by EC Sheedy
"Odd, isn't it? How it's the things you don't do in life, the sins of omission, that bring the most regret, the most pain."
Cade wasn't sure he agreed, but he hadn't come here to debate what kind of sin did the most damage. Hell, he didn't know why he'd come.
Susan, who'd gone silent for a time, seemed to force herself out of her painful reverie. "No matter. My mistake is irrevocable. I have to live with it, but I don't have to repeat it. All that matters now is finding my lost grandson. His name is Josh. Or so I was told."
Cade had his coffee cup close to his mouth. He set it down. "Grandson?" This was news to him.
"If I may?" Stan said, looking at Susan.
"Yes, Stan, please." She looked relieved. "I'm sure Cade will appreciate a more orderly presentation of the facts."
Stan fixed pale gray eyes on him. "Mariah had a son some months before she died. Father unknown. She never told her mother she was pregnant, nor did she inform her of his birth. I've confirmed she was clean when she had him and for a time after he was born. She went back on drugs when the man she was living with—not the father of the child—took off." He glanced at Susan, his eyes questioning.
"Go on," she said. "Tell him. All of it."
He didn't look as if he relished the task. "Mariah was squatting in a condemned building when she overdosed. She was dead two or three days before they found her. Josh was a toddler, sixteen months old. He was..." He shifted in his seat. "Let's say the boy was lucky to be alive."
Cade got the picture.
Stan went on. "With no one to contact, the state scooped him up, gave him what medical attention he needed, then put him into an interim care foster home. It took over two weeks before they linked Mariah to Susan."
"And?" Cade urged.
"It was too late." He paused. "Josh disappeared from the foster home within hours of being placed there."
Cade looked at Susan, then at Stan. "Disappeared?"
"The boy was taken to the home in the afternoon. Two o'clock, according to the social worker's records. There were three other foster kids there at the time. A boy and two girls. Ages ranging from thirteen to seventeen.
"That same night, the foster mother, a Mrs. Belle Bliss, was murdered. Four bullets in the head. She was not, by all accounts, an attractive corpse. By the time the police arrived, the house was empty except for one of Belle's sons, Frank. He had called the police. Her other son, Brett, was staying the night at a friend's place. All of which checked out. Frank's statement named the three foster kids as responsible for the murder. He said the boy pulled the trigger while the girls stood by, egging him on."
"The gun?"
"Never found."
"And the kids?"
"As gone as they could get. Probably disappeared into the streets. Pretty easy for kids, then and now. Especially ones as savvy as those three."
"And the child? What did Bliss say about him?"
"Nothing. Said after they shot his mother, they turned the gun on him, and when it didn't fire—out of bullets, I guess—they jumped him, beat the crap out of him, and knocked him cold. When he woke up, the boy was gone."
Susan spoke up. "The police did look for Josh, but after a few months, with nothing turning up to keep them going..." She lifted a shoulder, dropped it "They said one possibility was that the kids had taken him—for God knows what reason—then, when he became too much trouble, abandoned him."
"There are other possibilities, Susan," Cade said, careful to keep his tone mild.
"That they killed him? Disposed of the body?" Her words were hurried, and she glanced away for a moment. When she turned back, her face was tight. "Possible, yes. But possibilities prove nothing. I need to know."
Cade saw it then, in the depths of her eyes, the same look he'd seen so often in Dana's, unyielding and impermeable: the light of hope, the endless, lingering hope that rushed to fill the void after a disappearance. While no one longed for a funeral, he'd come to believe it infinitely preferable to its alternative, living with the ache of never knowing whether the one you loved—or hoped to love—would be in your arms again. Hope had failed Dana; it would probably fail Susan Moore.
"And you want me to find him, or at least find out what happened," Cade said, figuring it was time to cut to the chase.
"Yes, that's exactly what I want."
Cade drained the last of his coffee, cold now, like the leads in this case. Colder yet was his desire to begin a fruitless search for another missing child, risk another failure.
