Love You More_ A Novel - Lisa Gardner [131]
I forced myself to breathe, walking as stealthily as possible toward the first doorway. I was just easing the door open wider when my pants began to chime. I ducked in immediately, sweeping the room with the shotgun, prepared to open fire on any lunging shapes, then flattening my back against the wall and bracing for the counterattack.
No shadows attacked. I dug my right hand frantically into my pocket and pulled out Purcell’s pager, fumbling for the Off button.
At the last second, I glanced at the screen. It read. Lyons DOA. BOLO Leoni.
Shane Lyons was dead. Be on the lookout for Tessa Leoni.
“Too little, too late,” I murmured. I jammed the pager back in my pocket and finished clearing the house.
Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
By all appearances, Purcell lived a bachelor life with a big screen TV, an extra bedroom, and a den. Then I saw the door to the basement.
Heart spiking again. Feeling the world tilt dizzily as I took the first step toward the closed door.
Blood loss. Getting weak. Should stop, tend the wound.
My hand on the knob, turning.
Sophie. All these days, all these miles.
I pulled open the door, stared down into the gloom.
39
By the time D.D. and Bobby arrived at Tessa Leoni’s father’s garage, they found the back door open, and the man in question slumped over a scarred workbench. D.D. and Bobby burst into the space, D.D. making a beeline for Mr. Leoni, while Bobby provided cover.
D.D. raised Leoni’s face, inspecting him frantically for signs of injury, then recoiled from the stench of whiskey.
“Holy crap!” She let his head collapse back against his chest. His whole body slid left, off the stool, and would’ve hit the floor if Bobby hadn’t appeared in time to catch him. Bobby eased the big man down, then rolled Leoni onto his side, to reduce the odds of the drunk drowning in his own vomit.
“Take his car keys,” D.D. muttered in disgust. “We’ll ask a patrol officer to come over and make sure he gets home safely.”
Bobby was already going through Leoni’s pockets. He found a wallet, but no keys. Then D.D. spied the Peg-Board with its collection of brass.
“Customers’ keys?” she mused out loud.
Bobby came over to investigate. “Saw a bunch of old clunkers parked in the back,” he murmured. “Bet he restores them for resell.”
“Meaning, if Tessa wanted quick access to a vehicle …”
“Resourceful,” Bobby commented.
D.D. looked down at Tessa’s passed-out father, shook her head again. “He could’ve at least put up a fight, for God’s sake.”
“Maybe she brought him the Jack,” Bobby said with a shrug, pointing to the empty bottle. He was an alcoholic; he knew these things.
“So she definitely has a vehicle. Description would be nice, but somehow I don’t think Papa Leoni’s talking anytime soon.”
“Assuming this isn’t a chop shop, Leoni should have papers on everything. Let’s check it out.”
Bobby gestured to the open door of a small back office. Inside, they found a tiny desk and a battered gray filing cabinet. In the back of the top file was a manila folder marked “Title Work.”
D.D. pulled it and together they walked out of the garage, leaving the snoring drunk behind them. They identified three vehicles sequestered behind a chain link fence. The file held titles for four. By process of elimination, they determined that a 1993 dark blue Ford pickup truck was missing. Title listed it as having over two hundred thousand and eight miles.
“An oldie but a goodie,” Bobby remarked, as D.D. got on the radio and called it in.
“License plate?” D.D. asked.
Bobby shook his head. “None of them have any.”
D.D. looked at him. “Check the front street,” she said.
He got what she meant, and jogged a quick tour around the block. Sure enough, half a block down, on the other side of the street, a car was missing both plates. Tessa had obviously pilfered from it to outfit her own ride.