Missing, Presumed Dead

by Christiane France

  I felt a quick rush of adrenalin. The same feeling I always get when I know I'm on the right track...

  Petra's only connection to Amethyst Cove was a cop she met at a party. And The Riptide was the local cops' favorite hangout. All I had to do was find out if the witness was employed at The Riptide and whether her boyfriend was Lopez or Schultz. Whichever one it was, it would then be fair to assume he'd done the paying off or the persuading and was involved in Petra's disappearance up to his neck.

  If I was wrong and it turned out to be two different guys who worked at two other restaurants, I was back at square one. The same applied if I was wrong about Lopez and Schultz. Their frequent trips to L.A. made them the most likely candidates, but it didn't follow they were guilty.

  If I was wrong, then I was wrong. But with everything fitting together so neatly, I couldn't see how that was possible. One slight adjustment in my game plan and I'd be all set.

  I took out my cell and speed-dialed the office. At the last second, I changed my mind and hit end before the call connected. According to the dashboard clock, it was two minutes past noon. Instead of leaning on Calista's contact at the local P.D. to give us the name of the witness, I decided to pay a visit to The Riptide.

  The bar-restaurant was located in the downtown area of the Cove. It was always busy at lunchtime and the service relatively slow. The perfect time for me to look, listen and learn without being obvious. Provided the witness worked there and hadn't taken the day off or skipped town as Tim had suggested. Thanks to Mary's detailed description, I didn't figure recognition would be a problem.

  First though, I wanted to find out if he was friendly with any of the cops. If so, which cops and just how friendly? Did he treat them like any other customers or did he treat them special, like friends? Or was he nervous or afraid when he's serving them? Maybe a little too subservient or even downright scared? I also wanted to know how they behaved toward him.

  Body language should be able to tell me most if not all of that. If I pick up on anything I feel worth pursuing, then I can arrange for a tail and see where it leads.

  I quickly straightened up my seat and closed the window. After restarting the engine, I reversed out of the parking space onto the Coast Highway and headed back toward town.

  * * * *

  The Riptide's limited parking was full, and rather than risk a ticket by leaving the SUV on the street, I decided to play it safe by going over to the lot at the marina and walking the couple of blocks back.

  I'd almost made it to the restaurant when I noticed Tim waiting outside. Dressed in skintight blue jeans with a white tee to emphasize his tan and dark glasses perched atop his blond hair, I felt the same jolt of sexual attraction as when my brother first introduced us. A feeling that made me wish I could put the case on hold and suggest we go back to the beach house and pick up where we left off last night.

  "I was beginning to think either I'd guessed wrong or I'd missed you," he said by way of greeting. "And before you get the wrong idea, I'm not interfering. I swear."

  "Okay, then what are you doing here?"

  "I need to tell you something important before you go in there." He glanced at the entrance to The Riptide, then quickly around the immediate area, as if he expected a surprise attack. "Is there somewhere we can go for a chat?"

  I wasn't sure if he was nervous about something or merely excited. Either way, he was acting very jumpy. "You can't tell me here?"

  "No. I'd rather go somewhere we won't be overheard."

  "There's a bar in the next block and a coffee shop, too. Take your pick."

  "Either one is fine."

  The coffee shop came first. It was one of those dark, intimate places specializing in exotic brews with prices to match. I left Tim to get the coffee while I found us a table for two in the back.

  He brought me what smelled like my favorite dark roast, but I waited for him to sit down, before I said, "What's going on? Did Petra turn up? Did you get a ransom demand? What?"

  "No, nothing like that. What happened was pure happenstance."

  "Oh, yeah." I felt my nastiest suspicions click into high gear. "I thought we agreed--"

  "We did. Will you let me explain? Please?"

  The smile that accompanied the request made me hard in all the right places, and again I wished I could forget about business for an hour or two. Since I couldn't do that with a good conscience, I took a deep breath, and said, "Sure. Go ahead."

