by R. T. Wolfe
Elderly oaks and maples lined the drive in a natural, scattered formation. He imagined the miniscule buds that waited anxiously for warmer weather.
He stopped in front of the garage and had intended to give himself a minute to admire his aunt's mixture of winter browns and evergreens, but his mind returned to the detective. It wasn't the kiss, although it was enough to need repeating. It wasn't her looks. At that moment it was the feel of her—fit and toned, yet soft against him. A side benefit of an eidetic memory—it wasn't generally only visual.
He also remembered with perfect clarity the feel of the debris he couldn't keep from her toned physique as it pelted over them in the casino. Not a side benefit. The abrasions on his back would only help him remember.
Nickie Savage was more about the way she could flip-flop from bar singer to Maryland debutante to cop to the gentle motherly type soothing a frightened girl. Completely not his type. He had only to pay attention to see that. The women he generally crossed paths with were simple, predictable and shallow. The detective was fascinating. He gave her that much. Fascinating and a complete train wreck.
He lifted his hand to knock on the door, then decided against it. Relieved, he heard voices from back by the kitchen when he opened it. The house always looked familiar, felt familiar. But as they all had, it too changed over the years. Why Nathan and Brie kept the painting he had drawn mystified him. There. As the focal point of their expansive foyer. Just under the long, arched staircase Nathan had made with his own hands, piece by piece. The sought after Nathan Reed and his woodworking talents, showcasing wall-to-wall, award-winning custom cabinetry and a painting of Niagara Falls signed by a boy of eight.
"Are you coming back here, or are you going to stare at that painting a while longer?"
He shook his head and wandered back. "I can make another more suitable for that area."
"That painting is suitable for that area." Nathan lifted a corner of his mouth. "Come. Sit."
Duncan stepped first to Brie, placed one hand on the back of her head and bent down to kiss her on the forehead. "Mother. You look better, beautiful."
Her warm hand wrapped around his wrist. "You don't look so bad yourself."
He pulled out the chair next to her and sat, careful not to lean against his shredded back. "Do you know when you go back to work?"
"Soon, I hope. Soon. I miss my little guys." Even though she was referring to her class of first graders, her smile didn't reach her face. "Enough small talk now. Please tell us what you've been up to with your brother and with Detective Savage."
He paused at the indirect mention of his and Andy's hacking. "Yes, of course. But first tell me how the new system is working out." He gestured to a security system control box attached to the wall off the kitchen.
Nathan joined them and passed him a mug of steaming black coffee. The smell soothed his polar feelings about the security system. Relieved that they had it and petrified that they needed it.
"Your dad has it tested and working," Brie said. "We see her driving to her mother's now and then, but there have been no signs of trespassing." Brie laid one of her warm hands on his cheek. "Safe and sound."
It was impossible for him to focus when thinking about Melbourne free to go and do what she pleased, because they all knew what she pleased to do.
He went through the story of Brusco and his history for the past twenty-two years. "I'm going in this morning to find out what they came up with from the confiscated search items." No sense telling them about the casino, he thought, as he had no idea about confidentiality or the notification of closest relatives. He had a feeling the detective wanted to see him more about the dead girl than about Rob Brusco.
"Your cousins are coming home next weekend." Nathan changed the subject.
"But they were just... I guess that makes sense with all that's going on." He held the mug by the handle and brought it to his lips before finishing. "Did they tell you we TP'ed The Reed Ranch? So juvenile. I try to appease them."
His aunt folded her hands and set them primly on top of the kitchen table. "You try to appease them?"
He grinned.
"I'm going to lie down for a while now. You two have your man talk, and I'll see you next Saturday if not before." Brie squeezed his shoulder before making her way through the foyer to the staircase.
He looked at his uncle. "Next Saturday?"
"Sure. We're having all of you over for coffee and scones. I thought I would run over to discuss flavors with Lucy once your mom went to rest. You game?"
Duncan never held the daughter's sins against the mother. Why would he start now? "I'm game."
They walked in the cold over the fields dusted with snow. The small area in the lake that never seemed to freeze blew in the wind and gently reflected the white of the snow as it spilled over into Black Creek. Nathan had built a bridge so he, Andy and their cousins could get to and from Brie's sister's house. The bridge was slippery this time of year from the moisture around the area.
Even in the cold, birds chirped and wildlife thrived. Mallards huddled around the patch of flowing water; Canadian geese ate the seeds from the tops of tall, brown grasses. He spotted a tail traveling along the floodplain and assumed red fox.
As hundreds of times before, he and Nathan cut between his aunt, Liz, and Lucy Melbourne's homes.
Nathan put an arm out in front of him. "Um, let's, you know, check and see if MollyAnne is in there before we knock."
Brows lifted high, Duncan followed his uncle as they... looked through a back window? "Seriously?"
"Don't tell your mom, but it won't go well if I'm face-to-face with MollyAnne."
They stepped on a few rocks to get a better view. "So, you've done this before?"
Nathan shrugged. Then, his brows pulled down low and he craned his head forward.
Duncan looked around to see what was so interesting and felt his face do the same.
