Redemption Road(69)

“Like I told the state cops.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“Do you know, at least, if she’s safe?”

“Safe enough.” It was grudgingly offered, possibly sincere. “Her mother got a text saying she was okay, but wouldn’t be home for a while.”

“Is that normal?”

“The text, no. But, she’s left home before. Parties in Chapel Hill. Clubs in Charlotte. There’ve been some boys. Teenage stuff she thinks is dangerous.”

Beckett sifted the words, came up satisfied. “May I come inside?”

“Why not? Every other cop in the county has.” Shore showed his back, knowing Beckett would follow. In the study, he lifted an arm. “These are my attorneys.” Three different men stood. “You remember my wife.”

She sat on a sea of dark velvet as if she’d been weighted and sunk there. Pink suit rumpled. Makeup smeared. Stoned, Beckett thought. Numb. “Mrs. Shore.” She did not look up or respond, and from the reactions of everyone else in the room her condition was obviously no surprise. “I’m glad you’re here. This concerns you.”

That was a bomb in the stillness.

“In what regard?” one of the lawyers asked.

He had white eyebrows and ruddy skin. One of the big firms in Charlotte, Beckett guessed. Five hundred an hour, minimum.

“Let’s call it a story for now.” Beckett kept his voice level, though he was angry deep down. “A story about dead brothers, bored housewives, and a town full of dirty little secrets.”

“I won’t allow you to question her.”

“I’ll do all the talking, and right now we’re talking about stories.” Beckett pushed past the lawyer, the husband; towered over the wife, instead. “Like all good stories, this one revolves around a central question, in this case the question of how two low-life brothers like Titus and Brendon Monroe ever came into contact with a girl like Channing. Drug dealers. Kidnappers. Rapists. I suspect you know this story.” Beckett was unflinching. Mrs. Shore was not. “I’m guessing that it started with drinks over brunch. Five years ago? Maybe ten? Brunch became afternoon wine, then cocktails at five, more wine with dinner. Four days a week became seven. There would be parties, of course. Weed from a friend, maybe. A doctor’s prescription or two. All harmless fun until we get to the stolen pills and the cocaine and the low-life dealers who go with it.”

That was his hardest voice, and she looked up, bewildered. “Alsace—”

“You have a gardener,” Beckett interrupted her. “William Bell. Goes by the name Billy.”

“Billy, yes.”

“The last time Titus Monroe was arrested for dealing drugs, he was selling OxyContin to your gardener, Billy Bell. That was nineteen months ago on a Tuesday. Not only did your husband post Billy’s bond, he paid for the lawyer that helped him stay out of jail.”

“That’s enough, Detective.” That was Mr. Shore. Close. Physical.

Beckett ignored him. “Channing wasn’t plucked off a street, was she?”

“You said no questions.” Shore’s voice was loud, but had nothing to do with anger. He was begging, pleading, as his wife sank more deeply into the sofa.

“It’s a common enough story.” Beckett lowered himself before the broken woman. “Except for the ending.” She didn’t move, but a tear spilled down a sunken cheek. “Do you know the Monroe brothers, Mrs. Shore? Have they been to this house?”

“Don’t answer that.”

Beckett tuned out the lawyer. This was about truth, responsibility, the sins of the parent. “Will you look at me?”

Her head moved, but the lawyer pushed between them. “This is a temporary restraining order signed by Judge Ford.” The attorney snapped a paper in Beckett’s face. “It protects Mrs. Shore from police questioning in this matter until such time as her attending physician is brought before the court and the matter is heard.”

“What?”

“My client is under a doctor’s care.”

Beckett took the paper, scanned it. “Psychiatric care.”

“The type of care is irrelevant until a judge rules otherwise. Mrs. Shore is in a fragile state, and under the protection of the court.”

“This is dated the twelfth.”

“The timing is also irrelevant. You cannot pursue this line of questioning.”

“You knew about this days ago.” Beckett dropped the paper and squared up on Mr. Shore. “She’s your daughter, and you f*cking knew.”

*

Outside, the day was too hot and blue for Beckett’s mood. The abduction was not random, the bad guys not some passersby who saw Channing on the street.

And the father knew.

Motherf*cker …

“I didn’t know until after.”

Beckett spun on a heel.

Alsace Shore had followed him out. He looked smaller and shaken, a powerful man begging. “You have to believe me. If I’d known while she was missing, I’d have told you. I’d have done anything.”

“You withheld evidence from me, Mr. Shore. It wasn’t some accident your daughter was taken. What happened to Channing is your wife’s fault.”