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  He turned to face Boyd, so he could get the man’s reaction on video. The man stood with his hands clasped behind him, his back stiff.

  "Both have their merits," he suggested. "Leave the original architecture but upgrade appliances, such as an eco-friendly retro-style fire insert, reinsulate the walls, put in new windows with traditional sashes . . . you’d increase the value of your home while retaining the original architecture but also bring it into the 21st century."

  Those were things he and Leah were doing to their little place—one of the few Victorian homes left in the Sunset District. When they’d bought the house, it needed a lot of work, as previous tenants hadn’t been very kind over the years. But they’d been young and up for the challenge.

  By the look on Boyd’s face, he must have thought Jack was out of his mind to suggest changing anything in this house. "I don’t think so," he said firmly, and walked through double sliding doors into the dining room. Jack followed.

  Like the living room, the dining room retained its original purpose with the large dining table with matching chairs, and a china hutch against one wall. So far, if the last two rooms were any indication, the furniture in the rest of the house could also be nearly a century old. They were by no means antique collectables. Just well-cared-for hand-me-downs, some of which could be worth some money with a little restoration.

  Jack remembered Boyd’s earlier statement about barely being able to afford the property tax and upkeep. Was that why he seemed so defensive about spending money on upgrades?

  He gazed around again. Clean. Very clean. But there was also a sense of newness—throw pillows and blankets, vases and fresh flowers, trinkets and what Leah called tchotchkes . . . little dust collectors as far as he was concerned, but nothing had any dust on it.

  He spotted a couple bags on the floor near a wing-backed chair in the living room and casually walked in that direction. Looking down, hoping to see what was in the bags, he asked, "Some of your wife’s hobby?" Boyd had seemed agitated in the office when he suggested Bonnie liked spending his money. Was this what he meant?

  "Yes." Boyd turned through a side door from the dining room.

  Jack’s gaze flicked between the bags and the door Boyd had disappeared through, then back to the bags. He didn’t see Bonnie’s purse anywhere, but her wallet was inside one of the bags, on top of some clothes which Jack assumed were her purchases.

  Something was off. Jack couldn’t place it. Never mind. He’d figure it out, but right now, he needed to see the rest of the house.

  Using the same door Boyd had, Jack found himself in the kitchen, equally as dated as the rest of the house. He had to check himself before exclaiming his surprise. Clean but very old. No wonder Bonnie wanted to upgrade.

  Jack went to the oven and checked for a timer. He didn’t see anything. Given the age of the appliances in the kitchen, he wasn’t even sure if timers were a feature back in the day.

  He turned to Boyd, who still stood rigid with his hands behind him. He reminded Jack of a strict school teacher . . . or his commander at inspections. "You said dinner was in the oven when you came home. The oven is empty now. What did you do with it?"

  "I threw it out and washed up. That was the night before last. I couldn’t leave it in there to rot now, could I?" Boyd said, as if stating the obvious. Jack couldn’t remember if he’d emptied Leah’s pot of marinara, or if it were still rotting in the pot on their stove. The thought turned his stomach.

  "Can I see the rest of the house?"

  Boyd nodded and led him through another door back to the hallway where the stairs led to the next floor. Upstairs, there were three bedrooms and a bathroom, all in the same clean but old state as the rest of the house.

  "Does this place have an attic?" he asked, just to satisfy his morbid thoughts, to be sure there weren’t any old people hidden up there. Or Bonnie Boyd.

  Shock crossed Boyd’s otherwise composed features, the first real emotion Jack had seen since entering the house. "Why do you need to see that? There’s nothing up there."

  Why was the man getting so defensive? "It’s just part of the normal inspection," he said calmly. "Didn’t the investigating officers have a look last night?"

  "They didn’t ask."

  "Well, I’m asking now. May I see the attic?"

  The men stood looking at each other for a moment. Jack wasn’t backing down. If Boyd didn’t have anything to hide, why was the man stalling now?

