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Late last night, I drove by St. Dominic’s and cruised through the surrounding neighborhood, looking for either Carillo’s DPS cruiser or the family minivan. He wasn’t there, which made me feel marginally better. There was no clear way to connect me to Rafe, and less Rafe to Annie.
I parked outside the rectory for an hour, just to make sure my uncle was safe. He lived there with two other priests—a young priest, who was just ordained last year, and a retired priest. All quiet. Finally, at two in the morning, I went home, showered, and slept uneasily for a few hours.
After morning coffee and a bagel, I again circled St. Dominic and the neighborhood until I was confident that Carillo wasn’t staking out the church.
Tess had left a message for me to come to the office this morning, but I texted her that I had things to do. She’d wanted to join me to talk to Rachel Roper, but Rachel drugging Logan Monroe was my cross to bear—I needed to confirm that Brittney hired her, then to figure out why. I thought I knew—divorce settlement—but I wasn’t positive. I needed the truth, and Brittney Monroe wasn’t going to give it to me.
After calling Rachel’s work for her schedule—pretending to be an existing client to see if she could “squeeze me in” this morning—I learned that she came in at eleven. That gave me plenty of time to hit Costco when it opened.
Last night while watching Uncle Rafe’s place, I had researched security systems. I didn’t need—nor could I afford—an alarm service. But surveillance? Most home camera systems recorded anyone who approached—even people who walked by the front of the house with their dog. I was more interested in people who approached my door—front, side, and back.
If Peter Carillo came to my house again, I wanted to know about it. If I’d thought of this before, I could nail him now—he would have a lot of explaining to do. Would he return? I doubted it.
Still, I bought a system with cameras that could connect to my phone and alert me in real-time if anyone entered the house—or even if someone came to the door to deliver a package. Though I was pretty handy and the instructions were clear, it took more than an hour to install. By the time I left and arrived at Rachel’s work in north Peoria, it was noon.
Foothill Physical Therapy was a large building at the end of a new strip mall in upscale northern Peoria, in the hills above Highway 101. It was a nice community—if you liked big houses that all looked alike packed close together. FPT had the trappings of a gym, but with less equipment and added tables for muscle massage.
I’d had physical therapy twice. The first, when I was sixteen and tore my ACL during the championship soccer game, which we won 2–1. The second, two years after I left the Army, I was in the middle of my annual two-week Army Reserves training. During a drill—an obstacle drill I’ve done hundreds of times—my body went one way and my ankle went the other. Snap. It was a clean break, but I worked my ass off to be mobile as soon as possible.
I hated being out of commission.
The AC hit me hard when I walked into the building. Such was life living in the desert—it could be a hundred degrees outside but you needed a sweater when you went indoors. I had a light blazer on to conceal my weapon. Arizona was an open-carry state, but I preferred discretion.
The receptionist smiled. “Appointment?”
“Rachel.”
She looked at the book. “Mrs. Thomas?”
“Margo Angelhart. I need five minutes of her time.” I saw Rachel on the far side of the large room working with an athletic kid wearing a knee brace.
“She has an appointment—”
“Tell her it’s about last night. Please, I would appreciate it.”
More flies with honey. But if the receptionist balked, I’d push back. I had no time for games. If Rachel thought I’d tell her colleagues about her moonlighting as a paid girlfriend? All the better.
“I’ll see if she can step away.”
“Thank you,” I said with a friendly smile. I watched as the receptionist spoke to Rachel, who looked over at me with a stunned expression. I waved. Surprise!
She quickly approached me and said in a low voice, “You can’t be here.”
“I’m here.”
“This is my work. Go.”
“I’m here about Brittney.”
Her face paled. “I need ten minutes,” she said. “Please.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
Rachel looked shaken when she walked back to her client. She also didn’t look like the hardened vixen she’d appeared last night. Her long shiny red hair was pulled back, she wore no makeup, and she dressed comfortably in shorts and a blue Foothill Therapy polo shirt.
I left the building and stood under the awning where I could watch the door.
I saw the teen leave eleven minutes later, then Rachel came out.
