Page 90 of Cougar Point

I park in front of the store and there are no other cars around. That is, if you don’t count the ones up on cinder blocks.

I’m about to get out when my phone buzzes in my pocket. The number is withheld. A chill travels down my spine. For some reason, I’m certain I know who’s calling. It’s him.

It’s Wallace.

I answer, trying to keep the dread out of my voice. “Detective Megan Carpenter, who’s calling?”

There’s a pause and then a female voice answers. “This is Detective Anderson, Cincinnati PD. I believe you were looking to speak to Detective MacDonald.”

“That’s right,” I say, relieved. I had forgotten all about the message I left earlier. “Thanks for calling back, is MacDonald available?”

“I’m afraid not, he retired last Christmas. I worked with him on the Greenwood murder, though. I believe that was what you wanted to speak to him about.”

“Great, yes.”

I give her the short version of the last few days. She gives me a “hmmm” that I find impossible to decipher when I mention Lucas’s name. When I’ve finished bringing her up to speed, I ask her a couple of questions about her case.

“Lucas said there was suspicion the husband did it. Do you think so?”

“I don’t know,” Anderson said. “My partner certainly did.”

“But you didn’t have enough to nail him.”

“That turned out to be the least of our problems. He killed himself not long after his wife was found.”

“No kidding,” I say, genuinely surprised.Why the hell didn’t Lucas tell me that?

“After that, with no firm leads, I guess the momentum went out of the investigation. Most people took the suicide as an admission of guilt.”

“Most. But not you?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know. Lucas went back to Whatcom County. He seemed to think he was on the right track and then…nothing. I guess he hit a dead end too. Happens to the best of us, right?”

“Right,” I say. And I’m thinking that Lucas isn’t the best of us. I remember his boast about closing every case. What about this one?

Ronnie and I discuss the call briefly after I hang up. It’s interesting, but there’s still no solid link to her mom’s disappearance. I remember why we’re here and look up at the building.

Ronnie opens her door. “I’ll go in.”

“We’ll both go in.”

I go around to the side door first and look in the foyer and up the stairs. No one. No sound. I meet Ronnie at the front and we enter. The inside is the opposite of spic and span, with shelves stocked with mostly snack foods and Ramen noodles, all covered with a coating of dust. A cooler is near the counter filled with beer and sodas. A little woman comes from behind a shelf at the back of the store and says, “What you want?”

The lady is olive skinned, wrinkled, almost half my size, and three times my age. Maybe seventy years old, thin as a rail, dark hair worn close to the scalp. She’s wearing an apron so large I can barely see her feet.

Ronnie and I take out our badge holders and hold them up. “Police, ma’am,” Ronnie says, and the woman makes a shooing motion.

“No call police. You go.”

Ronnie seems undecided what to do so I act as interpreter, pull my jacket back showing my gun. “Police business,” I say.

She isn’t intimidated by the gun but she motions us toward the front counter.

We meet her at the counter, and I show her my credentials again. “I’m Detective Carpenter and this is Detective Marsh.”

She reaches for my credentials and I let her examine them. She takes a pair of cheap reading glasses from the counter and looks at the photo, the badge, and, unfortunately, the Jefferson County seal.

She pushes it back across to me and says, “You no police here. You go.”

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