me go by there first.” Risa waited for a break in the traffic to pull onto the interstate. “I want to get an idea of where he lives.” How he lives. And if there were anything in the vicinity of his home that would point to his involvement.
“Absolutely not.” His tone was emphatic.
“He doesn’t have to know that I’m around. Although as long as I’m there, it would make sense for me to drive him in for questioning.”
He was silent for a moment. Then, “You can locate the residence. Then call me. You stay put, keep an eye on the house.”
Since it was as good a deal as she was likely to get, she agreed with alacrity.
“I’m serious, Risa.” His tone brooked no argument. “I’m trusting you not to be stupid enough to try and accost him yourself. Promise me.”
“I can promise I won’t do anything stupid.” She held the line while he located the address. When he began speaking again, she snatched a pen from the visor and wrote on the back of the sketches. “Got it.”
“I’m trusting you.” The note in his voice gave her pause. “I want a call back in an hour or the next BOLO will be for you.”
“Give me an hour and a half.” She glanced at the notation she’d made once more before returning her gaze to the highway. “Traffic is murder today.”
There was no vehicle in front of the address save for the 1980 Impala parked in the drive, its paint gleaming in the afternoon sun. And although Risa watched for over twenty minutes, she saw no one but the octogenarian slowly clipping the manicured hedge with a large pair of trimmers.
The name on the mailbox read A. HASTINGS. And after surveying the scene for a few more minutes, Risa knew the lead was a dead end.
She got out of the car, the sheet with the address on it clutched in her hand. As she approached, the lady in the widebrimmed hat straightened, shielding her eyes to watch her.
“Hello. Isn’t it a lovely day?”
Risa smiled in return, but her gaze was scanning the area. There was only a carport, no garage. And the house could most aptly be described as a bungalow. “It is,” she agreed with an enthusiasm she was far from feeling. “Unfortunately, I think I’m lost.” She read the address off the pages she held.
“Well, you certainly aren’t lost, dear.” The woman’s smile was sweet. “That’s this address.”
“Oh.” Risa didn’t have to feign her confusion. “But I’m looking for Darrell Cooper’s residence.”
“You found that, too,” the woman said cheerfully. “Well, not his home, you understand. Just his mailing address. I’m Aurelia Hastings. This is my house.”
“How do you know Cousin Darrell?” Risa figured the pretext of being a relative was as good as any.
“Well, it’s just the sweetest story.” Aurelia set the clippers carefully down on the lawn as if they’d grown heavy. “He carried my groceries out to my car one day. And the next week when I went back to the store, darned if he wasn’t there and did it for me again. We got to talking, and he told me about not having a permanent address on account of that messy divorce.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially.
“It was an ugly one.” She played along. “I never did like his wife. Told him that when he was dating her.”
Aurelia smiled. “Well, live and learn. Not everyone can have fifty years together like me and my dear Horace. He was in manufacturing, you see. The first time I met him . . .”
Shifting the conversation back to the topic she was most interested in, Risa said, “Do you have any way of knowing how I can reach him? I don’t have his phone number and I’m only going to be in town one more day.”
The older woman looked distressed. “I don’t, I’m sorry. I don’t have his number either. Darrell comes by once a week and picks up any mail. There’s rarely anything here for him. And he insists on giving me fifty dollars a month for my trouble. No trouble at all, I try to tell him. But he’s quite insistent and . . . well, I am on a fixed income. I always say I should be paying him. He’s so good about fixing little things around here. He’s just the sweetest thing.”
Walt Eggers stomped out of the station house and strode across the parking lot, his rage growing stronger with every step. Confined to a desk.