6
Ellmann and I were lying together in the
dark. I could tell by his slow breathing he was dozing, near sleep. I was
alternating between lying with my eyes closed, wishing myself to sleep, and
staring at the ceiling, thinking about the dozens of questions bouncing around
in my head. Ellmann rolled onto his side and pulled me closer, wrapping an arm
around my middle and laying his head on my good shoulder.
“What are you
thinking about?” he asked.
“I’m just
wondering what’s more important than losing your house.”
“You said the
grandmother was protecting Dillon.”
How would
Danielle Dillon benefit from Grandma Porter losing her house? How did losing
the house protect Danielle?
“That’s just a
feeling,” I said. “And it doesn’t really track.”
“Don’t doubt
your instincts. No one has instincts as good as yours.”
“Thanks. But I
might be wrong this time.”
“I’m not that
lucky.” He yawned. “You know, the grandmother kinda reminds me of you.”
“What do you
mean?”
“Her trying to
protect her granddaughter. It’s like you protecting your brother. You’d do
anything for him—and you have. Giving
up your house for him seems minor, by comparison.”
He was right.
I’d sacrificed my childhood to keep Zach safe from our abusive father. I’d
suffered horrendous injuries ensuring Zach was never on the receiving end of
any of those beatings. I’d given up a good career and six-figure income to keep
Zach on the straight and narrow. I sheltered him as much as possible from our
mother’s disease and the subsequent fallout brought on by her manic lifestyle.
Once, I’d killed for him. By contrast, losing my house was insignificant.
But I still
didn’t see how Grandma Porter could protect Danielle by losing her house. What
was Grandma’s motivation? And what was the end goal?
Maybe losing the
house was a byproduct. Grandma had been adamant not to help me. It was clear
she didn’t want Danielle found. Why not? Equally clear was that Danielle was
hiding. No way Amerson sent so many people after her to turn up nothing if she
wasn’t. Everyone’s assumption up to this point had been that she was hiding
from us, from the bond company, or maybe from jail.
Continuing to
use my brother as an example, what would motivate me to keep Zach hidden? What
reason would I have for wanting to keep him hidden so badly I’d give up my
house?
When phrased
like this, the answer seemed obvious. If my brother’s safety were in jeopardy,
I’d give up everything to keep him safe. I knew this only because I’d already
done so. But Danielle Dillon’s safety was not in jeopardy because of any
recovery agent, the bond company, or jail. She was hiding from someone else.
Suddenly it was
very clear to me I had no idea what was really going on. I needed to know more
about Danielle Dillon.
I began to ease
away from Ellmann, and he shifted.
“What’s up?”
“I’m sorry,” I
said, “but I have to get up.”
He lifted his
arm off me, and I scooted out of bed.
“Where are you
going?”
Not the
controlling type, he could only be asking for one reason. Whatever he thought
he knew about the Conrad murders and the serial killer responsible for them scared
him. He’d come over tonight to keep some kind of eye on me. He didn’t want me
sneaking out of the house while he was sleeping.
“Don’t worry,” I
said, pulling on sweats. “I’m not leaving. Get some sleep.”
He groaned and
rolled onto his stomach, his feet hanging off the end of the queen-size bed
even though he was now lying diagonally. I stopped beside the bed and leaned
over him, kissing his neck and shoulder. His back was exposed, and even in the
dark, I could see the scar on his left shoulder. During the same gunfight in
which I’d been shot in the leg, Ellmann had been shot there. Fortunately that
bullet went clean through. His injury—miraculously—had been minor. After four
weeks of light duty and rehab, he’d been released back to work, having
recovered one hundred percent.
“Please, don’t
worry about me so much,” I whispered and stood up.
“Could I talk
you into coming back to bed?” he asked.
“You’re half
asleep, and I’d be poor company. Something’s bothering me; I need to do some
digging.”
“I’m willing to
bet I could provide adequate distraction.”
I was certain he
could, and it sounded inviting, but if I got distracted, I might lose my
current train of thought regarding Dillon. And time was running out.
“Get some
sleep,” I said again and left.
I went into the
office and switched on a lamp, then I pulled Dillon’s file out of my bag. I
dropped it to the desk and sat down. For the first time since receiving it, I
read the thing front to back. It didn’t really contain the details of Dillon’s
life I was looking for. And it only listed the charges against her; it didn’t
give details about the case.
I used my laptop
to log into Sideline’s database remotely, then I searched for Danielle Dillon’s
case file. I found it and began reading. In May of this year, Dillon had been
arrested for assault, battery, and property destruction. She’d gotten into a
physical altercation with a man named Jeremiah Vandreen outside his place of
business, First National Bank, on Harmony and Timberline. Vandreen reported
she’d been waiting for him when he left work and began attacking him when he
got to his car. After basically beating the snot out of him, she proceeded to
damage the car, an expensive Porsche. She’d done several thousand dollars’
worth of damage by the time the police got there. She’d attempted to flee on
foot but was apprehended within a few blocks.
She didn’t say a
word at any time upon being arrested. At twenty-eight, this arrest was her
first as an adult. The report made mention of several arrests as a minor, but
those records had been sealed when she turned eighteen. It would take a lot
more digging to discover what those arrests had been about. And I wasn’t sure
it was relevant.
I ran a quick
credit check on her, finding very little. There was a bank account, opened when
she was seventeen, and while the account was still open, no transactions had
been processed in several years. There was only one credit card to her name,
but it had a zero balance and no charges had been made for almost four years.
She didn’t own a home or a car, and she wasn’t listed on a lease anywhere,
ever. Something I know about people is this: everyone lives somewhere and
everyone spends money. The fact that I could find no traces of her doing either
led me to one conclusion: she wasn’t going by the name “Danielle Dillon” at
present. And if I had to guess, she hadn’t for quite some time.
I opened Google
and searched her name. Nothing of relevance came back, aside from a hit for the
Fort Collins Coloradoan. I opened the
article and read it. It gave the account of the arrest of Martha Porter,
Danielle Dillon’s grandmother, after fatally shooting a man named Wayne Dillon
sixteen years before. There weren’t many details. I searched the archives for
the name Martha Porter and found additional articles, which reported Porter had
been acquitted at trial. Very few details helped shed light on the
circumstances of the murder or the reason for the acquittal. Also, I was
unclear on her exact connection to Wayne Dillon, because the paper made no
mention of their relationship.
Back in the
Sideline database, I searched both “Martha Porter” and “Wayne Dillon.” There
were no results for either. But that only meant Sideline had never handled any
of their bonds or investigations. It didn’t mean there was nothing to find.
I’d lost track
of time until Ellmann came into the office. A look at my watch told me I’d been
working for several hours.
Ellmann leaned
over the chair behind me, his hands on the armrests, and kissed my neck.
“How’s the
digging coming?” he asked between kisses.
“As usual, I
only have more questions now.”
“Is that
something still bothering you?”
“Yes.”
But I didn’t care
quite as much now. What he was doing to my neck caused little currents of
excitement to shoot through my body. And it was hard to think straight.
“That’s too
bad,” he said, standing up. “Guess I’ll leave you to it.”
I quickly stood
and threw my pen on the desk.
“It’s going to
have to wait.”
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