Wish Upon a Christmas Star

by Darlene Gardner

  “Listen to yourself,” Logan argued. “You sound like you’ve already convinced yourself he’s alive.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” she said. “I know enough not to jump to conclusions before I have proof.”

  “You’ll never find proof, Maria. I know you want to believe Mike’s out there somewhere. Hell, I’d like to believe it, too. But he died that day.” Logan ran a hand over his mouth, a gesture that used to mean he was upset. His brows drew together. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  She was almost afraid to hear it. This time she was the one who crossed her arms over her chest. “What?”

  He pursed his lips and blew a breath out through his nose. “You know I was the one who got Mike the job at Windows on the World?”

  Maria nodded. Logan had also given her brother a place to stay in Manhattan. At first she had been angry about that. She’d told her parents that Mike might have come home if Logan hadn’t let him sleep on his sofa. Her folks had countered that Mike might just as likely have lived on the streets.

  “He didn’t much like being a busboy,” Logan said. “The morning the towers fell, he talked about quitting.”

  “I knew it!” Maria cried.

  “Hold on.” Logan put up a hand. “I hadn’t charged him anything up to that point. I told him he needed to help with rent.”

  “So he was going to quit,” Maria said, her mind spinning. This revelation made it more likely that Mike was alive.

  “You’re not hearing me,” Logan said. “He couldn’t help with the rent if he was unemployed. I told him he needed to keep the busboy job until he found another one. I talked him into going to work that day.”

  “You don’t know that,” Maria retorted. “Mike was bullheaded. If he wanted to quit, he would have.”

  “I don’t think so,” Logan said. “Even if that’s true, he would have gone in to work and given notice.”

  “Not if he phoned,” Maria said. Something else occurred to her. “Maybe he didn’t feel any loyalty to the people there. Maybe he just didn’t show up.”

  Logan shook his head. “You’re grasping at straws. No way would Mike let your family believe he was dead.”

  “He dropped out of high school and ran away from home, Logan,” she said. “He was on the outs with us.”

  “He wasn’t a vindictive kid,” Logan said.

  “He was a rebellious one,” Maria countered. “My parents caught him drinking or skipping school or staying out all night lots of times. He wanted to do his own thing without getting hassled.”

  “It’s one thing to be rebellious,” Logan said. “It’s another to let your family go through the heartache of believing you’re dead.”

  Logan probably thought he sounded like the voice of reason. It wouldn’t do any good to tell him she couldn’t rest until she’d eliminated any chance that Mike was alive. Logan was just as closed-minded as always. If he’d been able to open his mind to possibilities, they’d be married right now.

  “I hadn’t looked at it from that perspective.” She pretended to look thoughtful. She had to wrench the next words from her mouth. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  His mouth dropped open. He closed it and let out a heavy breath. “Believe me, that doesn’t bring me any happiness.”

  She nodded.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “You should drop it,” he said. “It’s a cruel trick that isn’t worth your time.”

  Maria tried to look pensive. “You’re probably right.”

  “So you’re not going to Key West?”

  “What would be the point?” She put her credit card inside the leather billfold the waitress had dropped by their table, and rose. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”

  He hesitated only a moment before answering. “Sure.”

  On the way to the restroom, Maria stopped at the hostess stand and placed a request. Within minutes, she rejoined Logan. Her credit card was on the table, but nothing else.

  “Didn’t the waitress bring me a receipt?” she asked.

  Logan said, “I switched out our credit cards and went ahead and paid the bill.”

  “Nobody asked you to do that,” she said.

  “I wanted to.”

  Because he was flaunting what a success he’d made of himself? Even as the thought came into her head, she knew it wasn’t true. Logan had always been generous with what he had, even when he was a broke high school kid.

  “Thank you,” she managed to say. “We should go. You won’t be in town long. I don’t want to keep you from your family.”

  “My parents like you,” Logan said. “They won’t mind waiting while I drive you back to your office.”

  “They won’t have to wait,” Maria said on the way to the coat rack. He helped her on with her coat, brushing against her in the process. A shiver ran the length of her body.

  “Oh?” he said. “Why’s that?”

  She pointed through the glass doors to where a taxi idled at the curb. “I had the hostess call a cab.”

  He looked wounded. “I would have driven you.”

  “I know,” she said. “Have a nice Christmas, Logan.”

  “You, too,” he said.

  She pushed open the doors and hurried to the cab, forcing herself not to turn around for a final glance at him. When she closed the taxi door behind her, she felt as though she were shutting out a past that included Logan. Once upon a time, she never could have fooled him with that guileless act. The fact that she had done so proved they’d become strangers.

  She choked back a sob. Now was not the time to let herself get teary over the way she and Logan used to be. She needed to concentrate on finding out whether or not her brother was alive.

