Borrowing Trouble

by Stacy Finz

  “I can think of better things to do with our time off, but I’m game. What time does it start?”

  “Noon. What time do you have to be back here for wine and cheese?”

  “I’m in good shape prep-wise, so as late as four. Maybe we’ll have time for a nooner.” He waggled his brows.

  She stifled a giggle. “Didn’t you get your fill this morning?”

  “Hey, I’m making up for a week’s worth of Aidan.”

  Her smile faded. “You think he’ll get back with Sue?”

  “He’s your brother. You’d know better than me. But in my experience, when a guy puts off marriage with a woman he’s been with for three years, he either doesn’t want to get married—period—or she’s not the one.”

  “It’s sad. Poor Sue is in her late thirties; she wasted some of her best child-bearing years on my idiot big brother.”

  This kind of conversation made Brady itch. So he got busy cleaning the kitchen. They had about an hour to kill before heading to Sierra Heights.

  Sam hauled in the last of the dirty dishes. “Everyone has eaten. What time are you guys going over?”

  “When I’m done here,” Brady said.

  “Are you going?” Sloane asked, then shook her head. “Duh, you live there.”

  “I’m still planning to look at the homes. Griffin wants it to look busy, and frankly I’d like to see him sell some places. The neighborhood feels like a ghost town.”

  “Other than the empty houses, do you like living there?” Sloane brought her dishes to the sink.

  “Love it. The golf course, the tennis courts, the pool, it’s like having your own country club. I’m also thinking that it’ll be a great place to raise kids when Nate and I . . .” She blushed. “Anyway, it’s pretty terrific. Are you interested, Sloane?”

  “I can’t afford one of those places. But a girl can dream.”

  Brady wondered, if Sloane had the money would she actually buy one of Griff’s mini mansions? Because that kind of investment suggested permanence to Brady, and he’d always gotten the impression that Nugget was a placeholder for Sloane until her part in taking down the corrupt cops at LAPD was a distant memory and she could go elsewhere.

  By the time he finished with KP, they still had thirty minutes to spare. They burned it by browsing in the sporting goods store. For a small country shop it had a surprisingly good selection. Everything from skis and sleds to kayaks and fishing equipment. Brady hadn’t been in for a while and it looked like Carl had begun stocking up for spring. Lots of biking gear and boating paraphernalia.

  At a rack of bathing suits, Brady grabbed the skimpiest one he could find and held it up to Sloane. “You want me to get this for you?”

  She gave him a little shove. “Shush. People can hear you.” Nevertheless, she was laughing.

  Brady gazed at his watch. “We can go now.”

  They took her Rav4 because it needed the exercise. Brady drove the short distance to Sierra Heights. Today there was a guard in the kiosk and he stopped them on their way in.

  “Hey, guys.” It was actually Wyatt.

  Sloane bent over Brady and stuck her head out of the driver’s window. “You moonlighting as Sierra Heights security now?”

  “It was Darla’s idea. She thought it would make a good impression on prospective buyers.”

  Brady checked out Wyatt’s khaki pants, khaki shirt, and ridiculous hat. “Dude, you look like you’re going on safari.”

  “Again, Darla’s idea.” Wyatt motioned at the line of cars behind them. “Move it along. Nothing to see here.”

  They zoomed past him, Sloane snorting with laughter. Brady parked in the spaces designated for the pro shop. He’d played golf here a time or two with Nate. It was a great course. He, though, was not such a great player. Then again, neither was Nate. For the most part they’d cruised around in a cart, drinking beer. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

  Halfway to the sales office they met up with Connie and Tater. Tater was a surprise. He usually didn’t participate in overly social events. Although Brady had noticed that Tater showed up at Lina’s party. And come to think of it, he’d been hanging out with Connie. Sloane hadn’t mentioned anything about the two of them and she was pretty tight with Connie.

  “You see Wyatt at the guard station?” Connie rolled her eyes.

  “Hilarious,” Sloane replied.

