They scanned the back door and all the windows of the single story house. The intact grime and cobwebs assured them the house hadn’t been entered. These coastal houses had no basement that could be concealing little girls.
Brad directed the beam of his flashlight over the nearly obscured house numbers. “We could check it out in the daylight tomorrow.”
“Yeah. We won’t be able to see much tonight.” She scratched her head, thinking aloud. “Funny. It almost seems like a tactic to distract us from our case, but it’s pretty much a wasted effort since we don’t have a single real lead.”
Brad continued surveying the house. “Maybe someone thinks we do.”
Gillian couldn’t prevent her shudder. It wasn’t like her. She’d been on plenty of dangerous assignments before.
Brad seemed to catch her sense of discomfort. “Let’s get out of here.”
Gillian didn’t disagree. There was something unnerving in the air.
Once inside the SUV, she sneaked a look at Brad, but he looked neither smug nor condescending. More troubling, he looked perturbed. “Brad?”
He glanced at her as he drove away from the house, heading toward the ocean. “Why don’t we get some coffee before we drive back to the city?”
The coffee might ease the chill she felt. “Sure.”
Within a few minutes, they were on the highway fronting the seawall. Cars cruised the popular street that was lined with restaurants and attractions. Gillian wondered which place Brad would choose.
When he turned into a hamburger drive-through, she couldn’t prevent a small snort. “The deluxe treatment, eh?”
He rolled down his window, ordering two large cups of coffee. “I thought we could take them down to the beach.”
Her throat clogged as memories overtook her, memories of their time spent on that very beach. So much in love, all they’d needed was a bit of sand and each other.
“That okay?” Brad was asking.
She hoped her voice wouldn’t sound as raw as her emotions. “Sure.”
It didn’t take long to find a parking space. Midweek, the beach wasn’t as crowded as it would be when the tourists flocked there on the weekend. They walked down the steep steps of the tall seawall that curved along the length of the sand and protected the Victorian town.
The wall made the beach seem very private, buffering it from the crowds above. Traffic sounds dimmed. Only the lapping of the incoming tide and breaking waves filled the air.
Gillian breathed in the unmistakable smells of seaweed and hemp. To her it was an intoxicating mixture that beckoned the past. Growing up in Houston, she had fond memories of family days spent in Galveston, since it was their favorite place to picnic, swim and sun. As an adult, she had even more special memories spent with Brad. One of her keenest regrets was that the two had never entwined. Perhaps if they had, Brad could have learned the joy, rather than the pain, of having a family.
Impulsively she kicked off her shoes, reaching to pick them up. “I can’t resist digging my toes in the sand.”
His chuckle was quiet. “Ah, the power of the sea.”
She murmured agreement, then took a deep breath. “The gift you gave Dad—it was very thoughtful.”
He shrugged. “It seemed to suit him.”
Gillian visualized the exquisite paperweight. “You didn’t have to, though.”
“Yeah. I did.”
She digested that comment, taking a quick peek at him. There was such strength in his features. It was something she had been attracted to the first time she’d met him. She had been so idealistic, so hopeful.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Brad commented, bringing her back to the present.
“They’re worth at least a nickel,” she replied, sharing a smile with him. Then, afraid to let that grow, she stubbed a toe into the soft sand. “When did you start collecting art glass?”
A strange expression crossed his face.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked, wondering what he so quickly hid.
“No. It’s hard to explain. But I should qualify my collection. It’s not exactly Smithsonian-size. I was attracted to a piece, and for a long time I had just the one. I have only a few more now.”
Inexplicably touched, she caught his arm. “Yet you gave one to Dad.”
He met her eyes. “I owed him.”
She swallowed, afraid to speak, afraid to look away, afraid not to do either.
Irrationally, Gillian wished she could turn back the clock, forget what had torn them apart.
The water, inching closer with the tide, lapped at her feet, dampening the ankles of her pants. She was glad for the warm rush of seawater, which made her realize what she’d just wished.
Together, they stepped away from the water.
Gillian shook her pants legs. “I’m probably full of sand. How about you? Did you get wet?”
“Not enough to matter.” He glanced down at her pants. “You’ll dry.”
She shook the fabric more vigorously. “How gallant.”
A sudden whizzing sound erupted beside her. Before she could react, Brad tackled her face first into the sand.
Brad rolled on top of her, ending her efforts to rise. “Stay still,” he said quietly.
“Bullet?” she questioned as best as she could with no room to move her mouth.
“I’m not sure.” His voice was grim and she imagined he was surveying the area.
She pushed at his weight. “If you get off me, I can be an asset instead of a liability.”
He hesitated, then moved to one side.
Gillian swiped at the sand on her face, then reached for the gun in her shoulder holster. “Can you see anything?”
“No.”
For a few moments, Gillian studied the shadowy formations surrounding them. Rocks, she knew. But in the dark, they were menacing.
Stiffening, she saw a set of figures coming toward them. “Brad…”
“I see them,” he responded shortly.
Gillian held her breath, tightening the grip on her gun.