  * * *

  EARLY THE NEXT AFTERNOON Maria drove over the Seven Mile Bridge that led to the Lower Keys. Her flight had landed in Miami almost three hours earlier. Flying into the major city had saved her hundreds in plane fare. Even with the cost of the rental car, she was still ahead of the game had she flown into Key West.

  She’d expected the hundred-and-fifty-five-mile drive to go more quickly. How was she to know that the scenic route through the Florida Keys would be a two-lane road, with cars clogging traffic whenever they entered or left the highway?

  If not for occasional holiday decorations on shops and houses, it wouldn’t seem a bit like Christmas. Long stretches of the Overseas Highway were flanked by shimmering blue water on both sides, sometimes dotted with sprawling areas of emerald-green. When she’d stopped for gas, the cashier had told her the green patches marked sea grass beds and shallow reefs.

  The Seven Mile Bridge, which spanned a channel linking the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico, was the most beautiful part of the drive yet. Seabirds soared through the clear sky, boats traversed the water and people fished from an old bridge, parallel to the new one, that was missing a piece in the middle.

  Lexington and Logan Collier seemed very far away.

  Maria was still irked at Annalise for calling Logan. It was crazy, but the old hurts had resurfaced as she’d sat across from him in the restaurant. Never mind that she’d been married and divorced since she’d been with Logan. She still felt like that girl who’d bared her heart and been rejected.

  She’d almost convinced herself it would be okay not to inform Annalise that she was going to Key West. Almost, but not quite. After 9/11, the entire DiMa
rco family, Maria included, kept close tabs on each other.

  She’d taken the coward’s way out, though, sending a text instead of phoning. Predictably, Annalise had responded by calling her cell. Maria hadn’t answered. She had more important uses for her mental energy than arguing with her sister.

  She was already operating on a lack of sleep. Last night when she’d gotten home from the restaurant, she’d spent hours on the computer. She hadn’t been able to locate the right Mike DiMarco on any social network sites or find mention of him or Key West on the pages of his high school friends.

  Every classmate she’d tried had a Facebook page except Billy Tillman, who’d been tight with Mike since grade school. She’d called Billy’s mother in an attempt to track him down. As Maria left the bridge for one of the string of islands that made up the Keys, she mentally replayed part of the conversation she’d had with Julia Tillman.

  “Key West?” the woman had exclaimed. “Why would Billy be in Key West?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you, Mrs. Tillman,” Maria said. “Has Billy ever talked about Key West?”

  “I already told you. Billy’s in San Francisco. He moved there a few years ago.”

  “Did he ever mention if any of his friends lived in Key West or vacationed there?” Maria asked.

  “No. Never,” she said. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Mike DiMarco’s sister.”

  “Mike? The poor boy who died on 9/11? That Mike?”

  Maria had to stop herself from telling the older woman reports of her brother’s death may have been exaggerated. “That Mike.”

  “Such a tragedy, that was. My Billy was torn up about it.”

  “We all were, Mrs. Tillman,” Maria said and asked for her son’s cell phone number. Mrs. Tillman didn’t have it handy. Once she promised she’d have Billy call, Maria rang off before Mrs. Tillman could ask any more questions.

  Maria didn’t want to explain about the phone call and photos Caroline Webb had received. She couldn’t listen to anyone else telling her how unlikely it was that her brother was behind them.

  If even the ghost of a chance existed that Mike was alive, she needed to investigate. Admittedly, an envelope with a Key West postmark wasn’t a lot to go on. But until Maria scoured every inch of Key West and determined that her brother wasn’t on the island, she wasn’t ready to concede anything.

  The task didn’t seem terribly daunting. The island was roughly four miles long and two miles wide, with hotels, shops and restaurants packed close together. She should be able to cover a lot of territory in a short amount of time.

  Her first inkling that finding someone on the small island might not be that easy came thirty minutes later. She’d booked a hotel on the far side of the island. The traffic en route was bumper to bumper.

  A pale pink, two-story building with a circular entranceway flanked by tall palm trees caught her eye while she waited behind a line of cars at a red light. The police station. An excellent place to start her search.

  She pulled into the parking lot and minutes later walked into the empty reception area. A burly middle-aged officer with a full head of white hair manned the counter. His name tag read Sergeant Pepper. She did a double take. No, it was Sergeant Peppler. He gazed at her expectantly, a bored expression on his face.

  “My name’s Maria DiMarco,” she announced. “Is there somebody I can talk to about a missing person?”

  The sergeant perked up. “You can talk to me.”

  Maria knew how the police worked. He wouldn’t hook her up with a detective unless he thought her story had merit. It wouldn’t hurt to get him on her side.