  Finally, Boyd said, "Sure, I just don’t see the point." He led them to the end of the hall and into the smallest of the bedrooms located at the back of the house. Inside a small walk-in closet was a trap door in the ceiling. "I’ll be right back. I’ll get the ladder."

  Jack stopped him. "No need. I can stand on this chair and just poke my head in." The look on Boyd’s face at the thought of standing on the old chair beside the bed seemed to shock him. "I’ll be careful."

  Boyd nodded hesitantly.

  Jack pulled over the chair and carefully stood up on the seat. He moved deliberately when he heard it squeak and groan under him.

  He lifted the panel off the attic opening and pushed it aside, then pulled his phone from his pocket and pulled up the flashlight app. Tapping the icon to switch it on, he let the video record what it could see in the light.

  The light shone a few feet into the space. Beyond that, the enveloping darkness smelled of decomposing boxes and whatever they contained. Large dust motes floated in the light beam. By the dust on the floorboards, no one had been up there in years. And no bodies of old people that he could see. Thank God.

  He switched off the light and put the phone back in his pocket before replacing the panel. He stepped off the chair and returned it to where he’d found it. Boyd moved in beside Jack and replaced the chair directly into the divots in the carpet. "It goes here." Jack just nodded at the quirk. Maybe Boyd had OCD. The house did seem overly clean, and he had cleaned up the kitchen from Bonnie’s cooking.

  Back in the hallway, Jack asked, "Do you have a basement?"

  Boyd shook his head. "These old houses barely have a crawl space under the floorboards."

  "All right then, I think I’ve seen what I need to see here. Thanks for letting me look around."

  "But you didn’t take any notes," he said, worry tingeing his tone.

  "I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary so nothing to write down." He wasn’t about to tell him about the video.

  Nodding, Boyd asked, "What’s next?"

  "You were going to give me your wife’s credit card numbers. Also, if you could lend me her phone, I’ll see if anything’s been deleted from her texts or emails. That stuff is usually recoverable," he added.

  "Sure, whatever helps." Boyd’s tone sounded tired.

  Jack followed Boyd downstairs and back into the living room where the man retrieved the wallet he’d seen earlier in the bag. He moved out of view, but Jack heard a drawer open then close. A moment later, the man returned with Bonnie’s wallet and phone in hand.

  "Here’s her phone. It’s not password protected."

  Jack took the old flip phone and switched it on to be sure it wasn’t password protected. From the corner of his eye, he watched Boyd riffle through the wallet and pull out the plastic. "Here’s her credit card."

  "Just the one?" Jack asked, shocked. Leah had at least three, though she was very judicial over where and when she used them.

  "Does a woman really need more than one?" Boyd asked. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  "I suppose not, Mr. Boyd." He opened the front door. While nothing screamed out at him, being in this house felt a little awkward, perhaps as if time was cloying at him and trying to drag him into the past. Suffocating him. Stepping onto the front porch, the fresh air caught him. He inhaled deeply to clear his lungs before facing Boyd and stretching out his hand. Boyd’s grasp was damp and weak, and Jack nearly jerked his hand away. "Thanks for showing me around. I’ve got your details and will ring you as soon as I discove
r anything."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ray Navarro rarely stood on ceremony, so Jack wasn’t surprised when the apartment door swung open. He’d been only vaguely aware the sun had set. The motion sensor security light outside over the door shone down Ray’s back, casting him in an imposing silhouette.

  The only other light in the room came from the computer screen which spread a pale glow around the small space where Jack worked at his desk, inputting details from his new client, Carl Boyd.

  After conducting his earlier inspection of the Boyd home, Jack had made a few stops at the closest women’s shelters to Carmelita. If Carl was right—that Bonnie had just walked out, leaving behind her car and her belongings—it meant she had to have walked to wherever she’d gone. Women’s shelters were always the first on his hit list—the list of the most common places disgruntled spouses go to in times of trouble, if they didn’t have anywhere else to go, that is. In Bonnie Boyd’s case, according to her husband, she didn’t have family, so hitting the women’s shelters first, then rape crisis centers and homeless shelters made sense.

