Adverse Possession Page 17

  “He was telling me about his kid,” Rafe said. “The ex-wife has primary custody, but he gets to see him pretty much whenever he wants. But he’s afraid she’s gonna marry again once the divorce is final, and what’s gonna happen when she does.”

  I could well imagine. That would worry me, too. I’d had a miscarriage while I was married to Bradley, and had been devastated at the time, but once we split up, I was very glad that we didn’t have children together. And now that he was in prison, I was even happier about that. “I’m sure she won’t keep his son from him.”

  “Depends on how pissed off she is about what he did,” Rafe said.

  “What did he do?”

  He glanced at me. “Cheated. She hired a private eye to catch him, and the guy did. And now they’re engaged and just waiting for the divorce to be final so they can get married.”

  “Sheesh,” I said. “So the guy who proved to Mendoza’s wife that Mendoza was cheating is going to be her next husband and the kid’s stepfather? That’s got to hurt.”

  “You know it,” Rafe said, and turned on the signal for the turn onto Potsdam. “Anyway, we were talking kids. His, mine, and the one on the way.”

  Male bonding over children. Who’d have thought?

  “The one on the way is also yours,” I reminded him.

  “I know. It just don’t seem real yet.”

  “Maybe when we have the ultrasound and find out if it’s a he or a she, it’ll seem more real to you.”

  He shrugged and changed the subject. “Almost home. Whaddaya wanna do the rest of the day?”

  “I promised you sex,” I said, “so we should probably get that out of the way first.”

  He arched a brow. “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “I was looking at it more like you doing me the favor.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Yeah?”

  “If you’d oblige.”

  “I think I might could do that,” Rafe said, and turned into the graveled drive.

  So we had sex, and then we had a nap, and then we had something to eat, and while we were doing that, Rafe’s phone rang. He answered, and I spent a minute or two nibbling on turkey and Swiss cheese while I listened to him say things like, “What the hell?” and “Have you lost your fucking mind?” and “That ain’t gonna end well.”

  The conversation ended with, “Don’t do nothing till I get there. Nothing. You hear me?”

  The phone quacked, and I assumed the answer was in the affirmative, because Rafe didn’t say anything else, just stabbed the End button with enough emotion to make me suspect he’d rather be drilling that finger into somebody’s chest while he screamed in his face.

  “What?”

  He got to his feet. “Sorry, darlin’. I gotta go.”

  “What happened?”

  He grimaced. “That was Jamal. He’s got himself a situation.”

  “What kind of situation?” I put my sandwich down, the better to concentrate on the conversation. It wouldn’t be a long one, I could tell, so I’d have to get what I needed quickly.

  “Gang,” Rafe said, shoving his feet into sneakers.

  “That doesn’t sound good.” Jamal’s brother had died as a result of gang violence, and that was why Jamal had wanted to join the TBI.

  Rafe shook his head. “Somebody approached him. Somebody from the neighborhood, who knew his brother.”

  He pulled open the kitchen drawer where he’d stashed his gun when he came in. I watched as he shoved it into the holster at the small of his back. While he did that, I thought about what I knew about Jamal, other than the dead brother thing.

  It wasn’t much. We’d only met a few times. He’d worked just as hard as everyone else when Rafe went missing in June, and had been willing to do whatever it took to find Rafe and bring him back. He seemed like a nice kid, outgoing and a natural leader.

  “It was something about an action against another gang,” Rafe said, adjusting the T-shirt he was wearing so it covered any sight of the gun and holster, “the one that was responsible for killing Deondre.”

  “Deondre being Jamal’s brother?”

  He nodded. “This guy from the neighborhood thought Jamal might wanna be a part of it. Jamal said yes, and now he’s calling me to tell him what to do.”

  “You don’t know anything about gangs, do you?”

  “Not much,” Rafe said.

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I already told him he’s lost his mind. And I’m gonna tell him again when I see him. But he thinks this could be a chance to put some of these guys behind bars.”

  “The ones who didn’t shoot his brother?”

  “He blames them just as much,” Rafe said, stuffing a last few bites of sandwich into his mouth and washing them down with milk. “If Deondre hadn’t been in a gang, none of it woulda happened.”

  He had a point. Or Jamal did.

  “But is he ready for this?”

  “Hell, no,” Rafe said.

  “So are you going to talk him out of it? Or offer to help?”

  “Right now I’m just gonna talk to him.” He put the empty glass on the table with a decisive thunk. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

  “I might go back to the hospital,” I told his back as he headed for the door. “See if Aislynn ever showed up. And if Kylie remembers anything more about what happened Friday night.”

  He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Just be careful.”

  “Always,” I said, and waited for the front door to latch and lock before I got to my feet and began to clean up after lunch. Outside, the Harley roared to life and, a second later, tore down the driveway with a spurt of gravel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vanderbilt Hospital looked just as it had when I left earlier this morning. Different nurse on duty at the desk, so I had to go through the process of explaining who I was—or rather, who I wasn’t—again. After that, I was directed to my ‘sister’s’ room, where everything also looked the same.

