Close to Home

by Lisa Jackson

  “Once a liar,” he said.

  “Yeah, and I’ve heard that there are sightings of Roger Anderson in the area, just local gossip, really, but I talked to the bartender at The Cavern, and he thought Anderson had been there. So far, he hasn’t connected with his parole officer.”

  Cooke harrumphed his disgust.

  “I’ve got a call in to the officer, and I’ll check with Anderson’s family and friends, but it’s a long shot.”

  “Doesn’t he have a cell mate from this area?”

  She nodded. “Saw it in his file. Drifter named Hardy Jones. Already looking for him.”

  “Find him and talk to Lars and his alibi-buddy again.”

  “Will do,” she said.

  “Good.” Cooke glanced in the mirror again and gave his tie one last tug. “Let’s go.”

  They’d set up a podium outside, under the portico near the front door, by the flagpoles, where both Old Glory and the flag for the state of Oregon were snapping in the wind. Thankfully the storm that had been predicted had died before it reached this part of the country, but it was still cold as hell. Camera crews from a local station, as well as from Portland, had set up, their vans parked across the street. Reporters with microphones had gathered, along with people who lived in the area—the curious, who were being surreptitiously filmed by people in his own department with the wishful thinking that if someone had indeed kidnapped Rosalie, he or she might take great pleasure in watching the police scramble and squirm. Coming to the press conference for an up close and personal view might be top on their list.

  Cooke hoped so.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said once the initial screech of feedback from the microphone had passed and the tech in charge of the system had made some quick adjustments. Thankfully the sharp noise had died an instant death. “I’d like to give you all a quick update on the case involving the disappearance of Rosalie Jamison,” he began, then launched into a brief description of what had transpired so far which, of course, wasn’t very much.

  Cooke explained that they were exploring all leads and hoped, as was promised by the local television station, a direct number to the department would be flashed across television screens across this part of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho in the hope that anyone who saw something suspicious would phone in a tip. There was already a reward offered, so hopefully even the most reticent informant would come forward. Cooke wasn’t sure.

  The reporters were eager and the questions rapid-fire.

  “Any new leads?” one man, barely in his twenties, asked.

  “Nothing substantial. As I said, we’re exploring all avenues in this investigation.”

  “Has the FBI been called in?” a black woman, dressed to perfection, dark eyes serious, questioned.

  “Not yet. Miss Jamison’s disappearance hasn’t been proved to be a kidnapping.”

  “You think she left on her own volition?” The female reporter was clearly not buying it. “Does she have a history of running away?”

  The flag chains rattled with a sharp gust of wind.

  “As I said, we’re unclear as to what happened to her, but the investigation is continuing. We hope to have more substantial evidence and leads that will take us to her soon.”

  And on it went for ten minutes until he cut it off. Then, against his better judgment, but at the demand of the higher-ups, it was the family’s turn. Sharon Updike, appearing defeated and older than her years, made a heartfelt plea to anyone who had information about her daughter to come forward. Her message was brief, and as her voice cracked before giving out completely, she whispered, “Please, please help us find our daughter. If someone”—her voice broke and she cleared it—“if anyone has our daughter, please release her. Give us back our Rosie. And . . . and . . . Oh, God . . . Rosalie, if you can hear me, I love you. Your father loves you. Please come home.” And then she fell into the waiting arms of a dry-eyed Mel Updike, while Rosalie’s biological father, weary from a long drive from Colorado and the pain of his daughter’s disappearance, stared bleakly from behind rimless glasses. Mick Jamison’s face was somber and wary, his eyes sorrowful as he stood by a much younger woman, his wife, Annie, who kept squeezing his hand.

  All in all, it was an ordeal that, to Cooke’s way of thinking, hadn’t accomplished much.

  But there was always hope that someone who had seen the news report would remember something and call in, or that Rosalie, on the run, would hear her mother’s pleas and return, or that the kidnapper, if there was one, was cocky enough to have joined the small crowd that had assembled.

  If that were the case, Cooke silently vowed he’d nail that son of a bitch and slam his ass behind bars. One way or another he would find out what had happened to Rosalie Jamison.

