Snake Skin

by CJ Lyons

  "For what? It's no good as a defensive weapon. Too flimsy."

  She balanced the opener on end so he could see the blood-stained tip. "Our Ashley is a cutter."

  "Great. Self-destructive tendencies and a high rate of suicide."

  "Not to mention these kids often feel disconnected from reality, seek out fantasy worlds where they can control their environment, escape to."

  "Aren't cutters usually abused? Maybe we should look at this Tardiff guy more closely. See if he's been in recent contact with Ashley." He filled her in with the little information Yeager had given him on Tardiff.

  She tapped her wedding ring against the letter opener, gold against silver. Considering their options. He sympathized. Some cases you had no leads at all, some you had too many—all leading nowhere. This case was starting to feel like that.

  "Any evidence she was knocked up?" he asked.

  "I can't rule anything out at this point. But I think an eating disorder is more likely than pregnancy."

  "Fits with the mom."

  "And her attitude about Ashley's developing figure." She scooped a handful of Austrian crystal necklaces and let them trickle through her fingers. "We need to know what was on her computer. And where she got this camera from—looks like at least a five hundred dollar camera to me. Or possibly something a professional photographer like Tardiff might give a kid."

  "To bribe her or groom her?"

  Guardino held the beads up before her face like a veil she was trying to see through.

  "You think she was doing some modeling of her own?" Burroughs asked. "For Tardiff or a friend out in cyberland?"

  "Someone who told her she was as beautiful as her perfect mother, who gave her what she needed: validation, attention."

  "Love," he said with disdain. "Or maybe she was doing it for money to finance her escape. Lord knows, I can understand why a kid might want to bug out from this life."

  She stood without using her hands, her grace distracting Burroughs. Guardino was quite a looker—and what made her even more attractive was that she didn't even seem to realize it. He extended a hand to her and she leveraged him up to stand beside her.

  He held on a moment too long, smiling his thanks. Then his phone rang. He listened for a short minute. "Maybe we've finally caught a break. Monroeville PD thinks they've found a witness. Thought you might want to head on over with me. It could very well be the last person to see Ashley alive."

  Chapter 8

  Saturday 1:12 pm

  Lucy told Walden where she was going and followed Burroughs to his unmarked white Impala. "This isn't exactly your jurisdiction, you could get out before things get nasty," she said as he steered them through the street littered with cop cars and looky-lou's. "Or do you have nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon?"

  He caught her staring at the pale ring of skin on his left hand. "Not for a while," he admitted. "I usually get the kids on weekends, but not when I'm on call."

  "How old are they?"

  She liked the way his smile made it all the way up to his eyes when he thought about his kids—Nick did that too, every time Megan came into sight. Burroughs' smile looked a little droopy around the edges. Weighed down with sadness.

  "Boys. Nine and six. Still young enough to think their dad's a hero." He nodded at the gold wedding band on her own ring finger. "You?"

  "One girl, twelve. She still thinks her dad's a hero, not so sure about me right now."

  "You moved because of your job."

  "That and there's the whole puberty thing. Hormones." She rolled her eyes in a good approximation of Megan.

  "Girls are tough. I'm glad I have boys." He pulled out of the development onto a two-lane road leading them into the woods and down the mountain. "I mean, look at this case. She could have run away. With a boy. To have an abortion. To get away from Mr. Freeze and Miss America back there. She could have been taken—coerced or forcibly. She could have planned an elaborate scheme to get her parents back together again or to get some attention or whatever.

  "If it was a guy—I mean, bad things happen to boys, too. But it's just more straightforward, you know where to look, what you're getting into. Know what I mean?"

  "Right now I'd settle for any forward motion. I hate that we're spinning our wheels like this."

  "Hey, you've only been on the case for what, two hours? You accomplished more than everyone else in the hours before they called you."

  "It's not enough. Not when she's already been gone twenty-one hours."

  He darted a glance at her. "You getting that feeling too, eh?"

  "I always have that feeling on cases like this."

