by Brenda Novak
“That same Saturday. Latisha was sleepin’ when I had Marcie take me to work. Latisha had to wait tables at noon and Marcie had to be at the Rancho Cordova Marriott at three. She’s a maid.” She leaned forward, as if taking Jane into her confidence. “I let ’em work part-time if they’re keepin’ up with their schoolwork and all.” She rocked back. “Anyway, Latisha never showed up at the restaurant. I didn’t know ’cause nobody called me. But when Marcie didn’t go to work like she always does, the hotel wanted to know what was what. I tried her cell, but it kept goin’ to voice mail.”
“So you’re thinking they disappeared from your apartment?”
“No. As soon as I could get someone to cover the store, I took the bus home and foun’ the house jus’ fine, locked up an’ everythin’. But the car was gone. We have a little Honda Civic.”
Jane made a note of this information. “Is there any chance your sisters could be into drugs, Gloria?”
“Oh, no! You think I’d let that happen after I watched my mama kill herself with that shit? After all I done to raise ’em up good? They wouldn’t dare. They know I’d kick their asses clear to kingdom come.”
Jane believed she would, too. “Where do you think they might’ve driven?”
Gloria’s double chin wagged as she shook her head. “With the price of gas, they had no business goin’ nowhere. We gotta pinch pennies jus’ to survive. Mosta the time, we take the bus. But maybe Marcie decided to buy some doughnuts and a paper. She been talkin’ ’bout gettin’ a new job, a better one. That’s my best guess, since the car was found near Hank’s Donuts. Hank’s is our favorite.”
Jane quickly tried to assemble the scenario in her mind. Car abandoned; girls missing. Both sisters were going to school and working. They were also living in an environment that wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination, but it was very apparent that they were at least loved. What could’ve gone wrong?
“What condition was the car in? Did it have a flat, a breakdown?” she asked.
“That car has one problem after another. It ain’t worth but a few hundred bucks. But the police found it parked on a residential street off Franklin Boulevard, a few blocks from the doughnut place, like I said. And it was runnin’ jus’ fine.”
“Was there anything inside to indicate where your sisters had been that morning—some napkins from Hank’s? A grocery sack? A Starbucks cup?”
“Jus’ the books and stuff they leave in there all the time. I keep tellin’ ’em not to leave their backpacks in the car. It don’t even lock right. But sometimes they do. You know what kids are like these days.”
This woman was only in her twenties, but she acted a lot closer to Jane’s forty-six. With so much responsibility thrust on her at such a young age, she probably felt at least forty. “What about cell phones? Have the police checked to see if they’ve been used since Latisha and Marcie disappeared?”
“Their phones were in the car.” Covering her face, Gloria broke into sobs but spoke through them. “That’s another way I knew they didn’t walk off. They wouldn’t leave their phones behind. We got no money for two extra cell phones but they’d rather go without food.”
This wasn’t sounding very hopeful. Jane forced a pleasant expression to cover her concern. “Do you have the phones? We’ll need to check all incoming and outgoing calls. It’s possible they know someone you didn’t realize they know. Maybe that person’s seen them since you have.”
“The police have the phones. A detective’s goin’ through their recent calls.”
“Which detective is that?”
“They gave the case to a white guy named Willis. He a handsome man. But he wearin’ a weddin’ ring. I checked.”
Jane might’ve been tempted to laugh at Gloria’s aside, but she was too distracted by the name. “Did you say Willis?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
Too bad. Willis was Skye’s husband. That would be tricky if Jane wanted to hide her involvement from her bosses, who wouldn’t be happy to hear she’d dived in without permission.
On the other hand, having David on the case was fortuitous, too, since he was cooperative and sympathetic to what they were trying to accomplish at The Last Stand. Not all members of the department were friendly. They believed the mere existence of TLS sent a message to the community that the police weren’t being effective. Some of the unflattering comments Skye, Ava and Sheridan occasionally made to the media didn’t help. “Your husband’s the cop, not you!” someone had yelled at Skye a few weeks ago.