  “I used to be on the force, too,” she said. “In Kentucky. The Fayette County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He stroked a beard as white as his hair. With his coloring, he could probably get a second job masquerading as Santa. “What do you do now?”

  It figured he would focus on the wrong part of her revelation. “I’m a private investigator.”

  Sergeant Peppler snorted. In Maria’s experience, only about fifty percent of the cops she ran across had a full appreciation of the profession she’d chosen. The other half acted as though P.I.s existed to interfere with police investigations.

  “So this missing person,” Peppler said, eyes narrowed, “it’s for a case you’re working?”

  “Not exactly.” She reached into her purse, dug out a computer-generated age progression of her brother and set it on the counter. She’d gotten the image off a generic website that instantly aged people in uploaded photos. “I’m looking for my brother.”

  The cop raised an eyebrow. “This is an age progression. How long has he been missing?”

  She’d rather not tell him but couldn’t avoid his direct question. “Eleven years.” She fired the next questions. “Does he look familiar? Have you seen him?”

  “No.” Peppler shoved the paper back at her. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

  “That’s it? You don’t want to know why I think my brother is in Key West?”

  “Lady, I’m sure you’re aware of how police departments operate,” he said. “It’s the start of the high season for us. That means crowds and lots and lots of tourists. We don’t have the resources to devote to someone who’s been missing for eleven years.”

  “Could you at least see if he’s in your database? I think he might have lived here for a while.” Maria had nothing concrete to back up that theory. It stood to reason, though, that Key West’s remote location made it a good place if you wanted to fly under the radar.

  The tired look came back into Peppler’s eyes. His mouth was set, as though he was about to refuse. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “If it’ll get you out of here, sure. What’s his name?”

  “Mike DiMarco.” She spelled out the last name and provided her brother’s date of birth and social security number. Even though she’d already run Mike’s particulars through some national databases, she couldn’t trust that the information was one hundred percent accurate. To be thorough, it didn’t hurt to check local channels.

  The sergeant held up a finger, went to a nearby computer and typed in the information. While he was busy, a woman with a black eye came into the station and got in line behind Maria. A minute later, Peppler was back at the counter.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he told the woman. To Maria, he said, “Nope. Nothing on anybody named DiMarco.”

  Just as she had suspected. She’d all but established that he’d have to be using an assumed identity. “He could be going by another name.”

  “What name?”

  She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite.” Peppler rested both forearms on the counter. “Why do you think your brother is in Key West under an alias?”

  She knew better than to tell him everything. “Mike’s ex-girlfriend got an envelope of photos that appeared to be from him. It had a Key West postmark.”

  “Appeared to be?” Peppler picked up on the operative words.

  “I misspoke,” Maria said, annoyed at herself for planting the seed of doubt in Peppler’s mind. If Mike was in Key West, she’d never find him if she didn’t put a positive spin on things. “The photos were from Mike.”

  The woman behind her made an interested noise, not bothering to hide the fact that she was eavesdropping.

  A crease appeared between the sergeant’s white eyebrows. “Just because he mailed the photos
from Key West doesn’t mean he’s in Key West.”

  Maria couldn’t argue with that conclusion. She’d arrived at the same one a short time ago.

  “I’m exploring the possibility,” she said. “Perhaps you could direct me to somebody local who knows everybody.”

  “You’re looking at him,” he said. “I’ve lived in Key West all my life and been a cop for twenty-five years. You’ll be wasting your time talking to other locals.”

  “I’m a native, too, and I’ve never seen him before.” The comment came from the lady behind Maria, who was peering over her shoulder.

  “He could be a tourist.” The sergeant tapped the photo. “Problem is your brother might not look like this. He might have gained weight. He could have a beard. Or long hair. Hell, maybe he even shaved his head.”

  Earlier in the year Maria had worked on a child abduction case in which an age progression played a key part. Thirty years after the kidnapping, the victim bore a remarkable resemblance to the aged image.

  “Or maybe Mike looks just like this.” She didn’t see any point in prolonging her stay at the police station. Sergeant Peppler wasn’t going to provide any information that would help her. She got out a business card and set it on the counter next to the age progression. “Could you keep this and show it around to the other officers? If anyone recognizes him, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Don’t expect one,” the officer said. “People come and go in Key West. Even if that age progression is the spitting image of your brother, he might not look familiar to anybody.”

  Maria left the police station, spotted a branch of the Key West post office and swung in. She didn’t have any better luck there. After checking into a slightly run-down hotel that had appeared a lot nicer on its website, she pounded the pavement in the tourist district, flashing a copy of the age progression at anyone who agreed to take a look. By the time she got back to her hotel at midnight, she was fighting frustration.

  Unbidden, Logan’s voice filled her head.