  The four of them walked into the sales office together and Dana’s face dropped, knowing full well that they weren’t buying any houses.

  “Hey, Dana. How’s it hanging?” Connie said, and Brady coughed to cover up a laugh. The dispatcher was loyal to Rhys, and by extension to Lina, he assumed.

  “Welcome.” Dana plastered on a fake smile and Brady had to give her credit. She looked as professional as any other big-city real estate agent with her wool suit, silk scarf, and expensive shoes. Carol Spartan used to be the only game in town, but she’d hired Dana to split duties so she could have more time to spend with her family. “A map with all the models, price sheets, and refreshments are in the clubhouse. If you have any questions you just let me or my partner, Carol, know.”

  “Thanks, Dana,” Brady said, and led their group to the clubhouse.

  “Yo, Griff,” Connie called, her voice echoing through the large building that reminded Brady of a ski lodge, complete with an enormous fireplace, picture windows, and leather sofas. The flat-screen TV alone was the size of his living room.

  Startled, a few people who’d been looking at a wall map of the property marked with pins to denote available homes, jerked up to stare at them. Griffin and Lina came over holding hands.

  “Thanks for coming. I was worried no one would show up,” Griffin said.

  “Who are they?” Connie pointed at the map people.

  “They saw the ads Dana placed and have been interested in the area for some time,” Griffin said in a soft voice. He sounded hopeful.

  Connie gave him a thumbs-up. “Hey, Tater, food.” She dragged him to a table with platters of Costco cookies and coffee.

  “We want to look at the models.” Sloane bounced on her heels.

  “They’re amazing,” Lina said, and waved to someone just arriving.

  Brady turned around and spotted Harlee and Darla dressed to the nines. Apparently they were pretending to be real house hunters, walking around, reading the literature, and pretending not to know anyone.

  “Are you guys coming to bowling tonight?” Lina reached over and grabbed two packets off a table and handed them to him and Sloane.

  “We are.” Sloane pretended to roll a ball down the middle of the clubhouse. “I’m ready to take Wyatt on.” Everyone was aware that Wyatt belonged to a league, and Brady knew Sloane couldn’t bowl.

  “It’ll be fun. I think my brother and Maddy may even come if they can find a sitter.” Lina pointed to their packets. “That shows you where the models are. Go enjoy.”

  Before they went on the tour, Sloane walked up to Harlee and whispered something in her ear.

  “What was that about?” Brady asked.

  “I told her I had a scoop for her on Monday.”

  “What are you, WikiLeaks?”

  “We women have to stick together.” She looked down at the diagram in her packet. “Let’s go to the Pine Cone first. It’s the smallest at twenty-eight hundred square feet.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The place had skyscraper ceilings, twenty-foot windows, and a master bathroom the size of a two-car garage. Brady liked the log walls and oak floors. He supposed he could live here if he was forced to.

  “Ehh.” Sloane rocked her hand back and forth, clearly unimpressed. “Onward and upward.”

  Their next stop was the Sierra.

  As soon as they walked into the massive foyer, Sloane said, “Now this is what I’m talking about.”

  Yeah, Brady had to admit, the space was pretty spectacular. The great room had so much glass that he wondered how much it would cost to heat the place. There was
a loft with a wet bar and a built-in for a humongous flat-screen. He could definitely spend some quality time in this room.

  “Brady, come check out the kitchen,” Sloane called from downstairs.

  He went down, walked through an imposing dining room with built-ins, and into the sickest kitchen he’d ever seen in a private home. First off, the architect got the layout exactly right. The sink, refrigerator, and stove formed a perfect triangle. There was so much counter top that he’d never run out of space. Miles of cupboards and pantry space and a wine refrigerator. All the stainless steel appliances were top of the line, the center island had a vegetable sink and enough room to seat six, and there was a wood-burning fireplace that could easily double as a pizza and bread oven.

  “Just out of curiosity, how much is this place?”

