Bannon Brothers

by Janet Dailey

Still missing. Presumed dead.

  Presumed dead. Not declared dead. Officially still considered missing. Curious, Bannon began turning pages of the thick file and soon became engrossed in it for the better part of an hour. “This is one hell of a case,” he said softly and glanced at Doris. “How come I never heard of it?”

  “You were a kid when it happened, Bannon.” She sounded a little surprised by his interest. “It was before your time. Before you knew it all,” she added in a teasing way.

  “Yeah, sure. But—Ann Montgomery was abducted at the age of three.” He grabbed a pad of paper and pencil and jotted down some quick figures. “That means she would be twenty-nine now if she somehow survived.”

  “That’s correct,” Doris agreed.

  Pulling out the old reward poster and the bank document clipped to it, Bannon scanned them both. The money was held in a trust that would terminate on Ann’s thirtieth birthday. “There’s a year to go on this reward.” He couldn’t imagine why the case was being closed. The female victim was still officially classified as missing and a million-dollar reward was still in force for information leading to her safe return.

  Decades had gone by. Her family had faith, he’d give them that. Some people would cling to hope forever when no body was found. A few abducted children had turned up alive, years later, but the odds were solidly against this little girl. He flipped through the documentation, feeling a rush of hunting instinct. It felt good. Like his old self was back.

  “Yes, I noticed that,” Doris replied. “What’s your point?”

  “Fake Anns might start showing up. I wouldn’t call this case cold.”

  “It’s been forgotten, RJ. Don’t spin your wheels.”

  RJ leafed through another section of documents. “I don’t get it. Did you ask Hoebel about this? What could it hurt to keep it open for one more lousy year?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did, RJ. But he said nothing doing—every case more than five years old with no activity and no leads is officially cold. He wants these off the shelves. The actual files are going into a document storage place in a week. It’s about a hundred miles from here.”

  RJ frowned. “Not this one. It could be a gold mine of information. Every scrap of paper counts. This was a kidnapping, for chris-sake.”

  “Hoebel knows that,” she said, “but he doesn’t care. He wasn’t working here when the Montgomery case was headline news. Bye-bye, files.”

  “But why—”

  “Did you get through everything in that one?” Doris was asking.

  “I skimmed most of it.”

  “Finish reading,” she ordered in a schoolteachery voice.

  “Yes, ma’am.” RJ sank his chin into his hand and pored over the last miscellaneous pages. When he was done twenty minutes later, he glanced at Doris, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. “I still don’t understand. Tell me why a case with a million-dollar ticking clock and a missing child gets closed.”

  “More like two million. Don’t forget the interest,” Doris pointed out.

  He flipped back to the bank document and noted the date on it. “Eight per cent, compounded, low tax. Yeah, two million is probably about right.”

  “Now look at the date on the last document in the file.”

  He found it—a memo from a detective, now retired, whose name he remembered only vaguely. It was about something minor. RJ read the date aloud. “Okay, that was fifteen years ago. So?”

  “It’s ancient history, RJ. We don’t have the manpower or the money to stick with cold cases, even a high-profile one like this. Our budget keeps getting cut.” She scowled into her screen. “Hoebel has a master plan to streamline some of us out of existence, you know.”

  “But you just got promoted.”

  “Which means I have to prove myself, right? I intend to get every single file down here entered in my lifetime. Which is getting shorter every day.” She picked up a staple remover and snapped the tiny jaws at him. “Getting old really bites. Just you wait.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He sat up and clasped his hands over his head, stretching out his back. “Are there other Montgomery files? I feel like I’m missing something.”

  “Like I said, there are ten on that table. It’s possible some already went to the storage place, but I can’t be sure until I find the master list of files. That thing runs to about three hundred pages all told.”

  “What about the record of evidence? Where’s that?”

  Doris’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Evidence? There wasn’t any to speak of. Not a drop of blood or a sign of a struggle. Whoever took Ann left virtually no trace.”