“Kids,” Brad said suddenly.
She lowered her gun, seeing what he did. Three teenagers were throwing bottles at the rocks. The explosion of glass was unnerving, but innocuous.
The chill she’d felt earlier returned and the pleasure of the beach dimmed. Brad stood quickly and she accepted his outstretched hand. Brushing sand from her clothes, Gillian also tried to brush away the remnants of the sensation she’d felt when Brad’s body had been so close.
As they climbed back to the car, Gillian wondered what she was doing there with her ex-husband. And why she kept giving in to him.
CHAPTER FIVE
BRAD WAS ON EDGE the following morning. Armed with a strong cup of coffee, he was waiting for Gillian to meet him after her daily briefing with the team.
Seeing her push open the glass door to the small café, he studied her carefully. Gillian’s skin looked paler than usual, her eyes shadowed. He wondered if her sleep had been as disturbed as his.
As she slid into the booth, he poured a second mug of coffee from the pot the waitress had left earlier. “What did the others think about the deserted house in Galveston?”
Instead of answering, she picked up her mug, taking a healthy swallow without adding her usual cream.
“Gillian?”
“We don’t know that it’s related to the case.”
“And what if it is?”
“I should have waited for my partner, instead of letting you ride along.”
“I watched your back. What more could your partner have done?”
She set her lips in an uncompromising line of silence.
“Gillian?”
“I don’t want a bodyguard,” she told him flatly.
His gut tightened at the thought of what could have happened to her if she’d been on her own. “Maybe you need one.”
“In case it hasn’t occurred to you, if either the agency or HPD assigns someone to me, then you’
re out of the picture.”
He sucked in a deep breath of frustration. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“But you do want to be in on the investigation,” she responded. Before he could retort, she held up a hand. “I’m not suggesting that you’re willing to put me out to dry to get your own way, but think about it. What would we accomplish? I don’t have an established record with my new boss. He might yank me. You’ll definitely be sidelined. And then what? The case starts over again with a new lead? Then we lose the time we’ve already put in.”
Brad knew she was right. “I still don’t like it.”
“That’s okay. You’ve rarely liked the way I do things.”
He rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. God, she was stubborn. “You aren’t going to give in on this, are you?”
“I never have on the important issues,” she reminded him.
It might be a migraine before the day was over. “Did you come up with anything new in the briefing?”
She shook her head. “Still no ransom demands. The only tangible lead is the Scout leader and we don’t have anything else on him yet.”
He nodded. “Do you want to watch him?”
“Yes, I’ve taken the first shift.” She glanced at her watch. “Until around noon. Galveston PD said they ought to have something for us by then on the ownership of the house.”
Brad nodded. What really disturbed him was the possibility that someone had watched them at the deserted house, then tailed them to the beach. Brad had the chilling suspicion that they were being toyed with. And since Gillian, not him, was linked to the case, that meant she was the one being watched.
She took another sip of coffee. “I’ve had enough caffeine to fuel me for the day.”
He pushed his own mug toward the center of the table. “I’m ready.”
The morning passed quickly. Mark Deerling proved to be a boring subject. After a morning’s surveillance, they’d learned that the man went on his coffee break with several office mates and that he had a soft spot for doughnuts.
“I don’t want to say this has been a waste—” Brad began.
“But it has,” Gillian finished for him. She glanced at her watch. “I’ll assign someone to keep him under surveillance for the rest of our shift. Let’s bag this and head for Galveston.”
“We may be early for the locals, but we could make up for skipping breakfast by grabbing some seafood.”
Although Interstate 45 South was always busy, it was well before rush hour and they made good time, leaving the big city behind them before too long. Although the area was developed completely between Houston and its smaller neighbor, the topography differed.
Tall, sparse grasses grew in the loamy soil, the stalks bending in the strong winds that came ashore with the tides. Houses built on stilts occupied both the marshes and the high ground.
Reaching the Causeway bridge that was the only southern land route from the mainland to the island, they joined the line of cars. The Galveston Island had been over-built since the sixties. If another large hurricane struck, it would be impossible for the entire population to evacuate in time. Which, in Brad’s estimation, made the island a nice place to visit rather than live.
The concrete bridge was two miles long, but they were eventually across and on to the island. Tall oleander bushes lined the streets, their fuchsia blooms ruffling in the breeze.
The sun was high, banishing the remnants of the previous evening’s chill. Seagulls dove in lazy abandon at specks of food while wide-jawed pelicans shook their jowls and strolled the boardwalk. Stone jetties broke up the endless ocean. Commercial piers were built on some of them, but none were crowded.
Brad took a familiar road, but one off the beaten track. They passed the burned-out ruins of what had once been Jean Lafitte’s settlement. The base for the infamous pirate’s operation had contained huts for the pirates, a shipyard, pool halls and Lafitte’s own mansion, the Maison Rouge. He was forced to flee the area after attacking an American ship in 1821, but first he burned the settlement to the ground. Many locals still believed the tales of his buried treasure, but it had never been found.
