Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1

by Maggie Shayne

  On the sidewalk leading up to Amy’s door, pieces of blue glass glinted in the morning sun. I nodded at the ground. “Look like a vase to you?”

  “Yeah, it does. Did you get the feeling Mel was lying to us about that?”

  I hadn’t. I’d wanted to, but I hadn’t. “Guy’s so used to lying he’s probably good enough to fool even me. Hell, the Wraith did. I was in his presence twice and didn’t know it. This guy could’ve jammed my radar the same way.”

  “Or else he was telling the truth.”

  “Then where’s Amy?” I unlocked the door and we went inside. It was a mess. Not signs-of-a-struggle mess, though. Just Amy’s usual, enhanced by what must have been some pretty angry packing. The closet was open, shoes spilling out of it. Every possible surface had wadded-up, makeup-stained tissues all over it. There were clothes strewn on the sofa, more on the bed. Most of them black. A few dark red. A white piece here and there for contrast. I looked in the closet. “I’m pretty sure that’s where the suitcase lives. It’s not there or anywhere else now.”

  “It looks like she packed, then,” Mason said as we both headed back into the living room.

  I nodded. “Looks like. And her car’s not here.” Then I frowned. “Where’s the cat?”

  “He’s hanging out at our place,” said a male voice from just beyond the front door. We’d closed it behind us, but he was standing there holding it open.

  I recognized him. One of the guys from next door. “Jerry, right?”

  “Yeah, and you’re the writer she works for. Rachel.”

  I nodded and turned to Mason. “Mason, this is one of the guys who lives next door. Jerry, this is my friend Mason Brown.”

  “The cop?” Jerry’s eyes widened a little. Amy must have shared some of my recent adventures with her neighbor. I wasn’t upset. I trusted her completely. She’d never discuss anything personal or sensitive. If she did, the whole world would know what a fraud I was and she’d be cashing royalty checks for her own tell-all book. She was loyal.

  I loved her, dammit.

  “What’s going on?” Jerry asked.

  “Why don’t we talk about it outside?” Mason said with a quick look at me. I got it. If it did turn out something had happened to Amy, this place was evidence central. We didn’t want a lot of people traipsing in and out.

  So we all headed outside and Jerry led us around to his side of the house, right up to the door, and then sort of hesitated and changed direction. I knew why. I could smell the lingering hint of weed wafting from his apartment. He wasn’t about to invite a cop inside. He sat at a little patio set—table and four chairs, with the umbrella and cushions missing, probably put away for the winter. So did we. “So what’s up?” Jerry asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Nobody seems to be able to find Amy. When’s the last time you saw her?”

  He looked worried and leaned forward, laying his forearm on the metal tabletop. “Last night, when she asked us to watch Stallone for the weekend. You try her mom’s? That’s where she was going.”

  “Her mom’s the one who called me.”

  Jerry’s brows went up. The front door opened, and dude number two—and a stronger whiff of weed—came out. Mike, a Jerry clone sans the dark hair. His was blond. “S’up?”

  “Amy never made it to her mom’s last night,” Jerry said. “They don’t know where she is.”

  “Better ask her dick boyfriend.”

  Mason and I exchanged a look. “You know him?” Mason asked.

  They both shook their heads no. “They had a big fight last night. She was crying when she came to ask us to cat-sit.” That was Mike. Jerry was nodding in agreement.

  “Could you hear what they were fighting about?” I asked.

  Mike looked at Jerry. Jerry nodded. “Couldn’t hear anything from him. But Amy was screaming loud enough for both of them. He was married. Hadn’t told her. Apparently had an attack of conscience. Man, was she pissed.”

  “Anything else?” Mason asked.

  Jerry shook his head. “Dude left. A little while later Amy came over. Eyes all red, you know, from crying. Said she was going home for Thanksgiving and asked us to keep an eye on Stallone for her.”

  “We ended up bringing him over. He likes it here.”