  RJ favored her with a look of disbelief. “That can’t be. Who handled the investigation?”

  She wagged a finger at him. “Did you forget I wasn’t working here then?”

  “What’s that got to do with it? You just said you looked into all the Montgomery files.”

  Doris gave him an annoyed look. “RJ, you’d know as much as I do if you’d really read the material.”

  “Brief me anyway. For old times’ sake.”

  She sighed and tapped her pencil on the tabletop. “Half the cops in Virginia were working on it for months. Every sheriff who could keep his pants up over his gut got in on the action and dragged his deputies along. Search and Rescue went out with tracking dogs. The woods around the Montgomery house were gone over inch by inch.”

  “And nothing was found?” His tone was skeptical.

  “The dog handlers couldn’t pick up a scent trail and the searchers found zip. Whoever took her was extremely careful. I don’t know if you noticed it,” she added tartly, “but the FBI sent a profiler to try to match the MO to their list of known offenders.”

  “Where’s that file?”

  “I’m not sure.” She looked his way. “Maybe to your left.”

  He set aside the file he’d been leafing through to look for something labeled FBI and got distracted by another one labeled Photos. Montgomery, Ann. Bannon instinctively steeled himself.

  This was where it got real.

  After five years as a cop and five more as a detective, there were things he never wanted to see again. Crime scene photos that involved kids were among them. Granted, Doris had said there was no evidence, but the way he’d tensed up made his back twinge again. Damn bullet.

  Two years ago it had stopped perilously close to his spine, just short of severing it. The surgeons had left it in. Bannon thought of it as a souvenir of his own unsolved case, a meth lab bust that hadn’t gone too well. The dealer had used his young sons for a human shield and Bannon had no choice but to drop his gun, unable to ignore the terror in their eyes. But the dealer had opened fire.

  Two other bullets had been successfully removed from his chest. He had them somewhere, maybe in his sock drawer. The dealer’s sons were on the lam with him as far as anyone knew. RJ would give anything to set them free. But he wasn’t going to get the chance.

  He had lived—Bannon was grateful for that. And he planned to keep on living. But he’d learned you never knew, that was all.

  Opening the file, he looked through the faded photographs of a smiling little girl, pale blond hair caught back in ribbons, clad in a smocked dress. A photo-studio shot showed her holding a favorite toy, a pink teddy bear with flowered tummy and paws. There were others of her: most with her parents as a baby, as a toddler, as a three-year-old.

  Nothing he could go on now.

  “No age-progression images, looks like,” he said absently.

  “They didn’t have the software back then.”

  “Guess there were no sightings of the suspects. There’s no police composite either,” he said. “For what they were worth. I’ve heard they used to give a cop a crayon and hope for the best.”

  Doris snorted. “I know what you mean.”

  Looking at the photos stirred feelings in RJ that went beyond a mere hunting instinct. Protectiveness was chief among them. A vulnerable child had vanished.
That kind of crime got under the skin and stayed there.

  Apparently not with Hoebel, though. The chief was declaring the case cold exactly when anyone who knew the particulars of the reward might come forward. Stupid bastard. Still, he had to concur with Hoebel on the probable outcome of the kidnapping.

  Ann Montgomery hadn’t lived long. Somewhere there was a shallow grave that had never been found. A small one.

  Someone ought to be behind bars, facing the maximum penalty for that, no matter how long it took to make it happen. Bannon knew it was wrong to let this one go.

  He put back the drawings and sketches of Ann at three. What was the point? He knew the odds that little girl had lived for more than a couple days after her abduction weren’t good.

  “What else needs to be organized?” he asked briskly.

  “Every freakin’ file on that table. Pick a letter,” she said absently.

  RJ went one row down to the N files and opened folders for other cases that were a lot less sensational, sorting police documents by date and methodically dealing with the miscellaneous papers in them.

