by Lisa Jackson
…Wise men say, only fools rush in…but I keep keeping myself away from you…
“But I can’t help falling in love with you,” Mac muttered, his satisfaction still in place. Jessie Brentwood had been pregnant. Okay, correction: the remains in the grave revealed the victim had been pregnant, and Mac fervently believed those remains belonged to Jessie Brentwood. If all that was true, then Mac finally had a motive for Jessie’s disappearance and murder: one of the Preppy Pricks didn’t want to be a daddy.
That’s what had been hard to come up with at the time of the girl’s disappearance. Motive. Mac had sensed so much more than what those young bastards were telling him, but he had no proof…and no motive. An argument with her teen boyfriend—the Walker kid—hadn’t been enough. Now, thinking back, he wondered why he’d been so sure, why he’d always been, when the evidence had been so slim.
He’d just known something had happened. Known it in the marrow of his bones. Felt it. Lived it. But couldn’t prove it.
Maybe now…maybe…now…
And the case was his.
Finally.
The small pile in front of him contained bits of leaves, several cigarette butts, disintegrating candy wrappers, an indistinguishable piece of white plastic, and a small jackknife. The knife appeared to be the murder weapon, as there was a nick along one of the vic’s ribs, indicating she was stabbed at least once. They were not able to lift prints from the knife; it had been in the ground too long. The lab was working on DNA from the bone marrow, but unless they got a match from someone in their database, there was no way of identifying the remains by that method. If these bones were adoptee Jezebel Brentwood’s, that would mean they were looking for her biological parents, who could be anywhere, or a sibling or other relative, and that they would also have to be in the system. Mac had made contact with the Brentwoods, who had assured him they knew nothing about Jessie’s biological parents. They’d been less than thrilled to talk to him after his bullish investigative tactics years earlier, and so for now, he was leaving them alone.
But the baby’s bones—if they weren’t too degraded—now, that was another matter. If DNA could be extracted, or even a blood type discovered and one of those damned Preppy Pricks turned out to be the father…He smiled to himself. What was it they said? Something about revenge being best when served up cold. Hell, this case was twenty years cold. Damned well freezing. And yes, revenge was already tasting sweet.
Twenty fucking years of taking crap.
And now, he was about to be vindicated.
Eat that, Sandler, he thought, still hearing his latest partner’s taunts. He couldn’t wait to prove to her that he’d been right all along.
But there was something else that bothered him.
Mac picked up the note from the technician that stated there was an anomaly with the bone structure of both the adult and infant’s skeletons. A bone burr. “Anomaly,” he muttered for about the hundredth time. He’d called the tech, who’d been rushed and hard to pin down.
“Her bottom rib is extra, more like a partial rib, and it’s fused to the one above it. I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” the tech with a slight Mideastern accent had told him.
“Well, that might help us identify her if there’s an X-ray somewhere…?” Mac said somewhat hurriedly, sensing the tech was about to hang up. “Is it from an injury?”
“The baby’s, too?” The tech practically sneered. “More like the bottom rib is an extra. A spare.”
“So it’s genetic.”
“You’re a genius, you know that?”
Mac ignored the jibe. “Don’t women have extra ribs anyway? One more on either side than men?”
“Yes,” the tech said with extreme patience. “Call this an extra extra rib, then, and it’s only on one side. Some kind of birth defect.” Click!
Looking at the picture now, it was hard to tell. The dental impressions hadn’t helped, either, because Mac had learned from Jessie’s adoptive parents that Jessie was one of those lucky people who never had any problem with her teeth. The parents admitted they never took her to the dentist. Mac thought that could be considered child abuse, in some circles, but the lab techs said the victim’s teeth were “cavity-less.” Which, in a roundabout route, gave more weight to the fact that the remains could be Jessie’s.
There were no personal items left at the scene. No purse. No wallet. But then a lot of years had transpired in between, and this, too, was actually consistent with proving the bones belonged to Jessie. At the time of her disappearance, her parents said that she hadn’t taken her purse from the house, which she had every other time she’d run away. This had fueled Mac’s belief that she’d been harmed or killed, that she hadn’t left of her own volition.
