Sole Witness (19 page)

Roaming. Figured.

At least it had a signal. She flipped it open and
dialed her mother’s house. No answer. The machine clicked on and her mother’s staticky
voice came across the line.

“Mama, this is Lori. I’m just calling to say I’m
okay. In case you were worried.”

Feeling stupid and inadequate, Lori snapped the
phone closed. She probably shouldn’t have bothered, but she did feel a little
better.

Suddenly, Davis’s house loomed in front of her, the
stairs somehow seeming even less sturdy than before.

“You can do it,” Lori told herself firmly, and
somehow made it back inside.

French toast forgotten in favor of French fries,
Lori noshed straight from the takeout bag and flopped onto the couch in the
living room. Hopefully Davis hadn’t called while she was gone. Lori clutched
the paper sack guiltily.

Well, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Once she’d finished eating, she disposed of the
evidence in the kitchen trash and wandered around his house. Keeping her eyes
off the windows meant keeping them on all of Davis’s things. Her scrutiny felt
a little nosy, like she was invading his privacy.

Then again, he’d searched her house. Turnabout was
fair play.

Besides, wasn’t she dying to know who Davis Hamilton
had become? Wonder what he did with his time when he wasn’t busy being a cop
and doing cop things.

Lori headed into the ill-named second bedroom.

The phone was missing from its cradle. The desk was
buried under an avalanche of files, and a dusty laptop lay forgotten to one
side. The workout equipment, on the other hand, was well worn and dust-free.

A small bookcase graced an inner wall, not visible
from the hallway.

Lori knelt in front of the shelves and ran a finger
along the spines. Clancy. Crichton. Lots of paperback cop fiction. She’d had no
idea Davis liked to read novels.

Wonder what he’d thought of her romance collection.

If she kept this up, she’d soon learn all his
secrets. What an intriguing idea! Lori cocked her head. Almost as intriguing as
the idea of him modeling. For her. In a sexy cop uniform.

Maybe not the cop uniform. Too gay-bar. Better he be
naked.

Yeah, that was how she liked him. Inspiring. Lori
grinned.

She walked back into the bedroom, this time looking
closer at the artwork on the walls. The paintings were signed, but not by
Davis. He probably hadn’t drawn a single line since high school. What a waste
of good talent.

With a sigh, Lori went back into the living room and
collapsed onto the couch. She reached for the footrest handle with an idle
hand, expecting each section to recline individually.

Instead, she heard a crunch. He’d shoved something
behind the couch.

On her knees, Lori peered in the dark crevice
shadowed against the wall. She reached in and pulled out a large leather art
portfolio, about two feet by three. Good lord, she uncovered clues about Davis
left and right. Maybe she should’ve become a detective.

She opened the hidden portfolio carefully, imagining
it stuffed with all the beautiful paintings she remembered from his high school
art career. But only Davis the man, not Davis the boy, could have created the
heart-wrenching charcoal portraits that cascaded across her lap.

Messy, soulful sketches of strange faces peered up
at her.

Wide-eyed children in some, lost-looking men in
others, women with pleading eyes in the rest. Who were these people?

Lori flipped over the sketches to find dates on the
back. Last month. Last year. Seven years ago. Underneath each date was some
kind of code. What was it? A case file number?

Oh, boy.

These were the people Davis tried to help every day
of his life.

They weren’t faceless numbers to him. They were
real. They tormented him. He’d captured them here, in exquisite terror,
pleading for his help.

And had he helped them? Were they found, rescued,
saved, vindicated? Their lives restored? Their killers caught? There was no
indication whether justice had or had not prevailed, whether the faces were of
closed or open cases.

A lump in her throat, Lori carefully stacked the
loose pages back into the portfolio and replaced it behind the couch.

The twisting in her gut informed her that this
haunted, emotional side of Davis was the last thing she’d needed to see. A jolt
of panic sliced through her soul as the truth cemented in her heart.

There was no helping it. She was still hopelessly,
helplessly in love.

Lori slapped a hand to her face. Great.

Davis left the Detective Sergeant’s desk feeling
like a recalcitrant third grader forced to explain himself in front of his
parents at the principal’s office.

Yes, the star witness had been in danger again. No,
they didn’t have the perp in custody. Yes, he knew how important this was to
everyone involved. No, he didn’t think his badge was a toy. Yes, he was on the
case. Now.

 Tonda Carver lingered in his chair when he returned
to the noisy open workroom.

“What are you doing?” Davis snapped then regretted
his irritable tone.

“Waiting for you,” Carver answered with an
unconcerned shrug. “Expectantly. Get it? Expectantly.” She patted her belly and
grinned.

“Yeah, yeah.” Davis cast his gaze to the cracked
ceiling panels. “Please tell me you’ve got something good.”

“I got something great, partner. Two somethings. A
name and a warrant. With me?”

“Hell yeah.” Davis glanced at the address on the
warrant and led the way to his car.

Twenty minutes later, they emerged from an elevator
onto a deserted condo hallway. In unison, both withdrew their weapons and crept
forward.

“Think Ms Tompkins is home?” whispered Carver,
tilting her head toward the door.

“Nah.” Davis admitted. The Camry wasn’t in the
parking lot below. Besides, their luck hadn’t been that good. Just in case, he
was keeping his gun handy. Seventeen rounds ought to give some kind of an
advantage, if it came to that.

Carver banged on the door with one fist. “Amber
Tompkins! Police!”

No response.

The neighbor’s door on the far side creaked open. An
enlarged head dotted with oversized pink curlers peeked out the top. “She’s not
here, officers,” came the quivery voice.

