Page 24 of 2nd Strike
Leaning on his car beside me, Matt cocks his head. “What’d I miss?”
“It sounds like the press is all over Charlie. They somehow tracked her down. I think I heard something about a client having no comment. Hopefully, that was Jackie doing her thing.”
Matt lets out a low whistle. “Oh, man. Those reporters better watch their asses. DelRay’ll eat them for breakfast then feed the leftovers to wolves.”
We once assisted on a homicide case involving one of Taylor’s friends and subordinates. Jackie had been the defense attorney, and I learned fairly quickly that the woman was a force who knew criminal law inside and out.
She and Charlie together? Unbeatable. No doubt.
I tuck my phone in my purse and gesture to the early nineteen hundreds style bungalow in front of us. The grass is half-dead and the sagging porch manages to hold four flower pots with drooping plants. My artist’s eye zooms to the white clay pot missing a hunk of the lip and I instantly want to sketch it. Why, I’m not sure. Maybe because the really interesting parts of life lie in the imperfect.
I bring my attention back to Matt. “This is the cousin’s house?”
“Hopefully. It’s the last address for the guy I could find.”
“What do we know about him?”
Matt taps at his phone and begins his summation. “Jerry Caldren, thirty-eight, married. Two kids in middle school. Works in the service department at a Chevy dealership. No criminal history. At least, he doesn’t have a record.”
We both know the lack of a rap sheet doesn’t mean he’s innocent. Some folks are just plain good at being criminals and don’t get caught.
“Anything else?”
“His wife is a cleaning lady. Works for a service in D.C. Before you ask, I couldn’t find anything on her working for the Havers when their son was kidnapped.”
I nod. If Matt can’t find it, I’m prone to believe it doesn’t exist. Yes, he’s that good. “All right then.” I boost myself from the vintage Mustang. “Let’s see if Jerry is home.”
We climb the steps and my focus once again goes to the imperfect. To the chipping paint along the porch rails and window shutters. I try not to judge, but the house has a worn, tired feel that makes the artist in me groan. With some love, the tiny home would be a historical marvel.
Matt knocks on the rickety screen and steps back. It’s nearly five o’clock and I’m hoping Jerry might be home by now.
The interior door swings open and a tall brunette stands there, her gaze flicking between Matt and I. “Can I help you?”
Matt gives her a smile that’s neither too bright or phony. Kind, but not memorable. That’s what he’s shooting for here. Anything more, according to our crack investigator, is overkill.
“Hi.” He holds up his business card. “I’m Matt Stephens from the Schock Agency. Is Jerry home?”
Through the screen, she reads the card, gives the extremely studly Matt a once-over, then eyes me. “I’m Meg Schock. Matt and I work together.”
After a few seconds, she nods as if I’ve passed muster. “Hold on.”
She closes the door, but we’d have to be deaf not to hear her yelling for Jerry. A minute later, a tall man with dark hair and a long, narrow face is in front of us, stepping onto the porch.
“Hey. What’s up?”
I focus on him, looking for any resemblance to Ethan. His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded. His hair is a cross between milk and dark chocolate and for the life of me, I can’t see even a hint.
Matt holds his hand out. “Matt Stephens. I’m a PI. This is Meg Schock.”
The two men exchange a handshake before Jerry then turns and offers the same to me. He keeps the contact brief and looks at Matt again. “What’s this about?”
“We’re working a kidnapping case from fifteen years ago.”
Jerry lets out a long whistle. “Wow. What’s this got to do with me?”
“We got a hit in a DNA database. You’re a match to one of the family members involved.”
Jerry’s head lops forward. “Me?A kidnapping?”
