by Sherry Lewis
“Just her shadow in the window,” Lucy admitted. “I wish she wouldn’t go to so much trouble. I told her I’d make the bed.”
Her dad laughed. “You know your mother. She’s been hauling things into that room for more than an hour already, getting it set up just so.”
“I brought everything I’ll need.”
“And when has that ever stopped her?”
“Never,” Lucy said around another yawn. “Mom’s going to do what she wants, and I’m too tired to argue with her. I was going to go straight up, but that dessert smelled too good to resist.”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“A piece of horse meat on white bread a few hours ago,” she said with a half smile. “Don’t tell Mom, though. I don’t want her thinking she has to cook supper.”
“I’m sure we could rustle up some leftovers. There are always some in the fridge.”
A third yawn brought tears to her eyes, so Lucy shook her head. “I’d love some, but I’d probably just fall asleep in my plate. All I really want is a soft bed and a dry floor.”
Her father stood and pulled her to her feet. “Well, you came to the right place. We just happen to have both. How long does the contractor think it will take to make the repairs on your condo?”
“According to Gwen, it will be two or three weeks.” She slid an arm around her dad’s waist and walked with him into the foyer. “Does that sound reasonable to you?”
“I’m not an expert on home repairs,” Doug said with a thoughtful frown, “but it does seem like a long time. What about the cost? Any idea what he’s going to charge you?”
“I won’t know that until I can talk to him.”
“And how are you fixed for money?”
“I’ll be fine. I have a little set aside.”
“Good for you. Financial stability, that’s the key.” Her dad guided her toward the stairs and gave her a gentle push onto the bottom step. “I know you’re busy, and I probably have more spare time than you do. I could make a few calls on Monday if you want me to.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I can take care of it. I just wondered what you thought.”
“Well, then, I think you have a place to stay as long as you need one. Now, go say hello to your mother. I’ll bring your bag up in a few minutes.”
Lucy climbed the steps toward her old bedroom, but her legs felt as if someone had strapped weights to them. Tomorrow was only a few short hours away, but maybe, with luck, she’d be able to forget the look on Mrs. Avila’s face long enough to catch some sleep. She wanted to be clearheaded when she met with the homicide detectives in the morning, and ready to work when they began the search for Tomas’s killer again.
AN INCESSANT AND ANNOYING buzzing pulled Lucy from a troubling dream far too early the next morning. Moaning in protest, she threw one arm over her eyes and rolled onto her side just as the buzzing finally let up.
The muscles she’d overworked in the gym the day before had grown stiff in the air-conditioning that had poured into her childhood bedroom all night. But even in the cold air, her skin felt sticky from the muggy September heat.
When the buzzing began again, she groaned aloud, pushed upright and began a search for the source of the irritation. She fumbled with the alarm clock beside the bed, accidentally turning on the radio. Only then did her head clear enough to realize that the noise was coming from the cell phone she’d left on the nightstand.
Swearing under her breath, she grabbed the phone and punched a button to answer. “Whoever you are, you’d better have a damn good reason for calling.”
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Even half asleep she recognized Orry Keenan’s voice, and some of her irritation faded. Orry was a good cop and a good friend—one of her favorites in Missing Persons. He’d been with her through much of the horror the previous evening, and she knew he was trying to help by not letting her become maudlin. But he was skating on thin ice.
“Don’t ‘sunshine’ me,” she warned. “I’m not in the mood.” She caught sight of her reflection in a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door and winced. As a teenager, she’d hated that mirror. Now, at a week past her thirtieth birthday, she liked it even less.
“What’s the matter?” Orry asked. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. What do you think?”
“I think you’ve gotten lazy in your old age. You should be at the gym by now, or at least on the track.”
“Not today.” Turning away from her reflection, she rolled back onto the bed and dragged the pillow with her. “Why are you calling me so early, anyway?”
“I just wanted to hear your cheerful voice. I can’t start a day without it.”
“Funny, but you’re calling the wrong person.” She tried to find the comfortable position she’d been in before the phone rang, but somehow it had disappeared. “What’s the real reason?”
Orry’s voice sobered. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Mrs. Avila was pretty rough on you.”
Lucy didn’t want to think about last night, and she didn’t want anyone—even Orry—to think she couldn’t handle a little adversity. “It’s no big deal,” she insisted. “Mrs. Avila was understandably upset. Anyone would have been under the circumstances.”
“That’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”
“She was devastated,” Lucy said, rolling onto her side. “I had to tell her that her son is dead. What do you expect her to do, thank me?” She threw one arm over her head and wished for a hole to crawl into, away from the memories, away from the world, away even from Orry’s concerns. “Now, can I go back to sleep?”
“’Fraid not, sunshine. We have a problem and Nick thought you might like to know about it.”
“What problem?”
“Nick wants you on a new case that was just phoned in.”
Lucy’s eyes flew open again and she sat bolt upright. “He can’t do that. I’m meeting with Homicide about the Avila case in a couple of hours.”
“Not anymore you’re not.”
“But he can’t do this.”