Something had happened to Jezebel Brentwood, and he was even more certain now than ever that that something was murder.
“One of the Preppy Pricks stabbed her to death,” Mac said. “That’s what happened.”
…we’re caught in a trap…I can’t walk out…because I’m all about you maybe…
“Because I love you too much, baby. Jesus.” Mac scowled down the hallway. Was it too much to ask to get the words right? Was it?
Maybe he should just go home. There was nothing further to come up with tonight. He was tired and losing patience. The only reason he was staying was because there was nothing at home. His ex-wife had custody of their only son, Levi, and though Mac got the kid most weekends, now that he was at the preteen stage, he’d started making some of his own plans and even the weekends were iffy. In some ways that was fine, as Mac’s hours could be pretty unpredictable. But lately it had just left him with empty time he couldn’t fill outside of work. And the niggling feeling that he wasn’t doing as much as he could as a dad, that Levi might be headed down a wrong path, though none of his attempts at father-son talks had gotten anywhere. It was as if the kid were stonewalling him. Not a good sign. He’d brought it up to his ex, and Connie’s exact words had been: “So what d’ya expect, Super-Dad? It’s not as if you’ve been such a constant influence on him.” When Mac had started to argue, she’d cut him off with, “And don’t, I mean do not give me any BS about your job and long hours. Other cops have time for their kids and wives.”
This weekend already looked bad. Levi was waffling and had already mumbled about a sleepover at Zeno’s—was that a made-up name? Mac had never heard of the kid. But Connie had.
Lucky for him, he had a whole list of interviewees coming up. The Preppy Pricks and their girls.
Gathering up his things, he heard…come on let’s rock…everybody let’s rock…everybody in the whole cell block, was dancin’ to the jailhouse rock…
As he pushed through the door Mac tried to find fault with the lyrics, but they seemed all right. Maybe because the guy was cleaning out a police station, a jailhouse of his own. Maybe that was the key.
…Jimmy Jannie Jerry and the slide trombone, da da da da da da on the xylophone…
“Good God.” Mac headed into another rain-soaked night.
The day after she’d chased ghosts at St. Elizabeth’s and had a drink with Renee, Becca quit work in the early afternoon. She’d gotten a call from Elton Pfeiffer, one of the senior partners at the law firm and a very real reason Becca was glad to be working from home. Elton, in his late sixties, still considered himself a ladies’ man. Thrice divorced with a red Porsche, condo on the coast, and unlimited supply of Viagra if his secretary could be believed, he’d asked Becca out several times and even tried to kiss her once outside when she’d brought some papers into his office to sign.
It had been late, the glassed-in office on the twenty-second floor offering a panoramic view of the city lights and dark Willamette River rolling slowly under the Morrison Bridge when Pfeiffer, smelling of scotch, had come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her torso, and dragged her to him, his lips grazing the back of her neck. She’d promptly turned around, pushed hard, and threatened to knee him if he didn’t back o
ff. He had, and rather than attempt to sue him for sexual harassment, Becca had turned in her resignation. It had just been so demeaning and damned predictable.
Pfeiffer, rebuffed, had offered to allow her to work from home and she’d leapt at the chance, telling herself it was temporary and a way to have a little freedom, create her own work schedule. The only time she’d been to the office in the past few weeks was to drop off the mermaid baby gift for her pregnant coworker.
Today, Elton Pfeiffer, all business, had needed a real estate contract for a strip mall retyped with some changes. “I’ve already e-mailed it. Check with Colleen,” she said, then hung up.
Though she’d never been great at picking men, Becca had known from the get-go that “El,” as he liked to be called, was a person to avoid. She’d never been looking for a father figure and didn’t want to start now. In some ways her job was perfect.
But apart from work, she felt stressed and tense, and thought about Hudson. Considered calling him.
Again.