"I'm sorry." He stood. "I can't help you. Besides," he gestured to Stan, "it looks as if you already have the best man for the job." His skeptical side knew there was a chance Stan had been free-loading off Susan's guilt and grief these many years, but watching him with her, his gut told him no. "If he's come up empty, I'd probably do the same."
Stan rose, towered over him, giving him that weird small-man feeling he'd experienced earlier. "I've been on this case for what seems like forever, Harding. Took over after the third guy Susan hired got himself hit by a truck—and, yes, you can take that literally," he said, lifting a believe-it-or-not brow. "Since then, I've run down more blind alleys than I can count. Only one good thing has come out of it." He nodded at Susan. "Meeting this fine lady. But I'm tapped out. Plus, Susan thinks it's time for a different approach, and she believes you're it. You being into all that, uh, psychological stuff."
Cade knew he meant criminal profiling, the cross between art and science with the dubious reputation. Airy-fairy crap, his first sergeant called it. Maybe so, but it had taken him eight years to get that stuff in his head, and an equal number putting it in the heads of hundreds of listless students.
Stan added, "Susie here, she wants one last kick at the can, before she calls it quits. Me? I want what she wants." Stan gave him a hard stare, intimating he should feel the same way.
He didn't. He wanted to be left alone. He had a house in Pullman to move out of and a condo in downtown Seattle to move into. He had a new life to get started on.
A life without Dana...
"I'm a teacher, not a cop, Brenton," he said. "Definitely on the sidelines. There's a thousand guys with better qualifications."
Stan pulled out his wallet again, withdrew a folded piece of paper. "Professor of Criminalistics, specializing in juvenile behavior. Two-year sabbatical to work hands-on with Seattle problem youth at request of the mayor's office. Chair, federal committee on youth crime. Successful negotiator in high-profile kidnapping case involving missing teen—"
"You did your homework," Cade said.
"Some."
"All that was a while back." And the successes paled when compared to his singular, very personal, failure.
"And you were a cop. For three years." Stan put the paper he'd been citing back in his wallet, his hands on his hips. "Susan's asking you to take a look, give an opinion. That's all."
Cade looked at the two aging lovers—and he'd decided they were definitely lovers. Susan's eyes were wide, expectant. Stan's were judgmental and pissed off.
Cade turned to Susan, genuinely puzzled. "Why now?" he asked. "After all these years, why ask me now?"
"Mainly because I didn't know, until your mother's funeral, that you could help. It was your wife who told me what you did, how successful you were. She was very proud of you, you know." She paused. "As for your mother? Whenever I asked about you, she said very little, other than you'd 'taken off and left her alone, just like your father."
Cade might have protested, except for the glint of understanding in Susan's eyes, an understanding that no doubt came from years of lending her cousin money. He didn't bother defending himself, say how he'd kept in touch with his mother until she died and sent a regular monthly check. His business.
"That it?" he asked, wanting to end the conversation.
"No. The big reason is Frank Bliss is being paroled after serving seven years for manslaughter."
Stan interjected. "Go back a bit, Susie."
S
he pursed her lips. "A few months after the murder, I met with Frank Bliss. I'd hoped to learn something the police hadn't—stupid, I know—but..." She took a few steps, then turned back to face him, her expression defiant. "Ever since, I've felt that boy knew more than he'd told."
"You 'felt'?" Even though Cade's career centered on building a whole loaf from discarded chaff, he'd learned to distrust the I felt phrase—so often too close to its sister phrase, I wish, to be worthwhile.
"I figured you'd glom on to that word, but regardless, I'll stand by it. Frank Bliss was either lying or not telling everything he knew."
"If you consider his mother was brutally murdered—literally before his eyes—why would he lie? What do you think he'd gain from it?"
"I have no idea," she said. "But ever since the murder, Frank Bliss has been in jail more than he's been out. I suspect he lies for all kinds of reasons."
"And his brother?"
Stan answered. "Dead. Knifed in an alley after a fight in some club. About three years after the murder."
