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“He did, because I texted him,” Davis drawled.
“I didn’t see you,” I accused.
“Well, just because you didn’t see me, doesn’t mean that I didn’t do it,” he pointed out. “It does surprise me that he’s here so fast, though.”
Kobe was grinning at our verbal sparring match.
“I had to get something printed off in high definition,” he said eventually. “And since I knew that you had a printer I could use, I used it without permission. Since I have the code to get into your office.”
That’s when Davis frowned. “No one was here to let you in?”
Kobe shrugged. “They might’ve been. I went in and used your computer. I didn’t stop and ask for permission.”
“Whatever,” he grumbled. “Come inside. I’ll tell you what happened.”
He followed us. When we got to Davis’ office, Kobe took the couch next to where I had collapsed then I let Davis explain what he’d walked in on last night.
“You think he was there when you got there,” he guessed.
“I do,” Davis confirmed. “She doesn’t have cameras in her place. But I know one of the neighbors does. They have a breeding program for high-valued show dogs. Mastiffs. They have cameras all over their property. I want you to see if you can ask them for permission to see the footage. Explain that you’re a PI and you’re looking for someone.”
“Or you could just ask Folsom to hack it,” he suggested.
I nearly slapped my own forehead.
“Oh,” Davis paused. “I could do that. I’ve already been working with her on things of that nature.”
The phone ringing halted us both midway through our conversation.
“Hello?” Folsom’s voice echoed through the room.
I explained what I wanted. “Hey, can you hack into those weirdos with the Mastiff show dogs across the street from me and see if you can see anybody entering or exiting my house last night, right around ten in the evening?”
Folsom could be heard typing.
Seconds later, our phones pinged. All of them. Even Kobe’s, who hadn’t said a word.
Kobe sighed and opened it up, as if he wasn’t surprised by Folsom’s ability to know his every move, shuffle or step.
Davis and I looked at the video together and watched the front of my house. It was at the last fifteen-second mark that the man left my house. Wearing blue jeans, a blue shirt, and a dark-navy ball cap pulled down low over his head, the only thing that I could make out was that he was a white male who was young. And that young part was based solely on the fact that he moved easily down my steps and out of my yard.
Sadly, he took a left away from the mastiffs toward the cul-de-sac’s end, where there was a popular walking trail that led to the rest of the town. Meaning, other than a tiny little blip, we knew nothing.
“White male, early twenties or thirties,” Kobe said. “Probably parked over off of the park entrance. That trail runs both ways, but the closest walk is that first park entrance off of Center Street. Folsom…”
Our phones pinged again.
Another video.
This time a view of the pharmacy across from that particular park entrance he was just talking about.
A red truck, a late model Ford with more rust than paint, pulled into the parking lot of the park. He parked, got out, then started walking.
That was at daylight. Meaning that man had been in my house for a while.
“That truck…” I closed my eyes as I tried to sift through my memories. “I think that truck might’ve been in the garage when I bought this place.”
“In the garage and you bought the place with the truck? Or as in, that truck was parked and was one of the owners’?” Davis asked for clarification.
“I think that it was the previous owners’,” I admitted. “When I bought this house, it was on auction from the state. The guy had owed a lot of back taxes when he died, and the house came with everything that was in the house, plus the back garage area. I haven’t gone to that garage in half a year at least. I would’ve never known it was missing.”
I’d taken a cursory glance at the truck when I’d moved in. It’d needed a lot of work, and with so much junk having been piled in front of it, I’d decided that was a project for some other time.
I hadn’t touched the garage. Because I didn’t like cleaning. I most certainly didn’t like cleaning junk that would all be thrown away.
It reminded me of having to do that at my old house. And if I could avoid bad memories, I would.
Hence the ignoring everything and pretending like it wasn’t actually there.
“I’m close by,” Folsom said. “I can check to see if the truck is gone or not.”
“Thank you,” I said softly, and at the same time, Kobe said, “You most certainly will not go there by yourself.”
