“I want to hear what you guys think,” Harris told his two detectives.
Lou Patrick shrugged. “I think she’s on the up-and-up. Nurse at the hospital said she had knife cuts along her inner thighs, both shoulders and two nicks on her breasts. The bruise on her cheek could have come from a punch to the face when she resisted him. Only thing is, the rape counselor said she had one major concern, that Mrs. Philips kept asking for her husband throughout the exam whereas most rape victims are frightened and ashamed at first and want nothing to do with their husbands for a while. But that’s not a hard and fast rule.”
The lieutenant toyed with his paisley suspenders and nodded. “What about you, Nick?”
“I think she made the whole thing up. The doctor who examined her said there was no bruising. And, like Lou said, she keeps asking where her husband is, how’s he taking all this, when can she go home with him. Not the usual reaction.”
“Lou, you were first on the scene. Did anyone in the store mention seeing a guy like she described?”
Lou shook his head. “Nada. That supermarket’s in an affluent neighborhood. You’d think a grease monkey like she described would stand out, that someone else would have spotted him and wondered what he was up to.”
“How about the husband?” Harris asked.
“We talked with him while she was being examined at the hospital,” Nick answered. “He seemed more angry than upset. Blames himself for leaving her alone so much because he works long hours as a new attorney at a big firm. Just last week, they’d planned to take a trip, but a case he was on caused them to have to cancel. Ronda didn’t take it well, crying a lot, brooding.”
“Yeah, he swore to us he was going to cut back, to spend more time with her,” Lou interjected. “I just can’t figure what she’s got to gain by faking a rape.”
“How about sympathy and more attention from the husband?” Nick volunteered.
“We’ve got to follow through even if her story’s suspicious,” Harris told them. “Send her home with her husband and put out a description of the rapist.” He walked out of the viewing room ahead of his detectives. “But don’t let’s drop this. Wait a few days, then call her in again, just to clear up some points. Put on a little pressure. If she’s faking, maybe she’ll break down.”
“Right.” Nick strolled back to his desk, his mind already back on what he’d been doing when they’d brought the rape victim in. Sitting down at his desk, he booted up his computer.
“Hey, Nick, you mind if I take off a coupla hours?” Lou asked. “We’re not up for a while, fourth in line actually, and our shift’s over in an hour. I’ll have my cell with me. My son’s first Little League game’s today.”
“No problem. Have fun.” Nick went to work on a fishing expedition, keying in various lead words, hoping to learn a thing or two. More than one way to get information if the lady refuses to confide in him, he’d decided. Tate Monroe was a mystery he was determined to solve.
He wasn’t an expert on the computer, nor could he surf the Internet or the police information network as expertly as some, but he usually could find what he needed. Strictly speaking, the data he was seeking had little to do with the home invasion of Maggie Davis and a great deal to do with his curiosity and interest in Tate Monroe. Okay, so there was no use hiding the truth from himself. He was intrigued by the woman and wanted to know everything he could about her.
As he scrolled through choices, highlighting a few, he began to make headway. Tate had been born twenty-nine years ago to Dennis and Rita Monroe in Tucson. The father, who’d died last year at sixty-nine, had been a tailor at an upscale men’s store, yet he’d earned only about thirty thousand in his best year. That meant her father had been about forty when she’d been born, nearly twenty years older than his wife, Rita, who seemed to have vanished off the data base. Nothing on her since way back when Tate was quite young. She also had a brother, Steve, two years younger, a career navy man, currently an instructor at the navy base in San Diego.
So much for family. He punched in more facts he knew in order to get facts he didn’t know. Tate had entered the University of Arizona at eighteen and graduated at twenty-two with a Fine Arts degree in Literature. The bookcase at Maggie’s had been stuffed to overflowing and he had a feeling most of the books were Tate’s. Her social security number, from the information sheet she’d filled out for the officer on the scene, revealed that she’d never made much money, mostly due to a sporadic work schedule. Not one year since graduation had she worked the full twelve months. Why? Nick wondered. Because of her son? He’s been through a great deal in his short life, Tate had said about Josh at the hospital. What had she meant?
He tapped into Brennan’s Book Emporium site, employee information, and found Tate had been working there, on and off, since a part-time job during high school. Currently she was listed as manager of their eastside store; district manager was Judith Dunn, and Tate’s assistant was Dave Anderson. She’d lived for a while in an apartment on State Street. There was a gap five years ago where she’d taken a leave for nearly two full years, returned to live at Maggie’s address, then left again, returning only four months ago. That was about the time her father had died.
Nick glanced around the bull pen and saw he was almost alone, so he continued his clandestine search. Strictly speaking, he’d wandered off Maggie’s case and moved into personal information on Tate Monroe. Checking records on births and deaths again, he found that Josh had been born on March 1 seven years ago. A home birth, taking Tate’s last name, father listed as unknown. That he seriously doubted.
Just for the hell of it, he checked her status with the police department and found a record of an assault two years ago, a man who’d invaded her apartment and attacked her. The police report said she’d had numerous bruises and contusions, a black eye and a cracked rib. The assailant, described as “tall, husky, with a long, black ponytail” had never been apprehended.
There was that description again.
Nick sat back in his chair, his mind busily considering possibilities. A coincidence that recently both Maggie and Josh and a while back Tate had encountered the big guy with the ponytail? Highly doubtful. If the man was one and the same, why wasn’t Tate able to give them a description, if he’d been in her apartment? Tate had endured a beating similar to Maggie’s and mostly likely dished out by the same thug. Why wouldn’t she have mentioned this to Nick since it could hardly be labeled irrelevant? Did she know the man and was, for reasons unknown, trying to protect him? Josh was blond so it seemed unlikely his father would have black hair. Who was this ponytailed character?
Hands behind his head, Nick narrowed his eyes. Tate didn’t strike him as the type who’d stand still for a beating. Unless she had a very good reason. And where had her son been that night? Not a mention of a child in the report. The officer in charge had written that he’d advised Tate to get an order of protection, but there was no record of one being issued. Yet shortly after that, she’d taken a leave of absence from Brennan’s and disappeared with her son. Curiouser and curiouser.
Where had she gone for nearly two years? An intensified search could find no trace of her. No job record, no medical reports, no address nor phone numbers available. Had she stayed with one of those roommates she put such store in? Something to check out since both were well off financially. Or did she have relatives somewhere who’d put her up along with Josh? No mention of any other Monroes related to her father. Could she have looked up her mother and gone to her?
Nick straightened, realizing that in getting some answers, he’d also brought up more questions. He checked his watch and saw that he was off the clock in twenty minutes. Maybe he’d run over to Brennan’s and see if Tate’s co-workers were inclined to discuss their manager with him. He’d have to be careful, though. If Tate found out, she wouldn’t be pleased.
Dave Anderson, assistant manager at Brennan’s, was about five-eight with a wiry build, thinning sandy hair and brown eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. In the absence of his boss, he was in charge