“He has no choice, Luce. Phil’s out for his mother’s funeral and Marcus is still on his honeymoon. You’re the only one in the unit without an active case.”
“The Avila case is still active,” she argued. “Not to mention the scores of others sitting on my desk waiting for me to get back to them.”
“Yeah, but those cases are old, and Avila is Homicide now. If those guys need something from you, they can call.”
Fully awake now, she paced the length of her bedroom, dodging the pile of clothes she’d left on her floor. “This isn’t right, Orry. Nobody knows this case like I do.”
“So you’ll give Homicide what you’ve got. Happens all the time, Luce. You know that.”
“But I—” Afraid of sounding whiny, she broke off and swallowed what she’d been about to say.
Too late. Orry must have guessed what was coming. “You what, Lucy? You’re emotionally involved in the Avila case? You’re taking it personally?”
She stopped walking and sank onto the foot of her bed. “Of course not. But finding Tomas was my responsibility, and I failed him.”
“You did everything you could,” Orry said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It’s a sad fact of life that we don’t win ’em all. And you know how Nick gets when he suspects one of us is too close to a case. You’re lucky he let you stay on that one as long as he did.”
“For all the good it did.”
“The only way to be of help to the families and the kids is to remain objective. You know that.”
“That might be true,” Lucy said, “but it doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It’s not supposed to. Your feelings aren’t part of the equation. So pull it together and get your tail in here. What should I tell Nick? Fifteen minutes?”
“Give me a break,” she said, sighing with resignation. “I’m not even home.”
“It’s not like that.”
“So you say. But even a night of hot romance won’t save you this morning. So rise and shine, and kiss your boyfriend goodbye. Just don’t tell him that you’re going to share the details with your poor married friends later. He might not appreciate it.”
That was supposed to drag a laugh out of her, but she still couldn’t manage one. She drew up her knees and pressed her forehead against them. She’d become a police officer to help people. To make a difference in the world. She’d been drawn to work with children for reasons she couldn’t completely understand. Maybe because she was an only child and that sense of isolation she’d felt around friends with siblings had never quite left her.
Whatever it was, the need to help kids was as much a part of her as the color of her eyes, the shade of her skin. And no matter how much she ached for Tomas Avila, no matter how desperately she wanted to catch the person who’d ended his life, she couldn’t flaunt the rules and regulations of the system she’d sworn to uphold. If Nick wanted her on the new case, she’d take it. But she wouldn’t forget about Tomas. Not even Nick could make her do that.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve got.”
“We just got the call. Possible missing kid. Female. Fourteen years old.”
“Possibly missing? Nick’s pulling me off Avila and he’s not even sure we have a case?”
“The old man who lives next door to her called in the report. Patrol officers have talked to him already. He says the mother took off a few days ago and the girl disappeared some time last night.”
Lucy let out a tired laugh and tried again to get her mind to focus. “The sun’s barely up. How does he know she’s not home in bed?”
“He claims she usually comes over to his place on Sunday mornings. She didn’t show up when she was supposed to.”
“Maybe she’s gone somewhere with her mother, or maybe she’s staying with a friend.”
“Neighbor claims she wouldn’t leave without telling him. Apparently she’s alone a lot, but he insists she’s steady and reliable in spite of her home life.”
Lucy stood, stretched, and reached for the jeans she’d left in a pool on the floor. “So where am I going? Do you have a name and address?”
“Missing girl is Angelina Beckett,” Orry said. “Close as we can figure, she disappeared sometime after eleven last night. The mother is Patrice, same last name.”
“What about the father?”
“Parents are either divorced or never married. Father never comes around, anyway. Neighbor says the father’s family is from up near Nacogdoches, but he’s never met any of them.”
Lucy had no use for absentee parents, and no patience with them, either. She pulled a clean white T-shirt from her bag, tugged socks onto her feet and looked around for her shoes. “I suppose nobody’s tried to contact him.”
“It’s your case, Luce. Guess you’ll get to do that. The neighbor you want to see is Henry Livingston.” Orry rattled off an address in Channelview, a suburb of Houston near the shipping channel. Lucy made notes on a scrap of paper and tucked it into her pocket.
While they talked, she ran a brush through her hair and pulled it back with a clip. Lowering her voice to just above a whisper, she headed into the bathroom to splash her face with cold water. “Any reason to think the neighbor isn’t telling the truth?”
“Not from this end. You’ll have to see what you think when you get there. Officers Yamaguchi and Hanson responded to the call.” He rattled off a phone number for them and asked, “What’s your ETA? I’m sure Nick will want to know.”
Ignoring the dark circles under her eyes, she tiptoed back to her bedroom, stole one last glance at her childhood bed with its beckoning sheets and snagged her favorite jacket from the back of a chair. “Estimated time of arrival one hour if traffic is light and road construction isn’t an issue.”
She’d have to leave a note for her mother, but she knew her parents would understand. She was lucky. Some of her colleagues had to do battle every time they walked out the door—with parents, with spouses, with significant others. Some people just couldn’t understand what drove police officers out of their comfortable beds at a moment’s notice. Lucy barely understood it herself. The job was hard and often thankless, but the need to make a difference in her community was as much a part of her as the air she breathed.