"Unlucky family," Cade said. "A good psychologist might say it was his mother's murder that turned Frank bad in the first place."
"He'd be wrong," Susan said, "because Frank didn't like his mother."
"He told you that?"
"He didn't have to. It was in his face, in his eyes. I think he was happy she was dead."
"Even if you're right, it still doesn't prove—"
She stopped him with a raised hand, her eyes coal hard and direct. "If he didn't care about his mother, he certainly wouldn't care about a sixteen-month-old baby. Whatever his reasons, I think he lied." She waved her hand in a frustrated action, her voice rose. "Maybe he killed his mother, maybe the lies were to protect himself, or his kid brother—"
"That's a lot of maybes, Susan." Cade said quietly. "Besides, you said the police checked Brett's alibi."
"They could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time."
The room went quiet, and Stan arched a brow and looked at Cade, his expression bordering on sympathetic. "Susie hasn't let this case go since she found out about Josh. She's not about to stop now," he said.
Maybe not, but Cade knew they'd stepped hip deep into the realm of conjecture and wishful thinking on a murder that occurred fifteen years ago. "It's a waste of time. Mine and yours," Cade said. He hadn't left WSU to get mired in someone else's problem, someone else's grief—or to work a case with a serious case of freezer burn. He'd walked this walk before. Swampland in a fog. "I'm sorry," he said again, more firmly this time. "I can't help you."
Again the room fell to silence, broken finally by Susan's heavy sigh.
"I didn't want to do this," she said. "But you leave me no choice." She met his eyes, her gaze unwavering. "You do this for me, Cade, and I'll forget what your mother owed me, which over the years came to over sixty-five thousand dollars."
She might as well have hit him in the gut with a two-by-four. His breath swooshed out, then he shook his head, muttered, "Son-of-a-bitch."
"No," Susan stated in a clear, measured tone. "I'm the mother of a dead daughter who's missing her grandson. Sons-of-bitches don't even come close."
Chapter 3
Cade plumped the pillow behind his head and settled his gaze on the ceiling. The house was a minefield of boxes, some for the movers, some for the local thrift shop, and some for the trash. Most for the trash.
The thrift shop cartons were his killing field. Dana's things.
She'd been gone for months, but her clothes, hanging in the closet, still carried her scent. Dust grayed the garment shoulders like cremation ash. He'd let it lie, breathing it in as he crammed everything she'd owned into cardboard boxes, scrawling "THRIFT" across them with a harsh felt pen.
He wanted them gone.
He wanted her back.
He put a forearm over his eyes to shut out the early sun blasting through the window, but it wasn't the sun making his eyes water.
Redge wandered in and nuzzled his other hand, the one hanging corpselike off the edge of the bed. When Redge licked his palm and whimpered, Cade turned on his side to look at him.
"Life's a bitch, Redgie boy. For the last month or so, I've been making it. There were at least a couple of hours a day when I didn't think of her. But now"—he waved at the boxes—"I feel like... Hell, I don't know what I feel like."
He closed his eyes against the goddamn tears. Who the hell said men don't cry? After Dana died, he'd wept an ocean, and here he was starting all over again.
Shit.
Redge whimpered again, and Cade swung his feet to the floor, sitting a moment on the edge of the bed before getting to his feet.
"Come on, boy, you can give me a hand with these boxes. The truck will be here in an hour, and Dana would hate it if we weren't ready for it." He smiled and roughed up the dog's neck, his reward a wildly wagging tail.
"That's the spirit." He hefted the first box. "And when this is done, we'll head for Seattle, settle in to the new place. Get started on that new life I've been promising you."
But first I have a debt to pay and a missing boy to track down. Everything's changed and nothing has changed.
* * *
By eight that night, Cade's condo possessed a semblance of order, and he and Redge were on their new deck looking down into the bustle of Seattle's crowded streets, Cade with a cold beer in his hand, Redge with a bone the size of a brick between his teeth.
"So, what do you think?" Cade asked Redge, gesturing with his beer to the city skyline. "This acceptable?"
