“Even if she is, I don’t think anyone in this town is ever going to see Vonnie Jackson again.”
Thursday, 4:15 p.m.
With every step she took toward her car, Lexie’s indignation grew. Yes, as a journalist she’d become used to having doors slammed in her face, euphemistically speaking. But this was the first time it had ever really happened.
The guy was totally rude. Incredibly good-looking, yes, but talk about a bad attitude; his made the average angry teenager seem like a barrel of sunshine.
She had already called Aidan McConnell a whole lot of names in her head; now a few choice ones spilled out of her mouth. “Condescending, arrogant ass.”
To think she’d almost felt sorry for the man before she’d come here this afternoon, her hat in hand, her hopes high. After having researched him online as much as she could today, she’d almost come to the conclusion that he’d gotten a raw deal in Savannah. She’d definitely begun to rethink her psychic-stuff-is-garbage opinion, having read about the dozens of cases he’d proved instrumental in solving.
She’d been feeling all self-righteous; not only was she going to find Vonnie Jackson and learn what had happened to the others, she could help redeem a discredited man in the process.
“Only the discredited man turned out to be a major jerk,” she muttered.
A handsome jerk with the most hypnotic blue-gray eyes she’d ever seen, but a jerk nonetheless. She shouldn’t have wasted the trip over here; she should have just kept on doing research into Vonnie Jackson’s life, trying to find some connection between her and the other girls who’d gone missing, beyond coming from the same general area.
There had to be something. Something had drawn the eye of a monster to them all.
She had a few ideas, and planned to tackle them as soon as she got back to her place. This wasn’t the kind of work she could do at the office, not with Stan reading over her shoulder. She’d gotten Walter’s blessing to work at home and had spent much of today there, other than breaks for a successful trip to Yvonne Jackson’s school and an unsuccessful one to the girl’s run-down apartment. Oh, and this total waste of time.
She glanced at the time on her phone and considered heading back over to Berna Jackson’s place. Vonnie’s mother hadn’t been home earlier and a neighbor told her she’d been hitting the bars pretty hard in her “worry” over her missing child. Either she hadn’t come back at all or she hadn’t gotten the note Lexie had left in her door.
One more possibility: She’d gotten cold feet and wasn’t going to call.
“I hope you didn’t believe every word Chief Dunce said,” she muttered, having no doubt the chief would have browbeaten the woman to get her to keep her mouth shut.
Lexie reached the curb and was about to step off it when she heard a sound from behind her. Recognizing the low squeak, she jerked in surprise, glancing over her shoulder at the front of McConnell’s house. The door was swinging open.
He didn’t say a word as he stepped into the doorway, the late-afternoon sun framing him in fiery gold so he almost seemed to be surrounded by an otherworldly glow.
Knock it off. So much for the hard-hitting journalist. Her overactive imagination was having a field day. She’d read all about his amazing abilities, noted his dark good looks, and was a little too curious about him, so now she was half fancying the man as some mystical being.
McConnell said nothing; he merely stared at her, long and hard, as if he hated her for making him take an interest in what she had to say. Well, that’s exactly why she’d left the flyer. She just couldn’t believe it had actually worked.
He lifted a hand, palm out, all his fingers spread.
She understood. Five minutes.
Not about to waste one of them, Lexie turned and jogged back up the walk. By the time she got to the porch, he’d already disappeared into the grand old house, which, from the outside, looked just as secretive and mysterious as its owner. She walked right in behind him, unable to resist taking a quick peek at the soft, golden oak floors, the plastered walls and decorative crown molding. The house had once been a grand southern showcase and was about four times the size of her 1970s-era duplex.
“Lock it, please,” he called from the closest room—the office in which she’d spied him a few minutes ago from the side doors.