Jane wasn’t a cop, either. She wasn’t even a full caseworker. Not yet. But if she’d learned anything in the past six months it was that drive, determination and sheer hard work could make up for a lot in an investigation.
Gloria was explaining the situation in greater detail. Taking a deep breath, Jane refocused.
“I guess Detective Willis worked them cases down by the American River a few years back.” She wiped her nose. “Murders. They think this might be related.”
Jane felt her eyebrows slide up. If those cases were the ones that sprang immediately to her mind, this wasn’t related. It couldn’t be. Jane knew the perpetrator. She’d been living with him at the time. Oliver Burke was dead. But the memory of what he’d done in the years she’d been married to him still made her shudder. He’d been so good at compartmentalizing, at playing whatever part he needed to play in order to avoid detection. He’d fooled even her, right up until the end.
That was what she had to offer The Last Stand that none of the others could, she reminded herself. She knew how a psychopath thought, how he behaved, how manipulative he could be. Not only had she shared a decade of her life with Oliver, she had a child by him—and was nearly murdered by him, too.
“I’ll give Detective Willis a call,” she told Gloria. “I know him. He’s a friend.”
The chair groaned as Gloria shifted. “You don’t think my sisters are dead, do you? I can’t even imagine what I’d do if they was dead.”
Jane wanted to promise that they weren’t. But Latisha and Marcie had been gone for three weeks. They’d left their car and their cell phones behind, and there’d been no trace of them. What were the chances that they weren’t lying lifeless in the woods somewhere? The only thing they had going for them was the fact that they’d been together. That was better than disappearing alone. Unless the worst had happened. Then Gloria would lose both sisters at once.
“We’ll find them, one way or another,” she said. “Can you get me some photographs?”
“I got ’em right here.” She took several pictures from a large purse, as well as a crudely made flyer. “I been postin’ that flyer everywhere I can.”
Jane accepted these items, stared into the faces of the missing girls and felt a renewed sense of urgency as they became real to her. One had a distinctly darker complexion than the other, cornrows and a nose piercing. The name Marcie was written at the bottom. The other, Latisha, had almond-shaped eyes, a wide smile and an attractive bob. “Good idea,” she said. “I’ll do what I can from here.”
“Thank you.” Gloria dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I—I got no money, but I’ll do whatever I—”
“Don’t worry about fees,” Jane hurried to interject, setting the pictures and the flyer, which had the word MISSING written in large block letters across the top, on the edge of her desk. “Our services are free to those who need them.”
Relief eased some of the tension in the other woman’s bearing. “Hallelujah! Thank you, God.”
“I might require some insight or answers as we go along, however,” Jane continued. “Can you give me your contact information?”
Gloria complied with an address, work number and cell phone number.
“What about their fathers, and your father?” Jane asked. “Can you tell me how to reach these men?”
“What would you want with my no-good father?”
“I’m just being thorough.”
“I don’t want him callin’ me
again.” She sank lower in her seat. “But…I’ll do anything if it’ll help. His name’s Timothy Huff. I don’t have a number for him, but you can find him down at the pool hall on Florin Road most Fridays, drunker’n a skunk.”
That was loose contact information indeed. “And Marcie’s dad?”
“He call every once in a while from prison.”
At least they could rule him out. “What’s he in for?”
“Possession.”
“That leaves Latisha’s dad.”
Gloria shook her head. “You don’t wanna bother Luther Wilson. He got a’ anger management problem. We call him Lucifer, but we do it behind his back. That’s how bad he is.”
“Does he know his daughter’s missing?”
“I haven’t told him,” she said. “What’s the use? He don’ care ’bout her. He never has.”
Jane dropped her pen and steepled her fingers. “How’d your mother meet these men?”
“Turnin’ tricks.”
“You’re saying she was a prostitute?”