  “Yeah. When we play, he curls right up next to us and just blisses out.”

  Secondhand smoke, I thought. Stallone was apparently a stoner.

  “You play?” Mason asked.

  “They’re a band,” I informed him. “MSG, right?”

  “Red Dye Seven,” Jerry corrected.

  Hell, I knew it was some kind of food additive.

  Mason just nodded, as though that made perfect sense.

  “So, Jerry, when Amy left, did you see her? Was she driving her own car and was she alone?”

  “Yeah. Was about….what, eight?” he asked Mike.

  “Eight-fifteen. She was alone. And yeah, her own car.” He lowered his head, shook it. “I sure as hell hope she’s all right.”

  “Me, too.” I got up from the table. Mason followed. “Thanks for your help, Jerry. Mike.”

  “Will you keep us posted?” Jerry got up and started patting himself down. “I’ll give you my digits. Text me, okay?”

  I handed him my phone and he quickly tapped in his contact info, then handed it back. “If we can do anything…”

  “Take good care of Stallone. That’s the best I can think of for now. Have a nice Thanksgiving, okay?”

  “Okay, Ms. De Luca. Will do.”

  We got back to the car, where Myrtle was snoring and taking up the entire front seat. Mason sent me a look. “She has to go in the back.”

  I sighed, but nodded. “Go ahead, if you think you can lift her.”

  He made a face, like, Duh, of course I can lift her. Then he slid his arms under her, and when he straightened, he grunted and possibly gave himself a hernia. I opened the back door and he put her down carefully. “Jeez, woman, what are you feeding her, anyway? Boulders?”

  “Large chickens and small cattle,” I said. Then I went around and got in.

  We sat there a minute after Mason started up the engine. “I think it’s time we filed a missing person’s report,” he said.

  “Can we? We don’t we have to wait twenty-four hours or—”

  “No. And we’ve done reasonable diligence. We need to get an APB out on her car. You know the make, model and plate number?”

  “It’s a light blue Ford Focus. Twenty-twelve. I don’t know the plate number.”

  “We can get it using her name and address,” he said.

  “Then is that all we need to file the report?”

  “Basically. Description. Date of birth.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Will you take me home and then file the report without me?”

  He blinked slowly, then turned to look at me. “What are you gonna be doing?”

  “Driving to Erie. Tracing her route. Catching up to her, I hope.”

  He nodded. Then he shrugged. “We’ll call in and get the report started on the way.”

  Swinging my head toward him in an exaggerated way, I said, “You’re coming with me?”

  “I told the family I’d be gone all day.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “After I got your text.”

  “All I said in that text was that I needed you.”

  He put the car into reverse, released the e-brake and cranked his head around to look behind him as he backed down the driveway. That way he didn’t have to look at me when he said, “That’s all you had to say, Rache.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Really? That was all I had to say? Just a simple Need U in a text message from me had him ditching his recently bereaved fa
mily on a holiday and rushing to my side?

  I hadn’t thought about the rushing part before. But in hindsight, yeah, he must’ve rushed. He lived in Binghamton. I was in Whitney Point. He must’ve left the house almost immediately, barely taking the time to print up Mel the lying plumber’s vital stats first.

  What was I supposed to make of that?

  “Seventeen is the logical route,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I nodded, happy to let his topic distract me from my own. The stuff between us was complicated. Electric. Exciting. Magnetic. But freakin’ complicated. “Yup. It’s pretty much a straight shot until you’re almost there.”

  “We’ll be out of my jurisdiction. I won’t be able to do anything official.”

  “Par for the course, though, right?” He bent one eyebrow at me. “You’re never doing anything official when we’re together. Usually it’s super-duper unofficial. Like stuff-that-could-derail-your-career unofficial.”

  “I doubt you’re going to turn out to be a suspect in this case, Rache. I shouldn’t have to hide any weapons or conceal any evidence to cover your cute ass this time.”

