by V. K. Powell
Damn it to hell. Ever since they’d met, Macy had deliberately kept her at arm’s length, until tonight. She’d inched so close that the anticipation of touching was almost as painful as its withdrawal. When their fingers finally touched, it was as if they’d been forged as one. What had changed? She’d treated Macy with the same deference as always.
The paintings had surprised her, but she’d enjoyed seeing Macy’s creative side. Had Leigh’s appreciation meant that much to her, enough to soften her resistance? She continued to tread water as the night air chilled her shoulders…and Macy still watched from the window.
She couldn’t guess what made Macy Sheridan tick. They’d talked about their families, a rare moment of vulnerability from Macy. Had she felt something between them tonight as well, or was Leigh looking for connections that didn’t exist, willing Macy to show an interest? She’d wanted to spend time with Macy, and tonight she had, quality one-on-one time. She should be pleased. The secret to getting there is to know where you’re going. The saying stuttered through her mind as her toes grew numb. She had no idea if she and Macy were going anywhere, but if she didn’t get out of the lake soon, she’d be going to the hospital for hypothermia.
Leigh hauled herself up the side of the dock and flattened like a beached seal. Her arms and legs felt like popsicles. She reached for her pile of discarded clothes and drew them closer. As she took long, deep breaths of the warmer air, her extremities tingled and regained feeling, and with that reawakening came a wicked idea. If Macy was still watching, she was about to get a show.
She stood, bringing only her T-shirt with her, and distanced her legs shoulder-width apart. Holding the shirt like a towel, she started at her breasts, rubbing in slow, rhythmic circles until they were dry and her nipples puckered. She slid the fabric down the center of her chest, stopping just above her pubic mound. The desire Macy had kindled earlier flared and chased the chill from her body. A moan of arousal clawed up her throat, reverberating across the lake. She hoped Macy was watching and feeling just as uncontrollably horny. She couldn’t bring herself to check or she wouldn’t be able to complete her coup de grâce. Lowering the T-shirt she grasped it with one hand in front and the other behind and seesawed it back and forth between her legs.
Her knees buckled. She’d intended her evocative show to be just that, but when the fabric touched her slick folds, it turned serious. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out again and increased her pace. The release she hadn’t allowed herself in months was surprisingly close. Then another wail echoed off the water—a sound like that of a wounded animal. Leigh stopped mid-stroke and looked toward the house just as the lights went out.
Glancing down at herself, she suddenly became self-conscious and a little ashamed of her naked demonstration. She was expressive, yes, but not this. Maybe she could blame it on her frigid dip in the lake. Macy had sparked yearnings in her that she’d neglected for too long. She gathered her clothing and shimmied up the ladder, part of her eager to see what tomorrow would bring, part afraid to face it.
Chapter Eight
Macy was in her studio before dawn, a cup of coffee at her side and a human skull in her hands. She’d already glued the mandible to the cranium and was positioning the skull on an adjustable stand in the Frankfort horizontal position that closely approximated the natural position of the head. She gathered her tools and materials for the first phase of work from the tidy cubbies and cartons in which they’d been stored since her last reconstruction. Clicking off a mental list, she arranged each item on her work table: Duco cement, X-acto knife, vinyl eraser tips, drawing boards, T-square, triangle, masking tape, drawing and vellum paper, pencils and erasers, and camera.
She’d slept poorly, restless after allowing Leigh to touch her as if they’d already been intimate. Her behavior seemed like a dream, edging gradually closer to Leigh, almost begging her to reach out. And when they connected, the dream ended and her senses focused razor sharp on the physical. The energy between them hummed and she found it difficult to restrain herself. Control had always been like breathing, natural and effortless, but for several delicious moments she’d slipped into a belly crawl through the wading pool of arousal. She’d wanted to ask Leigh to stay but the words wouldn’t come, trapped in a place where guilt trumped longing.
She admired Leigh’s spontaneity, but what was she trying to prove by that show on the dock? What must it be like to be so uninhibited? Maybe Leigh was an exhibitionist who got off on public displays, or maybe she was symbolically offering herself? She’d chosen the latter and gone to bed with a sexual ache so severe that multiple rounds of self-pleasuring hadn’t satisfied her. She was acting like a hormone-crazed teenager and had woken a bit confused by the whole evening. Maybe work would redirect her urges into something more productive.
Grabbing her X-acto knife, ruler, and tissue-depth table, she began the two-dimensional portion of the reconstruction process. She measured the first piece of eraser to coincide with the measurement on the depth table and cut it to size. After writing the number one on the end of the marker, she glued it to the skull’s forehead just below the hairline. She positioned number two between the orbital openings. Falling into a familiar working rhythm, she cut, identified, and glued the subsequent pieces in place. When she attached the last marker, twenty-one pieces of vinyl eraser stuck out from the skull like a pincushion. These tissue-depth markers would guide her photographs, sketches, and later clay molding of the skull by indicating the thickness of muscle, tissue, and skin on specific points of the skull.