“She had to pay for her drugs somehow.”
That explained a lot. “What’s so scary about Lucifer—I mean, Luther?” she corrected.
“He was her pimp, and he beat the hell out of her.”
Now Jane knew she was in over her head. She liked to believe a bottle of bleach and a couple of tattoos made her look tough. But at five foot four she was no match for an angry pimp. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Standing, she managed a smile. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll call you when I’ve had a chance to do some checking.”
When Jane walked her to the door, Gloria said, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Jane wasn’t prepared for the embrace that accompanied those words, but as Gloria’s shoulders shook beneath her arms, she felt a renewed determination. She wanted to help, but could she handle this case?
Pimps. Prostitutes. Drugs. She’d never been part of that world. She’d lived with a psychopath, but Oliver was dead, and she was safe. She’d been safe for nearly five years….
Jumping into this was asking for trouble. Most people were kidnapped or killed by a family member or friend, which meant she had to contact Latisha’s father. She had to talk to everyone associated with the missing girls. That was one of the cardinal rules of a good investigation.
But if Luther had anything to do with what had happened to his daughter and her sister, he certainly wouldn’t want her snooping around….
Two
Sebastian Costas held the slip of paper the ATM had just spit out closer to his face. This wasn’t a pleasant way to start the week. Was the damn machine running out of ink? Because the figure he saw had to be missing a zero. He knew he was getting low on funds. It’d been more than a year since he’d worked. In addition to the payments on his Manhattan flat and vehicles—not to mention parking for those vehicles—he’d spent a fortune on private investigators, skip tracers, airfare, hotels and rental cars. But…
“Shit, I must’ve thought the money would last forever.” Apparently, he’d gotten too used to being able to buy whatever he wanted.
What now? he asked himself. He couldn’t keep on like this.
“Excuse me. Are you finished?”
A woman stood behind him, waiting to use the ATM. He hadn’t heard her approach, hadn’t sensed her presence. He’d been too absorbed in considering what the paltry figure on that receipt signified.
Muttering an apology, he crumpled the paper and tossed it in the garbage on his way to the car. Nearing the end of his money meant he was almost out of time. He had a month, max. Then he’d be absolutely broke and the effort he’d put into his search would be wasted because all progress would grind to a halt.
He couldn’t let that happen. He was closer now than he’d ever been.
His cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Constance, the woman he’d been dating when he left New York two months ago. They’d been together since before Emily and Colton were killed. But she was growing impatient with his lengthy absence and the intensity of his preoccupation.
He almost silenced the ringer and let it go to voice mail. He didn’t want to talk to her right now. But ignoring her call could very easily mean the end of their relationship. He was already hanging on to her by a very thin thread. Did he want his life to be in total ruins after the nightmare he’d been living was over?
No. He needed to fight for her, fight for what was left of his former existence. “Hello?”
She didn’t bother with a greeting. “Have you thought about it?” she demanded.
“Thought about what?” He knew exactly what she meant, but he was stalling for time. Although he’d had all morning to think about it, he wasn’t any closer to making a decision now than when she’d delivered her ultimatum late last night.
“About coming home! Will you give up this…this obsession, Sebastian?”
Obsession? Was that what it’d become? He supposed so. A man didn’t abandon the kind of life he’d led for less. He’d been making more than half a million a year as one of the best investment bankers in NYC—until his ex-wife and son were murdered. After that, all he’d cared about was finding the man responsible.
Of course, given what the market had done since he’d taken leave from his job, he probably wouldn’t have continued to make that amount even if he’d kept on working.
He unlocked the Lexus he’d rented. “Why the sudden rush, Constance?”
“Rush?” she echoed with incredulity. “I’ve waited eighteen months for our lives to return to normal.”
“I’ve only been gone two.”
“Are you kidding me? In the past year and a half, you’ve traveled all over the country, talking to various people, researching leads. Even when you were home, you shut yourself up in your condo and worked like some kind of mad scientist. This case is all you’ve been able to think about since the night it happened. We haven’t made love in four months, haven’t had a decent conversation since you turned into Dick Tracy.”
