Chapter 16: : Chapter 16

Sloan spent her finally free Saturday doing what she hadn’t had time to do over the past two weeks. Starting with a workout in her makeshift gym.

While she curled and pressed, she imagined the possibility of turning her serial killer basement into the perfect fitness area, maybe including a three-piece bath—with shower—and an organized storage area.

After she gathered her laundry, carted it down the steep, narrow stairs, crossed the pockmarked concrete slab to the washer that had surely left the showroom in the previous century, she admitted that possibility would mean a serious budget and time crunch.

Not an impossible crunch, but serious.

And she could probably cross off that bathroom.

Upstairs, while the fire crackled, she gave the house a good Saturday cleaning, and that felt gratifying.

She headed downstairs again to shift the first load into the equally ancient dryer, and put in the second.

And thought, maybe, depending, she could do the bathroom if she held off and saved for a year or eighteen months.

So that project went on her mental list. At the bottom.

Next on the current list: groceries.

She left her clean, quiet house for town and with the plan of coming back, putting away the groceries, folding laundry. And then, chores complete, sitting down by the fire and continuing her search.

She couldn’t say why Janet Anderson stuck in her mind. Maybe, maybe because her disappearance coincided with when she herself had felt helpless and pulled away from her own life.

A pretty young woman running to the store for groceries as Sloan did now. Then gone, just gone.

After pulling into the crowded lot, she reminded herself why she tended to food shop after work rather than on the weekend. Add the forecast called for snow. But since she hadn’t managed a stop in the last harried couple of weeks, she needed some essentials.

Coffee, Cokes, frozen pizza topped that particular list.

So she braved the madness, which proved not as bad as she’d feared. She followed the list on her phone, and considered it a sign of her returned health that she added some Flamin’ Hot Cheetos to her cart. They called to her, and she remained four pounds shy of her prehospital weight.

She wanted those pounds back.

By the time she got in the checkout line, she calculated she had about two weeks’ worth. In Annapolis, she’d tended to shop more often because it was easy to swing in for a few things, or if work crowded her schedule, have groceries delivered.

Here, grocery shopping became more of an event, and one—with careful planning—she could limit to two, maybe three times a month.

“Sloan Cooper! You cut your hair. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

She turned to the woman who’d slid into line behind her.

They’d called her Diane the Disher in high school, as Diane Howe, now Blakley, always had the latest news.

She had her curly brown hair in a jaunty tail scooped back from her pretty face. Deep brown eyes sparkled as she leaned in for a hug.

And Sloan felt the baby bump, and a quick, decisive kick.

“Diane! You’re going to be a mom!”

“Five weeks to go. He’s going to be a hell of a field goal kicker, like his dad.”

Jim Blakley, Sloan remembered. One of the stars of the Heron’s Rest High School football team.

“You look wonderful,” Sloan told her. Easy to say, as it was absolutely true.

“Oh, I’m starting to waddle like a platypus, but it’s worth it. But you.”

Diane gripped her hand, and Sloan felt the genuine warmth. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, how good it is to see you looking just absolutely terrific. I hope you feel the same.”

“I do. I appreciate the card you and Jim sent when I was laid up.”

As she spoke, Sloan started unloading her cart.

“Hannah—you remember Hannah Otts—she said she saw you out on the lake not long ago. And in your uniform. I’m so happy you moved back to the Rest and you’re working again.”

“So am I.”

“And you bought a house! I’m glad somebody who knows what to do bought that place. I don’t know what the Johnsons were thinking. They hardly ever came up here to use it, then trying to make it a vacation rental without sprucing it up. You’ll spruce it right.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You always had one. We were all so shocked about what happened. I won’t dwell on it because I know you won’t want to.”

Sloan paused, felt that warmth again. “You were always a good friend, Diane.”

“I try to be. And with the baby coming, I’m trying to—I know it sounds New Agey or something—but I’m trying to bring in the light.”

“It sounds like somebody’s going to be a great mom.”

Diane’s dark, expressive eyes teared up a little. But she managed a laugh. “That’s the plan. It’s hard when there’s just so much, well, dark out there. It can be such a mean world,” she said as she set down the separator and started putting her items on the belt.

“What happened to you, and I don’t know if you heard about Sarah Glenn’s cousin Zach. You might’ve met Zach a million years back. His family used to come to the lake for a week every summer. They always rented Serenity—that’s one of your family’s rentals.”

“I remember Sarah. I’m not sure about her cousin.”

“He’s had a rough time. His wife left him, got custody of their little boy. Broke Zach’s heart, and his spirit. He actually tried to kill himself last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He was doing so much better, Sarah told me. Then a couple weeks ago, he just walked away.”