She entered to find him standing beside a front bay window, gazing outside. A deep frown pulled at his brow, but didn’t detract from his strong, handsome profile, with a square jaw, slashing cheeks, and slight grizzle that said he hadn’t shaved recently. She’d seen in her research that he was thirty-four, but he looked a little older. Not only because of his somber demeanor—his all black clothes and the frown—but also because of the slight premature gray at his temples, stark against the rest of the thick, dark brown hair.
It was not unattractive, not in the least. The silvery-gray matched that same hint of color in his eyes, which reminded her of a blue summer sky caught between sun and storm. And though she stood on the other side of the room, she still wasn’t sure she could hold an even stare if he leveled all that attention, that intuitive, otherworldly focus, directly on her. Because he was a little too knowing, as if he’d already done some kind of psychic-stuff and figured out all her secrets, or would, if she let down her guard.
That’s crazy. She’d met him fifteen minutes ago; they hadn’t even shaken hands. It had obviously been way too long since she’d been with a good-looking guy if this one could have her emotions all jumbled up just because of the way he looked at her. Well, and the way he looked.
“Say what you have to say.” His deep voice sounded more melodious than it had when he’d been barking at her from the other side of a closed door.
She shook off the strange sensations that had been washing over her since she’d first seen Aidan McConnell and focused on what she’d come here for. Not even wasting time on niceties or taking a seat, she jumped right in.
“The missing girl’s name is Vonnie Jackson. She’s a senior at Granville High and she disappeared while walking home after an event at her school Monday evening. The school secretary told me Vonnie’s mother showed up there yesterday to say she’d never come home Monday. Her books were found on the ground not far from where she lived.”
She paused for a breath. He said nothing.
Digging another flyer out of her backpack, she continued. “These were already up all over the school by the time I arrived this morning. The CHS principal is one of Chief Dunston’s supporters. But the vice principal’s more reasonable. He’s worried and has kids lining up to help form search parties.”
When she stopped to heave in another breath, he finally began asking questions.
“Why aren’t the police taking an interest? Are they saying she’s a runaway?”
“How did you know . . . Oh, duh, I said that before, didn’t I? Well, they’re not taking an interest in any of the other missing girls. But as far as Vonnie goes, I don’t know if they’re interested or not, because they won’t talk to me. The chief made it clear to my boss that I am to stay out of it.”
He held up a strong hand, stopping her with a gesture. “I don’t want to hear about any of the others. Stick with Vonnie Jackson.”
Swallowing, not allowing herself to be intimidated, she did as he asked. “She’s an incredibly smart girl. Ivy League smart. She transferred to GHS this year because she’d already gone through every advanced class she could get down at Hoover.”
He lifted a curious brow.
“Hoover is the other local high school, filled mostly with kids from the Boro.” Still seeing his confusion, she realized he hadn’t spent much of the past year getting to know the place in which he now lived. “The Boro is what they call the area just south of Woodsboro Avenue. Granville’s wrong side of the tracks. That’s where all the girls. . . .” She cleared her throat. “That’s where Vonnie lives.”
“I see.”
“From what I hear, the cops haven’t been over to GHS to tal
k to anyone, so they could be trying to sweep this one under the rug, too. Or they might be keeping their heads buried in the sand.”
“Something the police are often very good at,” he muttered.
Remembering some of the comments made about him by a few of Savannah’s finest, she understood his dislike. She also suspected it was extremely mutual.
“But it’s not going to be as easy this time.” She ticked off some pertinent facts that had convinced her this girl had been taken. “Vonnie is well liked and highly thought of. She was sixty points shy of a perfect SAT score, and already has a bunch of scholarship offers. She’s not somebody they can write off as just another runaway like the other victims.”
“Just. Vonnie. Jackson,” he said tightly, as if slicing off the words from between clenched teeth.
Yeesh. The man obviously did not want to be having this conversation. She was going to have to interest him a little more in what was going on in his new hometown. But despite having been accused of sometimes having the tact of a double-barrel shotgun, she did know how to work a story, build it to the high point.