Lucy Melbourne. The elderly, wheelchair-bound Lucy Melbourne was walking around freely in her kitchen using only a cane.
Neither man commented. Both contemplated.
They glanced at each other in solemn understanding, then headed back for the bridge.
* * *
Nickie used the stairs. They burned off tension and morning donuts. Although, her stomach wouldn't hold anything down that day. Any released tension returned the moment she opened the door to the third floor. Lacey Newcomer's father. She didn't have anything for him. She hoped and wished she didn't have anything for him.
His face relaxed at the sight of her. She didn't deserve it.
Standing, he held out a hand.
She worked up her most confident look and returned the offer. "Good morning, Mr. Newcomer. What can I do for you?"
His eyes squinted slightly as he answered, "I'd like an update on the search for my daughter, please."
Gesturing with an outstretched arm, she directed him to her office.
Uncovering the splintered wooden guest chair under the piles of papers for him, he sat. Without resting back, he set one hand on each knee, waiting patiently for her to speak. She knew any utter of new information would serve as a flood of relief for the tortured man, but she wouldn't lie and she wouldn't give false maybes as some detectives tended to do.
Not wanting the formality of sitting across from him, she stood next to Mr. Newcomer. Leaning forward, she folded her hands. Where the hell was Duncan?
"I am sorry to say I don't have any new information for you. Telling you we're placing every available resource into finding your daughter is repetitive, but it's true, sir. I won't rest until we find her."
She thought of the girl she'd seen lying dead in the private casino room. Heads would roll at the business, she knew. But she didn't care about the suits at that moment. What she needed was an ID on the girl.
Watching his face fall was nearly more than she could take. This was the worst part of her job, and pieces of her believed it would never get easier. Should never get easier.
The muscles in her face tightened as she clenched her jaw. "I have a few leads to follow up on this morning. If anything comes of them, I'll call you first thing."
Looking at the floor, he nodded several times in quick succession. "Do you mind if I wait in the lobby?"
"Mr. Newcomer. Gary. It could be several hours. Your wife needs you. I won't forget."
His lips trembled slightly. "Her sister is with her now. I'd like to wait if you don't mind, detective."
"Of course. Let me get you something to drink."
* * *
Standing in the doorway of the detective's office, Duncan heard her mumbling but couldn't see her. The office was small, barely room for her desk and a tall file cabinet, a few guest chairs—if that's what you could call them. Empty Diet Coke bottles, crumpled papers. In contrast, her desk remained neat and orderly. As he stepped in farther, he wondered how she could work in this mess. Then, he spotted her.
Her chair was pushed away from her desk, and she was bent over with her head between her knees.
"Are you sick?"
Sucking in a deep breath, the detective's head flew to upright. "There you are. Where the hell have you been?"
He looked at his watch, then back at her. "Visiting my aunt. Should I have brought a note?"
Running her hands over her face, she scooted her chair to her desk. "No. No, of course not. Have a seat."
He obliged. Obviously, she was frazzled, but he didn't know her well enough to overtly pry. With hands resting on the arms of her chair, he instead let her take point.
She looked everywhere around him but not at him.
"Well?" she broke first.
"Well what?"
He watched her chest rise deeply, then fall. "Well, what did you, ya know, see last night in the casino room?"
Freak?
"Good morning to you, detective."
She bolted from her chair and paced with her hands laced in the sides of her hair. Rounding on him, she raised her voice and spoke nearly through her teeth. "Listen, Duncan. I've got a father of a missing girl waiting in the lobby for any scrap of information I can throw his way. Are you going to help, or not? Because I don't have time for this."
Chapter 9
Reading her pain, Duncan felt something unfamiliar.
He contemplated for only for a moment. "Crumpled satin sheets and an exquisite comforter stuffed at the end of a custom-made circular mattress and mahogany bed." He watched as the steel gray of her eyes became glossy with a sheen of liquid. She sat and started scribbling in a notebook.
"Three-inch, heeled red sandals tossed on the floor near a matching red miniskirt, and..." He dug in the pocket of his black leather jacket. Pausing with his piece of sketch paper in hand, he realized how much her grief caused him to shirk necessary caution. Contemplating, he looked up into eager eyes. Trust was something he rarely came by.
Taking a blind leap of faith, he asked, "Can I trust you to keep this to yourself?"
He watched as she molded from distraught woman into seasoned cop. "Is it pertinent to an ongoing investigation?"
"I'm not giving this to you unless you give me your word it will never be seen by any eyes other than your own."
Clenching her jaw, she spoke barely audibly. "Agreed."
He handed her the sketch he'd drawn the night before. It was a pencil rendering of what he'd seen. Images etched in his mind only magnified in intensity when he put them on paper. If it helped, it would be worth it.
She stared at it for the longest damned time. Her eyes darted all over the page. "You saw all this? Is this what you see?" She covered her mouth with her hand as a tear spilled over her lid. This lack of understanding, his inability to read this woman was making him crazy.
He had the most foreign desire to reach over and wipe the tear from her golden cheek.
"No color?" she asked sincerely.
He should have come back with deep sarcasm or condescension. That was what they did, he and the detective. But he didn't. Softly, he nearly apologized, "I didn't have time. Tell me what you need."
