Little Girl Lost (Georgiana Germaine Book 1)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  And still, she’d said nothing.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’re wondering why I didn’t tell Jack.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Jack had been pushing me to quit the station and go to work for someone else. He didn’t want me working with Joe. I understood how he felt. I felt the same way about the guy. I’ve worked there for eight years. Eight years, Gigi. I didn’t want to give it all up because some jerk had it out for me. If I had told Jack, he wouldn’t have stopped pestering me until I agreed to quit.”

  “You could have told Harvey. He’s great at keeping secrets.”

  “I tell Harvey, he tells mom. He tells her everything.”

  “Not everything.”

  “When’s the last time he kept something from her?”

  Everyone in our family saw Harvey as a good man, but one who cowered to our mother. He was the only one I’d given my location to when I left town, and he had kept my secret. He wasn’t just a good man, he was a great one.

  “You said there were two more notes,” I said. “When was the last one delivered?”

  “Right before I left to cover the fires. It said he’d tried to be patient, but it was hard. He wanted us to be together. He couldn’t live without me. He said he would reveal himself to me, and when he did, he knew I would agree.”

  She was in pain, grieving, a complete disaster, which was why I bit my lip and didn’t chew her out for being so shortsighted and naïve. If her stalker knew where she worked, where her office was located, and what she drove, there was no doubt in my mind that he knew where she lived. She’d opened the door to the lion’s den, and he’d strolled right in.

  I had half a dozen places I wanted to check out before day’s end, and no ability to divide and conquer. I arrived at the first place on my list, showed myself inside, kicked my feet up on the desk, and waited. A minute later, I heard someone shuffle down the hall toward me. Joe Coldwell wasn’t what I expected. He had an orangey-red complexion and wore polished, brown shoes that didn’t match his ill-fitted black suit. He was the runt in his family litter, and a lover of steak, which he indulged in daily, by the looks of it.

  He walked to the other side of the desk, glared at my boots resting on top, pressed his hands onto the surface, and hovered over me like a vulture assessing his prey.

  It was a power play.

  I bet it worked on scores of women in the past.

  It wouldn’t work on me.

  “I was told you wanted to see me, Mrs. ...?”

  “Miss Germaine.”

  In under ten seconds, he’d already ascertained my relationship status.

  Round one went to him.

  Time for round two.

  “You should stop eating so much red meat,” I said.

  “I ... what?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I enjoy steak now and then, but I’m not allergic to it. You are.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I swished a finger from side to side. “The rash on your face. How long have you had it?”

  He rubbed a hand along his jawline, irritated.

  “Your lips are swollen,” I said. “Get an allergy test. See for yourself.”

  “How do you—”

  “Know? I geek out on certain things. One of those things happens to be nutrition.”

  “How did you get into my office?”

  “I walked here. I mean, hey, if you want the full story, I’ll give it to you. I parked my car, walked through the front door, and told your secretary I needed to see you. She said I could wait on those uncomfortable metal chairs you have in the reception area. I said no, saw the enormous, gold-plated placard outside your office door with your name on it, and ... well, here I am.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Several reasons. Phoebe Donovan is my sister.”

  His eyes rolled so far back into his head I thought they were lost forever.

  “I know,” I said. “You’re standing over there thinking it makes sense, right? I’m the sister of crazy. Go ahead. Judge me. I accept it. I’m judging you too. I’m trying to figure out how a man like you gets away with verbal harassment.”

  He stabbed a finger in my direction. “Out!”

  “No, I think I’ll stay.”

  He pressed a button on his phone, and I leaned down, ending whatever call he had tried to make.

  I leaned in and whispered, “If you’re thinking of calling the police, they’re already here. I heard Detective Georgiana Germaine is in the building. And, well, that chick’s crazy.”

  He leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to the side. “You shouldn’t be doing this. I know people.”

  “I know people. You know people. We both know people. Can we move on? I have reason to believe you might have a stalker on staff.”

  He wheezed a sinister laugh. “A what? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Over the past few weeks, my sister has received anonymous gifts and notes from a man who seems to be stalking her.”

  I reached into my purse and held a plastic bag in front of him. “These are the notes. They were left on the windshield of her car.”

  He attempted to snatch it from my hand. I yanked it back.

  “No touchy,” I said. “I’ll be taking these into evidence. What I need from you is a complete list of your staff.”

  “You kiddin’? Not a chance.”

  “You will get me a staff list, Mr. Coldwell, even if I have to put in a call to Judge Masterson to get it. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to get it to me. I expect it in my hand by this time tomorrow.”

  He huffed something under his breath. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

  I scooted the chair back and stood. “I have other places to be, but one last request before I go. You won’t be firing my sister, and she won’t be replaced.”

  He grinned. “It’s not up to you, honey.”

  Honey.

  I fisted my hands but kept them at my side.

  “Would you like to know what I excel at?” I asked. “What sets me apart from most detectives?”

  “Nope. Not interested.”