  Jack had been at this game long before he’d left the force, so he knew most of the people who helped those in need. While he could call them, he found he received a better response with a personal visit. Unfortunately, either no one had seen Bonnie, or they weren’t talking. Jack had also learned over the years, when women—anyone—sought shelter, privacy was tantamount to their safety and getting the help they needed. While he understood this, there was still a missing woman to find. If nothing else, he could at least tell Boyd that Bonnie was alive and safe.

  After the shelters, he went to some of the nearest cheap hotels and motels—since she didn’t have her wallet, perhaps she had a little cash—and of course, hospitals and clinics. All had drawn a blank.

  He reached up and flipped on the banker’s lamp on the opposite side of a messy stack of files, and watched Ray push the door closed before striding over. He threw himself into the chair earlier occupied by Boyd and relaxed back into it, kicking his feet up onto the desk and crossing his legs at the ankles.

  "Come on in, Ray. Make yourself at home." Jack purposefully laced his greeting with sarcasm. He reached into the bottom drawer for a clean glass and a mostly-full bottle of whiskey and pushed them toward Ray before refocusing on the computer screen again.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched Ray pull the glass closer and uncap the bottle, pouring himself a single finger measure. "Don’t mind if I do. You not drinking?"

  Jack glanced up over the glasses he only wore at the computer—the second sign he was getting older; the first being the graying at his temples that he was forced to look at on those days he chose to shave, and today wasn’t one of them.

  "Do I look like I need a drink?"

  Ray just chuckled as he sat back again. "Well, we hit it pretty hard last night."

  Without looking at his friend, he said, "That was last night."

  "No hair of the dog?"

  Jack lifted a brow and scowled at him.

  Thankfully, Ray let Jack work while he enjoyed his whiskey. The only sound came from the keys clicking as Jack typed. Jack had made a lot of mental notes at Boyd’s house and wanted to be sure they were backed up in his files. That included the audio interview and the video from the home inspection.

  He had never been overly tech-savvy while on the job, but now that he was . . . self-employed . . . an entrepreneur . . . forced to do it . . . he found tight recordkeeping an asset—for investigations and for his accountant.

  A short time later, he leaned back in his chair, tossed the glasses onto the desk, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This had been one long-ass day.

  "Looks like you’ve had an attitude adjustment since last night." Ray was always great for pointing out the obvious.

  "Yeah, and hey, thanks for the client."

  Ray slowly swung his head. "Poor bastard. He must have really pissed her off for her to just up and leave like that."

  Jack sat forward in his chair to see past the glow of the banker’s lamp. The shadows falling across his friend defined his rich Hispanic heritage and revealed his exhaustion.

  "Do you really think that’s what happened to her?" He hated admitting it but . . . "She disappeared just like Leah did. I’ve been out to his place and did a thorough walk-through. Absolutely no clues—no struggle, nothing’s missing, dinner had been in the oven. She’s just gone. Just like—just like Leah." He barely got the words out.

  Ray’s focus shot to attention. "What do you mean had been in the oven?"

  "I asked him the same question. He said he cleaned up. I think the guy’s a bit obsessive. Everything had its place. I moved a chair to look up into the attic space, and when I put it back when I was done, he was immediately beside me, moving the chair back into those little divots in the rug. It must have been in that same position from when his parents owned the house."

  "I’ve heard of people like that."

  "I think this guy goes a little further out than others. He’s got one of those houses up beside Dubose. Original inside and out. And I mean everything. Rugs, wallpaper, appliances . . . When I suggested upgrading with some modern retro fixtures designed to keep the original feel, he was absolutely against any of it. Looked at me like I was crazy."

  "Damn! The place must have been a rat hole."

  "That’s just it. It wasn’t. The place was immaculate. Just really old. It was like his parents, or maybe even grandparents, still lived in the place. For a minute, I was half expecting to find them stashed in an upstairs bedroom."

  "What about the wife?" Ray sipped at his whiskey.