  "When I got back to your place, I realized I was out of shampoo and a few other things. I needed to find a drugstore. I was also running low on gas. After I filled up, I asked the guy on duty for directions to the nearest drugstore. He said to keep going until I came to Pacific Avenue and then hang a left. That it was in the first block. It's just a small, hole-in-the-wall kind of place, and I found it with no trouble. I was wandering around, picking up stuff, when you'll never guess who walked in."

  I don't do guessing games. "Who?"

  "The guy Mary described, the one who told her where to find Petra's stuff."

  My nerves tightened. If Tim had somehow screwed things up by alerting the guy... "You sure?"

  "Positive. He fit the description she gave us in every respect."

  "Did you speak to him?"

  "No!" Tim gave me what I suspect was intended as a hostile glare. "Give me credit for having a little sense. I overheard him talking to the clerk. He was being so... I'm not even sure how to describe it: rude, unkind, insulting. I know a lot of teenagers talk to each other like that these days, but it doesn't make it right. I was surprised she didn't throw him out or at least tell him to back off. When I paid for my stuff, I asked her what his problem was and why all the attitude. She said, and this is a direct quote, 'Because Kevin Hallsby's cousin is a cop, and he thinks that entitles him to say, do and take whatever he wants.'

  "I asked what that meant exactly, and she said he's always pressuring her to have sex with him. Other times, he walks in the store, takes whatever he fancies and says, 'Catch you later'--which she says he never does--on the way out. I asked who makes up for the loss, and she looked at me, made a face, and said, 'I'll give you one guess?' Can you believe it?"

  I'd stopped being surprised by people and what they're capable of doing to one another years ago. Especially if they believe themselves to be bulletproof. "Was anyone else in the store?"

  "Just the three of us. From the way he swaggered in and out like he owned the world, I doubt he even noticed I was there."

  "Did you ask why she puts up with it?"

  "I did." He sighed as he reached under the table and laid a hand on my thigh. "She seems to think she has no choice. She's a single parent, and she's convinced one word from Kevin to the right people and she'll lose her job and her kid. She said it happened to a friend of hers and she thinks Kevin was responsible, so now she's scared. From what she said, I got the impression throwing his weight around turns him on."

  "He wouldn't be the first." Tim's hand was burning through the fabric of my pants. There wasn't enough room for me to move my leg, and anyway his touch felt so good. Much too good for me to tell him to stop. But then he captured my gaze and the next thing I knew, he was seducing me with those big blue eyes. His hand moved up my leg, touched my cock lightly and retreated. I held my breath, waiting for him to do it again, praying he would. Instead, the bastard removed his hand and upped the pressure by taking a sip of coffee and running the tip of his tongue slowly around his mouth.

  I swear, if he'd asked me to get down on my knees then and there, public place or not, I'd have done it. No question.

  I gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee. My dick ached and my head swam with the promise I saw in Tim's eyes. How was I supposed to concentrate and figure out what had happened to his sister when all I want to do is go somewhere private where we could fuck one another senseless? I want to wrap my lips around his cock. I want to taste him. I want to squeeze his nuts and feel him react. But most of all I want to bury my aching shaf
t in his delectable ass, ride him until he screams for mercy, and then ride him some more.

  My hand trembled with suppressed need. I put down the mug before I spilled the contents.

  "Does it help?"

  "Does what help?" Hell, I couldn't even think straight with him looking at me like that. No way could I concentrate.

  "Knowing the guy's name and finding out he has cop connections. After everything I saw and heard, I came to the conclusion he's one arrogant little bastard. I certainly wouldn't put anything past him."

  "What exactly did he say?" I asked, playing for time to get my scrambled thoughts realigned. "Did he threaten her in some way?"

  "No. I'd call it sexual harassment. He made snide remarks about her body, wanted her to guess the size of his penis, then suggested she should lock the door for a few minutes so they could go in back of the store for a quickie. When she didn't reply, he told her to lighten up. Then he laughed and tried to make out he was joking."