“Okay, Vonnie. She’s an only child, not a bad word said about her by anyone. Definitely one of those kids who overcame a rough childhood—the mother has a record of drug abuse and prostitution and lost custody of Vonnie for a year when she was in elementary school.”
“Where’d she end up?”
“Foster home.”
“Father?”
“He died when she was a baby. I think that’s when the mother went off the rails.”
“Tough life,” he murmured.
He didn’t ask more questions, as if knowing she wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
Lexie pulled a pad of paper out of her backpack, glancing at the notes she’d taken while doing research all day on the missing teen. “She doesn’t party, rarely dates, and hasn’t had a serious boyfriend since last year.”
“The ex-boyfriend . . .”
She cut him off, knowing where he was headed. “According to one of her friends, that breakup was mutual and pretty friendly, as far as teenage romances go.”
His frown deepened. “Continue.”
“Her records don’t show a single disciplinary mark at any school. In the short time she’s been at Granville High, she’s already become active in the drama program and in the debate team.” She flipped the page and continued. “She worked at a restaurant downtown. A place called—”
“Ranger Joe’s Wings & Things,” he murmured.
Her jaw fell open. How could he could have known that? The information hadn’t been on the flyer she’d left.
For the first time, McConnell’s stern mouth softened with what might have been amusement, although it had a long way to go before it could actually be called a smile. “No, Ms. Nolan, I didn’t read your mind.”
“Lexie,” she automatically murmured.
“Lexie?” He swept an assessing stare at her, top to bottom, with those piercing, knowing eyes. “I don’t like it. That’s a little girl’s name; it doesn’t suit you.”
“Gee, thanks. Why don’t you go ahead and read my mind now and see how appreciative I am that you pointed that out?”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he crossed his arms, leaning one hip against the over-laden desk that looked like it could double as a two-person life raft. “You misunderstood.”
Didn’t seem like there was much to misunderstand about him saying her name was stupid.
“I don’t read minds at all.”
She should have known he wasn’t apologizing for the name crack.
“Now, as I was saying, Ms. Nolan, I know Vonnie Jackson worked at Ranger Joe’s because she waited on me when I ate there with friends a few weeks ago.”
Huh. The abrasive, snarly guy, who’d just insulted her nickname—which her father had bestowed on her when she had been, okay, a little girl—actually went out in public on occasion. With other people. Guess anything was possible.
“Yes, even shut-ins get out to a restaurant once in a while,” he said dryly, again as if he could look into her head and see her thoughts.
She shrugged, then, always blunt, couldn’t help adding, “Frankly, I was thinking how strange it is that you actually have friends.”
His dreamy, mesmerizing eyes widened; then a bark of laughter emerged from those tightly compressed lips. His face softened, a year of resentment and mistrust disappearing in an instant. This was the Aidan McConnell whose picture she’d seen in a couple of old online articles—the one who hadn’t yet been lynched in print. Suddenly, instead of a handsome, stern, forbidding man, she saw a very sexy, mysterious young one. A good-humored guy who didn’t mind being the butt of a snarky joke.
The change was pretty remarkable. Not to mention distracting. It made her wish, for a moment, that she’d met Aidan McConnell before last year.
“Do you have a filter, Ms. Nolan? Any kind of off switch between brain and mouth?”
“Do you have an on switch?” she countered. “Any button that allows you to drop the tough, reclusive, mystery man act and become human?”
“I think you might have just pushed it.”
“I push your buttons, huh?”
“Guess that’s in your job description.”
The last remnants of laughter quickly faded, as did the smile. That was good. She didn’t need distractions, especially not sexy male ones. Not now when she might again have a crack at the biggest story this town had ever heard. Not when there was still a chance for Vonnie.
Suddenly realizing the implication of what he’d said, she prodded, “So you already know Vonnie. That’s why you invited me back in here.”