As Sloan set the Cheetos on the belt, she paused. “Walked away?”

“It looks like he did just that. Got off work—he’s a bellman at a hotel in Uniontown—and left. Didn’t even take his car.”

The back of Sloan’s neck prickled.

“He left his car? Where?”

“Right there in the hotel lot. Clocked out of work, then just walked away, I guess. Not a word to his family since.”

Sloan heard the cashier give her the total, and fumbled for her wallet as she focused on Diane.

“They reported him missing?”

“Oh, sure. His family’s beside themselves, worried they’ll get word he tried again, you know?”

“Zach Glenn?”

“No, no, it’s Tarrington. Sarah’s mom’s sister’s son. Sarah and I—oh, and Hallie Reeder—get together, for sure once a month, on book club night. You should join our group, Sloan. We have a lot of fun.”

“It sounds like it, but right now, work and the house keep me really busy. It was wonderful seeing you, Diane.”

“Welcome home, Sloan. And I love your hair!”

Sloan sent her a smile, a wave, then got out fast.

Left the car—no, not logical. Possible, yes, possible. If he’d been in crisis, logic didn’t always play. But. But.

Left his car, like Janet Anderson, like the dentist in Cumberland.

Three locations, three different types of people.

A woman in her twenties, a middle-aged man, and—she’d check on Zach Tarrington. If he’d come with his family to vacation, during her high school years, she pegged him as not much over thirty.

Verify, she told herself. Don’t speculate.

She wanted to verify immediately, but made herself put the groceries away first. The laundry sitting downstairs could wait.

Then she sat at her kitchen table with her laptop, and verified.

Zach Tarrington of Uniontown, Pennsylvania. Age thirty-one. Divorced, father of one. Employed as a bellman for nine years.

Last seen leaving work at approximately midnight on February 6.

She read the details of the report, then, Saturday be damned, contacted the Uniontown police.

She identified herself, gave her badge number, her phone number, and requested a callback from the lead investigator at his earliest convenience.

Knowing she might have to wait until Monday, or later, for that callback, she dug where she could.

She pulled up his photo, studied it. Average-looking guy, she determined. Average height and weight.

An average-looking guy who’d tried to hang himself, she discovered. And was lucky his father was a paramedic with a portable defibrillator on hand.

Lucky, too, she thought as she read details, and read between the lines, to have supportive parents and extended family.

By all appearances, he’d pulled himself out of the hole. He’d gone back to work nine weeks after his suicide attempt.

She made notes.

Treatment?

Ongoing therapy?

Relationships?

Work absences?

Diane hadn’t mentioned abduction, so obviously Sarah hadn’t mentioned it to her, or she would have.

That didn’t mean the authorities weren’t looking in that direction.

She pushed up, got herself a Coke, and let the info roll around.

Why abduct an average guy from a hotel parking lot? The ex-wife—new relationship, jealousy, revenge?

An attempted robbery gone wrong?

Wrong place, wrong time—as it felt for Janet Anderson?

Sitting again, she gave a push on social media accounts and managed to find some wedding pictures, some new parents and baby shots.

From there she jumped to the ex-wife’s social media. Jenny Malloy—she’d taken back her maiden name—had accounts primarily, it appeared, to hype an organic skin care line—she was one of the top salespeople thereof. But she personalized it with chatty videos.

Busy single mother—how the line’s tincture added to water every morning helped keep skin glowing even under stress.

A photo, looked recent, of her building a snowman with the little boy. With commentary about the importance of sunscreen even in the winter and the miracle of the overnight mask restoring the moisture winter stole.

She clicked through the lists of friends and finally landed on one with an open account with a huge chunk of social posts.

Including one with Jenny Malloy and two men all posing in cocktail-type wardrobe.

Who actually used the term beau? Well, Sloan thought, apparently Jenny Malloy’s bestie Dani did.

The post was dated February second.

So the ex had a boyfriend, and that could have tripped Zach back into depression.

Had to factor it, Sloan admitted. But she’d be damned if that explained the car. Or the fact she now had three missing persons cases, all with abandoned cars left in parking lots.

Then the time frame, she considered. The end of November, the end of December, and the first week of February.

She pushed up to finish the laundry, and to let it cook in her head.

She beefed up the fire, then, remembering those four pounds, heated up another bowl of chicken soup.

As she ate, she wrote down more questions.

Part of her wanted to contact Joel, brainstorm it with him as they’d used to. But these weren’t DNR cases.

They were, she admitted, just a pebble in her shoe. The only way she’d remove it would be to find some answers.

