Page 9 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 2
I leave the office and slide into the driver’s seat of my ten-year-old black BMW, which is parked beside Ian’s flashy new Porsche SUV. When we were expecting the babies, he traded in his bright blue Porsche 910 for the larger family-sized vehicle.
As I start the engine, I watch Jerry cross the driveway and disappear behind the townhouse.
Roger’s Park is a quick fifteen-minute drive. At this time of day, there’s not much traffic to contend with. My first stop is at the diner where Rhonda Mitchell reportedly works. I just hope she’s working the first shift.
After finding parking on a side street, I walk into the diner and recognize her immediately. She’s a rather attractive woman, with curly brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing an apron over a black pencil skirt and a white blouse and currently taking a couple’s food order. She looks vastly different from the woman I saw in a mug shot. The dark shadows beneath her eyes are gone, as are the splotches on her cheeks—clear signs of drug use.
When she spots me, she gives me a welcoming smile and says, “Seat yourself anywhere you like, hon. I’ll be right with you.”
I take a seat at the corner booth at the back of the restaurant, which gives me an unrestricted view of her. I pick up a laminated menu off the table and scan it. A few minutes later, she approaches my table holding a pot of coffee.
“Coffee?” she asks.
I nod as I gaze up at her nametag—Rhonda.Confirmation.“Please.”
The table is already set, so she turns the mug in front of me upright and fills it. “Do you know what you want, or do you need time to look at the menu?”
“To be honest, I didn’t come here to eat.”
She gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t say anything.
“Actually, I came here to see you.”
“Me?” She frowns, her brow wrinkling. “Whatever for?”
“You’re Rhonda Mitchell?”
She nods. “Who wants to know?”
I pull my ID out of my jacket pocket and show her. “Tyler Jamison, private investigator.”
Her frown deepens, and she seems honestly perplexed. “What do you want with me?”
“To start with, I need information. You gave birth to a son, Ian, 30 years ago. Is that correct?”
Her expression falls. “What’s this about? Is Ian okay?”
“He’s fine.”
She releases a sigh, looking clearly relieved. “I haven’t seen him, or heard from him, since I lost custody.” Her frown returns. “What do you want with me? I served my time—ten years in state prison, and then five years of parole. I’ve been clean ever since I got locked up and started a rehab program. I don’t do drugs anymore. I don’t even drink. I work an honest job, and I have a good life. I don’t want any trouble.”
“As I said, I’m simply looking for information.”
Her green eyes tear up. “Is he happy? Please tell me he is. That’s all I want for him—to be happy.”
“He is. He’s married now and has two kids.”
Her expression transforms instantly, that frown replaced by a look of pure joy. “He has kids?” She wipes her cheeks. “I guess that makes me a grandma, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it does.” I’m pretty sure Rhonda Mitchell isn’t our suspect. “Would you do me a favor?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, if I can.”
I take my notepad and pen out of my inside jacket pocket and lay them on the table. “Please write something on the pad.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, please. You can write anything.”