“I don’t actually know her,” he clarified. “She simply brought food and drinks to the table at which I was sitting.” He breathed in deeply, then slowly exhaled. “Her fingers brushed against mine when she handed me a beer.”
That apparently meant something to the man, though Lexie didn’t understand why he seemed so bothered by it.
He turned his back to her, walking over to the expensive-looking leather couch and sat down. Tapping the smooth top of a coffee table—obviously a refurbished antique, like most of the other furniture she’d spied since entering—he said, “The flyer please?”
She glanced around for the sheet she’d given him, didn’t see it, then dropped the one she was holding onto the table in front of him. “That’s her senior picture.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and studied the paper. “Her birthday’s tomorrow,” he said, obviously focusing in on the details, including the date of birth, listed below the photo. “Eighteen.”
“Yes. Hell of a way to spend your eighteenth birthday.”
He ignored her, apparently having been talking to himself. “I don’t suppose they make their own desserts in that restaurant where she works.”
“At Ranger Joe’s? Yeah, right. Only if unwrapping a Ring Ding or a Twinkie and dumping it on a chipped plate counts as making them.”
He muttered something under his breath, something about bread.
“I somehow doubt they bake their own bread, either.”
“I was talking about gingerbread,” he muttered, though he didn’t explain.
“Unless Sara Lee makes it and the Piggly Wiggly sells it, I’d say that’s a definite no.”
Falling silent again, he continued to study Yvonne Jackson’s grainy photograph. The man went still, though his posture wasn’t stiff and angry. It was strange, the intensity of his pose. He didn’t glow, his eyes didn’t roll back in his head, nor did he start speaking in tongues. This was no psychic trance, just the focused concentration of someone able to lose all sense of time and place and disappear deep into his own thoughts.
At least, she didn’t think he was doing his seeing-visions thing. She’d read a lot about the cases he’d worked on, but none of the interviews or articles she’d read talked about exactly how he did what he did. She somehow suspected his shtick had to involve touch—mainly beca
use he hadn’t touched that sheet of paper, nor had he extended his hand to her in greeting.
Touch. He’d mentioned his fingers and Vonnie’s had touched.
Lexie sucked in a breath, understanding his worry. He’d touched her, and suspected he might be able to help find the missing girl. He just didn’t know that he was willing to.
Well, she didn’t have time to sit here and watch him decide what to do. Thinking about the case was all well and good, but the clock was ticking. She wanted to have a few answers—or at least some better questions—by the time she saw Walter again tomorrow.
Besides, long, introspective silences weren’t exactly her thing.
To hell with it. Without invitation, she sat down beside him, though she did maintain his personal bubble by a good ten inches, at least. That was probably for her own sake, as well as his. Aidan McConnell was too mysterious, too interesting—too attractive—for her own good. She didn’t need to get any closer; that would only tempt her to accidentally-on-purpose brush against him, just to see what happened. And, she had to admit, to see if her skin tingled in utter electric excitement when it touched his.
He didn’t glare her away or growl in frustration that she’d interrupted him, so Lexie pointed to the home address printed beneath Vonnie’s photograph. “That’s a particularly bad block she comes from. I went over there today, trying to track down her mother, but a neighbor said she’s been hitting the bars all week, day and night, and hasn’t been home much.”
“Drowning her sorrows, drinking away her grief and worry, I presume,” he said, a hint of dry sarcasm in that deep voice.
“Guess so,” she said, noting that he’d already formed the same impression she had. “From the sound of it, when the woman finally figured out her daughter hadn’t made it home, and went to the school to look for her, she seemed more interested in threatening lawsuits than finding her child.”
“Mother of the year.”
“Exactly. I suppose it’s no wonder Vonnie worked so hard to do well in school. She was willing to brave the sneers from the neighborhood, the potential rejection from her new classmates, even the disdain of her own mother in order to get a better education. She knew she had one ticket out and she wasn’t letting anybody stop her.”
Dangerous To Love Page 102