  The road leading away from the development twisted and curved down the side of a mountain ridge. He drove with confidence, one wrist draped over the steering wheel, eyes darting from the road to her and back again.

  "Did you invite company?" she asked after watching in the side mirror and seeing a red BMW 6 series following them.

  Burroughs glanced in his mirror and made a snorting sound. "That's no company, that's Pittsburgh's ace girl reporter, Cindy Ames."

  "Sounds like you two know each other."

  "She sicced a camera crew on my kids, following them to school when I wouldn't give her an exclusive on a big time murder case last year. My kids, especially my oldest, went through hell after. Guess you could say Cindy was the straw that broke my marriage." He scowled into the mirror. "She's ruthless, vindictive, and as cold blooded as any serial killer. You want me to lose her?"

  "No, pull over. Let's have a chat and lay down some ground rules." She was surprised to see his expression change to one of concern.

  "You're new around here. Much as I'd love to rattle Cindy's cage, you don't want to get caught in the crossfire. She'll go after you, your family, whatever it takes to create a headline."

  "It's all right. I can take care of myself. Just pull over." Lucy had dealt with reporters before, veterans of the blood-thirsty Metro DC's Capital beat. She doubted Ames would be much of a problem in comparison.

  "Ma'am, yes ma'am." He grinned as he stopped the car, angling it across the road to block any escape.

  "Grab your recorder and follow my lead." Lucy got out, leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed nonchalantly. The BMW hit its brakes and squealed to a stop less than a yard away from her. The driver, a brunette built for TV news, emerged, slamming the door.

  "What the hell! I almost hit you—"

  "Good afternoon, Ms. Ames. I don't believe we've met." Lucy borrowed some of the Southern charm Nick and his relatives always showered her with and laid it on thick. "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Guardino. I understand you have an interest in the Ashley Yeager case."

  Avarice glittered in Ames' eyes. She reached into the car and brought out a small digital recorder.

  "Nice to meet you, Agent Guardino," she said, her heels clicking on the macadam as she crossed to Lucy. She darted a look at Burroughs who leaned with his arms on the Impala's roof, watching, his face impassive except for one skeptical eyebrow arched in Ames' direction. Ames scowled, then returned her attention to Lucy. "Tell me about Ashley's tragic disappearance. Is she dead? Is the father a suspect?"

  Lucy ignored Ames' outthrust hand holding the recorder inches away from her face. Instead she stared straight into the reporter's heavily eye-lined and camera-ready eyes. "We are investigating every possibility. Why would you assume the father is a suspect or that Ashley is dead?"

  Ames blinked as if not used to having anyone answer her questions, much less turn her interrogation into a dialogue. "Well, so much time has passed, the odds are Ashley is dead. The family is always suspect in cases like this, especially the opposite-sex parent. And sexual abuse isn't uncommon."

  "Go on. Cases like what?"

  "Kids missing, especially kids from broken homes like Ashley's. That father, he's hiding something. Molestation or worse."

  "So you have reason to believe Ashley is dead?"

  "Um-well, i
t's obvious—" Too late Ames saw the trap.

  Lucy smiled. Not a genuine smile, it was what Nick called her saber-tooth-tiger smile. "Did you get all that, Detective Burroughs?"

  "Yes ma'am." He held up his own recorder for Ames to see.

  "Now, Ms. Ames, you obviously have insight into this case above and beyond the general public. I think that makes you a person of interest. Don't you, Detective Burroughs?"

  "Should I call for a squad to take her in for questioning?"

  "What? You can't! You have no right—"

  "Yes ma'am, I'm afraid we do. But, you'd miss the press conference Chief Deputy Dunmar will be holding shortly. And lose your chance to get your face on the six o'clock news."

  Ames regrouped quickly. "So what? I'd make headlines: journalist terrorized by police, upholds first amendment rights. I'd be a hero."

  Lucy nodded as if she hadn't considered this. "Maybe, maybe. But we'd be obliged to release your statements. Your network may not appreciate a civil action brought against you by the Yeagers."

