Nash perked up. “Mathers?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Emory has a boyfriend named Tyler Mathers. He goes to Whatney Vale High School.”
“Hold on a second. I’m trying to pull up her file,” Kloz said.
Clair’s eyes were wide. “Emory is dating 4MK’s nephew?”
Kloz returned. “Bingo. That’s him. Sixteen years old. He lives with his father downtown.”
“Detectives?”
Clair and Nash turned to find Espinosa holding up a cell phone at the bedroom door. “It’s Emory’s.”
“Kloz? I’ll call you right back,” Clair said, disconnecting the call. “Let me see it.”
Espinosa handed her the phone; she took it in gloved hands and tapped the screen. Nothing happened. “How can you tell?”
“He pulled the battery. I ran the serial number, and it came up under Talbot Enterprises with her listed as the designated user. The phone went offline night before last at forty-three past six,” Espinosa explained.
Clair dropped the cell into an evidence bag and turned back to Nash. “We need to pick up the nephew. He may know where she is.”
56
Diary
The next morning was a truly beautiful summer day, and so I decided to take a walk rather than spend it cooped up within the confines of the house. I hadn’t been gone long, an hour at most—just long enough to check on my cat, skip a few rocks, confirm Mr. Carter’s burial at sea was of a permanent nature, and return.
The green Plymouth was back.
Parked in the road in front of the Carters’ home, it sat empty. I drew close. The engine was still warm enough to tick, and exhaust lingered on the air. There was no sign of the man from yesterday.
Careful to remain concealed behind the thick shrubs and trees of the woods, I made my way closer.
The keys twinkled in the sunlight, dangling from the ignition.
He was a trusting man.
If the keys were in the ignition, it would stand to reason the car was unlocked.
I poked my head up high for the briefest of seconds and glanced back at the Carter house.
The front door was closed, but something didn’t seem right. The house didn’t feel empty.
He must be in there; where else would he be?
The car’s driver-side door faced the Carter house, while the passenger door sided with the street.
With nothing more than a deep breath and a dare, I darted out from my hiding spot and slid to a stop in the gravel at the passenger door. I had a clear view through the car to the Carter house—this meant someone exiting the Carter house would be able to spot me too. I had little choice, though; I would have to move fast.
I lifted the handle and pulled the door toward me with the utmost care. It let out a shrill squeak in protest. At first I thought the racket was loud enough for the man to hear, so I left the door open and ducked back down, peering at the house from under the car. When a minute passed and he didn’t come out, I got back on my feet and leaned inside.
The Duster had a black leather bench seat with a tall gearshift knob poking up from the floorboards topped by a black eight ball, possibly the coolest gearshift knob I ever saw in all my years on this planet, and then and there I vowed to purchase one the moment I bought my first automobile. Such a transaction was still far off at this point, but proper planning is a must in all things from car purchases to breaking and entering.
I did not have time to properly plan this particular break and enter, and as I reached for the glove box, I prayed silently to the gods above it would be unlocked. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be getting in without my picks; I left them in the top drawer of my nightstand under the latest issue of Spider-Man.
The glove box opened with a pop.
I had hoped to find a registration slip or some type of documentation to help identify the strange man, but first glance revealed I would have no such luck. The glove box didn’t contain any paper. However, it did contain a rather large gun. I do not know guns, and I’d be lying if I said under normal circumstances I could identify any weapon at first glance. I did recognize this gun, though, because I did a Dirty Harry movie marathon a few months earlier and this was clearly the same pistol favored by Clint Eastwood’s character in that chain of films.
A .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, the kind of gun that could blow your head clear off, especially if you were an unlucky punk.
I was not an unlucky punk. I was a smart punk. I reached for the gun, pushed out the cylinder, and tipped it back, dropping the bullets into my hand. I placed them in my pocket, returned the cylinder, and put the Magnum back into the glove box exactly as I’d found it.
When Mr. Stranger decided to pull his gun (an event I was fairly certain would come to pass in the near future), I’d revel in knowing that the weapon would be about as effective as a water pistol. If I’d had my tools, I would have removed the firing pin and left the bullets—and I considered doing just that, but it would have meant a trip to the house and back, in direct view of the Carters’ house. Such a risk wasn’t in the cards. If the opportunity arose, I would reconsider.
The gun safely disabled and tucked back where I’d found it, I closed the glove box and searched under the seat. Aside from an old sandwich wrapper, which still stank of mustard, I found nothing. The back seat was empty as well.
The man who might be a cop but probably wasn’t was still a mystery, one I was determined to crack.
I wanted to search the trunk, but my sense and sensibilities told me I was already pushing my luck, so I eased out of the car, gently closed the passenger door, then made my way back to the safety of the woods.
Careful to remain between the largest of the oaks, I neared the Carter house. When I was parallel to the front porch, I ran across the grass and knelt down below the living room window.
I closed my eyes and listened.
Father once told me our senses worked in tandem with one another during the normal course of a day, but if you blocked out one or more of your senses and focused on those remaining, they were that much keener. I often found this to be true, and simply closing my eyes seemed to give my ears an added little boost otherwise untapped.
I heard Mr. Stranger shuffling around inside; that much was clear. I was fairly certain he was in the living room directly above me.