  By the time her mother pulled into the parking lot of the dog shelter, Jade was over being upset that Cody wasn’t around. In fact, she was kind of bummed about it. Sure he was coming, but it was almost as if she had to beg him to come and see her, and that just wasn’t right. Not if you really loved someone. And then there was her car. She needed the Honda back and pronto. She felt trapped without it. Worse yet, she was royally pissed about her damaged phone, which didn’t begin to touch how Mom would go off the rails when she found out about it. And Dad? Jade didn’t want to think about what her father would say. He’d bought the thing for her and put her on his plan so that they could communicate since he was in Savannah.

  Explaining that it was pretty much trashed would be tough.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Sarah said as she found a parking space near the front doors of Second Chance Animal Rescue and cut the engine.

  Gracie took off like a shot and was inside before Jade had even opened her door.

  “Guess she’s excited,” Sarah said, pocketing her keys

  “Isn’t she always?” Jade asked, but her mother was already out of the car. Gracie was like that, sometimes acting like she was closer to seven than twelve, other times surprising Jade with her deep, almost spooky, insight. Today, she was the kid. Jade followed into a wide reception area, where fluorescent fixtures reflected on shining tile floors. Leashes, collars, and harnesses decorated one wall, while metal shelves were piled high with bags of dog food, beds, and crates on another. Close to a reception counter, a long display board was mounted, and tacked up on it were pictures and information about each animal available for adoption. Gracie was already scouring the listings, while a three-legged tabby cat, obviously the shelter’s unofficial greeter, perched along the top of the long board, his reddish tail ticking a bit as he eyed the newcomers.

  “There are so many,” Gracie said as she viewed the selection of dogs and cats ready for adoption.

  “But we only need one,” their mother reminded her.

  “Maybe a cat too?” Gracie pointed to a picture of a black-and-white tuxedo kitten.

  “One. Dog.”

  A glass door behind the counter opened. “Hello!” A plump woman who was barely five feet tall and dressed in jeans and a purple hoodie bustled in. “Sorry.” She sounded breathless as if she’d been running. “I was in the back cleaning up, and I didn’t hear the bell. So, welcome to Second Chance. I’m Lovey Bloomsville, the manager here, well, and the owner.”

  Sarah made quick introductions and said, “We’re looking for a dog. Mature. Housebroken. Good with kids.” She added that they wanted a midsize dog, finishing with, “A pet primarily, but a guard dog would be nice.”

  “Guard dog?” Lovey repeated slowly.

  Jade gave her mother a look. Really? A guard dog?

  “We live out of town and are pretty isolated,” Sarah said. “The property’s pretty vast, so it would be nice if the dog would bark when people showed up. I’m not talking about a dog that bites or even snarls, or that I have to put up a Beware of Dog sign for, just one that will give us fair warning that someone’s around.”

  “Oh. Well. I’m pretty sure we’ve got that covered.” Lovey waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Of
course, we don’t have any vicious dogs, though, if you ask me, it’s the owners, not the dogs, that give some of the breeds a bad name. All that legislation against the pit bulls, for example. Nonsense! I’ve got two of my own, and let me tell you, they’re lovers, wouldn’t hurt a flea! Not nearly as feisty as my pug. She’s in trouble all the time and rules the roost at my house, bosses the pits around, and they let her.

  “So now . . . ,” Lovey motioned to the pictures of the animals. “All of our dogs have had temp tests to see if they’re good with cats or young children or other dogs or whatever. We work with them every day and know if they’re shy or the least bit aggressive on the leash or around food or whatever. They all have different personalities, you know. Anyway,” she said, clasping her hands together. “I’m sure we can find you the perfect pet. A midsize to large dog, you said?”

  “I was thinking fifty or sixty pounds maybe? Even sixty-five, but not much bigger. We really don’t care about breed.”

  Lovey took a sweeping glance at the posters on the wall just as the door to a back room opened and a thin twentyish guy walked into the lobby area. A cacophony of barks, yips, and howls rose to the rafters until the door shut behind him. Lovey took the noise as a cue. “As you can hear, finding an alarm dog shouldn’t be a problem. Come on, let me show you around and we’ll meet a few candidates. Then you can think it over as you fill out the adoption papers. Jared,” she said to the skinny guy who’d picked up a broom, “can you bring Henry, Shogun, Brawn and, oh, maybe Xena, one at a time to the meet-and-greet room?”

