good news in any case.”
“How do you figure?”
She eyed Sam and lowered her voice. “They wouldn’t have gone to all that effort if they intended to simply kill Nathan. This indicates they want to keep him alive.”
“Huh. Yeah, that makes sense. Well, I’ll take good news when I can get it.”
“Glad to help. Listen, I gotta go, I’m with my daughter—”
“Sure, no worries. Let me know what Eric wanted.”
“Okay. Bye.” She hung up.
A few seconds later she got the text with Eric’s details. Abby immediately tried to call him, but there was no answer. She checked the address and was relieved to see it was almost on the way from Steve’s house to her own. She wanted to get this done with and go to bed.
“So,” she said. “Are we cool?”
Samantha didn’t raise her eyes from the phone. “No. But we’re getting there. And please don’t say cool. It makes me cringe. Oh, and I’ll need a few things from my room. If you can drop them when you pick up Ben from Dad’s, it’ll be great.”
“You’re not coming home with me on Wednesday?”
Sam raised her eyes. “Is there still a snake in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then no, I’m not coming home with you.”
“Sam, you can’t stay at your dad’s.”
“Watch me.”
Abby sighed. “And I figured I could get you that electric violin you’ve been talking about.”
Sam put the phone down. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Will it work?”
Samantha considered it. “If you pay for another weekly violin lesson.”
“Okay,” Abby said brightly. “Done.” Her mother would pay for the violin and the weekly lessons. Abby couldn’t afford it, and it was her mother’s mess to begin with.
Samantha nodded, glowing happily. “Fine. I’ll come back home on Wednesday. Are you going back to work?”
“Not really. Just a quick visit to talk to someone, and then I’ll drive home. I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day.”
CHAPTER 55
No one answered when Abby knocked on the door. She yawned and knocked again, wondering if she should just go home. She doubted Eric really had crucial information. If he did, he wouldn’t just have left a message; he would have gone to the police or called Gabrielle and told her about it.
She dialed his number and waited. No answer. She’d drop by his place again tomorrow on her way to her mother’s. She was about to hang up, but her finger hovered above the screen. Was that . . . a phone ringtone? She listened carefully. It was muffled, but she could definitely hear it. As she hung up, it stopped.
She put her ear to the door and dialed again. The phone was inside the house.
It meant nothing. Eric could have gone to the nearby drugstore, forgetting his phone at home. Or maybe he was home but asleep, and the phone wasn’t waking him up.
But something was off. She couldn’t put her finger on what, but it didn’t matter. She knew from experience not to ignore the warning signs in her gut. Maybe it was that stillness in the air that made her skin prickle. Or just those vague connections—his interview that morning followed by his message. Would someone call 911 and then go to sleep or forget his phone at home?