A Necessary Evil(47)

He looked at the clock on the wall, which was protected, for reasons Kurt never understood, by a metal cage. It was nine fifteen. Frankie had found Collin’s hideout approximately twelve hours ago. If Kurt was going to stop Frankie from killing Collin in cold blood, he had to figure out a way to narrow down the list. There was no way he could search sixteen properties in time to stop his former best friend. Hell, it might already be too late.

Think, damn it. Think.

Where would Frankie go to hide from the police? But not just the police. He’d have to take Collin somewhere he could be alone and where there were no nosy neighbors who might report suspicious behavior. That ruled out all the residential properties, in Kurt’s mind. They included his house in The Pinnacle, Kitty’s house in Chevy Chase, Frankie’s ex-wife Susan’s house in Hartland, and a weekend condo he owned downtown on historic Mill Street. No, there was no way he was using any of these places to hide Collin. It had to be one of his commercial properties. Unless Lonnie was on the right track with the rural properties.

“Finding anything over there?” he called across the room to his partner.

“He’s got three properties out in the county, outside the city limits, but they’re all residential. Nothing that looks right to me. I’ll keep looking, though.”

Kurt nodded and turned his attention back to his screen. Twelve commercial properties. This included his most famous property, the Trifecta Lounge. But Kurt and Lonnie had already been there, and if Frankie had had Collin there, he’d moved him before they arrived. But where to?

He looked at the list of properties again. His eyes were becoming sore with the strain of staring at the bright screen two feet away. But surely soon something would stand out to him. He’d been police for over thirty years. His instincts would guide him, as they had in the past.

The phone at his desk rang, and Louise told him he had a visitor.

“Who is it this time?” Kurt asked. Last time he’d had an unexpected visitor, Frankie had shown up in his life, and this whole circus had begun.

“A lady named Katherine Cartwright.”

“Kitty?”

“I don’t know, sir. She just said her name is Katherine. She’s here with her daughter, Mollie. I thought maybe you’d want to—”

“I’ll be right there,” Kurt interrupted. He hung up the phone and snapped his fingers at Lonnie. “Mollie’s here.”

“Mollie? As in Mollie, Mollie?”

“Yes, dummy. Mollie Cartwright.”

“Why do you think she’s here?”

“Well, we did tell her we needed a formal statement.”

“Maybe she’s ready to talk,” Lonnie said.

“Let’s hope. Because if she can’t help us find Frankie, I’m afraid it’s too late.”





Chapter 24




Frankie



Frankie watched with rapt attention as Collin stood before the jury and told his story. With his slouching posture and quiet voice, he looked scared, demure, and painfully aware of the futility of his statement. If Frankie didn’t know Collin was a serial killer who had abducted his precious Mollie and chained her to a wall like an animal, he might even feel a bit sorry for him. Maybe.

Collin told the jury about growing up without a father. How, despite the natural good looks he had inherited from his beautiful, God-fearing mother, he’d been picked on at school for being a bastard. He told story after story of how the kids in school teased and tormented him because he had no father and because he was so quiet.

One time, when he was eight, some of the boys in his classroom caught Collin in the hallway, shoved him into the bathroom, forced his head into the toilet, and flushed it. Another time, he was walking in the cafeteria with his food tray when one of the bullies walked by and slapped the bottom of his tray, sending Collin’s lunch flying across the room and splashing all over his face and clothes. They stole his lunch money, shoved him in the dirt on the playground, and called him “Collin the Queer.” This went on from elementary school all the way through high school.

Then Collin had graduated. He studied martial arts. Judo, to be precise. It taught him inner peace and how to contain and focus his rage. He swore he would never be bullied by anyone again. He trained relentlessly, preparing for the day someone, anyone, tried to mess with him. Next time, he’d be ready.

Of course, he’d always wondered about his father. Why he had abandoned him before he was even born. But as a young boy, any time he’d asked his mother to tell him about his father, she’d just make the sign of the cross, kiss him on top of his head, and walk out of the room.

Collin fantasized from an early age about his father’s identity. Maybe he was a celebrity, and his mother didn’t want her son to know what she’d done in the folly of her youth. Or maybe he was a mercenary, fighting to save America off in some foreign land. Perhaps it was simpler than that. Perhaps his father had been a married man, and his saint of a mother, Martha McAllister, was ashamed of what she’d done. Whatever the case, Collin never imagined the horrible truth about what really happened to his father. It never once crossed his mind that he was dead.

Until his thirtieth birthday. Martha had been diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time. She was lying in her bed at the old McAllister farmhouse on Delong Road, and Collin had brought her some soup to drink. He couldn’t recall what made him ask about his father, only that he knew his mother might not be long for this earth, and he must have known she might finally tell him the truth.