She couldn’t drive to Uniontown, interview his ex, his family, his coworkers. That crossed a line.

In any case, those leading the investigation would have done so.

But nothing said she couldn’t work them on her own.

She moved everything into the tiny office space.

She printed out photos, newspaper articles, search results.

Slowly, meticulously, she built a case board on a wall someone for some reason had painted Barbie pink.

Since she had no intention of keeping it that way, she used a marker to add times and locations of last-seens, the make, model, year of the cars left behind.

She added spouses, residences, the distance between residence and last-seen.

With her mind focused on possible connections, she answered her phone absently, and in police mode.

“Sergeant Cooper.”

“Detective Frank O’Hara, Uniontown PD. What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“Detective O’Hara, thanks for getting back to me. And on a Saturday.”

“No problem. I’ve got some curiosity why the NRP in Maryland have an interest in a missing persons case in Uniontown, Pennsylvania.”

“I’ll make it clear this is more a personal interest. A woman went missing from Deep Creek Lake in November. She’s believed to have been abducted from the parking lot of her grocery store, where her car was located.”

“Yeah, I heard about it. A connection’s stretching it.”

“A man went missing from Cumberland in December. His car was located in a motel parking lot. In both cases, there’s been no trace, no ransom demands, no credit card activity. Both had cell phones, deactivated.”

“Did they know each other, Deep Creek and Cumberland?”

“There’s no indication they did. From what I know, Arthur Rigsby left behind a successful dental practice, a new model Mercedes sedan, a house worth about eight hundred thousand, a hefty portfolio, a wife—one he was cheating on—a couple of adult kids, grandkids.

“Janet Anderson from Deep Creek had been married just over a year, and from all reports happily.”

O’Hara’s response was flat. Cop flat. “People don’t always know what they think they know.”

“Agreed.”

But she pushed. If nothing else, she’d lay it out to another cop.

“Anderson was making Thanksgiving dinner for her family and her husband’s. Investigators concluded she’d run to the market for a couple of ingredients. She’d spoken to her mother earlier that day to check on a recipe. Her mother states she was nervous but excited.

“There’s no evidence she walked away on her own.”

“And the cheating dentist?”

“Left a hell of a lot behind, as I said. If it had come to divorce, he’d have lost some, sure. This way, he loses everything.”

“You gotta look at the wife.”

“Yes. I can only look so far.”

“Why are you looking?”

She hesitated, then decided if she wanted a favor, she’d need to be honest.

“Anderson’s close to home. I’m in Heron’s Rest.”

“Been there once. It’s nice.”

“It is. I was formerly attached to the Criminal Investigative Bureau of the DNR. I’ve transferred back home. Between that, at the time of Anderson’s disappearance, I was on medical leave.”

“Hold a minute.” The flat, the rote, went out of his tone. “You’re the one who got shot outside of Hagerstown a few months back?”

“Yeah. Not my best day.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Five-by-five now, thanks. I missed the job, Detective, so when I was able, I dug a little into the Anderson case on my own. Have you ever had one that just sticks with you?”

“Sure I have. Look, Sergeant, Zach Tarrington got hit with a hard divorce and it sent him down. He attempted suicide last year.”

“I know. He has some family connections here in Heron’s Rest.”

“Hmm. So it pinches there, too. His ex has a new boyfriend.”

“Jesse Roper.”

“Family connection tell you?”

“Social media search. I understand the wife’s new relationship might have triggered him. But if he hasn’t contacted anyone, if there’s been no sightings, no credit card transactions. No body. Over two weeks now.”

“There hasn’t been. You want a look at the file.”

“I’d really appreciate a look at the file. Leaving the cars might not be much of a connection, but it isn’t zero. And all from parking lots where someone could also park a vehicle.”

“I’ll give you that. You give me it’s more than an hour’s drive from Uniontown to Cumberland, has to be a solid hour from Cumberland to Deep Creek.”

“I’ll give you that. I’d say, if I decided to go into the abduction business, I’d want to put some distance between where I grabbed people. Different jurisdictions.”

“Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to make a couple of calls, then if I’m satisfied, I’ll send you what we’ve got. It never hurts to have a fresh eye. And the fact is, this one bugs the crap out of me.”

“Thanks. I’ll save you some time and give you my captains’ names and contacts from Annapolis and from up here.”

Once she had, O’Hara said, “All right. I’ll be in touch.”

Something, Sloan thought as she looked back at her very unofficial case board. She had something, if only because she’d shopped on a Saturday.

She made herself step away, and with her phone in her pocket took a walk to clear her mind and keep it clear until she had that something to focus it on.

She walked down her drive, across the road, and down to the lake path.

