Page 153 of Beat of Love
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That afternoon Rafferty walked through the quiet house, a silent sheriff (Beau, as the man had requested earlier) by his side. In the back bedroom, he pulled open the double doors to the closet. A neat array of clothes hung from the rail. Without exchanging words, they systematically removed the clothing, laying the items on the bed, exposing the back of the storage space. Nine two-foot square panels of painted wood faced them. Rafferty pressed on the side of the middle panel. Soundlessly, it unlatched, and he pushed it open, exposing the dark cavity beyond.
Connor’s secret place.
“I’ll be damned,” Beau murmured.
Rafferty reached in and flicked the switch he found on the inside of the right panel. Light exposed the area. He entered. It was surprisingly spacious, stretching the full length of the outer closet, and at least four feet deep and a bit over six feet high.
And he almost smiled. Almost.
Decorated to be a fun hideaway for a child, it held a certain charm. Large colorful undersea murals covered the walls. Several plush cushions lay stacked on top of a low, free standing two-shelf unit painted aqua. The shelf contained a variety of books and board games, bottled water, a six-pack of juice cartons, and a plastic container with snacky food.
The wooden chest grabbed his attention. He tugged it away from the wall and through the opening. “We need bolt cutters.”
“In the Tahoe,” Beau replied and strode out.
Rafferty reached the living room at the same time the sheriff returned and placed the chest on the coffee table.
Seconds later the lock snapped, and Beau raised the lid revealing three medium sized backpacks. The man hauled them out. And gave a low whistle, dropping the bags onto the couch.
Rafferty turned his attention back to the chest and whatever caught the sheriff’s attention. “Damn.”
A Glock 42 and two full magazines lay on the bottom beside a folded money belt.
Damn, indeed.
Rafferty lifted the money belt, unzipped the first pocket, and extracted three passports and a driver’s license. A quick glance showed much younger photos of the kids — Connor, a toddler; Sinead still a small baby.
All under different names.
He let out a whistle of his own when he unzipped the second, bulkier compartment of the money belt. “There’s gotta be at least ten grand here.”
“That explains the bank withdrawal the morning she died.”
Rafferty shot the man a sharp glance. “Withdrawal?”
“She had five grand on her person when we found her. A look at her financials showed she’d emptied her savings account that morning. Just under eighteen thousand total.”
“You could’ve mentioned that fact sooner.”
The sheriff merely shrugged.
He tamped down his annoyance with the man, voicing an important fact. “She was planning on running following Kamila’s visit.”
The poor woman had lived looking over her shoulder, waiting for Oliveira to find her. But when danger arrived, it wasn’t from the person she expected.
Beau palmed the pistol, ejecting the magazine and the chambered round. “The serial number’s been filed off,” he grumbled, placing the weapon and ammunition on the table.
A quick search of the backpacks revealed clothing for the three of them. Enough for a couple of days.
Beau picked up a grimy, floppy-eared bunny. “Flopsy. Nadie’s been asking for it.”
Rafferty set aside the book —Charlotte’s Web— he’d pulled from Connor’s bag and gave a heavy sigh as he viewed the contents with acute disappointment. “I was hoping for answers.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “But now I only have more questions than before.”
44
Never letting go