He’d loved her, would’ve married her if murder hadn’t disrupted his whole world. But what used to be didn’t matter. Colton and Emily were dead and Emily’s money was gone. Why? He couldn’t give up the quest to uncover the truth. He was Emily and Colton’s last hope—the only person, besides his own mother perhaps, who truly believed Malcolm Turner was still alive.
“I can’t blame you for being disappointed.” He slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. A Sacramento winter wasn’t nearly as cold as a New York winter, but it was chilly enough to require a heater.
“Then what are you going to do about it?”
She was far more direct now than she’d been before, which made him assume she might’ve met someone else. He’d expected it to happen a lot sooner, couldn’t blame her for being ready to move on. A model-turned-stock-analyst, she was intelligent, successful, beautiful.
And yet, every day he widened the chasm between them. He couldn’t promise to fly back to New York because he knew he’d break that promise. When he and other family members had gone through the house and boxed up Colton’s and Emily’s belongings, they hadn’t found several things they should have. One was evidence of where the money had gone, money Emily had mentioned to him a week before her death. She’d said there was a safety-deposit box containing the five-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance settlement she’d received for being hit by a drunk driver. She’d said she was keeping it liquid, saving it for a new life, one without Malcolm in it, and showed him where he could find the key in case something should ever happen to her.
Planning to donate it to NYU—where Colton had hoped to go to school—Sebastian had attempted to claim it. The key was there. But the box was empty. And there was no indication of where the money had been moved.
Malcolm had not only killed Emily and Colton, he’d profited from it. Sebastian was sure of that.
“Malcolm didn’t die in the crash, Constance.”
“Oh, God, here we go again!”
&nbs
p; It was beginning to rain. The windshield wipers came on automatically—a minor luxury he wouldn’t be able to afford much longer. Considering his financial situation, he’d have to get a cheaper rental car.
“And what evidence do you have?” she went on. “That insurance settlement you’re always talking about? You told me yourself Malcolm liked to gamble on football games, basketball games, any kind of sporting event. Did it ever occur to you that he paid off his debts with that money?”
“If he paid off his debts, why didn’t he pay off his credit cards, some of which were at almost thirty-percent interest?” Sebastian had seen the bills when he cleaned out the house. Emily’s parents had died in a plane crash just after he and Emily had divorced, so even her stuff had fallen to him.
“Maybe they weren’t as good at financial planning as you are. Or maybe they paid off things you know nothing about,” Constance responded. “Maybe they helped a family member who was about to lose his house. You weren’t still married to Emily, Sebastian. Malcolm was her husband. For all you know, they invested it and lost everything.”
He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “There would’ve been proof of any investments.”
“You want to talk proof?” she nearly shouted. “The police have DNA evidence! Do you know what DNA evidence means? It’s irrefutable. It means the body found in that car was Malcolm Turner’s!”
Clenching his jaw, Sebastian struggled to control the urge to lash out. These days she always seemed to get under his skin. “It wasn’t much of a body. It was mostly ashes. And he wouldn’t kill himself, Connie.”
“He would if prison was his only other alternative. You know what they do to cops in prison.”
Sebastian pictured the man he’d been chasing for a year. The buzzed red hair; the freckles that covered his face and arms; the blue eyes and long, effeminate gold eyelashes; the stubborn jaw; the short but stocky-bordering-on-overweight build. “He was too arrogant to give up that easily.”
“Arrogant,” she repeated in disgust. “That’s what has you turning over every rock between here and the Pacific? Sebastian, we’ve been through this dozens of times. It’s no secret that Emily and Malcolm were having problems. Emily told several people she wanted a divorce. She probably tried to act on it and, being the control freak he was, Malcolm snapped and killed her and Colton. Then he realized what he’d done and killed himself.”