  “I’m going to tell you anyway. I’m good at digging up dirt on people. We all have it, those pesky secrets we bury and keep hidden from everyone else. Secrets we tell ourselves are airtight and have no chance of coming out. I have a way of finding the cracks, digging them open, and exposing what’s on the inside. Trust me when I say you don’t want me to look into you.”

  “You assume you’d find something.”

  “I’d find a lot. For now, I’ll offer a few words of advice before I go. You will stop asking women to unzip your pants. You will keep my sister on in her current position, you will learn to get along, and you’ll forget cupcakegate ever happened. Because if you don’t, not only will I scour your past for dirt, I’ll expose it and make sure you’re the one who’s fired.”

  Silas Crowe was bent over an examination table, bobbing his head to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” when I walked in. I grabbed the remote and turned the volume down. Without looking back, he said, “Keep your hands off my tunes if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Hello to you too, Silas,” I said.

  He jerked his head back and then removed his gloves and tossed them onto the table. He tucked his long, blond bangs behind his ear, walked over to me, and threw his arms around me.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “I heard a rumor you were back. I needed to see you with my own eyes to believe it.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “I am. For now. You get some sun last weekend?”

  He eyed his farmer’s tan and said, “Spent the weekend at Pismo Beach. The surf was great. Glassiest day we’ve had in ages. And, yeah, I stayed out too long. Figured I’d suffer a bit when the sunscreen wore off. Never thought I’d look like Lobsterfest, though. Anyway ... how are you? How you been?”

  “All right, until Harvey stopped by this morni
ng.”

  “Yeah ... I was sorry to hear it.”

  I bent my head toward the table. “Are you working on Jack?”

  He nodded.

  “Anything so far?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s see. From what I can tell, there were no signs of a struggle. I just removed the nine-millimeter bullet from his chest. He was shot once, which I’m sure you know. Otherwise, he’s clean, and when I say clean, I mean impeccable, especially his hands.”

  “Jack was a surgeon.”

  “Ahh, makes sense.” He headed toward his office and waved me over. “Come with me. I have a couple things to show you.”

  We walked into his office. He shuffled through a series of photos on his desk, placing most into a stack on one side and reserving a few others. He handed one of them to me.

  “I haven’t found much in the way of evidence,” he said, “but I did recover a decent shoe print from outside Lark’s window. Tennis shoe, I reckon.”

  I stared at the shoe print. It looked average, around a size ten, I guessed. Too small to belong to Jack. “Jack invited the neighbors over for dinner last night. Any chance this print belongs to Mitch Porter?”

  He shook his head. “Hunter followed up with him. He’s a size eleven. Jack was a twelve. Found a couple fingerprints on the exterior of Lark’s bedroom window too, but they’re smudged. They won’t offer anything useful.”

  “What else?”

  “Hunter said the front door was locked when she arrived to check out the scene. So was the side door, the one leading from the laundry room to the garden. The back door was unlocked, and a window in your sister’s bedroom was open.”

  He handed me some of the photos they’d taken at the house, and I shuffled through them. In one, a stuffed unicorn was tipped on its side. It was the unicorn I had given Lark right before I’d left town. It sickened me to see it, to think she was alone and afraid, and I had been too far away to keep her safe.

  I attempted to clear the lump in my throat. “Anything ... umm ... anything else I need to know right now?”

  “I haven’t been able to do much yet. I’m staying late tonight. I’ll process whatever I can. If I find anything of interest, I’ll give you a call.”

  “I appreciate it, Silas.”

  “Sure thing. I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

  His cell phone buzzed. He peeked at it, clicked it off, and rolled his eyes. “What about the word unavailable is so hard for women to understand? I mean, this is the sixth text message I’ve received in an hour. I said I was working. I said I’d get back to her later when I’m not working. What more do I need to say?”

  “Not all women find it hard to understand,” I said. “Just the needy ones.”

  “You still assume I attract ladies with daddy issues.”

  I did, but he’d said it this time. Not me.

  “Don’t you?” I asked.

  “I mean, yeah. I’ve been working on it.”

  “Working on what?”

  “It’s a lot harder to find a girl who has her crap together than one who doesn’t. Trust me.”

  “None of us have our crap together. Not me. Not you. The baggage we carry around, be it great or small, is always there. You’re after a woman who’s perfect. That’s why you’re still single.”

  “You’re single too.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I reached into my handbag and withdrew the plastic bag.

  He leaned in. “Whatcha got there?”

  “I need you to analyze these notes,” I said.

  He put his gloves back on and sifted through the notes, his eyes wide as he went from page to page. “Where did you get these?”

  “My sister has a stalker. And, please, keep it to yourself for now. I don’t want this information to get out.”

  “Oh...kay. Who else knows?”

  “Aside from her? Me, and now you.”

  “You plan to tell Harvey?”

  I nodded. “When I see him.”

  “I’ll check for latent prints.”

  “Won’t it be hard, since it’s paper?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. Paper has a porous surface, making it easy to find prints. I’ll spray ‘em down, steam ‘em with an electric iron, and see what shakes out.”