Sighing deeply, she set her hands on top of the drawing. "I'm very sorry, Duncan. I'm sorry for raising my voice to you and I'm sorry for what's stuck in your head. I haven't slept since before Liberty and I need to know the color of the marks on her back."
"The scars?" The trio of uneven lines looked ancient. Thin, about four inches each. There were also two others that looked like cigarette burns. Silently, he begged they weren't cigarette burns.
"Yes, Duncan. Were they red, pink? Fresh? Or skin colored with age?"
"Old. They were old. I'm not sure if that's what you want to hear, but they looked to be years old scars. Or at least several months old."
She dropped her head to her hands. "Okay, okay."
"Does this mean you have good news for the father waiting in the lobby?"
Nickie craned her head from her hands to look up at him. His deep brown eyes looked through her. It wasn't Lacey. It couldn't have been her. The rescued girl from the casino had confirmed Lacey's identity as one of the girls forced into prostitution, but she wasn't the girl who lay in the morgue. Relief flooded every inch of her and... appreciation. She felt she might understand in a minuscule way what this, this gift Duncan had must do to him. It wasn't handy and it wasn't dazzling. It was a sort of a prison. One where you couldn't bury difficult images in your subconscious the way the rest of the world did.
"Thank you, Duncan. I will keep this sketch out of the case file and to myself. I'll come up with some reasonable cause/preliminary findings line to assure Mr. Newcomer his daughter might still be alive." She reached over and took his hand. She held it between both of hers. Long fingers, strong, rough, and warm. She placed the palm of his hand on her wet cheek. "And thank you for saving my life. I won't forget it."
A few days before, she would have thought his look to be of defiance or arrogance. Now, she knew it was one of decision and deep thought. How did women get over this man? She would have to make sure not to add herself to his list of women who've had to do just that.
He chose a shrug and a platonic pat on the back of one of her hands. "Go speak to Mr. Newcomer. Then, get some rest. You look awful."
Smiling now, she agreed. Then, headed quickly down to the lobby.
* * *
Stopping to check on the part-time sketch artist, Nickie was prepared to threaten him if he wasn't done with the finishing touches on the rendering of this Henderson the brunette had set her onto. She knew he was headed west. With a picture and a name, she might be able to dig up something.
"Mr. Henery." She slithered into the small multipurpose room and stood in front of his desk. With spread fingertips resting on the edge, she leaned close to him. "Tell me what I want to hear."
Henery didn't look up. "I've, um, got more projects than just yours, detective."
She walked around the desk and stood next to him. He was a thin man with a button-down, crisp, white shirt. She lifted her curvy hip and placed it on a pile of papers next to the one he was working on. Not that he wasn't expecting it. "I do too, Mr. Henery. But I'm just here about one project," she said in her sweetest southern belle voice.
He reached for the papers under her bottom then drew his hand back like her butt might bite him. "I, um, those are..."
She leaned over and lifted her hip.
He actually licked his lips. So easy, she thought.
Pulling the papers free from underneath her, he stuttered, "I s-supposed you're right, d-detective. The young girl was very helpful. The language barrier took s-some time, but I'll get that right up to you."
"I'll be in my office until noon." She brushed his chin with her forefinger before leaving him to his work. One more stop to brief Dave and she would catch some zzz's on the bunk in the locker room. She really wanted a swim but knew she would hit a physical brick wall without rest.
Breaking her own rule, she took the elevator from the basement to the top floor, which in a town the size of N
orthridge wasn't very high. Her partner's door was open. She walked in as she knocked.
"Nick. Come in. We were just talking about you." Lieutenant Dave Nolan and Captain William Tanner stood at a case board regarding two lost hikers just east of Seneca Lake. She knew the chances were just as good the couple was lost on purpose as it was they were lost permanently. Tricky.
Dave was responsible, had strong family values and loyalties, always got to work on time, and often stayed late. He was a towering presence, even to her five-foot-ten frame.
"Have a seat. You want some coffee?" the lieutenant asked.
Curling her nose, she said, "I'm not that thirsty." She sat in his padded, metal guest chair.
Dave slid an old-school, white dry-erase board out from behind one that matched it. Along the top, he'd written Reed Case. Listed were suspects, persons of interest and a time line that dated twenty-nine years all the way back to the murder of Brie Reed's parents. What a mess.
"What have you got?" Dave asked as he poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup.
"MollyAnne Melbourne is staying at 314 S. Main Street, Apt. 3B. She appears to be living alone. We have patrols doing drive-bys hourly. No incidents since the dead dog. The Reeds have upped their security.
"Rob Brusco. Lives in Liberty, New York. Items of use confiscated from his apartment were his computer tower. It was able to derive several thousand, and I do mean thousand, pornographic photos, including bondage using younger looking women, threesomes. DNA in the form of hair fibers and lipstick matching that of Melbourne was found in his apartment.
"Brusco isn't budging, but he isn't running. We'll hold off on the identify theft charges until we have something bigger. The fake social security number has been revoked. We'll see how he gets out of that one at his job."
