Page 21 of The Children of Eve (Charlie Parker #22)

CHAPTER XXI

I wasted three-quarters of an hour going through Wyatt Riggins’s possessions. I could have done it in half the time, but I didn’t want Zetta Nadeau to think I wasn’t trying. As she’d indicated, Riggins traveled light: any lighter, and he’d have been capable of levitating to wherever he needed to get to next. None of his clothes were new, though they weren’t so worn as to indicate he was struggling financially. He’d left behind one pair of good boots, one pair of dress shoes with leather uppers and rubber soles, and one pair of black Chuck Taylors. His wardrobe didn’t include a tie and leaned toward casual jackets, shirts, and jeans—a man after my own heart. I searched every pocket, checked the lining of his jackets, and shook out his footwear but found nothing, not even a spare nickel or crumpled store receipt. The two bags he’d arrived with were made of brown leather and had seen heavy use. They were empty too.

I tried the bathroom. A hanging toiletry bag from L.L.Bean had been folded and placed on the medicine cabinet. It held the usual male products, none fancy, a pack of generic ibuprofen, and a Tricare prescription box of Tofranil, indicating that it had been supplied two months previously by the Naval Branch Health Clinic in Kittery, Maine. I looked up Tofranil on my phone. It was a brand name for imipramine, an antidepressant that worked by altering naturally occurring chemicals in the brain to lift the mood, prescribed for those who, for whatever reason, couldn’t or didn’t want to take regular inhibitors like Zoloft or Prozac. Side effects could include anxiety and nightmares—and an increased sensitivity to sunlight, so it was unlikely that Riggins had been taking the pills while serving abroad. I pocketed the medication. My memories of attempting to get information out of the U.S. military were not happy, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying again. If we don’t have hope, we have nothing at all.

Downstairs, I found books—classic fiction, bought used, and a small collection of paperback volumes of military history, none dealing with any conflict more recent than Vietnam—and a white envelope containing $73.92. I went through all the books, flipping the pages, but nothing revealing fell to the floor: no mysterious maps, no matchbooks from private members’ clubs, no photographs of Riggins with a mystery woman or kids he’d neglected to mention to Zetta Nadeau.

Back upstairs, I stood at the window and watched sparks fly from the studio. Zetta had given me permission to search the room, and I was beyond embarrassment by this stage of my life, so I went through her closets, wearing disposable gloves out of politeness. Only a vibrator that could have been used to coldcock a burglar, excuse the pun, gave me any real pause.

But as I went, I tapped every surface and tested every piece of cabinetry, including the baseboards. I then returned to Riggins’s closet and did the same. Finally, I went to the bathroom and methodically worked my way over each surface. I found what I was looking for behind the toilet and beside the outflow. It made sense. Nobody went poking around there unless they had to or were being paid for it. Using the blade of my penknife, I eased away a section of baseboard.

Behind it, in a Ziploc bag, was a pistol.