  Dr. Ramsey was nowhere to be seen. Busy with other patients, I guess, or maybe just done for the day. Or off somewhere having lunch.

  Lauren was also gone. Kylie was alone, looking pale and wan, but slightly more alert than earlier. When she heard me at the door, she turned to look at me.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice still a little raspy, but stronger than earlier, “it’s you.”

  It was obvious I wasn’t who she’d been hoping to see, but I didn’t comment.

  “Rafe had to go to work,” I said instead. “I thought I’d come back and see you one more time today.”

  I pulled a chair up to the bed and folded myself into it. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “My head hurts,” Kylie said, “but they’re giving me something for it.” She lifted her hand weakly to indicate an attached IV.

  “You’re talking much better now.”

  She nodded. “I had some food. Soup and Jell-O. And I’ve had visitors.”

  “We saw Lauren on our way out this morning,” I said, and added, when she looked surprised, “I recognized her from when I saw her on Friday. The two of you were going to lunch, remember?”

  She said yes, but I had no idea whether she actually remembered or not. Chances were she did. It would have been just the minute or two immediately before being hit she’d have lost.

  “She said she didn’t see you on Friday night,” I added. “That she was out on a date when you got to her house.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you remember talking to her?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kylie admitted. “I remember talking to her, but it could have been earlier. At lunch. The drugs are making it hard to concentrate.”

  “Have the police been here?”

  “That good-looking detective stopped by. The one who told us about the dead man.”

  “Detective Mendoza,” I said. “Did h
e have anything new to report?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about Aislynn? Has she been here?”

  A shadow crossed her face. “No.”

  “Really?” Maybe I shouldn’t have been, but I admit to being surprised. I had understood—or thought I understood—why she didn’t want to stay in the house alone last night. Kylie had been attacked there, and then there were the threatening letters. And I’d understood why she’d wanted to go home to her parents. She was young, alone, and scared. But I was surprised she hadn’t come back. I had never questioned her devotion to Kylie. “Have you spoken to her?”

  “I called,” Kylie whispered, “but she didn’t pick up.”

  I’d have to call, too, later. And see if she’d pick up for me. Now didn’t seem like a good time. Who knew how long Kylie would be up for talking? I should take advantage of it while she did.

  “Did anyone tell you that your ex-husband was here last night?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Damian?”

  “That’s who he said he was. Dr. Ramsey told me. But it was after visiting hours and you weren’t awake, so he didn’t get in to see you. Detective Mendoza didn’t mention it?”

  She shook her head. “Why would Damian come here?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I’m not even sure it was Damian.” Although if it wasn’t, it was someone who knew that Kylie had been married to Damian Mitchell. “You didn’t call him?”

  “I was unconscious,” Kylie said.

  “Would Aislynn have called him?”

  She shook her head. “Damian and I split up long before I met Aislynn. She’s never even met him. She wouldn’t have any idea how to get in touch with him.”

  “Someone must have.” Unless it hadn’t been Damian at all. Unless it had been the person who had broken into the house and hit Kylie when she came home and found him. “Maybe you should ask Dr. Ramsey to describe the guy, and see if the description matches.”

  “Or I could just call Damian and ask,” Kylie said.

  I suppose she could. Although I didn’t tell her to. “Why don’t you just lie back and rest for a while,” I suggested instead, “while I tell you about the funeral yesterday.”

  “You went to a funeral?”

  “Virgil’s funeral,” I said. “The guy who owned the house you live in before you did. The guy who was killed on Wednesday.”

  She wiggled down in the bed, one careful inch at a time. “You went to his funeral?”

  I nodded. “I don’t think I ever met him. He wasn’t ever there when we came to see the house, that I recall. Do you remember meeting him?”

  She shook her head.

  “But LB&A represented him and his partner in the sale. Someone had to do it.”

  “So what happened?” Kylie wanted to know, getting comfortable against the pillows.

  “Well, after he sold the house to you, he and his boyfriend split up. And Virgil moved in with another guy...” I detailed the whole relationship, all the way up to the showdown at the funeral yesterday. When I described the coffin falling over, Kylie gasped, but by the time I got to Stacy in his Jeep in the parking lot, surrounded by a dozen or more guys rocking it back and forth in an effort to get him out, she was shaking with feeble laughter.

  “I called Detective Mendoza,” I said, “and he sent a couple of squad cars to break things up, but apparently no one was arrested. Causing a scene at a funeral doesn’t seem to be a prosecutable offense.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” Kylie answered weakly. She seemed amused, but that amusement was taking energy, and she didn’t have much to spare.

  “I should probably leave you to get some rest.” I made to get up from the chair, and she put out a hand.

  “Wait a second.”

  I sank back down. “What?”

  “I’m worried about Aislynn.”

  Of course she was. I was, too. “I’ll call her,” I promised. “Maybe she’ll pick up for me. And if not, maybe I’ll try to track down her parents. They probably have a landline.”

  “The number’s in the Rolodex in the office.”

  “Your home office?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sure your house is locked,” I told her. “And I doubt anyone remembered to bring your purse when we rushed you out of there yesterday morning.”