Despite the lure of Lafitte and his treasure, few tourists ventured in to the area since it was well beyond the popular Strand. They crossed railroad tracks and went past an oyster-processing plant, turning on to a narrow road that ran alongside the waterfront.
Brad eventually stopped in the lot of a nondescript restaurant. After shutting off the engine he glanced at Gillian.
Recognition filled her face. “Oyster po’boys,” she breathed.
He smiled, remembering how she loved this place, which they had discovered when they were dating. Despite all the first-class, five-star restaurants on the island, they had always gravitated here. Favored by the locals it was both unpretentious and fast. They would be in and out quickly. As he opened his door, Brad hoped it wasn’t a mistake to choose a place they had shared.
“Is this okay?”
But Gillian was too practical to overreact. “You’re right. This place is the best.”
Once inside, they were seated next to the huge wall-size window that overlooked the bay. Shrimp boats docked just outside the window, their tall masts a webbed procession in the sun-washed sky.
“Looks like some of the boats just brought in a fresh catch,” Gillian mused, as they watched icehouses being filled with the squirming loads.
Birds, emboldened by habit, tried to steal what they could of the new catch. Batted away, they returned time and again. One fisherman threw a fish at the birds and they neglected the shrimp for the new feast. Smaller birds trailed their bigger, bolder cousins, looking for scraps.
“It never changes,” Brad remarked, looking at one particularly brazen bird that refused to be intimidated by the fishermen. “I could swear that same bossy bird was here last time.”
“He probably was,” Gillian agreed, looking more relaxed than she had since they’d begun the case. “I like that it’s the same. Birds diving and fussing. Ships looking sturdy and unsinkable. It looks so normal, unchangeable.”
“You sound introspective.”
She made circles in the drops of condensation on her iced tea glass. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’d rather remember Galveston like this than…”
The past rose up again between them. “I know, Gillian.”
She bit her lip, a habit he remembered well.
As he watched her, Brad thought of her willingness the previous night to go to the house alone. “Gillian, you can’t take risks like you were prepared to last night.”
Gillian leaned across the table. “Brad, you know the inherent danger of the job. We all accept it.”
But he had never accepted it where Gillian was concerned. It shouldn’t matter as much now, but it did.
Their food arrived, but Brad wasn’t hungry any longer.
“Something wrong with your sandwich?” Gillian asked after a few minutes. “You’re not eating.”
He shrugged. “Just rethinking the case.”
She lowered her half-eaten sandwich. “Brad, working together is bringing up too much history. As much as you want to be part of the investigation, perhaps you shouldn’t continue.”
“And let you go off alone? You’ll be a target.”
“I can ask for help from the team.”
He suspected she would be more comfortable with one of the others. But he wouldn’t be. He doubted anyone else would take the need to protect her as seriously, certainly not as personally. “Relax, Gillian. Things are just taking a different slant, one I wasn’t expecting.”
“I have to know you’re okay about the way I’m handling the case. Otherwise we can’t work effectively.”
Brad knew he had two choices. He picked the only one he could live with. He lied. “I can deal with it.”
She studied him for several moments, and he knew she wasn’t certain whether or not to believe him. “You’re so sure?”
Casua
lly he picked up the forgotten sandwich, needing the prop to appear convincing. “As you said, it’s part of the job.”
She lowered her eyes, picking at her French fries.
Although he forced himself to finish his lunch, Brad noticed that Gillian toyed with the remainder of hers. And though the simple charm of the setting hadn’t changed, it was no longer comfortable. Both the past and the present had intruded on the moment.
After leaving the restaurant, they didn’t take long to reach the house.
Gillian climbed from her side of the car, staring across the yard. “It doesn’t seem as menacing in the daylight.”
“You didn’t mention ‘menacing’ last night.”
“You didn’t seem in the mood to hear it.”
So he hadn’t. He walked to the front of the house, peering into the dirty windows.
“Any sign of recent occupation?”
“No. The dust is thick, undisturbed.”
She glanced downward. “And the ground’s hard—we haven’t had rain in more than a week. There won’t be any clear footprints.”
By silent consent they walked toward the rear of the house. The yard was completely overgrown. It looked as though it hadn’t seen a mower in months.
Brad paused, gesturing ahead. Amid the thick tangle, a small hole had been pushed through the ivy lattice that led to the backyard.
“Do you see any other way to get back there?” Gillian asked, her voice lowered.
“Doesn’t look like it. Let’s circle back and see.”
There was no alternative entrance.
Brad scanned the area, looking for trouble. “Someone’s definitely been here.”
Gillian nodded. “Of course it could be someone legitimate—the owners, or a maintenance person.”
His gaze was skeptical. “Let’s see if he left a calling card.”
After an hour of careful searching, Gillian was fuming. “Not a cigarette butt or gum wrapper. Whoever was here was meticulous.”
Their eyes met. That fit with their kidnapper.
Gillian reached for her phone. “I’ll get a crime-scene unit over here.”
Brad doubted it would do any good. Gillian was quiet as they left the house and drove toward the freeway.
Vanished (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 6
