Chapter 6 - The Signature That Wasn't His
I called the police.
I didn't care what the note said.
My father was missing.
There was blood in his house.
Someone had transferred his property.
No detective on earth was going to convince me that waiting was reasonable.
Two patrol cars arrived first.
Then an ambulance.
Then Detective Rachel Soto from Houston's financial crimes division.
Soto was younger than I expected, maybe late thirties, with dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail and the controlled manner of someone who disliked wasting words.
She studied the note.
“You're sure this is your father's handwriting?”
“No.”
“Not even the message?”
“No.”
“And the signature?”
“Also no.”
She looked at me.
“You sound certain.”
“My father prints almost everything. His signature slants left. This one slants right.”
She photographed the page.
Ethan arrived but kept his distance until I introduced him.
Soto wasn't thrilled that we'd hired a private investigator.
She became even less thrilled when she learned we'd already entered Mark's storage unit.
“You were legally authorized?”
“The lease listed me.”
“Do you have proof?”
I showed her the receipt the clerk had printed.
Her expression softened slightly.
Then I gave her copies of the photographs.
Every folder.
Every court filing.
Every victim.
The Phase Two document.
Soto stopped turning pages.
“This says ‘Laura incident.’”
“Yes.”
“You understand why I'm going to tell you not to go home tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have somewhere safe?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
I glanced at Ethan.
He shook his head slightly.
“I'll arrange something.”
Soto understood.
“Good.”
Then Dad's truck was found.
Abandoned behind a strip mall six miles away.
There was blood on the driver's door.
Dad's phone lay smashed beneath the seat.
No Dad.
No surveillance camera had a useful angle.
It looked bad.
Too bad.
That was exactly what made me suspicious.
Mark didn't make careless scenes.
He created paperwork.
He manipulated institutions.
He preferred clean crimes.
A bloody abandoned truck was messy.
“Something's wrong,” I told Ethan.
“Besides the obvious?”
“This isn't Mark's style.”
“You know his style after forty-eight hours?”
“I know he thinks he's smarter than everyone.”
Ethan nodded.
“Fair.”
At 4:40 p.m., Detective Soto returned.
“We found something.”
She held up a plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a small metal button.
“From the garage?”
“Near the blood.”
I recognized it.
Dad's work jacket had large brass buttons.
But this wasn't one of them.
Stamped into the back were two letters.
SC.
Sterling Crown.
Mark's dealership issued branded formal jackets to sales managers.
Mark owned two.
I felt almost relieved.
“That's his.”
Soto didn't smile.
“Don't jump too quickly.”
“Why?”
“Because it's obvious.”
Exactly.
Too obvious.
If Mark had hurt Dad, why leave a personalized dealership button?
Unless someone wanted the police looking at Mark.
Or Mark wanted the police to believe someone wanted them looking at Mark.
The layers were making me dizzy.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Soto immediately motioned for silence.
I answered.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
Then Dad's voice.
“Laura.”
I nearly collapsed.
“Dad?”
“Don't talk.”
His voice was low.
Strained.
But alive.
“Are you hurt?”
“I said don't talk.”
Soto gestured for me to keep him on the line.
Dad continued.
“I left.”
“You left?”
“I needed them to think something happened.”
My anger exploded through the fear.
“Are you insane?”
“Probably.”
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you yet.”
“Dad—”
“Listen.”
His voice hardened.
“The transfer document is fake.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“I didn't sign it.”
“I know.”
“No. You don't understand. I wanted them to file it.”
Soto's eyebrows rose.
“You wanted them to steal your house?”
“I wanted them to commit the crime.”
My father had always been practical.
Apparently, he had also been hiding a reckless streak for sixty-four years.
“Dad, there was blood.”
“Mine.”
“Why?”
“Cut my hand.”
I closed my eyes.
“I am going to kill you myself.”
“Get in line.”
Despite everything, a laugh almost escaped me.
“Why the truck?”
“I needed Mark to believe I panicked.”
“Did Mark come to the house?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“I don't know her name.”
Her.
“Woman?”
“Yes.”
“What did she look like?”
“About forty. Blonde. Expensive clothes.”
Vanessa.
“Did she threaten you?”
“She brought papers.”
“What did she say?”
“That Mark was losing patience.”
“Then what?”
“I refused. She stepped outside to make a phone call.”
“And you ran?”
“I left through the back.”
The blood.
The truck.
The broken phone.
Dad had staged his disappearance.
I wanted to scream.
But something didn't fit.
“What about the dealership button?”
“What button?”
My stomach tightened.
Dad hadn't planted it.
Someone else had entered the garage after he left.
Someone wanted evidence pointing toward Mark.
“Dad, where are you?”
“I'll contact you tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Laura.”
“No. This isn't a game.”
“I'm safe.”
“You don't know that.”
A pause.
Then Dad said something strange.
“I found your mother's red toolbox.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Your mother's red toolbox.”
Then the call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Soto asked, “What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
But I did.
Not immediately.
Twenty minutes later, it hit me.
When I was a child, Mom had a red sewing box Dad jokingly called her toolbox.
She hid birthday gifts inside it.
After she died, I packed her sewing supplies into a cedar chest in Dad's attic.
I drove there with Soto.
The house was still a crime scene, so she accompanied me upstairs.
The cedar chest sat beneath old Christmas decorations.
Inside were Mom's scarves.
Photo albums.
Sewing patterns.
And the red box.
I opened it.
Thread.
Buttons.
Needles.
Nothing.
Then I lifted the removable tray.
Underneath was an envelope.
My name was written across the front.
LAURA.
Mom's handwriting.
My hands began to shake.
Inside was a letter dated nine months before her death.
Laura,
If you're reading this, your father finally found a reason to show you.
I hope I'm wrong about Mark.
But if I'm not, there is something you need to know.
Three years ago, while I was receiving treatment, Mark asked me to sign papers he said would “protect the family.”
I refused.
After that, medical records began appearing in my file that weren't mine.
When I confronted him, he told me grief and medication were affecting my memory.
I started keeping copies.
I stopped reading.
I couldn't breathe.
Soto gently took the pages when my hands began shaking.
Behind Mom's letter were medical documents.
Financial forms.
And a photograph.
Mark.
Vanessa.
Dr. Kessler.
Together.
The photograph had been taken seven years ago.
Before my mother died.
May you like
On the final page, Mom had written:
Laura, if anything happens to me, do not assume my cancer was the only reason I died.
