Page 14 of Out of the Shadows (Angelhart Investigations)

Getting out to Litchfield Park in the west valley from Scottsdale was a pain and a half, but Margo beat the afternoon commute,

so what could have taken more than an hour she made in forty-five minutes.

Logan had given her the address, and Jack had come through with the name of the guy Charlie had rented a room from: Greg Nutter.

Greg had inherited the house from his parents and worked in maintenance at the Wigwam, where Charlie had once worked. Margo

had the basics on the house from Tess: Nutter had taken out a second mortgage, and two other single men lived in the home.

Chances were that no one was home early on a Monday afternoon. Being a PI was a lot of legwork, much of which wouldn’t pan

out. If she didn’t find him at home, she’d go to his work.

The house was in an established neighborhood with well-maintained desert landscaping—rocks, cacti, and palo brea trees which

looked pretty but dumped a thick layer of tiny yellow flowers half of the year.

Margo knocked on the door. She heard movement in the back of the house, and a minute later the door opened. “Yep?” the guy—thirties,

black, shirtless—smiled. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Greg Nutter.”

“That’s me,” he said with a wide smile. “What can I do you for?”

Margo handed him her business card. “I’m a private investigator looking for Charlie Barrett. His ex-wife hasn’t been able

to reach him the last few days, and he missed his weekend with the kids. This was his last residence before moving to Scottsdale.”

“Charlie’s missing? Damn.” He put her card in the pocket of his swim trunks.

“Have you seen or talked to him since Thursday?”

“Nope.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

Greg thought on that. “Well, I haven’t talked to him in weeks, but he left a voice message for me Friday. I was working, and

I didn’t call him back because I couldn’t help.”

“Help?”

“He left a message asking if he could store some stuff in my garage.”

“What stuff?”

“He didn’t say. I texted him back late and said sorry, the garage is full, and he responded with,” he pulled a phone out of

his pocket and read off, “‘No prob, got it covered. Thanks.’”

He turned the phone to show her the message, which was as he read.

Greg said, “His condo out in Scottsdale doesn’t have much storage, and normally I wouldn’t mind, but I gotta new roommate

and he needed the garage for storage, pays me extra for it. Storage units cost a small fortune.”

“If he calls you, please have him call me or his ex-wife as soon as possible. She’s worried,” Margo said. She didn’t give

him more details, no need to. But now she wanted to know what Charlie had that he needed a garage to store.

“Sure,” Greg said. “And have him call me too, would you? I hope nothing happened to him.”

“His ex-wife says he often lets his phone battery die.”

Greg laughed. “True. I gave him a portable charger that was great, but then he forgot to charge the portable charger. And

I don’t know how many adapters for his truck he’s lost. That’s probably what happened. Tell him I said hi, and to call me.”

“I will,” Margo said and left.

She called Jack on her way to the O’Neills’ house in North Glendale. “I have one more stop, then I should be at Laura’s before

five.”

“Just in time for me to hit traffic back to my house.”

She told him what Greg Nutter said, then, “So Rick called you with the info. I thought we were beyond using you as a middleman.”

“He could get in trouble for running plates, you know that.”

“And how does sending it to you and not me avoid trouble?” she responded.

He ignored her question and said, “Tess is digging into Bishop Securities. They have a webpage that states they provide ‘discreet

executive services’ for ‘discerning clients,’ whatever that means.”

“Hmm,” Margo said, thinking. “Physical address?”

“Give Tess time. We’ve dumped a lot on her plate today, and we just got the information an hour ago. Did you get the picture

I sent of the truck turning onto Laura’s street? I sent it to Luisa to see if she can enhance the license plate.”

“If anyone can, it’s Lu,” Margo said. “See you in a bit.”

Bob and Beth O’Neill lived on a cul-de-sac in Arrowhead Ranch, an upscale planned community built around man-made lagoons.

A Ford Explorer was parked in the driveway with a decal on the back window with stick figures portraying a dad, mom, big girl,

little boy, little girl, dog and two cats.

She knocked on the door and a dog barked twice. No one came to the door, but Margo heard laughter and shouts from the backyard,

then a splash. She rang the bell and the dog barked again, and then she heard someone coming to the door, telling “Barkley”

to stop barking.

Good name for a dog.

A woman answered the door wearing a tank top and shorts, her skin slick with sunscreen. “Yes?”

“Beth O’Neill?”

“Yes?” she said, more cautious.

Margo introduced herself and explained why she was there. “Have you or your husband heard from Charlie in the last few days?”

“Come in, the cold air is escaping,” Beth said. “Barkley doesn’t bite.”

Margo glanced at the drooling mutt—a hint of Lab, maybe, but definitely a mix. He looked like he was smiling at her.

“Hold on,” Beth said. “I need to make sure my oldest will keep an eye on my youngest.” She left the room and Margo looked

around.

The house was comfortable and looked like it catered to their kids. Bookshelves filled with games, comfortable furniture,

and based on the dog hair, the couch appeared to be Barkley’s preferred bed. Beth returned a minute later with two water bottles,

handed one to Margo. “You look hot.”

“Thanks,” Margo said.

“How is Laura?” Beth asked.

