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She nodded. “Looks like it could be a long night, but I think footage from The Right Spot tavern shows a car like Nate Moretti’s parked in their lot until about eleven-thirty last night. A deputy is picking up a copy and taking it to the lab to enhance. Turns out Moretti was a regular, so I’ve got a call in to the bartender who was working last night to see if he was there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Let’s hope. We could use a break.”
The Right Spot was a dive located about three blocks east of St. Augustine’s, a local watering hole where Cade had spent more than one night after his divorce.
She gave him the high sign and he made his way to his truck. No reason to take a city-issued vehicle—after his conversation with the doctor he planned on going home. Eventually. After checking in with Rachel and the kids. He knew they’d spent the day at home and just wanted to double-check on Harper, go see how she was doing, and to make sure Rachel was working to get the security system installed.
But first things first: Richard Moretti.
Sometime during the afternoon most of the fog had dissipated, though a fine layer of mist hung close to the river. He found his sunglasses in the truck’s console and slipped them onto his nose and drove into the direction of the lowering sun, toward Astoria and the hospital. He pulled into the parking garage to the area reserved for physicians and settled in to wait, but it didn’t take long. He recognized Moretti the minute the doctor stepped off the elevator and with remote key in hand unlocked the doors of a silver Audi. The car’s lights blinked.
Cade got out of the pickup, slammed the door shut, and intercepted Moretti just before he reached his car.
“Richard Moretti?” he asked.
“Who are you?” Moretti was instantly wary. On guard. In khaki-colored slacks and a blue button-down, he was tall and slim, the resemblance to his son unmistakable. His dark hair was graying at the temples and wireless glasses sat upon an aquiline nose.
Cade showed his badge. “Detective Cade Ryder, Edgewater Police.”
“Oh, yeah.” Behind the clear lenses, his eyes narrowed. “You’re one of Charlie’s boys.” He wagged a finger. “Married to Ned Gaston’s daughter.”
Cade didn’t bother to correct him. “I’m looking for your son,” he said. “Do you know where he is?”
“Nate? At work, I suppose, or maybe on his way home.”
“He didn’t show up today. Called in sick.”
“Then at his house.”
“Don’t think so. I went there earlier and no one was around. His car is missing.”
“Then out of town.” Richard Moretti rolled his palms into the air. “I have no idea where he is, but maybe he decided to go camping, or on a trip, or whatever.”
“But he would have told his employees. Instead, he left them a message that he was too ill to come in today.”
“What?” Moretti pulled a face. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
An older model Camaro sped around the end of the lot and barreled toward them, speeding toward the exit, music blasting from the open windows.
Quickly Cade stepped closer to Moretti’s car, getting out of the Chevy’s path.
Moretti made frantic pat-pat motions in the air, signaling the driver to slow down, but she didn’t see him, was too interested in lighting a cigarette, and then sped across a walkway, leaving a trail of exhaust in her wake. “What’s wrong with her?” Moretti said in disgust. “A health care worker at that!”
“Know her?”
Shaking his head, he said, “No. I’m only here a few days a week and it’s a big hospital, well, at least by our standards. But I can probably find out by the description of her car.” He scowled at the retreating sports car as it sped down the street and rolled to a near stop before the driver gunned it, squeezing into a free space in front of a minivan. “What the devil is she thinking? If she isn’t careful, she’s going to kill someone. Now”—he turned his attention back to Cade, some of his supercilious attitude dissipating—“let me see if I can get hold of Nate.” He slid a phone from his pocket, punched a preset number, and put the phone to his ear.
Cade heard the phone ring, then be answered by the same recorded voice he’d listened to earlier. “Huh,” Richard said, then dialed again, and when someone answered said, “Hi, this is Nate’s father, Dr. Moretti. I’d like to speak to him.” A pause, then, “Well, when do you expect him in? . . . Yes, I know you’re getting ready to close . . . but you haven’t heard anything.... Yes, I’ll give Will a call.” He disconnected. “Maybe we should go out to his house,” he said, the lines across his forehead creasing more deeply. “I’ll call Will Hart on the way. He’s already gone home for the day.”
“Do you have a way to get in?” Cade asked.
“Yeah.” The doctor was nodding as he slid behind the wheel. “I know where he hides the spare.”
Cade crossed the lot, climbed into his truck, and followed the Audi to Nate Moretti’s A-frame in the hills. The house and grounds looked as deserted as ever, and once his dad located Moretti’s key, hidden on a crossbeam of the small porch, they walked inside.
“Nate?” Richard called, wasting no time as he walked through an open living room and kitchen, then straight to the downstairs bedroom. “Hey! What’s up?” But he was talking to open space. No one answered and the bed, sloppily made, was empty. The downstairs bath and extra bedroom were quiet, no one around. The upper
loft, with its steeply angled walls, was used as an office that stretched the length of the building, a window on each end.
