Fugitive Family

“Motivation?”

“Getting rid of your family.”

“I’m raising my daughter alone! I—”

“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir.”

“What else do you have?”

“You’ll be impressed by what I have, and you should be humbled by what I’ve given. I owe more favors than I can ever begin to repay. Turn your fax on.”

Fifteen minutes later, Burt continued. “Remember, this coroner’s report is incomplete. You know I’m a lot more comfortable with skip traces and surveillance than with all this medical stuff. It shouldn’t take fifteen pages to report the cause of death.”

Greg gripped the fax pages. The coroner’s report. It was fifteen pages long only because it was incomplete, and he didn’t intend to ask how Burt had got hold of it.

There was Rachel’s name, after the word decedent. The date of her death was roughly six months ago. Greg noted the names of both the doctor who pronounced her dead and the homicide detective who was assigned to the case.

“So,” Greg balanced the phone on his shoulder as he turned a page, “they don’t know where she died?”

“They don’t—not according to my source and not according to the coroner’s report—but they’ve ruled out your house and they’ve ruled out the farmhouse.”

Greg choked up. “They identified her from dental records. What? She wasn’t recognizable?”

“Dental records work well when you’re trying to convince a jury. That’s all I’m going to say. Don’t torture yourself. You remember Rachel the way she was when she and Amy stood side by side.

“Don’t let yourself fall apart now,” Burt warned. “We’re finally moving again, and if we’re going to find a light at the end of the tunnel, you’re going to have to point to it. Not me, not the police. Remember, I’m not the brainy one. That’s you. And, remember, the police are not on your side. They think you robbed your own bank, killed an innocent bystander, killed your wife, kidnapped your own—”