David Baldacci - The Last Mile

“What?”

“When you were hypnotized by Davenport, you told us you came home one night and your dad was there. He was looking sort of scary but he told you he was sorry. That was it, no explanation. Then he left the room.”

“Damn. I forgot about that.”

“And it must be something really bad because he had to take such extraordinary steps. He killed this Dan Reardon, Melvin, and used his body as part of the deception. You need to come to grips with that.”

“That my old man was a cold-blooded killer? Yeah, let me just come to grips with that. Probably only take a few seconds,” he added sarcastically.

“Well, he might have been one in the past, but it looked like he reformed until something happened to throw everything out of whack. I think the sequence of events went something like this: Your mother was diagnosed with cancer. It wasn’t here because the doctor’s office knew nothing about it. So they went somewhere else to get that diagnosis. I don’t know where.”

“Okay,” said Mars. “Then what?”

“They probably were going to tell you the bad news and deal with it like every other family does in such a situation. But then the ESPN piece aired, someone recognized your dad and/or your mother, and everything changed.”

“Do you think they threatened them?”

“Maybe, or maybe they didn’t wait for the threat to come. They just acted. They switched the dental records. Your father snatched Reardon. You said Ellen Tanner was a recent acquaintance. Your dad could have arranged all that. Same with the motel guy. They’re paid off to lie. Then Tanner disappeared and the motel guy retired to Florida. He probably used the money in his bank account to pay them.”

“So you’re telling me they lied and sent me to prison for, what, less than three grand each?”

“I’ve run into people who’d slit your throat for a cup of coffee,” Decker replied bluntly.

“Damn.”

“And you said your dad was good with cars.”

“Yeah, he could fix anything.”

“So he could easily have sabotaged your car so it would stall by the motel. He probably drugged your mother and Reardon, shot them, and then burned the bodies. And then he left. He also probably planted the blood in your car.” Decker paused. “He might have driven over to the motel to do it, and at the same time he reversed whatever he’d done to disable your car so it would start when the police showed up there. And that would explain the person who saw a car in the vicinity of your house that night. Only it was your dad’s car, not yours.”

“Our cars did look alike. But what if I’d called my house that night from the motel and told him to come get me?”

“I don’t think he would have picked up the phone, Melvin. And that would leave you stuck at the motel.”

“So he did all that knowing that I’d be arrested for the crime? But why?”

“The folks coming after him would suspect a deception because they so conveniently died with no faces left and the bodies burned. But they would probably never think that Roy would frame his own son for the murder. That throws the suspicion off effectively and makes the deaths seem legit. That gives Roy breathing room. He gets away with whatever was in that safe deposit box.”

“And twenty years later everything starts exploding. Montgomery being paid off? Me out of prison? Davenport being kidnapped? Why?”

“They want what’s in the box, Melvin. They see you as the last chance to get it.”

“You still think they’ll contact you about Davenport?”

“I hope they do. It might be the only chance we have to get her back alive.”

Decker sat in his motel room staring at his laptop.

He had typed one word in and was checking the search results. Most people faced with pages of information tended to skim. Decker did not skim. He read it all thoroughly. And down near the bottom of the third page he found something of interest.

This took him to another search, and he read down these pages.

This, in turn, had led him to something of greater interest.

Then he sat back and drank from the glass of water next to his elbow as he listened to the rain beating down outside. He had heard that Texas had been in a prolonged drought. Well, they might just be coming out of it. He had never seen this much rain before, even in Ohio, where the weather could go through long stretches of inclemency.

He put the glass of water down, lining up the water ring precisely, though his thoughts were not nearly as aligned.

Chocha did mean “prostitute” in Spanish. And Decker had learned that the “female anatomy” that Mars had refused to say out loud under hypnosis was “vagina.” But chocha also meant something else in another regional dialect of Spanish. In a country other than Spain or Mexico. And that something else might be both informative and problematic.

And Decker didn’t know how to deal with the problematic part, at least right now.

Lucinda had said the word, not Mars’s father.

Yes, problematic.

A couple minutes later he was knocking on Mars’s door after speaking to the FBI agent standing guard there.

“I can tell from the look on your face you got more questions,” said Mars wearily when he opened it.

“I do.”

“You never get tired?”

“I get tired all the time. I’m fat and in crappy shape.”

“You’re not as fat as you were, Decker. You want to start working out with me?”

“I’d be dead in five minutes.”

“I’ll start off slow.”

“Maybe. Let me ask you something.”

Mars sighed and motioned him in. They sat in chairs next to the bed.

Decker said, “Did your mother have any family heirlooms?”

Mars laughed out loud. “Heirlooms? Shit, Decker. What, you think she had a pot of gold or something? You think we’d have been living like we were if she’d had damn heirlooms ?”

Decker was unperturbed. “Maybe not gold. But how about silver?”

Mars looked like he was going to laugh again, but then he abruptly stopped. “Damn.”

“What?”

“She had a silver teapot.”

“Where did she say it came from?”

“Like her great-grandmother or something.”

“What happened to it?”

“I don’t know. She kept it in the bedroom in her closet.”

“Did she polish it?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“How did she polish it?”

“What do you mean?”

“With a cloth?”

“Yeah.” He paused and concentrated, evidently thinking back. “But she would finish off the polishing with her—”

“With her fingers?” Decker interjected.

“How’d you know that?”

“You finish off polishing fine silver with your fingers. At least well-trained servants do. Or used to do.”

“Servant?”

“House cleaner, expert seamstress, silver polisher, professional clothes presser? Those are all skills of someone working as a servant in a very wealthy household. And that may be where the silver teapot came from.”

“Where would my mom have been a servant in a wealthy household? I mean, you’re talking like British royalty stuff.”

“Actually, you’d be surprised. And maybe it was also the place where she learned Spanish.”

“You think rich folks would’ve just given her a silver teapot?”

“No. I think she probably stole it.”

Mars rose and looked down at Decker. “My mother was no thief.”

“I’m not saying she was.”

“Then what the hell are you saying?”

“She might have been a slave in that household.”

“A slave. Are you serious? Where?”

“Did your mother use foul language?”