Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1

by Maggie Shayne

  Yeah, an idea of how we could spend time together without him having to admit he missed me. The jerk.

  * * *

  I was in a shitty mood that afternoon. The writing hadn’t gone well—one of the big downsides of doing what I did for a living was that it was hard to pull it off when you were in a bitchy mood. How do you write sunshine and rainbows when you’re wishing you could poke someone in the windpipe with an acrylic nail?

  So there was that, and then there was the report from the vet, which Amy delivered from as far from me as she could stand without being out of earshot. According to Dr. Einstein—not—my dog was obese. Not chubby. Not fat. Not a little overweight, but obese. If he’d said it to my face, I’d have hit him.

  And now, still steaming over that little pronouncement, I was face-to-face with Mel, the new boyfriend.

  And no, I am not Amy’s mother or her aunt or her guardian. I have no power over her. And it was probably none of my business.

  But I will tell you right now, I knew from my chestnut-brown hair to my scuff-around-the-house slippers, which I put back on my feet the minute I got home, that there was something wrong about this guy.

  Oh, he smiled at me, had great manners, said all the right things, looked adoringly at Amy and then made his exit with all the grace and ease of a seasoned actor. And I got the feeling that was exactly what he was. The big Thanksgiving trip was about to begin, and they were due at her parents’ before the night was out. Five-hour drive, after all. Yada yada yada. I snapped a pic of his Jag with my cell phone when they drove away. I don’t know why. It was as knee-jerk a reaction as blinking when someone claps their hands in front of your face. I didn’t think about it. Just did it, then thought, Huh. That was weird.

  I didn’t like him, and I didn’t like Amy going off with him.

  When Amy’s mother called the next morning to ask if I’d heard from her daughter, I liked it even less.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had to bite my lip to keep from blurting something that would scare the hell out of Ellen Montrose. But I knew it was bad. I don’t know how I knew. I just knew. It was just there, right in the middle of my chest, like a big pulsing tumor. Something bad had happened to Amy. And my brain was running at light speed, churning its gears and finally spitting out a series of simple commands. Stay calm. Get the details. Call Mason.

  I took a deep breath and tried to obey.

  “I haven’t seen her since she left here yesterday evening,” I told Ellen, trying to sound casual. “When did you hear from her?”

  “She called along about six. Said she was goin’ to pick up her car, go home to pack a bag and then she’d be leaving to head home. Riding down with this new fella she’s been seein’. Mel.” I heard it in her voice when she said the name: she didn’t like the guy any more than I did. Mother’s intuition. It’s the real deal. “They should have been here by midnight at the latest.”

  Stay calm, get the details. Call Mason, my brain reminded me.

  “Maybe she changed her mind at the last minute. Did you call her?”

  “Well, of course I called her. Heaven’s mercy, Rachel, do you think I’d be callin’ you if I hadn’t already tried to call her first?”

  “I’m sorr—”

  “No. No, I’m sorry. I got no call to snap at you. I just…I’m worried about her.”

  “I know. It’s okay. Really. I’ll look into it from here, okay? I’ll find her, give her hell for worrying her mother and have her home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. All right?”

  Her mother sniffled. “I got a bad feelin’, Rachel.”

  “You just focus on that homemade cranberry dressing Amy’s been raving about all week long. Let me worry about your girl. I’ll get her there. I promise.”

  She sighed. “Okay. I guess. Keep in touch, all right?”

  “I will.” I hung up the phone, closed my eyes for a second, took a deep breath. Then I went to my cell phone, which was sitting on the long sofa table behind the couch on its charger pad. Hit the button, flipped to the photos, selected the shot of the departing Jag and sent it to Mason, along with a brief message.

  Amy missing. Need u.

  I hit Send and realized my hand was shaking.

  He called within two minutes. In another thirty he was at my front door.