  The reporter was silent for a long moment, a shrewd expression etched into her face. "You wouldn't be wasting your time talking with me if you didn't want something."

  "True. We want your cooperation in our efforts to locate Ashley Yeager. That means no interference with our investigation, no end runs to focus the public's attention on us—or our families," Lucy added with a glance over her shoulder at Burroughs.

  "The public has a right—"

  "Ashley Yeager is part of the public and she has a right to have her safety protected."

  "She's dead already and you know it."

  Lucy pushed off the car and stepped forward into the reporter's space. She was shorter than Ames but that didn't stop Ames from backing away until the BMW stopped her.

  "I do not know that, nor do I believe that. But you can believe me, Ms. Ames, I will do whatever it takes to bring Ashley Yeager home safely. If you interfere in any way whatsoever, I will take you into custody. Is that understood?"

  Ames opened her mouth for another protest then clamped it shut. She nodded. Lucy wasn't satisfied and stepped even farther into Ames' space, forcing her to lean back. "I asked if you understood my position in this matter, Ms. Ames."

  "Yes." The single syllable was clipped. Ames' lips compressed into a single line and appeared chalky beneath their wine-colored stain of lipstick.

  Lucy backed away. "Right. Very good. Thanks for your cooperation. I'm sure you won't want to miss the press conference, so we'll let you be on your way."

  Ames took a moment to glower at her, a sneer twisting her lips. "Good thing I didn't have my camera man with me. A woman with your coloring should never wear pastels."

  With that, Ames flounced into her car, adjusted her hair in the mirror, then turned the BMW around, and sped back up the road.

  "Nice work," Burroughs said as he returned them onto their previous course. "You know it's going to come back to haunt you."

  "As long as it gets Ames off our backs until we find Ashley."

  "Don't count on it. And, for the record, I think you look just fine in that top."

  Lucy glanced down at the baby-blue sweater set Megan had given her for her birthday two days ago. Ames was right, it was the wrong color for her. Sometimes she worried Megan had inherited her father's color blindness. The knit was comfortable in the heat but maybe a little too clingy. Burrough's gaze darted down to rest on her bustline. Not for the first time.

  She grabbed her cell phone. "My daughter's home sick, I'd better check in."

  The annoying beep of the busy signal greeted her. "Great. Busy. That means she's on both lines at once." She dialed Nick's work number.

  "Dr. Callahan, please," she asked the operator. "It's his wife. Thank you." She waited to be connected. "Hey, just wanted to let you know this thing is going to probably go long. I already pissed off some reporter, so be careful. Did you get my voice mail about Megan?"

  "Hello to you as well. I got the voice mail and sent her an IM. She says she's fine and wants to know if she can make mac and cheese for lunch."

  Lucy laughed—she never used the IM or text functions her daughter and husband found so useful. She seldom e-mailed either. In her line of work the miracles of modern communication represented danger more than convenience.

  "Her throat must be feeling better. I called and both lines were busy."

  "So, did you catch your badguys?"

  "Yeah, but then I got called in on something else. Listen, this case is pretty complicated, I'm not sure how long I'll be tied up."

  "One step ahead of you. I already called your mom. She has a date tonight but will come tomorrow if we need her."

  "Thanks, should have known you'd—hey, did you say she has a date? With who? We are talking my mother, Coletta Guardino, the last of the Italian martyred widows, right?"

  His chuckle reverberated through the tiny handset. "Said she met him on the Internet, a group for Catholics who have lost their spouses."

  Lucy lost her focus for a moment, still reeling with the concept of her mother shrugging off her widow's weeds. Going out with someone she met on-line? What was the woman thinking? Didn't she know what kind of predators were out there?

  "Did she give you the," she caught herself before she said "perp", "guy's name?"

  "No, she did not. I think she was afraid you'd run a background check on him and send surveillance. She said she'd tell you all about it tomorrow and not to worry."

  Not to worry? Her fifty-nine year old mother, alone for a quarter of a century, was venturing back into the dating scene with a stranger she met in some dark alley of a chatroom. "I can't believe this is happening."

