Gone(74)

She seemed to consider this. Something about her was off — he could tell right away. But she agreed. “Okay. Do you want to come inside?”

“You’re staying here? Why not with your brother?”

“I’m just being considerate. And I like my own bathroom.”

“Why don’t you get in?”

She glanced around first. There were only a couple of cars in the motel parking lot. The main office light was on. “You can trust me,” he said.

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

He followed her gaze to the news van coming slowly down the road. Only now he wasn’t so sure it was a news van. Come to think of it, there was no local channel 8 nearby.

Addison hurried around and got in. She was wearing ripped jeans and a fur-lined coat. Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold. She placed her hands over the heating vents.

“Sorry to sneak up on you like that,” he said. He continued to eye the van in his mirrors.

“How can I help you, Deputy?”

“Peter.”

“Okay, Peter. I went to see Detective Rondeau,” she offered. “They told me he’s no longer on the case, is that true?” She seemed to be playing a role.

“No, I’m sorry. He’s on medical leave.”

She looked concerned. “Oh no. Something happen?”

He relaxed and found himself smiling. “Ms. Kemp . . .”

“Addie is fine.”

“Can we cut through the bullshit?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He checked for the van again. Still there. She wasn’t going to say anything under these conditions. She thought she was being watched. “Alright.” he said. He dropped the car into reverse gear and backed up, swung around, and took off.

The van stayed put. Whoever it was, knew they’d been discovered. They’d either given up or they were calling in reinforcements. He had to be fast.

“What do you know about Detective Rondeau? What do you know about what happened to your brother — beyond the story about Nick Spillane and the mafia?”

“You realize, implicit in your question is that my brother is lying about what happened to him.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of your brother and his family being abducted by strangers they barely saw, or came to know. That they, along with everyone else, are sticking by the story provided by law enforcement. Namely the FBI.”

He could feel her eyes on him while he drove and spared her a quick glance. Maybe he was imagining things, but it looked like in that moment a mask fell away from Addison Kemp.





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN / The Truth

They drove out of town until they came to the long driveway that cut away from the main route. Peter’s truck bumped over the uneven road, bisecting fields of brown grass long gone to seed. Rondeau’s house was in front of them. A rambling, old farmhouse with a pillared porch and a large yard littered with junk.

“He lives like a hermit,” Addison said. “Don’t you think?”

Peter kept checking behind them. So far, no one was on their tail. He parked and they got out of the vehicle. He glanced at the dark sky. Who knew what could be circling overhead? They climbed the porch and found the front door unlocked.

“We’re trespassing,” she said.

“Yeah.”

The place was barely warmer than the outdoors. Their footfalls echoed in the empty house. Everything needed a coat of paint. Or a wrecking ball, maybe. In the dining room, the large antique table had a few scattered sheets on it. More papers were on the ground. A cabinet behind the table hung open, its contents all over the floor. The house had been ransacked.

“They took everything,” Addie said, standing by the dining table.

Peter picked up a piece of paper. It was a menu for a local restaurant. He grabbed up a few others, finding nothing relevant. “Tell me who you are,” he asked. He suddenly felt naked in his civilian clothes — jeans, logger boots, wool sweater, and no gun. No authority to be here in a man’s home, treading on a federal investigation. The only thing that reassured him was that Althea agreed with him — they needed to get to the bottom of this.

Instead of responding directly to his question, Addie walked out of the room. “Come look at this,” she called.

In the hallway, she pointed to a crooked picture on the wall, one of the few things that remained. Peter leaned in for a look. He took his sleeve and wiped away some of the dust.

There was Rondeau, years younger, standing on a bridge. Peter thought the skyline in the distance could be D.C., the river maybe the Potomac. Beside Rondeau was a pretty woman he didn’t recognize. They had their arms around each other. They looked happy, like newlyweds.

“I’m a reporter,” Addison said beside him.

Staring at the photo, Peter said, “We checked. You own a cleaning business.”

“I set up an LLC a few years ago. Sometimes it helps to be undercover.” Addison must’ve known what Peter was thinking. “I’ve had my eye on Rondeau since the Valentine Killer case, since Dominic Whitehall blew the whistle.”

She went back into the kitchen, looking around. She sat down and placed her bag on the table. “Now look at this.” She produced a binder filled with newspaper clippings. She leafed through until she stabbed one clipping with her finger. Peter’s eyes fell to an image accompanying the article.