  * * *

  I was riding beside Mason in his black Monte Carlo, which was his dream car. I didn’t see why. It was big, it was old and it was ugly. I far preferred my ‘02 T-bird, a replica of the ‘65 model, only with electric everything, and lots of bells and whistles. His was original. It even smelled old. There was just one long vinyl bench, no console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

  Myrtle, however, loved it. She liked the window seat, so I was in the middle, crammed up beside Mason, because she took up a lot of room. We had the window down halfway because I’m ridiculously in love with my dog and she loves the wind in her face. She crammed her face into the opening, mouth gaping, tongue flapping in the chill November breeze, goggles protecting her eyes.

  I didn’t mind being close to Mason. He smelled good. Familiar. I hadn’t realized how much I’d grown to love his smell. A little bit the soap he used. A little bit the work he did. I could smell his gun, or maybe that was the oil he used to clean it. I could smell the leather holster that held it. I could smell him. The combination was the clear scent of cop. This cop, in particular. And for me, that was an aphrodisiac.

  Note to self: stop dissing the New Agers peddling aromatherapy. They’re right. Scent does have power.

  “Sorry to drag you away from the family on a holiday,” I told him.

  “They’ll be all right. The boys have friends over, gaming until the food’s ready. Mother and Marie are cooking, and I’ve got all weekend off to spend with them.” He looked my way. “Your plans got blown out of the water, too, huh?”

  “I was just going to eat at Sandra and Jim’s. I called her. It’s no big deal. They’re as worried about Amy as I am.”

  He nodded, and I looked away, because I was thinking about my earlier wish that I could be with him today, and how it looked as though it was panning out. Though I’d envisioned us munching on leftover turkey in between bouts of sex and football. Not searching for my favorite goth.

  I held a printout Mason had brought with him. The silver Jaguar with the plate number MIB-576 was registered to one Melvin Brandt. Not Mel Brennan. He wasn’t a lawyer, he was a plumber. And he was very, very married. He also lived right on the way to Amy’s, so we decided to visit his house first. I didn’t expect him to be there, but someone sure as hell would be. His wife, maybe. We could learn a lot from her. Mason by talking to her, and me by feeling the emotions underneath the words. Amy’s place would be our second stop.

  “I knew that jerk was hiding something. Lying about something. I knew it. Why the hell did I let her go?”

  “How’d you know?” Mason asked. He was driving at a good solid clip, seven miles an hour over the limit. Consistent. No cruise control needed. Not that a car this old probably even had such a thing.

  I sent him a look. “You know how I knew.”

  “Yeah, I do. And I know if you’re this scared, something’s wrong. I don’t even doubt your instincts anymore.”

  “Instincts.” I played with the word in my head and decided it was better than ESP. He’d accused me of having that once, as had Amy, and I’d damn near choked on it both times. “Something’s happened to her.”

  “We’ll find her.”

  But we couldn’t even file an official missing person’s report that the department would take seriously until we’d at least checked the basics. Her place and Mel’s. Then we’d call it in, Mason had promised. “I promised her mother I’d have her at the table for dinner.”

  “I’m pretty sure we’ll be ab
le to keep that promise.”

  “I hope so.” He turned onto Hooper Road, and I started scanning houses for the matching number. Then I found it. There was a big wooden swing set on the lawn. “There it is. The lying prick has kids.”

  “Jag’s in the driveway. He must be home.”

  I pulled Myrt across my lap and into the middle so I could get out. She was so heavy it was all I could do to drag her bulk over the slippery vinyl seat, and I grudgingly conceded that my vet might have a point.

  Mason jumped out his side, came around to mine, took hold of my forearm, no doubt to keep me from charging up to the door and ruining the guy’s holiday, not to mention his marriage. “We don’t know this guy did anything.”

  “Other than cheat on his wife and lie to my best friend, you mean?”

  He tipped his head to one side. “Amy’s your best friend? Does she know that?”