  "Did she happen to mention the cousin's name?"

  "No, and I didn't ask. I was afraid if I came across as curious, she'd clam up. This way, I can always go back and ask if Mr. Personality's been in recently and perhaps she'll tell me more."

  And perhaps she's already wishing she kept her mouth shut in the first place.

  Maybe the kid was a harmless jerk who needed his ass kicked. And maybe he was flying high on the assumption being related to a cop gave him magical powers. As I discovered while I was on the force, stuff like that happens all the time here in the Cove, and probably everywhere else, too. Whether it's a cop applying the pressure or someone like Kevin, who figures he's connected, they always pick on the weak and the vulnerable. Anyone they know who'll go along with whatever they want because they can't fight back for whatever reason or simply lack the balls.

  From what Tim said, it sounded to me like the clerk was upset and shooting her mouth off to anyone who'd listen. If it was just stupid teenager stuff, he'd get bored or she'd wise up and smack him. If it was more, and this guy Kevin had something on her and found out she'd been complaining about him, good luck. He could step things up a notch and make her miserable life even more so. And, as long as Foxy remained chief of police, there was nothing she could do about it other than leave town. The chief thrived on any kind of intimidation shit.

  "If you need anything else while you're here, I suggest you find a different drugstore."

  Tim frowned. "Why's that?"

  "The one you're talking about is just a few steps from The Riptide. Whatever's going on, we don't want Kevin walking in and catching the two of you chatting about him."

  "What could he do to me?"

  "To you, nothing. To her, it depends what he has on her and if he has the kind of pull she seems to think. If he does, she could lose her kid and her job. By the time he's finished, she could even find herself living on the street."

  Tim laughed and shook his head. "You're kidding, right? He'd need proof to strip her down to the bone like that. The authorities wouldn't just take his word."

  "In a perfect world, no. In this one, it depends on several things. If she has a record, or she's been in trouble with child welfare before, or the dad's fighting her for custody, anything's possible. What if he knows something about her she doesn't want getting out?"

  "You think?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Me, either. I didn't think about possible alternatives. I simply thought he was harassing her for the heck of it."

  "Maybe he was. And maybe she has a wild imagination. She's heard stories and who knows what she thinks? The thing is, if he knows she's scared of him, he could be using the knowledge to get free stuff."

  "That would make him one very sick little fuck. But I hear what you're saying--whatever it is, mind my own business and stay out of it."

  I smiled, resisted the urge to reach under the table and do a little touching of my own, and drank the remains of my almost cold coffee. "Right. You only heard her side of the story. For all we know, she did something to seriously piss him off, and what you observed was payback."

  "Lots of possibilities, huh?"

  "Always. Lots of different angles, too. It's what makes my job so interesting."

  "You never said, but does knowing the boy's name help with your investigation?"

  "Knowing his name and getting confirmation he's related to a cop is very helpful. So, I thank you for that. I don't know of anyone on the force with the last name of Hallsby, but once I figure out who the cousin is and how the two of them fit into your sister's disappearance, I might just get somewhere."

  "What's your next step?"

  I grinned as I pushed back my chair and got to my feet. "I have this sudden yen for shrimp tostados with avocado. And it so happens The Riptide makes the best in town."

  "I don't suppose you'll let me join you."

  "Sorry, I can't. It's a business thing." Tim's disappointment was so believable, so heartrending, I admit I was I was more than a little tempted. With Petra missing for over a month, it wasn't likely to change anything if I put the job on hold for a couple of hours. Still, I couldn't allow myself to do that. It wasn't only unprofessional; in Tim's case, it could all too easily become a habit. "I'll see you later at the house."

  "What time will that be?" he asked, a wistful note to his voice as he followed me out of the coffee shop and onto the sidewalk.

  "No idea. In this job, there are no set hours. I have to play things however they come."

  "You want me to feed the cats?"

  "If you think they need feeding, sure. I know they'll appreciate it. There's a bag of kibble under the sink and a stack of canned food. I usually give them a little of each."