“Good.” She and Jack had already decided not to mention the hit-and-run and break-in, unless they had a good reason to do

so. Instead, she repeated her line that Laura was worried that she couldn’t reach Charlie.

“Charlie is not the most responsible person,” Beth said. “I wish Laura would have called me, I would have helped. She didn’t

have to hire a private investigator.”

“Actually, my firm is on retainer with her brother Logan, so it’s not a problem.”

“Aw. I don’t know Logan well. When Laura and Charlie were still married we did a lot together. I love Laura. She was always

so busy, though, with her clinic and her horses.”

This conversation wasn’t yielding any information. Margo said, “So you and your husband haven’t talked to Charlie?”

“Oh, we have. I was just saying I miss Laura. Bob and Charlie have always been friends, even after the divorce, and I feel

that people shouldn’t have to choose one or the other. I just don’t see Laura as much as I would like, and since she moved

to Desert Hills, we don’t even get the kids together much anymore. I miss it.”

“When did you last talk to Charlie?”

“He came here Saturday morning and dropped a bunch of things off in our garage. I wasn’t here. I took the kids to my mom’s

house in Prescott for the weekend because it was so damn hot, and Bob didn’t really ask me. Now I can’t get my car in!”

Margo thought about what Greg Nutter had told her about Charlie looking for a garage to store something.

“What did he bring by?”

“Junk, if you ask me.”

“Would you mind showing me?”

“Sure,” Beth said. She drained her water and put the empty bottle on a shelf as they walked down the hall to a laundry room,

then into the three-car garage. She turned on the bright overhead lights.

The one-car bay was filled with toys, sporting equipment, golf clubs, half-packed tents, and a rack for extra goods like toilet

paper and paper towels. The two-car bay could have comfortably fit the Ford Explorer in the driveway, except for dozens of

boxes, a gorgeous antique desk that needed a little TLC, two solid wood file cabinets and a dining room table with six chairs—one

of which was broken.

“Charlie gave Bob a hundred dollars to store this junk for a week. At nine this morning when I went to the grocery store,

my car was sweltering and I burned my hands on the steering wheel. I like parking in my garage. I keep the garage clean so I can park here.” She pointed to the spot now occupied by the boxes.

“Do you mind if I look through the stuff?”

“Go ahead.” Beth turned on a fan in the corner. “It’s not going to keep you cool, but it’ll circulate the air. I’m going to

check on the kids—they have friends over, and while my oldest is generally responsible, I don’t want to leave them too long.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Margo said.

When Beth left, Margo opened the closest box labeled only with a date: 2018. Inside were file folders. Upon closer inspection,

she realized they were legal files for Thornton and Hedge Law Offices, each folder for a different client. She took a picture

of the top sheet of one folder that had the law office contact information and sent that to Tess and their mom—their mother,

Ava Angelhart, was a lawyer, and while she didn’t practice much anymore, she knew most of the big attorneys in Phoenix.

Margo took more photos of the boxes and furniture. The thirty-seven boxes—she counted—were dated from 2002 through 2025—more

than twenty years. The early years were doubled up—2002–03, 2004–05, then as the practice apparently grew, there were multiple

boxes for some years—until 2023–25, which was in one box.

Why did Charlie have files from a law office? She was too hot to take the time to look through the files—it would take days

to even skim all this information. She examined the furniture. It was dusty and a bit scuffed, but high-quality. The file

cabinets were empty. The desk had some loose papers and pens—pens embossed with Thornton Margo followed.

She picked her cell phone up from where it was charging on the kitchen counter and called her husband. A minute later he got

on the phone. “What’s up? Need something at the store?”

“You’re on speaker, honey. Logan Monroe’s private investigator is here looking for Charlie. Laura is worried about him, can’t

reach him. I showed her the junk in the garage, she has some questions.”

“It’s not junk,” Bob told his wife. “Charlie is going to sell it, and I promise, it’ll be gone by next weekend.”

“Mr. O’Neill, where did Charlie get the items?”

“An auction.”

“An auction? All of it? The files, too?”

“Yeah, the self-storage facility up off Happy Valley, west of Highway 17, auctioned off the contents of six units that were

in default. He’s starting a new business, said he would be able to sell the items for far more than he bought them for.”

“How much did he spend?” And who would buy boxes of legal files? Margo wondered.

“I didn’t ask. He was excited, and he’s been really down lately, so I want to support him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. I don’t think he works Mondays. Maybe home?”

“He’s not,” Margo said, “and he’s not answering his phone.”

“Well, he took a box with him, said he wanted to get something appraised.”

“Where?”

“No idea.”

“What was he getting appraised?”

“He didn’t tell me. It wasn’t a large box, maybe about the size of a shoebox.”

Beth said, “Do you think something happened to him?”

“No,” Margo and Bob said simultaneously.

Bob said, “Honey, you know Charlie. He’s probably off trying to sell this stuff.”

“And not answering Laura’s calls?”

Margo said, “Mr. O’Neill, if he calls you, please ask him to call either myself or Laura as soon as possible. She’s worried

because she hasn’t heard from him.”

Margo thanked them for their time and left.

She texted Jack that she might be later than she’d said because she had one more stop to make.