  He just said I had a cute ass.

  Focus on the topic, Rachel.

  But he was going all dark now. Going back to that place that I knew was eating at his soul. He didn’t have to tell me. My sixth sense or whatever it was seemed to work overtime where he was concerned. “Besides, you weren’t with me when I decided to hide my brother’s suicide confession. That wasn’t you. It was all me.”

  “It was the right thing to do. It’s over.”

  He nodded as if to say he agreed. But he didn’t. The guy was so honest that his one lie was torturing him. Of course, it had been a pretty big lie. A whopper.

  “So we’ll hop onto 17 West and take it from there.”

  “How about we hop straight to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts for a large high-test and some sugary carbs first?”

  He glanced my way as he stopped at a traffic light, his focus shifting from internal to external. He’d been going through the motions while guilt churned in his gut, I knew. I could read people. And I could read him better than anyone else. While he stared at my face, latching onto it like a drowning man latches onto a life preserver, I said, “They still have that pumpkin spice coffee. Once Thanksgiving’s over, it’s gone and we’re on to whatever they do for Christmas. Holly berry pinecone surprise or whatever.”

  The shadow lifted. I saw it just as the traffic light changed. He smiled a little, then made a face as he drove on. “Pumpkin coffee?”

  “You’ll taste mine. You’ll be impressed.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “I’m getting a Boston Kreme doughnut, too. Don’t even argue with me.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “You’re getting one, too. You’re thin. You losing weight?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  My stomach growled. Most unladylike. He grinned at me and I shrugged. “What? We’re discussing doughnuts, what the hell do you want from me?”

  At the word doughnuts, Myrtle lifted her head and emitted a soft woof.

  Mason’s smile widened. Pearly whites meant he was okay. “There’s a DD within ten minutes. Can you stand it that long?”

  I looked back at my dog, then at him, and then at the floor, heartbroken. “We’d better find something healthier for her. The vet says Myrtle is obese.”

  “Is he still among the living?”

  He knew me too well. “Only because Amy was the one who took her in for her checkup. If it had been me…well, never mind. What do you think? Find something Myrtle can share on the road?”

  “I’ll think of something,” he promised.

  Damn, though. I’d really wanted that doughnut.

  * * *

  Mason had pulled into a McDonald’s drive through and ordered Myrtle the chicken from a grilled chicken sandwich. Then he drove on to the DD so I could have my doughnut and coffee. He got coffee, too, and a plain doughnut. Who the hell eats plain doughnuts? Then he parked the car and fed Myrt her unbreaded, unfried, white-meat chicken.

  She loved it. Didn’t beg for my doughnut once. His either, though, like I said, plain. Who’s gonna beg for that? Given the choice, even I would rather have the chicken.

  No. No, I wouldn’t.

  We took her for a short walk in a weedy vacant lot near the DD, then popped her back into the car, backseat again, and were on our way.

  An hour later, give or take, we came upon Amy’s practical little Ford Focus parked on the shoulder of the highway on a long stretch between exits.

  I think every muscle in me tensed up at the sight of that car. I was trying to look at the area around it, but my eyes wouldn’t let go of the car itself, straining so hard to see inside that they watered. I was terrified I’d see a body. Amy’s body, toppled over in the front seat. I didn’t.

  “Looks like she had a flat.” Mason pointed to the rear passenger-side tire as he pulled to a stop behind the car and got out. His phone was in his hand before he’d taken even two steps from the Monte Carlo. “Don’t touch anything, Rache. Nothing, okay? Be careful where you step, even. Really, just don’t get too close.”

  “I know. I know. I’m not a rookie. I’ve banged a detective. As you well remember.”

  I was trying to ease my nerves with humor, but it wasn’t working and he knew it. He kept his eyes on me as he spoke to someone. A 911 operator, I guessed. I moved closer to Amy’s car, resisting the urge to race up to it and yank open the door. Instead I walked along the pavement side of the car, shielding my face with my hands and peering into the car without touching it.