Despite what she’d told Renee.
“Liar,” she muttered to herself. Ever since seeing Hudson a week earlier at Blue Note, she’d had trouble keeping her mind off him.
So why not call him? Why not take the initiative? Don’t be an insecure schoolgirl. You were friends once. Lovers. You nearly had a child together.
Becca picked up the receiver and put it down three times before, exasperated with herself, she dialed Hudson’s number with such speed, it was as if the touch-tone pads were on fire. She was putting way too much energy and emphasis on this one phone call. So she was calling him. So what? She wanted to see him. She was a widow. There was nothing wrong with it.
It rang six times before his answering machine picked up and then the sound of his recorded voice made her breath catch in her lungs. Which was just damned stupid! As soon as the recorder buzzed, she said, “Hi, Hudson. It’s Becca Sutcliff. I was thinking…(about you)…about things…and I feel a bit unsettled, I guess…about the bones found at St. Elizabeth’s. I keep thinking…(about you)…about Jessie. If you have some time, maybe we could get together and talk? My number is…” She rattled it off quickly, almost breathlessly, then replaced the receiver with a hammering heart. Then she literally banged her forehead against the kitchen wall several times, feeling like an idiot.
“This can’t be healthy,” she muttered to Ringo, who cocked his head with interest.
Becca changed into her running shoes and threw on a lightweight jacket, then grabbed Ringo’s leash and bustled him outside, running her words through her mind again and again as she started jogging. Ringo wanted to stop and sniff every twig, leaf, and blade of grass, but Becca was having none of it. After stopping to allow him to relieve himself, she took off toward the park, the dog at her heels, running hard. Her feet slapped the pavement, water in standing puddles splashed, but she kept at it, feeling her heart begin to pump faster as she passed an apartment building and a few cottages on large lots, original houses built in the twenties or thirties that hadn’t yet fallen to the subdivider’s axe. She thought about the fact that she’d felt someone watching her, in her apartment, from the bushes, at the maze, someone evil, but she set her jaw. She wouldn’t be controlled by fear. Would not.
Ringo, sometimes nervous, wasn’t on edge. He was enjoying the exercise as much as she.
The air was cool, the afternoon clouds high and wispy as she rounded the far end of the park and cut through a copse of oaks, nearly running into a kid on a scooter. He swore at her with invectives she’d heard a million times before and she barely broke stride. Up the short hill and down the other side, across a footbridge spanning the creek, then back toward the condo. By now she could feel her muscles working, her rhythm established, the dog running effortlessly with her.
All in all, she ran nearly three miles, and by the time she walked through the front door, her face was flushed and sweat had broken out on her scalp and down her back despite the cool weather.
The first thing she did was check her messages. Zero.
What did you expect? That he’d hear your voice and hit his speed dial to connect with you? Idiot.
Muttering to herself, she showered, then, at a loss, headed for her computer again. She was glad to find that Colleen at Bennett, Bretherton, and Pfeiffer had sent another pile of paperwork. Good. She wanted to lose herself in busywork forever.
It was early evening before she lifted her head and wondered when the last time she’d deigned to eat was. Climbing from her chair, she stretched her back, heard it make a disturbing pop, and tried to ignore the words that ran in a circle inside her head: he hasn’t called…he hasn’t called…he hasn’t called…
When the phone rang, Becca jumped as if someone had goosed her. She snatched up her desk phone and said, “Hello?”
“Hey, Becca, it’s Tamara,” her friend greeted her cheerily.
Becca’s heart sank.
“Are you busy? I’m going to grab some dinner and wanted to know if you could join.”
“Sure,” Becca said, hoping she sounded more enthusiastic than she felt. She hadn’t forgotten the last time she’d seen Tamara climbing into Hudson’s truck. Big deal. So what? It’s nothing. She might as well get out of the house. Waiting for a phone to ring was too much like being thirteen all over again.
She agreed to meet Tamara at a Mexican restaurant only a couple of miles away, then changed her clothes, fed Ringo, and was heading for the door when the phone rang again.