  “Sure thing, Ms. B.” Jared was already heading through the door again.

  “Perfect.” To Sarah and her daughters, Lovey said, “I’ll give you a quick tour of the place while Jared rounds up the most likely candidates. If you see any dog that appeals to you, just let me know.”

  Explaining a little about her rescue work and the health and well-being of the animals in the shelter, Lovey led them deeper into the interior, where smaller dogs were kept in one area, larger ones in another, and cats separated into a space of their own. A pot-bellied pig Esmeralda (“Ezzy”) was kind of the mascot. She trotted along after Lovey, snorting a bit, but a happy part of the entourage.

  Gracie’s face was alight as she watched the dogs playing and romping in the open area. Lovey Bloomsville chattered away as they walked, but Jade didn’t really catch all that Lovey was rambling about as her phone kept vibrating. Sam, the phone geek from Algebra wasn’t giving up, and Jade’s cousin Becky had left her a message about her mother’s Halloween party.

  U coming? was Becky’s question.

  Mom says we have to, Jade texted back. Zero options.

  Always options, Becky replied.

  Hmm. Jade considered. Even though she acted like she didn’t, she kind of liked Becky. But Becky was sort of two-faced, a little like Mary-Alice, though Becky had a darker side that appealed to Jade. Can we leave? Jade texted.

  Not if we ask.

  Jade almost laughed.

  Becky wrote, I’ll call you later.

  K.

  Jade was feeling better by the minute. The party was scheduled for Saturday night, right before Halloween, and just happened to be the night Cody had said he would show up. Yes! Finally it seemed things might be falling into place. Jade couldn’t help but smile, and Mom probably thought it was because she was into the dogs.

  Lovey Bloomsville showed off bouncing teacup Chihuahuas and Yorkies and finally a huge, droopy-faced mastiff that was the size of a pony. “No one wants Bubba here,” Lovey said, gazing lovingly at the huge dog, “but he’s an absolute love. I guess he’ll just have to be our shelter dog, won’t you, boy?” She patted his broad head, and Jade wondered who weighed more, the dog or the woman. Silently, she bet on Bubba.

  All the dogs came closer, and while Gracie was literally in “doggy heaven,” Sarah seemed a little overwhelmed. “This is going to be tougher than I thought,” she said.

  “It always is,” Lovey commiserated. “And it’s not any easier with the cats, let me tell you.” With a shake of her head, she threw up her hands as if her workload were impossible. “A good thing I love animals. Now, here are the ones that I think might work best for you.” She pointed out the four dogs she’d tagged as possible pets, then ushered them into a small room partitioned by glass, where they met each one individually. Henry was a shy border collie mix, Shogun some kind of shepherd, while Brawn was a purebred husky, and Xena, the only female, was a blond mutt with Lab and pit bull traits visible.

  “Can’t we take them all?” Gracie asked their mother in her most angelic tone.

  Sarah choked out a laugh. “I think we need to start with one dog.”

  Gracie looked them all over. “Xena,” she finally decided, but she was clearly torn.

  “Okay with you?” Sarah asked Jade.

  Jade was honest. “I like Brawn.”

  “Well, great,” Sarah said, heaving a sigh. “Guess I’m the deciding vote.” She glanced up at Lovey. “Xena, it is.”

  Jade couldn’t help saying under her breath, “Big surprise,” and caught a warning glance from her mother, which was probably earned. Truth to tell, she was being bitchy about the whole thing. The dog was for Gracie, and she should be able to pick it out. “Xena’s okay,” she said. “No, I mean it. I like her.” She was nodding her agreement, and Mom seemed relieved.

  Lovey actually clapped her hands together. “This is a great fit. Xena’s a shelter favorite. Such a sweet girl.” Then she heard herself and added to Sarah, “But she’s got a big voice.”

  “Good,” their mother said.