  Sloane rifled through the packet and started to laugh. “It ranges from eight hundred thousand to more than a million, depending where on the property it is. For example, golf course view, you’re looking at top price. And everything in this kitchen”—she made a swirling gesture with her finger—“is an upgrade. If I had to guess, an easy hundred thou extra.”

  “What about this one?” He looked out the window. It didn’t have a golf course view, but it looked out onto forest, mountains, and a slice of river. It worked for him. “How much?”

  She laughed again. “It’s the model. I don’t think it’s for sale.”

  “Griff would sell it to me,” Brady said, and joined in her laughter. “You like it?”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s like my freaking dream home. But if we sold everything we owned we still couldn’t scrounge up enough for a down payment.” She grabbed his arm. “Let’s go see the next one. This is fun.”

  It was. Brady never expected looking at model homes to be fun—in fact, he held it right up there with being waterboarded—but he was enjoying himself. He credited Sloane with that because she was fun. She had a difficult job, solving tough crimes and seeing the worst of humanity. Yet, when her work day was done, she knew how to let loose and have a good time. Life was too tenuous not to. She saw the fragility of it every day in the line of duty.

  They walked through a couple more models. But he liked the Sierra the best.

  “Do you think all my shabby chic stuff would go with one of these places?” Sloane joked.

  “Sure. Why not? I’m doing leather couches and club chairs in mine.”

  Sloane’s smile slipped. “Yeah . . . uh . . . that sounds perfect. Very masculine.” She walked a little ways ahead of him.

  When they got back into the clubhouse, Griff winked. “What did you think?”

  “They’re beautiful, Griffin.” Sloane lowered her voice. “Any action?”

  “Two parties seem really interested. Dana and Carol are working them over.”

  “Which ones—” Brady’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and checked the display. “I’ve got to get this.” Sloane followed him to a corner of the room.

  “Do you have something?” Brady didn’t even bother to say hello. He figured the detective wouldn’t be calling on a Saturday to make small talk.

  “Yuma PD found her car,” Rinek said.

  “But not her?”

  The detective let out an audible sigh. “Not yet. Her car was ticketed more than a week ago, before she was reported missing. An annoyed neighbor got sick of looking at it, called the Department of Public Safety, and had it towed. They ran the plate numbers and it came back to us. We’re working with Yuma PD. But I’m not gonna lie to you; they won’t give it high priority. She’s a missing adult from California.”

  “Why would she leave her car parked for more than a week?” The whole thing sounded strange to Brady.

  “Don’t know. It was a residential neighborhood, so maybe she was visiting someone. It’s a newer Toyota Camry, so I can’t see her ditching the car. I just don’t know, Brady. But stay vigilant and hopefully I’ll have more for you next week.”

  Frustrated, Brady hung up. Sloane had given him space but was close enough to have heard his side of the conversation.

  “They found her car?”

  “In Yuma,” he said. “But they don’t have the first clue where she is.”

  Sloane scraped her upper lip with her teeth. “Rhys said her recent computer searches showed that she was looking for someone else besides you. I bet he lives in Arizona. She ever say anything about having a friend in Yuma?”

  “Sloane, we didn’t do much talking. And when she did talk, it was crazy stuff about how I was her destiny and that she would make me love her even though I’d only known her one night.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Is this ever gonna end?”

  She put her arms around his waist, her cheek against his chest, and simply said, “Yes.” And as much as he wanted to believe her, he couldn’t.

  Chapter 22

  On Monday, Sloane got the bust of John Doe. It was so lifelike that it gave her the willies. Deep-set eyes, a nose with a slight bump—it had probably been broken—and a strong jaw.

  The forensic sculptor had done a masterful job of reconstructing his face. She’d made a plaster cast of the skull and used modeling clay to reproduce his facial features. Of course, without knowing his hair or eye color, the thickness of his lips or how much fat tissue covered the bone, the likeness was only an approximation of what he looked like. Still, Sloane had heard that facial reconstruction—while fairly rare—had worked for other police departments to identify people who had been otherwise unidentifiable.