  Jack shook his head. "Not there either, stashed or otherwise. That’s why I wanted to check the attic." He tilted his head, trying to grasp that thing that had been niggling him since his inspection. "He seems genuine enough, but there’s something weird about him too."

  "Even weird guys need love." Ray chuckled.

  "Remind me to ask Maria what she saw in you." Jack shot Ray a wide grin. It was good bantering with his friend. It reminded him of the old days. "By the way, I’d like to get a look at the missing person’s report from Boyd’s place."

  "Why don’t you just ask the cops yourself?" Ray suggested.

  Jack gave a sideways nod. "I will, but I want to see the official report first."

  Ray dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. "Do you think the beat cops fucked up? Missing person’s cases can be subjective, and every cop has their way of getting the same result, if you know what I mean."

  "You don’t have to tell me that." Jack cringed. From the little he’d learned about Paul Travers since he became Ray’s partner, he was always shortcutting investigations, so it was a surprise Ray put up with him. He’d gone through a few—Ray could be a real hard-ass—and Travers was just the most recent. Jack was sure he wouldn’t last long either. "Speaking of fuck ups, remind yourself one day to tell me how you got tasked with Travers."

  Ray chuffed under his breath. "I’m . . . difficult. Maybe the department is challenging me."

  "Some challenge."

  "He’s been a pain in my ass since they saddled me with him last month." Ray downed the last of his whiskey and set the glass on the desk. "What’s up with you two anyway? Ever since the department assigned him to me, he’s like a dog with a bone with you."

  Jack sat back and laced his fingers together over his stomach, elbows on the chair arms. "Do tell."

  Ray shrugged. "Just talking shit."

  "Like what shit?" He didn’t like Travers—certainly no love was lost between them. There was nothing specific about Travers he didn’t like, but everyone had intuition, and if they listened to it, sometimes trouble could be averted. Jack’s intuition could never hone in on what it was about Travers he didn’t like. The guy just brushed him the wrong way, and for no apparent reason. Until Travers had recently made detective, Jack hadn’t thought about the guy since they left the academy.

  Ray squirmed in
his chair a little. "It’s just shit, Jack. No big deal."

  "You brought it up."

  His friend gazed around the darkened room for a moment. "It’s just stuff like yesterday morning at the scene. He keeps calling me partner, and buddy . . . like he’s trying to prove something. He keeps asking me questions about working with you. And until you showed up yesterday, I’ve never heard him talk to another cop like he talked to you."

  "I’m not a cop anymore," Jack said, his gut clenching at the reminder.

  "You know what I mean. I was going to say something but figured he was just puffing his feathers. Or if it’s something between you two, then you two can work it out."

  "I don’t know what’s up his ass. I’ve rarely seen him since the academy, though rumors have gone around about his assholery. I was surprised when I heard you’d been tasked with him. I’m really sorry about that, man." Jack considered the whiskey then shot a glance at the file still open on the screen. "I need a favor."

  Ray’s head shot up. Jack just stared at him. "I can’t do it."

  "You’ve done it before."

  "I’m sure I did, but I shouldn’t have." After a short staring contest, Ray sank back in his chair. "What?"

  "Carl Boyd. I got his wife’s cell phone and credit card. I’ve made a copy of her phone’s memory, so I can go through her messages and contacts, but it needs a deeper look—deleted files and such. And I need her purchase history on her card. Obviously," he stressed, "I can’t get a warrant for it, but you have an open missing person’s file, so you can."

  "Maybe so, but I can’t give you the information," Ray reminded him.

  "Partner," Jack said overdramatically. Then, mimicking Travers, "Buuuddy—"

  Ray shot up and stomped away from the desk. "Fuck you, Jack." He ran his fingers through his hair, putting his other hand on his hip as he paced.

  Jack just laughed and reached into his desk drawer. "You’re being a diva. Here, have a Snickers." He threw the candy at his friend who dodged it like it was a live grenade.

  "¡Jódete! Fuck you!"

  "Kiss me first."