  She looked around for it—I didn’t see it, and it appeared she didn’t, either—and turned back to me. “There’s a hide-a-key on the back porch. Inside the thermometer.”

  “Really?” An image of the guy in the plaid shirt flashed before my eyes. “Who knows about that?”

  “Just Aislynn and me,” Kylie said. “And a couple of people we’ve told.”

  “Lauren?”

  She shrugged. I took that to mean yes. “Your ex-husband?”

  “No,” Kylie said. “I haven’t spoken to Damian since we moved into the house.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have they stayed in touch with Damian?” And was it possible that they might have told him?

  Kylie shrugged.

  “How long have you had it?”

  “It was there when we bought the place,” Kylie said.

  So presumably the previous owners knew about it, as well. Stacy and Virgil. And whoever they’d told. Like maybe Kenny and Kenny’s friend, the bald guy.

  For all I knew, half of Nashville might know about the hide-a-key thermometer.

  “I’ll see if I can get in touch with Aislynn,” I said. “And if I can’t, I’ll go to your house and use the hide-a-key to access the Rolodex and call her parents.”

  Kylie nodded.

  “Do you want me to bring you your purse when I come back tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “I think I’m being released in the morning. Just make sure the key is in the thermometer so I can get in when I get home.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “No,” Kylie said. “If I can’t get hold of Aislynn, Lauren will take me home.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “If Aislynn’s left,” Kylie said, “it doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t mind driving you,” I told her. “I did in December, remember?”

  “I don’t want to impose on you again,” Kylie said. “Maybe I’ll call Damian.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t do that. We don’t know how he’s involved in this. And I don’t mind. I have a flexible schedule. I’m happy to pick you up and take you home. There’s a sales meeting I have to go to at nine, but after that I’m free. If I don’t get in touch with Aislynn, I’ll make sure I’m here to get you.”

  She thanked me. I said goodbye and took myself off. And once I was in the car and on my way toward East Nashville, I dialed Aislynn’s number.

  The phone rang. And rang.

  She didn’t pick up.

  It’s illegal in Tennessee to text and drive, so I took a second to flick on the little microphone icon and then spoke a text message instead.

  It’s Savannah. I’m just coming home from seeing Kylie. She’s worried about you. So am I. Please give me a call.

  The auto correct tried changing Savannah to Samantha and Kylie to Julie. Once we got that sorted out, I sent it off and kept driving. And waiting for a response that didn’t come. By the time I pulled up in front of Aislynn and Kylie’s house in East Nashville, Aislynn still hadn’t gotten back to me.

  The first thing I did was ring the doorbell, just in case she had come back to Nashville this morning—or hadn’t gone to Bowling Green at all yesterday. When there was no answer, I wandered around the house, through the gate, and into the backyard to look for the hide-a-key in the thermometer on the deck.

  It was just a couple of days since I’d stood here, wondering where the guy in the plaid shirt had gone. I hadn’t noticed the thermometer then. I had to look for it now. It was hanging, demurely, on the wall next to the door, blending into the pale gray paint and trim: a small
, white strip that looked like any other thermometer I’d ever seen. According to the mercury, it was approaching ninety-five, which sounded accurate. Obviously, it was a working thermometer as well as a hide-a-key box.

  It took me a few moments to figure out the mechanism. First I tried opening the front, like a door, from the left and right, but that didn’t work. Finally I figured out that the bottom opened, and dropped down. A key was tucked into a little tube that disappeared up inside the thermometer and latched on up there.

  I shook the key out in my hand and inserted it in the knob, which was gray and sticky from the fingerprint powder the crime scene crew had used. Inside, I locked the door behind me—you never know when someone might decide to join you if you leave the door open for them, and uninvited company was the last thing I wanted in an empty house. Then I put the inner workings of the thermometer on the floor next to the door and looked around.

  Everything in the family room looked normal. There were books on the shelves, magazines on the table, and pillows on the couch. It was just the doorknob, inside and out, and the key itself that showed evidence of fingerprint powder. Everything else was in its proper place and showed no sign of having been tampered with.

  I headed from the family room down the hall to the front of the house, looking around as I went.

  Everything else looked normal, the way it had when I was here on Thursday night. The house felt empty, but I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and called up. “Aislynn? Are you here?”

  There was no answer, and no sound of movement upstairs. I went up anyway, and stuck my head into the master bedroom. The bed was made and the curtains pulled. The towels on the towel bars were dry. Nobody had showered here this morning.

  Downstairs, I checked out the kitchen—empty, with no dirty dishes in the sink and no evidence that anyone had been here in the past twenty-four hours. Same for the dining room. It didn’t look like the crime scene crew had done any investigating in any of these rooms. Nobody was hiding behind the shower curtain, and the towels downstairs were as dry as their master bathroom counterparts.

  At last I came to the parlor-cum-office at the front of the house. It also looked the way it did when I last saw it. A big, fat mess, in other words. Now amplified by the work the crime scene crew had done. There was fingerprint powder everywhere: on the edges of the desk, the door knob and jamb, the drawer pulls, the light switch...