  So, she’d thought, why not give it a crack?

  She wheeled the bust, which sat on a cart, into the conference room and covered it with a blanket. Harlee had already been over to have a look and was given professional photographs of the reconstruction to feature in her article. The hope was that her story and pictures would get picked up by the wire services, including the Associated Press, since the big news outlets had zero interest in coming to Nugget for a press conference. Reporters from Sacramento and San Francisco didn’t want to travel so far. So Sloane had written a press release and sent the photos by email, hoping that some of them would pick up the story that way.

  The goal was to spread the photographs of the bust far and wide, in hopes that someone would recognize him. In the meantime, John Doe’s reconstructed face had attracted the interest of Nugget residents to the point that they were cycling in and out of the police station like it was the Louvre.

  “He looks like an ornery cuss,” Owen had said, inspecting the bust like an art critic. “Shifty eyes.”

  “Those are glass, Owen. We don’t have his real eyes.”

  Donna was convinced John Doe had an eating disorder. “Look how sharp his cheekbones are. He looks hungry.”

  Just about everyone who came in had an opinion. Her pilot kids would arrive after school. They’d been following the entire process, and Sloane couldn’t wait to see their reaction. Simpson was doing a report on facial reconstruction and forensic anthropology for his science class. The mean girls had stopped picking on Rose. Sloane wasn’t sure if it was because of Rhys’s warning to Mr. Grant or that Rose’s new-found self-esteem had repelled the bullies.

  “What are you smiling about?” Rhys asked on his way back from the coffeemaker.

  “I was just thinking about the pilot program.”

  “Griffin was over for dinner Sunday night and told me he hired Rose’s big brother. From what I gathered, you set that up?”

  “I just introduced them.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Right. I could’ve used someone like you when I was a kid.” He pulled up a chair and straddled it. “You hear anything more from Rinek?”

  “Not a word. Why would she just leave her car on a residential street in Yuma?”

  Rhys huffed out a breath. “She have family there? Friends?”

  “Not that Santa Monica PD is aware of. None of it makes sense. That other guy she was searching for on the Internet, did Rinek tell you whether her compute
r showed that she’d found him? Where he lives?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Rhys said. “Unfortunately, Rinek didn’t tell me much. I got the feeling that I’m only on a need-to-know basis; otherwise I would’ve told you. You thinking he might be in Yuma?”

  “It’s as good a guess as any.”

  “You want me to give Rinek a call, see what I can get out of him?”

  “Let’s wait a few days.”

  Rhys got to his feet. “How about you? Any more texts or phone calls?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I figured they’d eventually stop. They just wanted to mess with you. Guys like them give the rest of us a bad name.” He went in his office and shut the door.

  It was still a little early for lunch, but Sloane decided to take a walk across the square and say hi to Brady. But Brady was cloistered in an office with Nate.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Andy, and nudged her head at Nate’s closed door.

  “You think anyone tells me anything around here?”

  She popped her head into Maddy’s office, but it was empty. Deciding to come back later, she left the inn and had started back to the police station when her phone rang. Harlee.

  “What’s up?”

  “If you’ve got a sec, come over. I want to show you something.”

  “Okay.” Sloane crossed the square to the Trib’s office and found Harlee sitting at her desk in front of a computer.

  “Look.” Harlee pointed to her monitor.

  It was an AP story about how Nugget PD was using facial reconstruction as a last resort in finding the identity of skeletal remains that had washed up on the shore of the Feather River. There were quotes from Sloane attributed to the Trib. “That’s great. Is there any way to find out how many papers and TV stations picked up the story?”

  “No, but we can see if some of the big ones did by going to their websites.” Harlee quickly searched the New York Times. “Nothing here yet, but the story just went out. Let me search for it on Google News.” She typed forensic facial reconstruction into the bar. “Aha, Fox has it and so does CNN. USA Today and the Sacramento Bee. It’s getting picked up.”