There were times when she longed to settle down and have a family of her own, but she’d seen so many marriages ruined by the job, she wasn’t willing to take the chance. Some spouses could take the hours, the uncertainty, and the danger. Some couldn’t.
Lucy had never even gotten that far with a relationship, and the way things looked, she never would. It would take a stronger, smarter, more secure man than any she’d met so far to welcome a woman with a badge into his life. And someone close to a saint to keep her there.
Chapter Two
JACKSON DAVIS WAS KNEE-DEEP in muck when his cell phone let out a bleat and startled the horses in the paddock in front of him. Swearing softly, he checked his watch and rolled an exasperated glance heavenward. “I haven’t even been working for an hour yet,” he muttered, “and already Wiley’s found a reason to call. This has to be some kind of record.”
His friend, Rush Fisher, planted his shovel in the mire and ran a sleeve across his forehead. Two years older than Jackson’s thirty-two, Rush had been his closest friend since they were boys. Now that they were adults, he was still one of the two people on the earth Jackson trusted. In short, Rush was the brother Jackson should have had.
“Cut him some slack,” Rush urged. “He’s going crazy sitting at home while you’re out here having fun.”
Jackson shook a glob of manure from his boot and made a face. “Only Wiley would think of this as fun.” He pulled the phone from his pocket just as the ringing died away and, with a grateful smile, shoved it back. “I give him three minutes.”
“I say five.” Rush grabbed the water bottle he’d left on a nearby fence post, drank and passed the bottle to Jackson. “It’s early yet. He’s just getting started.”
Before Jackson could even get the bottle to his mouth, the ringing began again. If Wiley’s impatience hadn’t been so damned irritating, it might even have been funny. Refusing to answer quickly, he drank, recapped the bottle and passed it back before pulling out the phone for the second time.
He loved the old man. Wiley had been the only rock in the stormy sea of Jackson’s childhood. But there were times when the pressures of keeping the ranch running and caring for an aging grandparent got to him. Despite his best efforts and Rush’s help, too many things were slipping between his fingers. Wiley was still mentally sharp. He caught—and pointed out—every mistake Jackson made, and somehow believed the fault-finding was constructive.
Struggling to remain patient, Jackson punched a button and cradled the tiny phone between chin and shoulder. “Can this wait, Wiley? I’m up to my neck in horse slop.”
“I know where you are, boy, but we got ourselves a problem. You need to drop everything and come on back to the house.”
Jackson peeled off one dirt-crusted glove so he could get a better grip on the phone. A trickle of perspiration snaked down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. “I’ve been trying to get to this mess for three days. Every time I head over here, you come up with something that needs doing first. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving until the job is done.”
“This can’t wait.”
Nothing ever could, that was part of the problem. Jackson held back an irritated sigh and leaned one elbow on the fence railing. “Wiley, we’ve been over this a hundred times—”
“Listen to me, dagnabit. I just got off the phone with a fella from down Houston way. A neighbor of Patrice’s. Somehow he found us and called to let us know that Angel’s missing.”
Hearing
his niece’s name spoken almost casually after all these years hit Jackson as if someone had whacked him in the chest with a fence post. It took a few seconds to convince himself he’d heard right, and another for Wiley’s words to really sink in. One expensive leather glove slipped into the muck at his feet, but he didn’t even bother to pick it up. A hundred questions raced through his mind, but he focused on the most important. “What do you mean, missing?”
“I mean missing. This old boy who called says he’s been living next door to our girl for a couple of years. Seems he keeps an eye on her because that mother of hers is never home.”
Jackson’s heart turned over, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. His brother’s ex-girlfriend would never win awards for her parenting skills. “How does he know Angel’s gone?”
“I’ve got the particulars written down, but I don’t want to discuss it on the phone. Get back here and I’ll tell you everything.”
Jackson’s mind raced, trying to absorb the news. “Wait! What does Patrice have to say about all this? And why in the hell didn’t she call?”
“Well, son, it’s like I said. Patrice has been gone for a few days—on a bender somewhere, no doubt. She doesn’t even know that Angel’s gone yet.” Wiley’s voice quavered, but he cleared his throat firmly and went on. “Now, are you coming back to the house, or are you going to waste precious time standing around in horseshit?”
“I’ll be there in two minutes.” In a daze, Jackson shut the phone and looked up at Rush. “I need to get back to the house. Angelina’s gone.”
Rush looked almost as stunned as Jackson felt. He’d been through that long-ago nightmare with them, and he knew more than anyone how deeply losing Angelina had affected Jackson.
From the moment of her birth, Jackson had felt a special bond with the baby girl. He’d played with her every chance he got, and he’d carted her around with him whenever Patrice would let him. He’d found peace in her eyes and the unconditional love he’d always longed for in her presence. She had been, quite simply, a miracle. And when Holden took off and Patrice shut him out of Angel’s life, he’d been devastated.
