Page 84 of What She Saw
Summers was in his late twenties and had been paroled after two years for breaking and entering. When he’d been living with Patty, he’d roughed her up when she was pregnant. She’d called the cops, and from what Sara said, she’d left him. He’d cut her off completely after that. She’d sued for child support, and he’d threatened to make her disappear.
And now Patty was missing.
Taggart parked beside a rusted pickup truck.
Out of his vehicle, he settled his hat on his head. A pneumatic drill buzzed. Like Taggart, Larry Summers had been big for his age when he was a kid. Both had worked in their stepfathers’ garages by fifth grade.
In the early days, Taggart handed the old man tools and swept floors. But by the time he was fourteen, he was changing oil and transmission fluids, plugging tires, or swapping spark plugs. Hisstepfather had wanted him to take over the garage, but he’d run off to the marines right before his eighteenth birthday.
And now he was back in Dawson. As the old man used to say, “The farther you run, the closer you get to your past.”
He walked into the garage. Scents of oil and grease took him back to a life he’d abandoned. There were two cars on the racks. A Chevrolet sedan and a Ford pickup truck. A mechanic was under each vehicle.
“I’m looking for Larry Summers,” Taggart said.
The man under the Ford ducked his head down. Curiosity shifted to suspicion. “I’m Summers.”
“Mind if I have a word with you? I’m Sheriff CJ Taggart,” he asked.
Summers grabbed a stained cloth from his back pocket and walked toward him. The second mechanic had stopped working and now paid close attention.
“Is there a problem, Sheriff?” Summers was six foot three and had a muscular build. His short black mustache drew attention to puffy eyes swimming in a full face. This was the guy in the photo Patty kept at her trailer.
“I have a few questions.” He’d bet money that Summers was hungover. A crushing headache might have slowed him down, but Taggart didn’t underestimate the danger. He waited until Summers was clear of the garage and all the wrenches and screwdrivers were no longer within arm’s reach.
“About?” Summers asked.
“Patty Reed.”
Summers drew in an aggravated breath. “Whatever she’s saying about me is a lie. I haven’t seen her in over a year.”
“She’s not saying much,” he said.
“Does she want money for the kid? Because I’m barely getting by here.”
“When’s the last time you saw your daughter?”
“Never have. I told Patty I don’t think the kid is mine. She got around when we were together.”
Taggart had heard similar claims from other men during his career. It still pissed him off but didn’t make him so mad that it clouded his judgment. “You haven’t seen Patty in over a year?”
Summers wiped his hands with the grease-stained rag. “That’s right. Why do you care?”
“According to the police reports, you threatened to kill her if she pressed for child support. She’s also threatened to file a restraining order against you.”
“She never did that.”
“But she did call the cops. You bruised her arms and her face.”
“She fell. She was clumsy.”
“I read the report. The arresting officer said you have a history of drinking and getting into fights.”
“Sure, I like a few beers after work. That’s not against the law.”
“When was the last time you were in Dawson?”
“Six months, maybe. There are good bars there.”
