“Also, FYI, we’re done with the cab trace. Charlie was grabbed from the Road Star Motel last Monday morning. Found a witness,” Nick said. Another moment or two of small talk, and they hung up.
Torn between disappointment at not getting to go home and anticipation of what Walt might have to say, Becca nodded. “Let’s go, then.” She slid into the soft leather seat and settled into the corner. Man, she was tired, just bone weary. But no matter how bad she felt, it couldn’t possibly come close to what Charlie was going through, and that’s what she had to remember. With Nick and Beckett murmuring in the front seat, she almost gave in to the lull of the road noise and let herself drift off.
Becca wedged open the oval locket and frowned. The pictures that had always lived inside, one of her dad in uniform and another of the three kids, were gone. Marla had replaced them with pictures of her own, apparently. Vibrating with anger, Becca tore the images out and snapped it shut.
Back at Walt’s, Nick said, “Don’t tell him anything about what we learned today, okay? It’s great that he was willing to help, but we have no idea who his son is, and you don’t really know Walt all that well.”
Scrubbing her hands over her face, Becca nodded. “I feel like we can trust him, but I get your point. I won’t say anything.”
Nick led her over to Shane’s truck. “The landlord’s skittish. You mind keeping a lookout? Unless you’d rather head back?”
“No. I’ll stay. I’m feeling a little like we’re flappin’ around in the wind. Makes sense to stay together,” Shane said.
Nick tapped the open window. “Agreed. Won’t be long.”
They crossed to Walt’s house, and he opened the door just before they reached his stoop. “Got the message, I see. Come in.” He stepped into the light of the hallway, revealing a busted lip.
“Walt, what happened?” Becca said.
“He got jumped is what happened,” a man said as he stepped into the foyer. Probably about forty, with Walt’s coloring, eyes, and freckles, and a tattoo of a snake coiling around the length of his right forearm.
“Not their fault. Becca, this is my son, Louis Jackson.”
“Hi,” she said with a quick shake. Nick and Beckett followed. “What happened to you?” she asked again, fear mixing with her exhaustion and hunger and making her shaky.
“Had a visitor downstairs. About two hours ago. Masked. Caught him coming out of Charlie’s. Chased him off but—”
“He got punched and knocked down for his trouble. Lucky it wasn’t worse,” Louis said, eyes flashing.
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?” Guilt rushed through Becca’s body. She couldn’t believe whatever this was had spilled over on Walt, too.
He waved a hand. “Nothing that won’t heal.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t break a hip, Pop.”
Walt scoffed.
“Why the hell would they come back?” Nick asked. “Can we borrow your key, Walt? I’d like to see if anything’s changed since earlier.”
The old man fished the key ring out of his pocket. “Bring it right back.”
Nick turned to her. “Stay here and stay inside. We’ll check it out.”
Nodding, Becca watched them leave. She could just make out the sound of Charlie’s door opening. What the hell was going on? She turned back to Walt. “God, I’m really sorry. Do you need me to check you over? I’m a nurse.”
“No. Come on in and sit down,” he said. “Just a banged-up elbow, mostly. Survived worse. Will survive this.”
LOUIS SAT NEXT to her on the couch and pulled a stack of paper in front of him, including the sketch of her assailant’s tattoos. “I didn’t recognize the man, but I might know the tattoo,” he said, his tone less angry now. “See . . .” He pointed to the solid square she’d seen on the back of her assailant’s hand. “This by itself doesn’t mean anything, but it could mean something if there was more to it.” Grabbing a blank notepad he’d apparently brought for this purpose, he drew a series of symbols:
“I’m sorry. Would you mind waiting until my friends return? I don’t want to forget anything or miss asking a question.”
Louis tapped his pen on the page. “Sure. I’m sorry about your brother, by the way.”
Becca nodded. “Thank you.”
Long minutes passed. Occasionally she heard a dull thump or the low murmur of a voice from downstairs. Still holding her mom’s locket, she twisted the chain and turned the pendant in her hands. She flipped it open again, sadness filling her at the loss of the family photos. Why had Charlie taken the necklace? And when?