Redge glanced up from his bone and offered up two tail thumps. Cade took it as a yes.
He turned from the view and walked the few steps to his new desk. Over the next couple of years, what he did at this desk would make or break him. The advance on his first book wasn't the greatest, but with that, some okay royalties, and his savings, he had enough to live on for at least two years.
After that it was up to Zero, his crime-fighting street kid, to put food on the table.
He couldn't wait to start making it happen. What with closing out the house, organizing the last of his classes and files, he hadn't written a word in weeks.
A stack of paper sat on his desk—notes, manila folders with elastic bands around them, and a box of newspaper clippings. Stan Brenton was nothing if not thorough.
He took a swig of beer and frowned.
Damn it, he resented the hell out of having to deal with Susan's problem, but as she'd not hesitated to point out, he owed her. Or his mother owed her. Same difference. And no doubt that sixty-five grand had put more than one slice of bread on his table through the years.
Yeah, he owed her, all right. Another swig of beer and he sat down, shuffled the mess on his desk.
He'd planned to begin with Bliss himself, get a firsthand account of what happened that night, but according to his parole officer, the guy was already AWOL. He'd been released from the State Correctional Institute at Smithfield in Pennsylvania just days ago, but chances were he was already out of the state.
Cade needed a new place to start.
He opened one of the files Stan had given him to the first page and ran his index finger down the list of names, the key players in the long-past tragedy.
Gus Vanelleto, seventeen, the boy Bliss accused of shooting his mother.
Dianna Lintz, sixteen, aka "Beauty," the daughter of a south Seattle prostitute who'd been running with Vanelleto for over a year before the murder.
Addilene Wartenski, aka "the Wart," a thirteen-year-old runaway. Mother dead, father unknown.
God only knew what names they were using now.
Under the heading "Department of Social and Health Services (DSHS)," he stopped his finger on the name Wayne Grover, the social worker of record at the time for the three foster kids in the house that night—and the guy who'd placed Josh there the day of the murders.
He read Stan's notes on Grover: "Very cooperative. Still feels responsible for what happened to Josh. Still check
s in with Susan regularly. Only on the job a couple of years or so before this happened. Helpful guy. Will give you a good overview."
"Okay, Grover," he muttered. "You've drawn the lucky number."
* * *
Frank Bliss walked out of the classy San Francisco menswear store a new man. Hugo Boss did that for a guy, and it helped that his waist was two inches smaller than when he went into the joint.
He settled his Ray-Bans and lifted his face to the late morning sun. Not too hot, but seriously bright. Man, he loved California. When this shit was over, he might settle down here.
Spotting a phone booth, he headed for it, then pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. It hadn't taken more than ten minutes to get this number. Now, if she'd oblige by being home, he'd get things started. Couldn't wait.
He dialed.
"Hello."
The voice was low and velvety, exactly as he remembered. His heart raced at the sound of it and damned if his mouth wasn't dry. "Is this Fallon West?"
"Yes."
"My name is Ches McQuade. I'm in town for the next few days, and if you have some time available, I'd like to meet you."
"Meet me, Mr. McQuade?" There was a smile in her voice. "Now why would you want to do that?"
Her low tone and the hint of a tease rumbled around his groin and stiffened his cock. "Because I've heard you're beautiful, you keep good company, and I need an... escort. For a couple of days." He was pleased with his cool. Hell, he was as good as he ever was. And what hooker would turn down a two-day gig?
"And you think it's that easy?"
"No." He lowered his voice, enjoying himself. "From what I'm told, there's nothing easy about you. Which is why I'm intrigued."
She laughed. "Good answer," she said then added, "Are you local, Mr. McQuade?"
"No, I'm here on business, from Pennsylvania. And it's Ches. Short for Cheswin. As you can guess, my mother didn't like me very much." Which was the first truth out of his mouth.
She laughed again, smooth as silk panties. "I take it you have references?"
"I do. When can we meet to make the necessary arrangements? "
