"What is the DOE Network?" Hi asked.
"An organization that investigates old missing person cases." We were once again in Bolton's computer lab. "Cold ones. It's a long shot, but they might have a file on Katherine Heaton."
After logging on, I navigated to the website and entered Katherine's name. A link popped up the screen.
"Yes! She's on here."
I double-clicked to open the file. A case synopsis appeared. Barely breathing, I read the report.
"Someone named Sylvia Briggerman submitted the original missing person report."
"On it."
Hi walked to the next terminal and ran a search. "There's one Briggerman listed in the Charleston area. Centerville address, on James Island. Shall I give her a ring?"
I nodded.
Hi dialed, listened, disconnected.
"It's a retirement home. I can't get through to her room without an access code."
I looked at the clock: 3:45 p.m.
"The city bus would get us to Centerville in less than thirty minutes."
"I'm supposed to help Shelton with Cooper," Hi said. "The little guy's all alone at the new bunker we found."
"Shelton will be fine. This is more important," I said. "Briggerman might be the last person to see Katherine Heaton alive."
CHAPTER 57
The bus dropped us near James Island Park, a sleepy tangle of tree-lined paths meandering through salt marsh. We continued a quarter mile, turned south onto Riverland, then left onto a private access road.
Bordered by enormous willows, the laneway was shady and pleasantly cool. We passed slow-moving creeks and reed-covered banks, silent but for the gurgle of water and the whine of insects.
A pair of herons watched from deep in the spartina grass, long stick legs disappearing into water, avian eyes unblinking. Though Hi called to them, he got no response.
The terrain was classic Lowcountry--placid, serene, and muggy as a sauna. Despite the brackish marsh smell, I was enjoying the exercise. The insanity of the past two weeks had completely derailed my running routine. I hoped to get back on track soon.
If no one shot me first.
In minutes we reached our destination, a cluster of condo-like residences sandwiched between green-yellow swamp and the Stono River. The Shady Gardens retirement community definitely lived up to its name. The Spanish moss overhead kept the grounds in perpetual dusk.
When we drew close, the front doors slid open with a hiss. The smell of air conditioning and hand sanitizer rolled over us.
We approached a desk and asked for Sylvia Briggerman.
Roadblock.
Roberta Parrish wore a white nurse's uniform and brass nametag. Her hair was a shade of orange straight out of a bottle. Drugstore lashes crawled her lids like hairy little centipedes.
On seeing us, Parrish flashed a false smile.
"Visiting hours just ended," she said. The centipedes fluttered. "I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow."
"Is there any chance we could see Sylvia today?" I asked. "I hate to be a bother, but we took the bus all the way from downtown."
Parrish shook her head, lips locked in the up position. "As you know, Ms. Briggerman suffers from dementia. We mustn't disturb her routine."
"I completely understand, ma'am." Very polite. "But we only need a few minutes."
"Are you family?"
Hi cut in. "Yes ma'am. And we never get to see Great-Auntie Syl." He turned to me. "I told Dad she should be closer to the city. It's too hard to visit out here."
That got Parrish's attention.
"Now, now! No need to fret. I just had to make sure you were kinfolk." She glanced at the clock. "I'm sure we can squeeze in a quick visit."
"Gee, thanks!" Hi beamed. "I can see why our parents picked this place."
Parrish led us from the main building to a row of suites facing the river. I could tell she was trying to hide her annoyance.
"We're going to hell for this," I hissed. "What if Great-Auntie Syl blows our cover?"
"She's got dementia," Hi whispered. "She won't know the difference."
"That's horrible."
"People in these places love to have visitors. Even from fake relatives."
"Like I said. To hell."
"We'll do something nice. Fill her ice trays, or fluff her pillows." Hi shrugged. "We're trying to solve a murder, for Pete's sake. I think she'll forgive us."
"Here we are." Parrish knocked on a bright blue door. "Sylvia, dear! Visitors!"
The door opened.
Sylvia Briggerman stood no more than five feet tall and wore an outfit that would have made Lucille Ball proud. I guessed her age at somewhere north of eighty.
"What's that?" Sylvia's eyes looked enormous behind thick bifocals. "Guests?"
"Your grandniece and grandnephew are here." Parrish spoke slowly and loudly. "They've come to visit. From the city."
"I don't have a nephew."
Great. We were sooo busted.
Then Sylvia's face brightened. "Katherine?"
Oh, God. No.
This was too cruel. I couldn't do it.
Hi nudged my back. Nudged again. Toe-kicked my heel.