  After a couple hours of sitting in one place, his back began to ache, a warning signal that he needed to move around if he didn’t want it to start stiffening up. Right now a break and some fresh air had a welcome sound to it.

  Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood up. “I have a couple errands to run, Doris.” Truth to tell, he didn’t, but it was a good excuse. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, okay?”

  Doris acknowledged that with a nod. “Off you go. Give my regards to the real world.”

  “Want anything?”

  She made a face. “A vacation would be nice.”

  “I meant something to eat. Or is there food at an Art Walk?”

  “We are below the Mason-Dixon Line, therefore there is food. It’s the unwritten law of the South. But I’m not hungry. Thanks, though.”

  “You’re welcome. See you later.” RJ put the folders he’d been working on into some kind of order and left, taking the stairs up from the basement two at a time. At the top he hesitated and glanced down the corridor. There was Jolene, still talking on the phone. When she caught his questioning look, she gave a negative shake.

  Still no chief. No problem, he thought and realized it was probably a good thing Hoebel wasn’t back. If he saw him right now, Bannon suspected he would argue with him over the decision to archive the Montgomery case. Considering that he needed Hoebel to sign off on his leave extension, a confrontation wouldn’t exactly be a wise move.

  Outside the sun was bright and the air smelled fresh and clean after the basement’s staleness. With no particular agenda other than movement, Bannon decided to drive around and see what else was new in Wainsville besides just the Art Walk.

  Without really thinking about it, RJ took the routes he’d favored when he was still a patrol cop, before he’d made detective. It wasn’t like he knew every inch of the streets—he’d grown up outside of Arlington with his mother and two younger brothers after his dad died—but he liked the town, had made a home for himself here. One hand on the steering wheel, he looked up idly at trees that hadn’t leafed out yet, their trunks damp from the recent rain. A few skinny shrubs were trying.

  When he turned the wheel to take a shortcut through the community center parking lot, he remembered the Art Walk and headed that way.

  A professionally made sign with a holder for brochures stood at the park entrance. Beyond it was some lightweight scaffolding that supported framed photographs, watercolors, and oil paintings. Attached to the big sign was a smaller one, made by hand. HOME-MADE PIES, CAKES, AND MUFFINS.

  That got Bannon’s attention. He rolled down the window, doing a recon of the baked-goods table strategically positioned near the entrance to the park. The pies looked good at a dollar a slice and so did everything else—their money jar was filling up. Sunlight glinted on a gigantic coffee urn that he guessed had been borrowed from a church or a restaurant.

  Decision made. Bannon parked and got out, walking over to the short line at the table, ready for some pie and coffee to soothe his soul. A plump woman was putting slices of fruit-filled pie onto paper plates while another woman was serving.

  “One slice, please. And coffee. Black,” he requested when he reached them. RJ slid a five across the table and shook his head when the plump woman started to make change. “Keep it,” he said. “The pie looks worth the extra.”

  “It is. I made it myself.” A shyly proud smile dimpled her cheeks an instant before she turned to the next customer.

  Bannon walked away and leaned against an empty concrete planter, idly looking around while he ate and drank. Noticing the number of artists still setting up, he realized the event wasn’t in full swing yet. He took a brochure and read it, surprised to find he recognized a few of the participants’ names. A lot of them had studios or homes in the Rappahannock area, which was turning into a cultural mecca of sorts.

  With a slight lift of curiosity, he let his gaze wander over the exhibit area. Near the far end, a young woman stood next to a display of framed watercolors, something proprietary in her stance. From this distance, Bannon couldn’t identify the subjects of the paintings, but the young woman was another matter. A little taller than average with silky dark hair and a slender build that curved in the right places, she triggered all his male interest.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one. A lanky, tall guy was eying her too. There was something off-kilter about him, like he was made of spare parts and secondhand clothes. His gaze was hooded but he still managed to stare fixedly at her, hands jammed in the pockets of his dirty pants.