When she finally stepped back to evaluate her progress, she’d been working for five hours without a break, but she hadn’t felt so energized in months. Suddenly her objections to this project disappeared and she was optimistic about the outcome. She glanced at the unfinished sketches of Jesse staring up from the corner of the table and knew she’d made the right decision. She placed a lid on the box and slid it under her work counter. Perhaps she was one step closer to the creative, carefree artist she’d once been.
She made a cup of tea and looked out the kitchen window toward the apartment. She hadn’t seen Leigh all morning. Maybe she was avoiding her after that rowdy show on the dock, unable to explain her behavior any more than Macy could understand it. Her mind flashed to last night and her clit stiffened. Leigh’s moans had echoed across the lake, answered shortly by her own as she’d fisted her genitals in an attempt to stop the pain. As she remembered the heat of that scene, the cup in her hands suddenly felt too hot and she placed it on the counter.
When was the last time she’d thought about getting involved with another woman? Did the occasional tryst with a grad-student model count as involvement? Would Leigh consider a purely sexual relationship, or was she the type who’d want more? Macy couldn’t do more, but sex was a basic human need and could be as casual as eating, sleeping, and drinking. Before she became too invested in her ill-conceived thought, she returned to the studio. When she focused on a task, little penetrated her concentration.
Now that the tissue-depth markers had dried, she photographed the skull from every angle. She’d use these shots as the basis for life-size enlargements and attach them to boards for her facial drawings. These drawings were one of the creative parts of the process that Macy enjoyed. Several new computer software programs could produce the two-dimensional images for her, but she preferred doing the work by hand. The programs were quicker but missed subtle variations, and in her opinion, the end results were more generic than her hand drawings and much less artistically satisfying.
By the end of the day, she’d finished the photo enlargements, attached them to the drawing boards, and taped the delicate vellum paper over the skull photographs. She was ready to begin the artistic phase of the reconstruction, but she wanted to start fresh. Would this be the face she’d waited years to sketch?
As she closed the door to the studio, the phone rang and she considered not answering. She didn’t have a message machine, so annoyi
ng telemarketers couldn’t leave messages. It could be the police with more information about the skull. Since she’d agreed to take the case, she picked up. “Yes?”
“Mace, it’s Trudy. How’s it going?”
“Pretty well, actually. I’m ready to start the drawing.”
“Wow, when you make up your mind, you don’t waste time. Anything else going on?”
She recognized Trudy’s subtle way of asking about her personal life. “Not really. I took on a renter in the apartment.”
“Really?” The tone was pure Trudy, genuine surprise laced with a hint of disbelief. “Who is it?”
“Woman named Leigh Monroe. She answered my ad in the paper. It’s probably a short-term thing. Not sure I like having someone else on the property.”
“Leigh Monroe? Seriously?”
Now the tone was starting to annoy her. “Yes, why? Do you know her?”
“Not really know, know, but I know of her…”
“Know what, Trudy? Spill.”
*
Leigh purposely started her jog before Macy woke and hoped to be finished before lights came on in the cottage. After her shindig on the dock, she still hadn’t figured out how to explain her behavior. Her options were to make up an excuse about the effects of cold water on brain cells or to tell the truth. Which was what, exactly? That she’d been so overcome with head-spinning, crotch-burning lust that she’d resorted to fondling herself in public? Or that she wanted an intimate connection so much she’d reached out to a woman who obviously had no interest…and then resorted to fondling herself in public. However she spun it, the fondling-in-public part was the kicker. Maybe she should just let Macy believe whatever she wanted, but for some unfathomable reason, her opinion mattered. At least she could put off the inevitable a bit longer.
As she approached the house, she slowed her pace to cool down and left a message for Nate at the office. She asked him to search for information on Steven Temple: criminal history, driver’s license and record, tax documents, title search, military status, and credit reports. He probably wouldn’t find anything because they didn’t have enough information to eliminate potentials. She wanted to help Jack, but he was hiding more than his name and date of birth.
After a quick shower, toast, and coffee, she settled on the small balcony overlooking the lake. If she sat with her back to the cottage, maybe she wouldn’t be tempted to watch for Macy or go talk to her. She opened the accordion folder Nate had given her and pulled out the contents—computer-generated copies of an old missing-person report, not the original case file. A pink handwritten Post-it note was stuck to the top sheet.
In your spare time, give this a look. Let me know if you find anything of interest. And don’t discuss it with ANYONE. AAH
Captain Anita Howard’s horrific handwriting rivaled any surgeon’s illegible scrawl. She’d gotten used to it during training, but it wasn’t something you picked up quickly. Flipping the cover, she looked at the front sheet of the case report and the victim’s name highlighted in yellow, Jesse Quinn. The toast and coffee she’d had for breakfast threatened to claw its way up her throat. This case had initially left a bad taste in her mouth, and it was still there.
The Jesse Quinn case was the first major crime she’d worked on, while still a trainee with Anita. They hadn’t handled the call but assisted with the neighborhood canvass and grid search. Anita had quietly shadowed the lead detective’s progress on the case until it was closed only two weeks later. They’d both wanted to do more to find the missing sixteen-year-old girl, but neither of them was in a position to buck the system. Now it seemed Anita Howard, as a command-level officer, was in a perfect position to do so and had chosen Leigh as her instrument. Why now? Was it because of the new skeletal remains CAP had Macy working on or simply because Leigh had time and Anita knew she hated being bored?