  * * * *

  As always, the beer in The Riptide was ice-cold and the tostados total perfection. The tortilla shells were crisp, the diced tomatoes and guacamole garden fresh, and the shrimps extra spicy and meltingly tender. I even had a table with a clear view of the bar, which was great because the cops always sit at the bar.

  My server, who I estimated to be on the shady side of eighteen, asked politely if there was anything else he could bring me, and I reminded him I'd also ordered a side of plain, sliced avocado.

  "You want dressing on that, sir?"

  "No thanks."

  The words were barely out of my mouth when Kevin--the tats, the silver earrings and the hair were a dead giveaway--came out from the kitchen and went behind the bar. I watched him serve customers, wipe glasses and return them to the overhead slots, then move down the bar, where he rested his arms on the counter and proceed to yak it up with a guy in the dark blue uniform of the Amethyst Cove P.D.

  Just then, the server returned with the avocado and completely blocked my view of Kevin and the cop.

  "Something wrong with the tostados, sir?"

  I glanced up at the guy. "No. They're great. Why do you ask?"

  "You're not eating."

  "I'm thinking."

  "I see. But they must be cold by now. Would you like to have them reheated?"

  For some reason, the spicy hot guacamole did not excite my taste buds the way it usually did. I gritted my teeth, wishing he'd just go. "No. It's all good. Thank you."

  "In that case, sir, I'll leave you to enjoy your lunch."

  To my relief, the server took off and my view of the bar was restored. Except there was nothing to see. Both Kevin and the cop had vanished.

  Damn, shit, carry nine, and great jumping jackanapes, as my English grandpa used to say when he got upset. Swallowing my frustration along with the rest of the cold tostados, I ignored the avocado, since it was already turning brown, and pushed the plates aside. To this day I have no idea what my grandpa's two favorite expressions mean, but as I kid I used to love following the old guy around while repeating them over and over until he threatened to "clip my ear"if I didn't stop. I thought he meant with scissors. Later I learned it was the English equivalent of giving me a smack upside the head.

  I finished
my beer, then remembered something Vance had said about Petra receiving weird calls. As a kid growing up around the Hollywood scene, I know life in the spotlight is not the dream existence most people imagine. It's up one day, down the next, often cruel, always uncertain, and only the tough survive. Celebrities get phone calls from wackos, weirdos, jealous rivals, obsessed fans, concerned citizens and everything in between. Most of such calls are made from disposable cells or public phones, which makes them untraceable, and, like Vance, I would probably have dismissed the ones Petra received as part of doing business.

  Unless, of course, it amounted to more than a single call from one individual...such as repeated calls, notes, letters, packages, attempts at personal contact in the street or elsewhere. If it had gone that far, it would be difficult if not impossible to hide. Petra didn't live in a vacuum. Unless things had changed from when I worked in Hollywood, the studio would have provided her with a personal assistant, a publicist, a security advisor--a whole a team of people who were paid to protect her and manage her life. Anything like that they'd have been on in a flash and it would have been stopped. Hell, even Vance would have known about it.

  So what had happened? What was so bad she felt compelled to fake her own death?

  In the absence of anything to the contrary, I was fast coming to the conclusion Vance was right and she couldn't take the stress. Either that or she'd taken the crank calls seriously and decided her life was in danger,

  The server brought me my check. I glanced at the total, handed him a couple of bills, and since Kevin hadn't returned, I decided to leave.

  Outside the restaurant, I hesitated and looked around on the off-chance Kevin was taking a smoke break. He wasn't. I wondered where he was...over at the drugstore harassing the clerk again, still in the restaurant, or had he finished his shift and left?

  I couldn't go back inside to check without being obvious. But restaurant staff often work split shifts, so I'd have to come back later this evening.

  As I headed over to the marina to collect the SUV, something began tugging at my brain that I couldn't get a handle on. One of those tricky, elusive thoughts you know will answer all the questions if only you can figure out what it is.