Lots of Saturday activity, she thought, and those who enjoyed it would probably get another week or two before the ice began to thin. Then, before much longer, there’d be boats, kids fishing off docks, joggers on the paths, more hiking on the trails.

Winter would give way to spring with its bursts of wildflowers. Kits and fawns and cubs would arrive.

But for now, she thought as the first flakes fell, winter kept its grip tight. Tight enough she decided to head back to her fire.

As she did, her phone rang. And reading the display, felt another step of her own coming back.

“Detective O’Hara.”

“You passed the audition, Sergeant. I’m sending you the file. And, FYI, we’ll be reaching out to the investigators on the Anderson and Rigsby cases.”

“That’s good news, Detective. It’s appreciated.”

She quickened her pace back home.

Since he couldn’t think of a way to comfortably duck out of dinner at the Coopers’, Nash pulled out a bottle of the same wine Sloan had poured for him. He opted to take Sloan at her not-fancy word and pulled out black jeans and a dark green crewneck sweater.

But he shaved first, a process he disliked. He’d tried a beard once, but had liked that even less.

As he shaved he considered the bathroom. Not as bad as the one they’d gutted at Sergeant Cooper’s, he thought, but nothing to brag about.

Along the way someone had tried to punch it up with wallpaper, so he had various illustrations of seashells everywhere. The weird yellow shower/tub combo had probably been the rage in the seventies, along with the matching toilet and the sink about the size of a goldfish bowl.

He reminded himself, since there were three on the bedroom level—the second done in baby blue, the third in vomit green—at least he didn’t have to share with Theo.

Eventually, they’d rip everything out of this one, make it a good hall bath. Take out a couple walls and turn two of the five bedrooms into en suites.

As he walked back to his bedroom, he heard music thumping from Theo’s room, and Theo singing along with Billie Eilish.

Eilish, in Nash’s estimation, had no worries about competition there.

As he dressed, he visualized taking down the wall to the next bedroom. He couldn’t say why he needed the walk-in closet, as his life no longer required dozens of suits and all that went with them. But he wanted one anyway.

With a coffee station.

More, he wanted the big-ass bath, the wet room, the heated tile floors, the small but snazzy electric fireplace.

A gas one for the bedroom, and the French doors he’d already installed would, eventually, lead out to a deck. A deck where he could drink that coffee and watch the sun shimmer through the trees, catch glints of it on the lake.

Sometime in May, June latest, he promised himself, he’d stand on that deck.

He’d estimated a year, and maybe longer, to complete his plans for the house. Half that if the business stagnated or just crept along.

So far the business was steady enough, so the year seemed right.

No rush on it.

He walked to the French doors that led, for now, to nowhere. After dumping about ten inches, the snow had stopped. Now everything spread still and white. From this height he could see a section of the lake and where someone had built a snowman.

And that, just that, struck him as one more reason he’d made this drastic move and at the perfect time.

He wanted to look out at the still, the quiet, and see a snowman on a frozen lake.

He walked down to Theo’s room, gave the door a couple of fist-pounds over the music. Eilish had given way to Imagine Dragons.

“We should get going.”

“Right there!” Theo shouted, and Nash went down to get the wine and his coat.

And got a lift when he walked back to scan the kitchen cabinets. Cabinets he and Theo and Robo had set themselves—with some unexpected assistance from Dean Cooper.

Lofting the ceiling and leaving those exposed beams, the bigger, better window, absolutely the right call. Since he rarely cooked, he’d nearly ditched the pot filler, but it looked good. It all looked good.

And tomorrow, they’d install the countertops, maybe even get a start on the backsplash before they’d shift to a client. Another week maybe for the new lights, the new appliances, to finish up the coffee bar, the pantry.

But standing there now he knew whatever talent he had for finance, that work had never given him this visceral sense of pride and accomplishment.

He’d designed this, he and Theo had made it real. This belonged to them as nothing else ever had.

He glanced around as Theo came in—Tic wagging at his heels—gave him a long study.

“I’m clear. Hundred percent over it. I swear to God.”

“You better be. Let’s go. You’re actually taking the dog?”

“They said to bring him. He and Mop are friends.”

“That dog would think Jack the Ripper was a friend.”

As if he agreed, Tic pranced outside.

“Feels good to go out, with people, I mean. You didn’t worry too much when I ran the snowblower this morning while you plowed the drive.”

“You weren’t sitting beside me in the truck with the windows closed.”

“You hardly ever get sick.”

“Because I avoid people who are.”

Theo gave him an elbow nudge. “You brought me food on trays. Dosed me with the Quils.”

“I held my breath. And pushing the NyQuil stopped you from hacking half the night and keeping me up.”

