“The paper is deliberately folded to see this photo,” said Noelle. “The other accompanying photos are hidden by the fold. Same with two-thirds of the article. Look.” She carefully opened the paper, demonstrating how someone had made awkward folds to center the photo.
Evan stared at the photo, his mind racing with possibilities. Most of them negative. “Why . . . ?” He met Noelle’s gaze. Her expression told him she was struggling to understand too.
“It could be nothing,” she said, but her eyes didn’t agree with her words.
“Let’s go through the rest.” Evan moved to a rear door to examine the debris in the back seat. Crumpled receipts told them the fast-food bags were Ken’s. In the cargo space, they found SAR equipment and dog supplies.
“This is expensive equipment,” said Noelle. “Why didn’t they . . . or he . . . take it?”
“Money wasn’t the goal,” said Evan.
“What was the goal?”
“Beats me.”
“If the date on that paper was older, I wouldn’t be surprised to find it folded that way, considering Ken’s relationship with Rowan,” said Noelle.
Evan had had the same thought. “Whoever was in here knows her. I can’t believe someone would randomly highlight that photo without knowing her.”
“Agreed.” Noelle looked at him.
Frustration rolled through Evan as he remembered how Rowan was linked to several of his cases. Now she was tied to Ken’s missing SUV.
Why are there so many connections to Rowan?
23
Rowan leaned back in her chair, sipping a cup of coffee, her other hand resting on Thor’s head. They were on a restaurant’s outdoor patio, waiting for Rees Womack, and she’d been lucky enough to get the last available table. In the ten minutes since she’d sat down, a large crowd had formed at the front of the converted old house. Locals were willing to wait long periods for brunch at the popular restaurant. The owners made the outdoor waits as pleasant as possible by providing a window to order coffee and other drinks, lots of room to sit, and even live music.
Rowan had ordered biscuits and gravy and a pitcher of white sangria. Rees was late, and she wanted to eat if he didn’t show up. He’d texted her the night before, asking her to meet, but had been vague when she asked why, saying he wanted to talk about Ken. Thinking back, she realized she’d never met Rees one-on-one. Someone else had always been present. But he was a pillar of their close-knit group. Rees wasn’t much of a talker, but people always listened when he did speak up. He thought things through and often presented avenues the group hadn’t considered. He was a valuable SAR member.
Thor’s head lifted a fraction, and his ears swiveled toward the crowd waiting at the front of the restaurant. Rowan spotted Rees and his German shepherd, Gunnar, working their way through the group. He was frequently stopped, usually by women asking to pet his dog. Rowan often had the same problem. At least people were better about asking to pet Thor these days. In the past they’d touch without permission. Thor loved attention from everyone, but some dogs did not.
Rees finally made it to the table and sat heavily in a chair. “Sorry I’m late.” The dogs sniffed noses and then ignored each other. Rees was close to Ken’s age, and Rowan had never seen him without a hat. Usually it was a baseball cap, but today it was a pale-blue bucket hat. His long beard was salt and pepper, and his brown eyes had deep lines from squinting in the sun.
They made small talk for a few minutes. When the waitress brought the pitcher of sangria, he ordered coffee and an everything omelet. When she left, he poured two glasses and held up his drink. “To Ken.”
“To Ken,” repeated Rowan, then took a sip, noticing Rees looked very tired and sadness lurked in his gaze.
I probably look the same way.
After some general talk about the funeral, Rowan got to the point. “What did you want to tell me about Ken?” Since he’d sat down, Rees had made poor eye contact and seemed distracted.
He leaned his forearms on the table, drained his glass, and then poured another. The waitress reappeared with his coffee and vanished again. He added three creamers and focused on stirring it in.
“Rees. What is it?”
He always likes to think before he speaks.
“It’s Ken. Something was off before he died.”
Rowan waited a long moment for him to collect his thoughts. “Like what?” she finally asked.
“He was stressed. Couldn’t sit still. Always doing something. Seemed anxious.” He met her gaze, concern and certainty in his eyes.