Nate’s instruction on the outside of the folder not to open it in the office had to have come directly from Howard. Though the lead detective had retired years ago for health reasons, several patrol officers who’d worked the original case were now detectives, and others were supervisors. The captain wouldn’t want anyone to know about this unofficial review. She doubted that Nate even realized what he’d passed along.
She closed her eyes and recalled the feelings surrounding this case at the time. The parents were understandably distraught—their teenage daughter had gone out with a friend and disappeared without a trace. The best friend was hysterical, near shock, and inconsolable with grief and guilt. But the officers working the case were skeptical, certain she’d run away with a boyfriend and would show up in the morning. Leigh and Anita hadn’t shared their theory, believing instead that foul play was involved. They’d been partially vindicated when the girl failed to reappear the following day, the day after, or two weeks later.
But once the scene was cleared and potential evidence lost, a shoddy investigation was permanent. The investigators were screwed and so was the victim. The only person who won was the suspect, if a crime was committed. Leigh had been disappointed in her fellow officers for not going the extra mile. Though she had no direct contact with the family and friends of the missing girl, her heart ached for them. Maybe this was her second chance to speak for the victim.
Leigh moved a side table from the living area onto the balcony and separated the file by preliminary reports, forensic evidence, photographs, witnesses’ statements, follow-ups, and detectives’ notes. With a yellow legal pad on her lap, she started at the beginning, as if seeing the case for the first time. The hard part was ignoring her initial feelings and the nagging sense they’d missed something important.
Three hours later she’d made it through everything except witnesses’ statements with little to show for her effort. The officers had done an adequate job but hadn’t recanvassed the area in case neighbors had been away or remembered something later. The photographs were useless, pictures of a vacant club parking lot and the girl’s bedroom. Forensic evidence was nonexistent, because no one wasted time or resources on a teenager when they’d decided she’d simply walked off.
She had written only three entries on her notepad, reinterview and recanvass, which would be nightmares after sixteen years. Her other note—why no picture of the missing person? Had it been removed, destroyed, left out of the original file, or simply not included in her copy? Her stomach tightened as she picked up the witnesses’ statements. Was she frustrated because she lacked useful leads or because she was grasping at straws? Was she just trying to keep busy so her mind wouldn’t wander to the two subjects she desperately wanted to avoid—her mother and Macy Sheridan? No. This case had been important to her then and was even more important now. The Quinn family deserved answers. They needed to know the truth, even though the chances of Jesse being alive were miniscule. As she picked up the stack of witness statements, she heard someone walking on the dock.
“Hello?” Macy called from below.
Her reprieve was over. She sickened at the possibility of having to explain her behavior last night. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Would you come down, please?”
Leigh backed down the stairs slowly, not anxious to face Macy’s censure. They’d shared a comfortable evening and confided in each other, but now her tone sounded like an order instead of a good-morning welcome. When she looked into Macy’s eyes, she knew something had gone terribly wrong.
“I don’t think this arrangement is going to work.”
“What? If this is about last night—” Leigh’s stomach tightened and she started to reach out, but Macy’s expression stopped her.
“It’s not, but that was certainly…interesting. It’s about you lying to me. Should’ve gone with my gut the moment I saw you.”
She wasn’t sure if Macy was still speaking to her or berating herself aloud. “What are you talking about? When have I—”
“A cop? A cop, for God sake! Were you in on this whole let’s-get-Macy-to-take-the-case exercise? Is that why you en
couraged me?”
“I had nothing to do with trying to convince you to take the case. Honestly.” Her mind raced like a gerbil on a wheel but produced nothing helpful—no witty comeback, no words of wisdom, no truthful explanation that wouldn’t make her look like a complete dick.
“Poor choice of words in your situation. And it gets better—a cop suspended for hiding a child. Is that why Jack was here? If you’ve involved me in something illegal…I can’t believe you’d bring this to my door, but then I don’t really know you, do I? For all your emotional candor, you sure have a lot of secrets.”
“Who told you?”
“Is that really the question you want to ask right now?”
“I…I can explain.”
“Don’t bother. The time for explanations has passed. Just make other living arrangements as soon as possible.”
“Macy, please listen. It’s not what you think.”
“Did you purposely withhold this from me?”
Leigh struggled for the right words, but they wouldn’t come.
“Then it is exactly what I think.”
“What difference does my profession make anyway? I’m just renting an apartment, not sharing your bed or your life.”
Macy’s mouth twisted into a sneer, as if sharing her bed or life with Leigh was the most distasteful thought imaginable. Her reaction seemed a bit over the top, but Leigh didn’t know if she had trust issues from past relationships or was just happy for any excuse to get rid of her after the closeness they’d shared last night.
“I don’t appreciate being misled, and I don’t want anyone on my property who isn’t trustworthy.”