Theo just kept smiling. “You brought me Skittles and changed my sheets when I got them sweaty.”

“I was doing laundry anyway. What’s the deal here? You’ve been to dinner at the Coopers’, so what’s the deal?”

“Easy, friendly, and Elsie can cook. It’s nothing like, you know. Nothing like that.”

Nash figured he’d see for himself as he pulled up at the Coopers’, nosing in behind Drea’s car because he figured she wasn’t going anywhere.

Drea answered the door. Tic rushed in to wrestle with Mop, and Theo immediately wrapped around Drea. She wrapped back.

It occurred to Nash they’d done the same the day before when they’d been well enough for her to stop by during kitchen cabinet installation.

And he admitted, found himself glad, the sergeant had it right. They had something.

“The return from the cold wars,” Sloan said as she walked out from the kitchen. While she gave Tic—and Mop—quick rubs, she, too, gave Theo a careful study. “Okay, you pass. Let’s have your coats.”

Nash decided his jeans and sweater suited, as she wore the same—dark blue jeans, Christmas-red sweater. Some dangles on her ears, but women would do that.

Dangles, he thought, for family dinner. Little studs or tiny hoops with the uniform.

“Come on back.”

She led the way to the kitchen that smelled really good. Damn nice kitchen, too, but he’d expected no less.

With her hair free to fall a few inches above the shoulders of a navy V-neck, Elsie closed the door on the top wall oven, turned. Before Nash could offer the wine, Theo walked around the island, kissed her, then exchanged a man hug with Dean.

Family, Nash thought again. Theo soaked it up like a sponge.

“Thanks for the soup, Elsie. It helped me over the finish line.”

“You’re so welcome. It’s good to see you up and around. Wine or beer?”

Nash held out the wine he’d brought. “Thanks for having us.”

“Glad to, and oh! This will go so well with the baked tofu! Dean, would you open this lovely wine?”

She handed off the bottle, turned back to smile at Nash. “Tofu really makes a Sunday dinner special, don’t you think?”

“Ah, sure.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because we’re having pork roast.”

She laughed, then surprised him with a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek. “Such good manners! Sit down, have some wine. The roast is resting, the potatoes are just finishing up. I need to sauté up the green beans.”

It was easy, and friendly, and nothing like his Sunday dinner memories. They sat around the table where the food was delicious, served family style, and the conversation flowed.

Not just shop talk. Add sports, movies, flavor it with bits of local gossip and family stories.

They clearly loved and understood each other, Nash thought, but more, they liked each other. And they’d folded Theo right in, had given him what he’d never had.

Family.

“Did you get the rest of the cabinets in?” Dean asked Nash.

“This morning, yeah. Appreciate your help with them yesterday.”

“I saw the truck, couldn’t resist.”

“Theo said you went with color.”

“It’s a big space. It can handle it. The countertops are coming in the morning so we’ll find out if it all works.”

“Oh, it’s going to work,” Theo said.

“One way or another we’ll be over at your place by early afternoon,” Nash told Sloan. “We might still be on it when you get home, but we’ll clear out.”

“No problem. I’m going to be late tomorrow.”

Elsie sent Sloan a worried look. “You’re not working another double?”

“No, no. I need to go to Uniontown after work, talk to somebody. It’s just something I’m working on.”

“Cop thing.” Drea offered Theo more potatoes. He took them. “Do the cop thing, Sloan. Entertain us.”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Theo agreed. “You did me already. Do Nash. Make him a suspect.”

“What am I suspected of?”

“Armed robbery. That’s a good one. Come on, Sloan. You did me, and we’re kind of a set.”

“Fine. Suspect is Caucasian male, early thirties, six-one, about one-sixty-five, brown and brown.”

“That’s hair and eyes,” Theo said helpfully.

“I got it.”

“Suspect is currently clean-shaven—that’s a change,” she added. “No visible tattoos or piercings. Suspect has a small, crescent-shaped scar below left thumb. Last seen wearing black jeans, dark green cashmere sweater, black Frye lace-up boots. Suspect fled the scene in a black 2025 Ford F-150 King Ranch with rear tow hitch, Maryland plates Echo-Charlie-Tango-four-six-zero.”

She took a sip of wine, magic eyes smiling at Nash over it. “Suspect is armed and dangerous.”

Theo let out a cackle. “Cool, right?”

“I’m going with spooky.”

“She could always do it,” Drea put in. “Even when we were kids. Somehow, it never gets old.”

Sloan just shrugged. “It’s a handy skill considering my line of work.”

Nash picked up his own wine and studied her over it. “I bet.”