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Rob chuckles, and I see a sort of youth in him that I haven’t seen there before. He seems lighter somehow.
We don’t have any plans set in stone, but I agree to move forward with his plan. It’s a smart one, and I have to admit, the idea of running a family business with Rob… with my dad… sounds better than I ever imagined it would.
When I return to the hospital, I find Sander standing in the lobby. His phone is pressed to his ear, and he looks seriously pissed off.
“Yeah… no, I got it. Thanks for letting me know,” he says before hanging up.
“Everything good?” I ask as I approach.
He turns, only now noticing me.
“Yeah, all good,” he says automatically, clearly lost in thought over whatever that phone call was about. He has dark circles beneath his blood-shot eyes.
Clearly, something has been bothering him.
I take a step closer, speaking in hushed tones. “Hey what’s going on? You don’t look so good.”
His eyes zero in on mine, and I can see him debating what to tell me.
An elderly woman shuffles past us, gripping her walker tightly as her companion rushes ahead to hold open the door for her.
Sander and I both smile politely at her, but the second she’s out of earshot, he’s pulling me into the stairwell.
“That was one of my buddies down at the station, Dutton Wells. I asked him and his partner, Banks, to keep tabs on Mateo while I’m up here with the family.” The way he says family implies that he and I are both part of it. I can’t say I really hate that, either.
“Did something happen?” I ask, keeping my voice low in case anyone from the floors above us is making their way downstairs.
“During Lopez’s arrest yesterday, Wells had eyes on Mateo. He’s been keeping his head down at home.”
“Remember how we talked about your story telling skills?” I joke, but gesture for him to get to the point.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m just trying to figure shit out in my head. Mateo’s SUV hasn’t left his driveway in two days, but when Regina went by the house this morning to grab Keaton some clothes, she said she noticed a black Range Rover parked down the street. She’s never seen it before, but it freaked her out enough to take a picture,” he says, pulling out his phone and showing me.
“That looks like it’s only a couple of houses down,” I say, zooming in to try to read the plate number. Only the more I zoom, the grainier the image gets.
“Three doors,” Sander responds. I forgot that he lived on this street growing up.
“You guys have anyone that can pull a plate number from this image?” I ask after finally giving up and pass his phone back to him.
“Way ahead of you, man,” he says, sliding the phone back into his front pocket. “The plates a fake.”
“Fake?”
“Yeah, so obviously we’re suspicious. We had a squad car go by his house, and he’s not home. The car is still in the driveway. One of his neighbors came out to let us know that he left a couple of nights ago and they haven’t seen him sense.”
What the fuck?
“Is there anywhere else he would go?” I ask, trying to come up with a possible explanation that doesn’t put Mateo in that Range Rover.
“We checked with whatever family he has, and no one is talking,” Sander says.
The sound of a door swinging open echoes throughout the stairwell, and we stand there silently, listening as the footsteps descend. A second door opening leaves the stairwell silent, and I turn back to Sander.
“Can you guys track his phone?”
He levels me with this look. The corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement.
“What?” I ask.