  “I didn’t know it until just now. And if this son of a—”

  The front door opened before we reached it. A pretty little brunette stood there, big brown eyes, paintbrush lashes and all of five-one. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

  “It’s Thanksgiving,” Mason whispered near my ear. Then he smiled his best charm-your-socks-off smile and extended a hand. “Mason Smith. This is my better half, Becky.”

  Becky Smith? Really? It was a good thing I was wearing a knit beret and sunglasses. I mean, I wasn’t rock star famous, but people did occasionally recognize me.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, wiping her hands on the dish towel she carried and quickly accepting his handshake. I could smell onions and poultry seasoning wafting from inside. She nodded hello to me, too, as Mason went on.

  “I’m was hoping to talk to your husband. Melvin? He did some plumbing work for me, and, uh, I wouldn’t be here on a holiday but it’s an emergency, and the service isn’t picking up. Is he home?”

  “Sure. Would you like to come in?”

  “Who is it, honey?” called Mel, whose balls were going to be in my fist in about two seconds.

  “The Smiths. You did some work for them?”

  He came up behind her muttering, “Smith?” as if he’d never heard the name before, then caught sight of me standing at the door and went white. I’d heard that described before. Hadn’t seen it firsthand. Turns out it’s literal. That liar’s face went two shades paler right in front of my eyes.

  “Talk to you a minute, Mel?” I asked sweetly.

  “Yeah, sure. Um, Joanne, I left the burner on under the celery and onions. Will you…?”

  “I’ll get it.” She smiled a goodbye and rushed back into the house, while Mel Brandt, husband of the year, came outside pulling the door closed behind him.

  “What’s this about?” he asked, and he was whispering even though his wife was in no danger at all of overhearing us.

  “It’s about Amy,” I said. “It’s about how she left my house heading for Erie with you last night, and how she never got there. And how you’re still here. You got your car keys on you, Mel?”

  “What do you mean, she never got there?” He opened the front door and reached inside, pulling a set of keys from somewhere nearby and closing it again.

  “Just what I said. She never got there. What did you do with her?”

  His eyes flared. “What’s that supposed to mean? I didn’t do anything with her.” He looked from me to Mason. “Who are you?”

  Mason pulled out his badge and flashed it, and I thought the guy was going to fall over. It wasn’t fake. He was scared. I felt it emanate from him like a shock wave.

  “Open your trunk, Mel,”I said.

  He didn’t have to, of course. I waited for him to ask to see our search warrant. Instead, he moved past us, down his three porch steps and across the paved drive to his Jaguar. He hit a button on the key ring and it unlocked, hit it again and the trunk opened. “Look to your hearts’ content. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Except from your wife.”

  Mason nudged me when I said that, then went around to look in the trunk. After that, he poked around the inside the car. Mel and I stood close enough so Mason could still hear every word of our conversation.

  “What happened after you picked Amy up from my place last night?” I demanded.

  Mel swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple surfaced and submerged like a dolphin. “I took her to pick up her car from the garage. It was having an oil change and inspection. Then I followed her back to her place so she could pack. Just like we’d planned. I…thought it was best to tell her there.” He sighed, lowered his head.

  “Tell her what?”

  He kept his head down. “That I was married. Jo and I had been…living like strangers for a long time. I—”

  “Yeah, right. She doesn’t understand you, I’ll bet.”

  He did raise his head then, and looked me in the eye, a hint of anger finally appearing in his own. Took it long enough. “I care about Amy,” he said. “But I’d decided to try to make my marriage work. I had to let her go. I had to tell her it was over.”

  My jaw was clenching so hard my teeth hurt. I consciously eased it. I hated that this part of his story rang true. The vibe he was giving off, the body language… I wanted to see lies, but I wasn’t. “How did she take it?” I asked.

  “She shoved me out the door, threw a vase at my head, swore at me, called me a thousand names and told me to get out.” He shrugged. “So I did.”

  “And that’s the last time you saw her.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t talk to her on the phone after that?”

  “No.”