“How do you know?” asked Davis.

“That one always plays her television set up loud,
even late at night. Some of us like to get some sleep by eight or nine. Last
night, nothing. That’s when I know she’s gone.”

Carver jiggled the door handle.

The elderly woman in the curlers stepped from her
doorway, showing off a flowery floor-length nightgown and fuzzy slippers.

“Doors automatically lock when you shut ’em.
Security feature. You need in? Want me to call the Condo Association? Someone’s
always downstairs, one to answer calls and the other to check vehicles for
proper permits.”

Davis forestalled Carver before she could do more
than open her mouth. “Sure, ma’am,” he said with his most grateful expression.
“We’d appreciate that.”

“Be just a minute. Stay right there.” She slipped
back inside.

“I wanted to kick in the door,” Carver grumbled.

“What do you think you are, a weeble-wobble? You’d
have toppled right over, big mama.  Besides, I’m the door-kicker around here
because I’m the man. You’re the little lady.”

“What’s your problem, then? Kick it in, you big ball
of masculinity.” Carver smirked.

“Normally, I’d love to. But this time we better play
by the rules. That nice neighbor just rang the Condo Association. You don’t
mess with them. They’re like the mafia. But meaner.”

Carver heaved a dramatic, adolescent sigh. “You’re
no fun.”

Davis flipped open his notebook to jot down his
description of the neighbor and their conversation. He had barely finished
scribbling the last details when the elevator reopened and a bent, tiny old man
hobbled out.

“Who is that, Father Time?” Carver hissed.

“No, that’s Jasper,” the pink-curlered neighbor
called out helpfully, stepping back into the hall. “From the Condo Association.
He’s got keys.”

A giant metal ring dangled from one spindly hand as
Jasper from the Condo Association limped his crooked gait toward them.

Carver snorted. “No kidding. Keys weigh more than he
does.”

Davis elbowed her in the arm and moved clear from
the doorway.

Jasper bent his head over the jangling mess of keys
until he extracted the correct one. He stepped forward long enough to unlock
the door and push it inward before he turned on his heels and headed back to
the elevator.

“Jasper not much of a talker?” Carver asked the
neighbor.

“Jasper is deaf,” the old lady answered cheerfully.
“That’s why he checks parking permits.”

“Yeah, Carver,” muttered Davis. “Pay attention.”

She scowled at him and motioned toward the open door
with her gun hand. He nodded, aimed his weapon, and stepped inside.

He remembered the kitchen from last time. Dirty
dishes, overflowing ashtray, funky smell. Clear. Two open walkways flanked the
kitchen. He went left while Carver went right.

Davis stepped into a small, carpeted living area.
Single window, blinds drawn. TV off. One couch, one recliner, one small table
with chairs. No place to hide. Clear.

Carver stood to his right, at the entrance to a
small hallway. Davis slid past her. He doubted anyone lay in wait, but this was
one situation where women expecting children should not go first.

To his right stood a green-tiled bathroom. Toilet
seat down. Sink flecked with hair. Shower curtain open. Clear. To his left was
the bedroom. Full-size bed, unmade. Carpeted floor, littered with clothes.
Closet door open. Davis knelt and looked under the bed. Shoes. He stood.

“Clear.”

Carver popped an orange lozenge in her mouth, her
weapon already holstered. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

He shooed her backward until they stood in the
entranceway again.

“We’re not taking any chance of screwing up the
scene.” Davis snapped on gloves and booties and motioned for her to do the
same. “Weapons, evidence, anything forensics can use.”

“I know what to look for, Columbo. I’m the one who
got the warrant, remember?”

Davis stepped back inside before she caught him
smiling. Carver was so easy to rile up. Being her partner was just like having
a sister.

She went straight toward the bedroom and began
rummaging through drawers. He headed to the bathroom to bag the hairbrush,
toothbrush, plastic water glass, anything with potential DNA. When they’d
collected as much as they could, they started back for the station.

Forensics accepted the new material with good humor,
considering how busy and behind their department stayed. For once, they even
had something to report.

“Got your results for Tommy Turner’s studio and Lori
Summer’s house,” said Miller, a skinny twenty-something with freckles.

“Yeah?” Carver elbowed her way in front of him.
“Whatcha got?”

“Not her hair at the studio crime scene. She’s a
natural blonde. That one’s definitely from a bottle. Prints at the Summers
house were wiped clear in high-traffic areas and we’re still processing all the
miscellany from the motel. So far, the hairs are hers and the debris is
native.”

“Thanks, Miller.” Davis poked at Carver’s shoulder.
“Told you she was telling the truth.”

“I know that
now
.” Carver sniffed. “With the
stuff we collected today, we should be able to tie Tompkins to the scene and
nail her good.”

He paused, as if in great thought. “First, we have
to find her.”

“You know what, Hamilton? You’re starting to annoy
me. You don’t want to mess with a pregnant woman, so I’ll tell you what. I’ll
cruise around looking for the Tompkins character, and you go do whatever it is
that you go do, when you’re not hanging around making me crazy.”

Davis grinned. “Fair enough. Call me if you catch
her.”

Although an APB had been put out on Amber Tompkins
from the moment they had a name, Carver would feel most useful on the road. He,
on the other hand, hated loose ends and this case had plenty.

With all the extraneous drive-by adventures, he
hadn’t had a chance to interview all the individuals on his list. He’d been
behind since Kimberley Jackson’s death. Better start with her family.

He pulled up at the Jackson residence and took notes
in his book. Decent neighborhood, beige ranch, two cars in the drive. Most
likely, two grieving parents inside. Davis took a deep breath and stepped up to
the porch.