  “So let’s get that paperwork rolling!” Lovey was already leading the way to the reception area where the same man who’d shown up at the pizza parlor, Clint Walsh, their neighbor, was waiting, a leash in one hand, and a wallet and bag of dog food on the counter.

  Jared had set aside his broom and was running a credit card.

  Walsh glanced up as the door opened and they walked through. His smile was less tentative than before, a crooked grin slashing across his face. “Hey, Sarah,” he said as the machine chunked out a receipt.

  Jade’s mother forced a smile. “I guess I forgot what a small town this really is.”

  “I say it’s bite-sized,” Lovey chimed in.

  Walsh nodded at Jade and her sister.

  “You two know each other?” Lovey asked.

  “I grew up here,” Sarah explained, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Clint was, is a neighbor. We kind of grew up together.”

  “Neighbors then. Neighbors now.” He slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his worn jeans.

  “How ’bout that? What goes around really does come around,” Lovey said. Clint gave Sarah a look that could have melted steel, and she turned away quickly.

  There was definitely something going on between them, Jade thought.

  “See ya around,” Walsh said as he hauled the bag of food onto his shoulder and, with the leash in his other hand, walked out the door.

  Jared, at Lovey’s urging, left to locate Xena.

  Meanwhile, the wheels in Jade’s mind cranked furiously to that spot she usually avoided. Was it possible? Nah . . . no way . . . but she couldn’t help doing the math surrounding her birth. It was a game she’d played with herself ever since she was old enough to understand sex and gestation and the fact that it took around nine months from conception to birth. She’d done the calculations and figured her mom got pregnant soon after graduating from high school. Mom had always mentioned a crush she’d had in college, but that didn’t necessarily preclude this neighbor, did it?

  Clint Walsh, with his strong jaw, rangy build, and gray eyes, was about the right age.

  Mom was acting pretty damned weird, and the “neighbor boy” and “friend of her brothers” was someone Sarah had known in high school. Mom had gotten pregnant right after graduation, the way Jade figured it, so . . . ?

  She couldn’t help but stare at the man as he walked out th
e door.

  Could it be?

  Her throat went dry at the very thought that she’d just been face to face with the man who had sired her, and she walked to the window to watch him get into his truck.

  After tossing the bag into the bed of his truck, he opened the driver’s side door, then shooed his dog from behind the wheel to the passenger seat. A cowboy? Rancher? And building inspector?

  Jade had always imagined her dad was someone famous, like the lead guitarist for a rock band or a movie star or something, a person with whom Sarah had somehow had one glorious, unforgettable night of passion that conceived Jade.

  But the neighbor kid?

  Friend to Uncle Joe and Uncle Jake?

  Where was the romance and fantasy in that?

  She watched as the truck’s taillights faded away into the dark afternoon. Did he know about Jade? Had he rejected Sarah when he found out she was pregnant with an unwanted child? He was handsome for an old dude, in great shape, but he didn’t look much like Jade at all, not that she could see. Then again, she didn’t much resemble her mother either.

  “Handsome devil, isn’t he?” Lovey asked, and Jade jumped, realizing that she’d been caught staring.

  “He’s an old dude,” she dismissed quickly. She glanced at her mother, but Sarah seemed to be purposely looking at the wall with the dogs.

  Lovey said, “Kinda keeps to himself these days, though. Tragic what happened to him.” She turned to Sarah, “Who can survive the loss of a child? I know I couldn’t.”

  Sarah just nodded, never taking her gaze off the wall, but Jade keyed in on Lovey. Clint Walsh was a father? There had been another child? A . . . a potential sibling? “What happened?” she asked.

  “Car accident,” Lovey said sadly. “His wife was at the wheel.” Shaking her head, she added, “Single car and the boy . . . well, he didn’t make it. It wasn’t much of a surprise that the marriage crumbled and Andrea moved back home, somewhere in California, I think.” As if she realized she was gossiping, Lovey looked toward the door behind the counter just as Jared reappeared, this time leading Xena, who was pulling at the leash, straining to get to Gracie, who was already on her knees, arms spread wide to hug their new pet. “Yes, well, let’s get to it, shall we? Jared, why don’t you help Gracie and Xena get acquainted with the leash and crate and all, while we finish up the paperwork.”