  Nick's voice was calm, reassuring. One of the few things she hated about her husband. She could project calm, take control over chaos no matter the crisis, but dammit, he really was calm. Like some kind of Southern-Irish-Zen Master.

  "Everything's going to be fine, Lulu," he said, using his private name for her. "Are you going to have time for lunch?"

  A Zen master with twice the maternal instincts she had. "Dunno. We might stop at Mickey D's on the way." She glanced over to Burroughs and he nodded his agreement. Yeah, cops loved donuts, but it was beef and grease that you needed to get through a long day with no end in sight.

  "If you get stuck, I left you a present."

  She took a look inside her purse. And found an evidence bag marked: For Emergency Use Only. It contained two Power Bars, a package of Aleve, breath mints, and a Hershey's Special Dark. Lucy didn't try to hide her smile. "Have I told you lately exactly how wonderful you are?"

  "No. But you can show me later when you get home."

  "Hey, what can you tell me about kids who cut themselves?"

  The abrupt change of topic didn't knock him off his stride. Nick was well-accustomed to Lucy's hyper-kinetic thought patterns. "Girl or boy?"

  "Girl. Fourteen. Parents divorced about ten months ago and it looks like she's been having some self-image problems. Wearing baggy clothing, locking herself in her room."

  "You'll probably find that she has peer problems, especially in school. Often times the self-mutilation decreases during the vacations and escalates when back in school. These girls are usually shy, low self-esteem, unable to make their needs known, so they disassociate from their lives, from their reality. The pain of cutting is an attempt to regain control, to feel something."

  "Sounds like our girl. Thanks, sweetie."

  "No problem. I know you'll probably miss dinner tonight, but will you make a point of coming to Mass tomorrow? Megan's CCD class is ushering."

  Lucy grimaced. Damn, how had she forgotten that? "We've got the Canadians tomorrow."

  Nick made no sound at all. He didn't need to.

  Her sigh echoed through the phone. "But our meet's not until afternoon. I should be able to make it. If she feels good enough to go, that is."

  She hated using Megan's sore throat as a hedge. Of course, Nick saw right through her.<
br />
  "Should I tell her that?" Nick never made a promise he couldn't keep. One of the ways he kept his halo shiny and polished bright.

  Lucy wished her own parental halo wasn't so tarnished. She tried to put a positive spin on things. "No. Let's make it a surprise."

  She disconnected and returned the cell phone to her belt. Burroughs was watching her, a gleam in his eyes.

  "Just so you know," he said, returning his attention to the traffic in front of them. "I wasn't going to hit on you or anything."

  He was an average sized man with above average looks, not too handsome, not too plain, but his body language screamed alpha male on the prowl. The way he held his stare a little too long, stood a little too close.

  Alpha male or not, Burroughs wasn't her type. Her type of guy, the one and only guy she was interested in, pampered her with neck massages and doing the laundry and Hershey's Special Dark. Her guy didn't have to flash a toothy grin to make her knees wobble. All he had to do was walk into the room, say her name or brush her with his gaze.

  Not that Nick didn't have plenty of flaws—after fourteen years of marriage she still hadn't been able to train him to put the toilet seat down or to share the remote. And he had an irritating habit of taking the high road when she'd rather slug it out, down and dirty, in the mud, baring her soul.

  Seemed like lately neither of them had the energy to fight—God, how she missed their fights. Passionate, fierce, just like the sex that always followed.

  Another sigh escaped her. "Sorry, I usually don't make personal calls at work."

  "No need to explain. It was kind of nice to hear a man and wife talking instead of shouting at each other. Your kid gonna be all right?"

  "The doctor thinks it might be mono."

  "Mono? That sucks, I had that when I was a kid. Felt crappy as hell."

  "Fingers crossed it's just strep or a virus."

  "Your husband's a doctor?"

  "Psychologist. He specializes in post-traumatic stress and anxiety. When we lived in Virginia, he worked at the VA with guys coming back from Iraq and their families."

  "High-powered stuff. You two don't take the easy way out on anything, do you?"