  “When my detective friend pulls her phone records, he’s going to verify that?”

  “Yes.” He frowned. “Is he going to do that?”

  “You better believe he’s gonna to do that, and if you’re lying to me about anything, if I so much as find out she threw a cup instead of a vase, Melvin, I’m gonna start questioning your wife instead of you. You reading me?”

  His lower lip trembled a little. He said, “Please don’t destroy my marriage.”

  “You don’t need any help doing that. You want me to keep quiet, then help me find my friend.”

  Mason came to stand beside me. “I don’t see any sign of anything in the car. No sign it’s been recently cleaned, either.”

  “I’ve been meaning to have it detailed, but—”

  “Don’t even think about it, you lying fuck. You clean it now, it’ll just make you look more guilty,” I said.

  “Guilty of what?” He frowned at me, shaking his head. “I thought you were some kind of spiritual writer. What the hell kind guru talks like that?”

  I lunged forward a little, getting all up into his face, but Mason put a hand on my shoulder and drew me back. Myrtle woofed loudly from the Monte Carlo. Like me, she used senses beyond the normal five. And right now she clearly knew I was fighting mad and she wanted to come and provide backup.

  “She’s just upset,” Mason said, trying to inject some calm into the situation. “We’re both very worried about Amy. Just tell us what she said to you before you left.”

  “I told you, she called me every name in the book and said if she ever saw me again she’d claw out my eyes. Shoved me outside, threw the vase at my head, then slammed the door in my face and that was it. I left.”

  “She didn’t say whether she intended to go to Erie alone?” Mason asked.

  He shook his head. “No. She didn’t say.”

  “Can you think of anything else? Anywhere she might have gone? Anyone she might have wanted to see or—”

  “No. Nothing.” He took a deep breath. “I’m concerned about her, too.”

  “Sure you are. Pig.”

  Mason squeezed my shoulder a little. “We’ll be in t
ouch,” he said. “C’mon, Rachel.”

  I jerked free of Mason’s hand and leaned up into Mel’s face. “If I find out you did anything to hurt Amy, there won’t be a place on this planet where you’ll be safe, pal. I promise.”

  Then I turned and got back into Mason’s beast of a car, hugged my dog and told her what a good girl she was. I wondered if she’d have chomped the bastard’s leg if she’d been out there with me. I liked to think so.

  Mason said a few more words to the lying cheater, and then he got in, too.

  “What did you think?” he asked as he backed out the driveway.

  “He’s lying.” I bit my lip. “But not about everything. I think they had the fight and went their separate ways pretty much like he said. Maybe he went back later.”

  He nodded. “Maybe she got mad and threatened to tell his wife everything. Had a case a year ago where that was the motive.”

  I closed my eyes and didn’t ask what kind of a case. I didn’t have to. It was murder. It was in the waver beneath his words. “Let’s head over to Amy’s. See what we can find there.”

  I didn’t know what, if anything, I was hoping we’d see. I knew for sure what I didn’t want to see, though. Amy lying dead and cold and alone on Thanksgiving.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Amy’s place was a brick duplex in Endicott with a driveway so steep that if you forgot your emergency brake you’d find your car in the road. The other half housed three guys who were an aspiring rock band. She’d dated two of them. Not at the same time, of course. They probably qualified as good-looking if you liked the scrawny, pale type. Which Amy did. Usually.

  “Right here,” I said, and Mason pulled in and up. Then he stepped on the e-brake while I fished in my purse and struck gold.

  “You have a key?” he asked. Rhetorical, since I was currently holding one in my hand.

  “She asked me to feed her cat last time she went to visit her folks. Usually has the guys next door do it, but they were out of town.” He got out, and then I slid over his still-warm seat and got a little naughty thrill from that. Really sad, right? Myrtle was snoring on the seat, so we left her to finish her nap. I saw the Venetian blinds part as one of the band members peeked out at us. I waved. He nodded and let the blinds snap together again.