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Nate Moretti was nowhere to be found.
“Odd,” his father said, and tried texting. Without a word he walked through a door off the kitchen, down a hallway that was used as a laundry room, and directly into the garage.
Which, of course, was empty.
“He’s gone,” he said, stating the obvious. Then, after a thoughtful moment, he strode back through the house to the master bedroom, where he opened a storage closet that was filled with luggage—one complete set, other smaller duffels and bags. “It doesn’t look like anything’s missing . . . but he could have gone fishing. . . .” He stared into the crammed space for a second, then closed the doors. “If he were really sick, he would have called me.” Worry pulled at the corners of his eyes as they returned to the living area. “Let me call my wife,” he said, and before Cade could say anything, he’d punched in her number and she picked up.
The conversation was short, the upshot being that she, too, had no idea where their son could be. As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, Cade asked, “What do you know about his relationship with Annessa Cooper?”
“Annessa? The woman who was found yesterday? A classmate of my son’s, yes, but what relationship?” He appeared absolutely confused. “Was he in one? You mean romantically?” His forehead furrowed as he thought. “You’re saying that he and Annessa were seeing each other?” He thought about it and shook his head. “I, um, I suspected he might have a new girlfriend, but he didn’t say anything.” Then he sighed. “She was married, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah. And now she’s dead.”
“Oh. Wait. Nate had nothing to do with that. My son . . . he’s not a killer. Is that what you’re implying?”
“They were supposed to meet. Last night.”
“No . . .” He was shaking his head, denial his first instinct, but a wary light entered his eyes. “Oh, Christ.” And then when the situation gelled in his mind, his eyes sharpened. “Wait a second. What’re you getting at? What, exactly, are you saying, Detective?”
“I think your son is missing because of last night. Either he was involved with Annessa Cooper’s homicide and left, or saw something that scared him and he took off, or, possibly, he’s a victim himself.”
“What?” The doctor was shaken, his pallor washing white. “This can’t be,” he whispered, but was obviously piecing what he knew together, as he thought about it.
“Come down to the station and tell me everything you know that could help in locating your son,” Cade suggested.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Good. And bring your wife.” He left the house, climbed into his truck, and drove down the lane, checking in his rearview mirror to see Moretti’s Audi following. Moretti seemed to be talking, to no one in the car, probably calling his wife on a Bluetooth device connected to his phone.
Unless Moretti actually knew where his son was and was warning him, but Cade didn’t think so; the man was cut off at the knees hearing that his boy was not only involved with a murder victim, but also missing. His phone rang on his way to Edgewater, and seeing it was Voss, he answered, picking it up from the cup holder where he’d tossed it.
“Yeah?”
“You on your way back?”
“Should be there in less than fifteen. Something up?”
“Possibly. I talked to the bartender at The Right Spot, and guess what? He remembers Nate as he’s a regular. Nate got caught in a conversation with a guy the barkeep didn’t recognize. Nate left, the guy finished his drink and took off. I’m checking the footage now and it’s interesting. Nate left the bar alone, left his car there—the time stamp says eleven forty-six—and when he came back, about an hour later, he wasn’t alone. A guy was walking close to him. And Nate didn’t get behind the wheel. His companion did. You gotta see this.”
“Same guy?” Cade asked, and he felt that little sensation that maybe they were getting a break in the case.
“Possibly. Not sure. Both were wearing baseball caps, but the bartender can’t or won’t say that it’s the same guy. He said that he thought the patron who was talking to Nate had been wearing jeans and a jacket and a baseball cap. The guy in the film is wearing a sweatshirt with a hood—a hoodie—though you can see the bill of a cap poking out from under the hood. Face in shadow, of course. I’ll have the lab enhance.”
“Can we ID the guy who was talking to Nate? He’s got to be the last one to have seen him before he went missing.”
“If he and our friend in the parking lot are one and the same. But no, not so far.”
“No credit card receipt?”
“Nope. Didn’t get that lucky. He paid with cash.”
“Damn.” Frowning, he stared through the windshield and as he swept around a final corner, caught a glimpse of the waterfront and the town of Edgewater spread upon the Columbia’s shores.
Ten minutes later he was inside the office and Voss was showing him the tape of Nate Moretti getting into the passenger side of his car, on her computer monitor. He did seem to stumble and nearly fall into the car, his companion helping him in and slamming the door shut before getting behind the wheel. Was Moretti being coerced? Ordered into the car and complying? Or was he not driving because he’d had too much to drink?
“Bartender said Nate left at 11:45, which this tape confirms—see there, 11:46,” Voss said as they both eyed the grainy black-and-white footage. “But check this—these guys come back at 12:57. An hour and eleven minutes later. Nate should have been sobering up.”
“Mmm. Unless they went somewhere else, drank more or got high. Who knows?”