  It wasn’t empty. Amy’s suitcase was in the backseat. Her backpack and handbag were in the passenger seat. Her keys were in the ignition.

  “State police are on the way,” Mason said, joining me beside the car. “Anything look odd?”

  “Yeah. Her purse. It’s right on the passenger seat.” I looked around at him, met his eyes. We both knew that wasn’t a good sign. If she’d left on her own, she would’ve taken her purse with her.

  We walked around to the front of the car. After snapping photos with his cell phone from every angle and noting that the shoulder was too hard for footprints, Mason laid a palm on the hood of Amy’s car. “Cold. It’s been here a while.”

  “Overnight, I’ll bet. The kid—Mike?—said she left at eight-fifteen, and we’re only an hour and twenty from her place.”

  He nodded in agreement, and we moved slightly closer for a better look at the flat tire. The jack was lying on the ground nearby. Mason hunkered down and leaned in. “Hell.”

  “What?”

  He lifted his head, looked me right in the eye. “Looks like some blood on the jack handle.”

  My stomach convulsed, and for a second I thought I was going to lose my doughnut. Instead, I staggered a few steps backward, ’cause I damn well didn’t want to see Amy’s blood on that jack. I clawed my phone out of my pocket and dialed her number one more time, in sheer desperation. “Answer me, dammit, Amy.”

  The phone rang in my ear.

  And then it rang again, from somewhere nearby.

  Frowning, I lowered my phone. “What the…?”

  “It’s under the car!” Mason dropped onto his knees and reached for it, yanking it out from under her car. When he got to his feet, I saw he had an evidence bag in his hand, using it as a glove to handle the phone.

  I heard sirens. The state troopers were on their way. I hurried up to Mason, leaning over his shoulder. “Check the phone, fast, before they take it into evidence.”

  He did. “Wait, wait, wait. She had the camera app open.” He tapped his thumb on the plastic bag repeatedly as the sirens drew closer.

  The last photo she’d taken came up on the scr
een.

  It was the tailgate of a white pickup truck, license plate and all, and it was taken from very near where we were standing. We both looked just past the front of Amy’s car. That truck had been parked right there. Right there.

  The state troopers came into sight, siren screaming.

  “Send that to my phone,” I said.

  “Rachel, it’s evidence. Procedure—”

  “Procedure, my ass.” I yanked the phone from him so fast I should have taken his hand off at the wrist, then tapped Share Photo. Hit the first letter of my name, and my email address popped up. I tapped Send and handed the phone back to him as the police cruiser pulled up behind his car.

  The two troopers came up to us with their gray uniforms and those wide-brimmed state trooper hats. They had the coolest uniforms, I thought. But they could use a little more color. All that gray. Black stripe up the side. Too dull. Mason set the bag with the phone in it on the roof of Amy’s car, freeing up his hands to fish out his badge. He wasn’t too happy with me. I could tell from the vibes wafting from him. I liked when he was liking me a lot more than when he wasn’t.

  Why wouldn’t he be pissed, though? It seemed as though I was always doing things to jeopardize his career or make him jeopardize it on my behalf. We were so not good for each other.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I hung around long enough to get bored with procedures. The troopers ran the pickup truck’s plates, and they came back as stolen from a Mercedes six months ago. No help there. I told them what I knew, including that I’d found the phone and sent myself the pic, in hopes that would keep Mason out of trouble. I even helped string a little police tape from a few feet behind Amy’s car to thirty feet in front of it, to include the spot where the mysterious pickup truck had pulled over. But by the time the crime scene techs arrived to start gathering evidence I was itching to be moving instead of standing still.

  “Mason, can’t we leave now? I want get back on the trail. Amy’s in trouble. There’s no doubt of it now. We have to find her, and we have to do it fast.”