She recognized the number and her stupid heart started to pound as she picked up.
“Becca?” Hudson’s voice greeted her, and a flood of warmth rushed into her veins.
“Hi, there,” Becca responded, pretending that her nerves weren’t vibrating like electrical wires—there it was again, that back to thirteen thing. Disgusting.
“I saw you called. Heard your message. I’ve been thinking about things, too, and yeah, I think we should get together, talk things through. It might not be such a bad idea.”
Her stupid heart was slamming against her ribs. “Great.”
“How about later tonight?”
“Sure, after dinner,” she said, frustrated that she’d just made plans with Tamara. “I’ve got plans earlier, but we could meet somewhere…?”
“How about my place, you remember where it is? The old ranch?”
Like it was yesterday.
“Sure do. I’ll be there, sometime after eight,” she said and found that her damned hands were shaking as she hung up. “Maybe thirteen’s too mature,” she confided to the dog as she dashed to the bedroom to change.
She met Tamara at the small restaurant with its faux stucco walls painted as if they were in a Mexican villa, complete with views of an azure ocean and fishing boats. As if here, on the top of Capital in the south hills of Portland, they had a view of the Sea of Cortez. She tried not to keep looking at her watch or rush the meal, but found it hard to enjoy the platter of fajitas they shared or the piped-in peppy, upbeat, almost frantic music.
Not long after the sizzling platter of shrimp and vegetables was served, of course, the subject turned to Jessie.
“Do you think she’s dead?” Tamara asked. She was on her second margarita while Becca sipped through the ring of salt on her first.
Becca shrugged. She was tired of the question. Tired of not knowing.
“I think she’s just messing with us, like she always did.” Tamara spooned shrimp, onions, and peppers into a warm flour tortilla. “Just because Jessie went missing and just because she attended St. Elizabeth’s doesn’t mean she’s dead.”
“Then who is?”
“God knows.” She licked her fingers. “What did you think of Vangie and Zeke?”
“Déjà vu all over again.”
Tamara snorted. Her red hair caught in the lights high overhead as a waiter called out orders in Spanish to a line cook, visible through an open window to the kitchen. “She was sure flashing that ring. Think it’s real?”
“She acted like she and Zeke were engaged.”
“Wonder if she’s gotten over her jealousy?” Tamara lifted a brow. “She sure as hell kept him on a short leash in high school.”
Becca remembered Evangeline pining after Zeke in high school, attending every game or wrestling match in which he competed, and there were a lot, as Zeke had been a star, all-league athlete in something…baseball?
“Weird, huh, to wait all these years—almost twenty—and still be hung up on the same guy? She should have her head examined, or maybe her palm read, see what’s up with her love line.”
Becca smiled faintly. “Think it’ll show in her palm?”
“Laugh if you will. There’s a reason that astrology and alternative religions or beliefs are still around after centuries and centuries. There’s something to them.”
“You’ve got Renee believing.”
Tamara shook her head. “Renee…I don’t really know what it is with her, she’s the last person I would have thought would look into alternative spirituality. She saw somebody else who spooked her.”
“A woman at the beach.”
“I don’t know what she said that got Renee going, but she’s got a lot to deal with. Her job and Tim—the guy’s practically a stalker, or so she says. She caught him with someone else and basically told him to take a hike, and now he acts like they have to stay together.”
“Through good times and bad.”
“She told you?” Tamara gave her a look.
“We had coffee and wine at Java Man.”
“Thank God I’ve never been married. Engaged twice and once I nearly ran off to Reno with a guy, but I managed to regain my senses first.”
The people at the next table began arguing about their kid’s inability to quit texting messages from her cell phone throughout what the dad insisted was “a family meal. Quality time.”
Glancing at their table, Tamara leaned a little closer over the table toward Becca, whispering, “My point is—it’s got to be worse when you really go through with it. When you walk down the aisle, exchange I dos and plan for your future and family.”