  Bannon made short work of finishing the pie and coffee, disposed of the plate and cup, and strolled over to give the creep a move-along look. He had strange eyes too. Narrow and cold, with a feral quality. Bannon didn’t speak—he didn’t have to. The guy seemed to understand instinctively that Bannon was police.

  RJ watched the guy walk away casually, an uneasy feeling coming over him as he tried to remember if he’d seen him anywhere before, drew a blank. Then he was gone. Bannon returned his attention to the young artist and went over to look at her exhibit.

  “Afternoon,” he said in greeting, glancing from the framed artwork over to her. Up close like this, he saw that she was worth the walk. In that split-second moment, he memorized her face—out of that same damn cop’s habit of constant and detailed awareness—taking note, with some pleasure, of her delicate features and sensual mouth devoid of lipstick. Silky, dark brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, not styled, but brushed to a high shine. He didn’t want to stare into her eyes like a jerk, so he didn’t. Even if they were china blue with long dark lashes.

  “Oh—hello.” She seemed almost surprised that he’d spoken to her.

  Self-consciously, she adjusted the position of one of the framed watercolors, a dramatic study of galloping horses. In fact, they were all of horses.

  “Are these originals? They’re really good.” He meant that. “Are you the artist?”

  “Yes.” There was something touching about the faint swell of pleasure in her expression.

  “You must ride.”

  She shook her head. “Not anymore. I wish I could. Growing up, all I had was an old farm horse, and he was too smart for me. He only let me on his back every once in a while. After a minute he would walk into the pond and float me off.”

  “So you’re a country girl.” Funny she didn’t sound like one. Bannon was curious as to how she would respond.

  “Sort of.” She seemed almost to regret that she had previously been so forthcoming.

  It wasn’t a reply that invited him to ask questions about where she lived and where she was from. Try something safer, he told himself. “Did you go to art school?”

  “No, I taught myself. And believe it or not, I make a living at it.” Confidence was in the assertion.

  “Good for you.” He really didn’t want to pepper her with questions, des
pite his curiosity. “You have a lot of talent. So, what else do you do—” RJ stopped himself when she gave him a wary look. “I mean, as far as art. Portraits, anything like that?”

  She relaxed visibly. “Yes, sometimes. I’ve done people and even houses. Houses have a lot of personality when they’ve been lived in for a while. It’s fun to try to capture that.”

  “I bet it is.”

  She definitely wasn’t the chatty type and seemed content to let him look at the art rather than to talk to him about it. RJ took his time to study the framed works on the table, not wanting her to think he’d only come over to check her out.

  “Tell me more about these,” he requested, grateful he was the only visitor at her display. “These are wild horses, right?”

  “Yes, they are.” She smiled at him but said nothing more.

  RJ felt damn close to dazzled by that one smile. A little disconcerted, he glanced back at the painting of a herd of horses galloping through mist. “It can’t be easy to paint animals moving that fast.” Done in subtle washes of dark color on white paper, outlined with sure-handed strokes of ink, the painting conveyed speed and power.

  “It isn’t. But I did that one from memory. I happened to see them out at Chincoteague at dusk,” she said, “running on the beach as the fog came in. There was something so mysterious about them, it just stayed with me.”

  “You did that from memory? It’s fantastic,” Bannon responded, aware she’d handed him a reason to ask if she was from that part of Maryland, but instinct told him it wasn’t the moment to follow up on it. One thing at a time. In some indefinable way, she seemed as leery of strangers as the horses she painted.

  “Think so?” She seemed pleased. Leaning over the table, she took it off its stand. “I have to admit it’s one of my all-time favorites.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  She nodded.

  Taking it from her, Bannon studied it. “I can almost hear the thunder of their hooves,” he mused.

  She was kind enough to smile.

  “Okay.” He set the painting back on its stand. “I think I have to have it. How much?”