  It was late, but I didn’t want to stop looking. I wanted to continue, to keep going, knocking on doors and talking to people until I’d exercised all of my options and run myself ragged. But I needed sleep. When I didn’t get it my mind shut down, and I became useless to anyone who counted on me. I pulled into a decent RV park on the edge of town with cemented stalls and tall, mature shade trees, and kicked back in bed with Luka.

  I went over the day’s events in my mind, from my brother’s unhealthy wife to learning my sister had a stalker she’d never told anyone about. I thought about Silas and his comment about me being single. At first, after I left, I liked being alone. The silence soothed me. And I liked being far away, hiking with Luka each morning to places where it felt like we were the only inhabitants on the earth. I meditated. I contemplated my purpose and my dreams. I focused on what I’d achieved and how hard I’d failed. And I reflected back to the past, to my college years, to a time when I was much happier than I realized.

  Giovanni Luciana had been my first love, the first man I’d ever cared about, but I’d failed to realize my feelings for him until it was too late, and he became engaged to someone else. The first day I saw them together, walking hand in hand, strolling through the grass on campus, my heart felt like someone had tightened a rubber band around it, and if I breathed in, it would burst. I was gutted, but he was happy, and I couldn’t bring myself to break their union by spouting verbal affirmations of feelings I myself didn’t even understand.

  We’d first met in a creative writing class at Columbia University in New York in 1996, when I was eighteen. He’d started college late and was several years my senior. His sister Daniela was looking for a roommate and mine had just skipped out on rent. She’d packed her things while I was at work and flown the nugget-sized condominium coop. Daniela swooped in, handed me six months’ rent in advance, and Giovanni, Daniela, and I hung out so much we called ourselves the three musketeers.

  Giovanni visited our place every day. He played head chef in the kitchen, cooking some of the best meals I’d ever had. His dream back then had been to own his own restaurant, something he refused to admit to his father because his father wouldn’t have approved. Giovanni didn’t care. He was determined to open his own restaurant in New York City one day and said he’d call it Osteria dei Mascalzoni, which meant “Tavern of the Scoundrels.”

  Almost a year after Daniela moved in, I entered our apartment one night to find a man had forced her onto the couch. He’d pinned her hands behind her head, yanked off her panties, and stuck his manhood in a place it shouldn’t have been unless she’d agreed to it. She hadn’t. Her desperate cries for help and her attempts to defend herself were all I needed to hear to know she hadn’t consented to the vile act she was being put through.

  Seeing her helpless and afraid, my only thought was to hurt him the way he was hurting her. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a pan off the stove, yelling obscenities at the man as I lifted the pan in the air and cracked it over his head, splitting it open. All it took was that one well-placed attack, and he slumped over Daniela. She thrust her hands into his chest and pushed him onto the ground. She pulled her nightgown down and got up, and we both stood there, staring at the blood leaking from his wound.

  I thought he was dead.

  I thought I’d killed him.

  I should have cared, but I didn’t.

  She was safe.

  And he was a rapist.

  I wanted him to be dead.

  I’d bent down, feeling for a pulse, my fingertips perspiring too much to gauge whether he was alive or not. I saw his chest rise and fall and realized he wa
s still alive, but with the continuation of blood pooling onto the carpet, I assumed he wouldn’t live for long.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I’d said. “Call for an ambulance?”

  Unnerved, Daniela grabbed my wrist. “Do not call 911. Call my brother. He’ll know what to do.”

  I did what she’d asked, and Giovanni arrived within minutes. He was accompanied by two older, bald-headed men who dressed in all black and looked like bouncers in a night club. Giovanni embraced his sister and then bent down, flipping the man around. To my surprise, the man’s eyes flashed open. He grabbed Giovanni’s shirt and pleaded for help. Giovanni clenched the man’s chin, leaned down, and whispered something in his ear. Then he suggested Daniela take a shower and asked me to remain with her until he came in and said it was okay to come out.

  Sometime later, Giovanni checked on us. He told us not to worry. He said they’d taken the man where he needed to go and assured us both that the man would never return. I remember thinking they’d probably dropped the guy at the hospital, but Giovanni had never said where the man ended up.

  The next day after class, I arrived home to find the carpet had been replaced. It looked the same as the carpet we’d had before, only cleaner, and there were no more bloodstains. Daniela behaved like the horrific event had never happened. I’d assumed it was her process and didn’t shake things up by mentioning it and forcing her to relive it again. Giovanni asked me to dinner a few nights later and showered me with a huge bouquet of flowers and a Sense and Sensibility book set to add to my collection.

  Life went on as usual. And Giovanni had been right. The rapist never returned.

  The incident changed my life forever. I felt a sense of purpose for the first time, a passion for something, the same passion I imagined my father had when he had served as a police officer.

  I wanted to be like my father.

  I wanted to go after the vile, nefarious scum and protect innocents from the cruelty in the world. I decided to become a cop, and then a detective. Thinking back now, if there was one thing the past two years had taught me, it was that life was fleeting. It was rare to have a second chance to alter a decision once it had been made, to choose the left side of the fork in the road instead of the right. I’d spent many nights in recent months thinking about what might have happened if I had veered right instead of left.