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“He was lucky to have survived, real lucky. We think he was shot point-blank in the neck.”
Dani’s attention sharpened. This was serious stuff. “By who?”
“Good question. Still unknown. We think whoever shot him also shot the Mustang and ignited the gas tank or something, which caused the explosion. Shell casings indicate as much. It’s all in the report.” Frustration edged into her voice as she talked. “To this day, we’re not certain what really happened that night or who the real target was. The guy in the car? The kid on the bike? Didi? Maybe even someone knew that Remmi was inside the big car, but, according to her, Didi’s Caddy was unscathed, no bullet holes, which, of course, we can’t confirm as no one but Remmi saw the car after that night.
“Anyway, that’s about what I remember about it. When Didi’s daughter came in to report her mother missing, we listened to what she had to say but were never able to connect all the dots. Couldn’t tell how much of the truth she was relating and how much she was holding back. Both Kendrick and I had the feeling she knew more than she was saying, but we couldn’t get her to open up. Then there was the fact that she was underage, her mother gone. Social Services put her together with someone in her family, an aunt who lived in California, I think, even though Remmi had never met her.”
Another audible drag on the cigarette, then Davis continued, “We checked with all of Didi’s acquaintances, the ones we could catch up to. A couple of friends, a few people she worked with, her boss, who said that Didi had hinted she was going to come into some money. Big money, and when she did, he could take her job and shove it, or something along those lines. I take it their relationship wasn’t all that great.”
“Romantic?”
“He said not, but I think he’s the kind who could lie to his own mother. At least that’s the impression I got.”
Settler could tell by her cold tone what Davis thought of the man whom Didi had worked for. “He still around?”
“At the same club. It’ll be in the report, too.”
“What about romantic interests?”
“Didi Storm had plenty. Men liked what they saw, and all reports suggest she liked them back, though she had trouble sustaining a relationship. Both her marriages were rocky, according to people who knew her. We were hoping to find the father of the baby or babies, but struck out. Her two exes seemed to be out of the picture, but you never know. Anyway, eventually the case went cold. Ice cold.”
“Until now.”
“Maybe until now. That remains to be seen. As I said earlier, the male body in the car was never identified and to this day remains a John Doe. Four or five people went missing, depending if you believe there were twins: Didi Storm, Seneca Williams, the Scott kid, and at least one baby, Adam Storm. And what was stranger still, or at least an odd part of it, supposedly, according to her daughter: Didi took off in that very unique car. It, too, was never seen again, and a Cadillac built in the fifties—they were immense by today’s standards. It would be hard to miss a car like that.”
“Or dispose of it,” Settler thought aloud.
“Right,” she agreed, then, wrapping up the phone call, said, “So, listen, unless you have any other questions, I’ve got to run. I have a couple of other calls to make before I even start packing, but I’ll send you what I can tonight and get the physical evidence to my desk. When I get back, I’ll give you a call.”
“Sounds good.” Settler hung up, and Earl took it as a sign it was okay to hop onto her lap. “This is a tough one,” she said, scratching his ears. “But we’ll figure it out, right?” The pug cocked his head again. “Okay, I’ll figure it out.” She picked up her plate and was halfway to the kitchen when she heard the ding on her phone, indicating she was getting new e-mail. A glance told her Detective Davis was as good as her word and digital files had been transferred from Las Vegas.
From the size of the file, it looked like she had her evening’s reading cut out for her.
* * *
Three hours after picking up and reading Greta’s copy of I’m Not Me, Remmi snapped the book closed and climbed off the couch. A lot of the narrative was factual, could have been taken off of the Internet, but that part was mostly in the ten or so years before Didi disappeared. Didi’s earlier history as Edwina Hutchinson from Anderstown, Missouri, a small farming community ten miles off of I-44 about midway between St. Louis and Springfield, was sketchy, though some blanks had been filled, including the name of the school, Anderstown High School, home of the Terrific Titans; the school colors were scarlet and white. This was old information to Remmi, in a way. She’d just never explored much of her mother’s history before she became Didi Storm. Living with the Gibbses had destroyed any curiosity she might have had.
But now, armed with details of Didi’s youth, Remmi carried the book into her second bedroom, which she used as an office. There was a daybed pushed under the window, but it had never been used, and her desk, tucked into a corner, was surrounded by books and ledgers, office supplies in baskets and boxes on open shelves, and a desktop computer with a wide monitor. Currently, the screen was obliterated by the hulk of Romeo, a huge Maine Coon cat, another one of Greta’s babies. Perched in front of the monitor, his long tail dangling to the keyboard and twitching slightly, he stared at Remmi, tufted ears cocked.
“So who do you think you are?”
He knew who he was: the man of the house. And he wasn’t moving. He stretched and yawned, showing his pink tongue and sharp teeth. “Yeah, right, I get it. You’ve got to go be the boss somewhere else, okay?” She carried him over to the window seat and plunked him on a faded cushion. “Your own private view of the city and . . .” The words got lost in her throat as she stared down at the street and saw, positioned away from the nearest streetlamp, a dark vehicle, some kind of SUV.
Her heart clutched.
She knew the cars that regularly parked in the area, and this one was different. She cut the light behind her and stared, trying to determine if anyone was sitting in the vehicle, but she couldn’t see into the darkened interior.
You’re paranoid. Why do you think someone’s following you?
Nevertheless, gooseflesh broke out on her arms.
The house is safe, she reminded herself. No one can enter without a key.
Still, she walked to the exterior door that opened to the converted fire escape and tested the lock.
Secure.
The cat, who had followed her down the short hallway past her bedroom, let out a low, warning growl, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. “It’s okay, Romeo,” she said softly, and in response, the cat stared at the door and hissed, then quickly turned tail and slunk toward the main stairs.
