“What’s up with these wretched dogs?”
“They hate you.”
“So does my wife but she doesn’t break my eardrums. You need a real dog. A mutt. Or a greyhound.” He choked back a chortle. “I know, a bloodhound! You need a bloodhound. Get it?”
I cocked my head to the right, then to the left, with my eyes closed. “I get it. How about you either figure out a way to get my dogs to love you or quit dropping by?”
Manning laughed as he looked around. I knew the pattern.
“And to what do I owe this honor?” I asked Manning.
“I didn’t feel like racing to work today,” he mumbled. “And I wasn’t pimping for breakfast.”
“Not like you’re getting much. So?” I asked.
“The story is breaking on our missing Congresswoman Strong.”
“It’s been three full days. You’ve been lucky.”
“The feds will have their hands full because it was the family that didn’t want to release it to the press. Her husband and staff insisted she’d taken off to their cabin in the White Mountains which is a ritual when she wants to get away. She wasn’t there. Then it was rumored she was at a friend’s cabin at Mt. Lemmon. Not there, either, but it bought us some time. The feds will be pulling in here this afternoon, trying to make us look like country bumpkins while I’m guessing going guns-a-blazing after the husband.”
“Oh, I get it. The big guys are pulling into town. That’s the reason you aren’t at the office. But by the way, we all know how you can win over the big blue suits with your charming personality,” I said, winking at him.
The pattern emerged. Manning, a familiar fixture in my home, got up and pulled out the Baileys from my liquor cabinet, telling me my coffee sucked, which it did. Without asking, he poured the smooth brown liquid into his mug. He gestured toward me and my cup. I declined.
“They aren’t going to connect any dots. Certainly not our dots. They don’t care about any other dots on that wall of yours of other presumed missing people,” I said. “Give them the facts on Elizabeth Strong. That’s all they want.”
Manning stirred his mug with the enhancing additive, and then walked over to my patio window where a plethora of birds and lizards and javelina could often be seen.
“Here’s my summary. With missing females, it’s usually prostitutes or, being in such proximity to the border, a second category would be illegal immigrants. They’re hard to trace. No one cares. No one reports them missing. We have none of that here. We have victims that have families and careers and futures. We also have no bodies so we don’t know if it’s a crime of a sexual nature. We don’t know if the victims have been raped. We don’t know if they’re dead. They could be holed up behind bars anywhere in this desert or even in Mexico. Or Toledo, for that fact. I pretty much don’t have anything to give these suits,” Manning said, sighing in frustration.
“How is the story breaking on the congresswoman?”
“As always, Jessica Silva. She seems to have a sixth sense about anything going down. But you’re right. The story was primed to break. Honestly, I’m glad she’s the one running with it.”
“Yada, Yada, Yada, Here’s what I want. The FBI is going to ask you for a list of her enemies. We know that’s a long list. I want it, too, but I also want a list of her staunch supporters,” I said.
“You’re nuts.”
“That’s one of the nicest compliments you’ve paid me. This is why I’m on the case. I’m going to connect those damn dots of mine and as I said, the feds aren’t going to be looking for those dots with any other cases. Especially when they see the backgrounds of the other women. But I feel it in my bones. Somehow, there’s a connection. We just haven’t found it,” I said.
Manning gave a quick nod before gulping down the juiced-up coffee.
“Time for me to hit the road,” he said.
“Never drinking on duty, my ass,” I said.
“Hey! It’s just a bit of chocolate milk. It will be the sweetest thing I encounter all day. I may even go home and put on a blue suit.”
“David, you are going public with all of the other missing women, aren’t you? Not just the congresswoman?”
He was gone.
FOUR O’CLOCK. Breaking news.
“This is Jessica Silva. Two hours ago I was at the home of Congresswoman Elizabeth Strong. It has become evident that Ms. Strong is missing.
“Her office confirms it is highly unusual that they have not heard from Congresswoman Strong in several days. Family and friends thought she was at the family cabin in the White Mountains or a friend’s home in Mount Lemmon. Another place she frequents is Sedona.
“Her cell phone has been reported as turned off with no GPS activation.
“My interview with Mr. Strong will air at ten o’clock tonight. Meanwhile, Congresswoman Strong was last seen driving a late model white Mercedes Benz sedan, CLS class, Arizona license plate LIZ4YOU. If you have seen this car or have any information regarding the missing congresswoman, please call 9-1-1, or if you’re shy, call me here at the station. Tweet me. Email me. Just be proactive and do the right thing.”
JAXON GILES HEARD the driveway alert before the familiar voice on the intercom.
“It’s just me,” Sandra Vickery said.
“You’ve been ordered to stay one-hundred feet away from me.”
“And I am, given the length of your driveway. I must say I am impressed with all of your new security gadgets around here.”
“What do you want, Sandy?”
“Darling, the dry cleaners made a mistake. I have some of your suits and maybe a couple of your custom shirts. I want to give them to you.”
“That was a long time ago and you’ve only now figured that out? Leave them at the gate.”
“Fuck you! Your Armani and whatever else I have will make a nice fire for me tonight. These early March nights can grow cold.”
With the intercom on, Jaxon heard her slam the car into reverse. He counted his blessings.
He immediately called Jessica who was on her way to his home for dinner.
“Watch out for the bitch. She was just here.”
“I’m ten minutes away. I know the new gate code. Don’t worry. She’ll be long gone.”
When Jessica pulled up to the extensive drive, there was no car in sight. She opened the gate and made sure it closed behind her. In the dark, she missed the woman, on foot, dressed in black.
Chapter Nine
SANDRA VICKERY GREW up in the Sonoran Desert. She knew the composite of guidelines necessary to safely traverse the land. Especially at night.
A thousand cacti and a herd of javelina would not deter her but she understood she had problems. She’d used the binoculars for viewing as the security cameras, lights and motion detectors had been installed, with another crew of security experts spending countless hours inside Jaxon’s home. It should and would be her home.
She was aware that entering the home, as she had done so many times without being caught, would no longer be possible.
“Paranoid bastard probably leaves on the motion detectors even when he’s home. Especially when he’s home,” she cackled aloud, but not too loud.
The extensive exterior security posed a problem but not a threat. Not for what she wanted.
She wanted something to fan the flames of her rage. And her desire.
Jaxon Giles’ master bedroom windows and door faced east with no neighbor behind him. The blinds would be open.
One hour. Two hours. Two hours and forty-five minutes later, she saw the bedroom light go on. She used the binoculars to confirm what she anticipated and loathed.
Two people. Her husband, Jaxon, and the wretched Jessica Silva. And they were already nearly sickeningly nude.
She dropped the binoculars to the hard earth below her, in favor of the camera with the twelve-thousand dollar telephoto zoom lens.
Click. She felt ill.
Click. Click. Click. Her hands became sticky with pe
rspiration and her heart began to pound in rapid succession.
Click. Click. Now, full-blown rage.
And she was sated.
SCHLEP’S WORDS PALPITATED into their own stream of consciousness.
“I have a connection between vics. It’s not great, but it’s a start,” he said.
“I was driving west on Oracle Road looking for Congresswoman Strong’s office for no apparent reason.
“The missing hairdresser works at the largest salon in Tucson. The shop is three blocks away from Strong’s campaign headquarters.”
“Yes, Schlep? Tell me what you found.” I encouraged him; otherwise we’d be on the phone for an hour.
“I started with the missing hairdresser’s clientele, and kept digging. They have tons of clients. I zeroed in on the list of clients at the salon she worked at. Not easy, Cassie. Some clients pay in cash plus they have all of the snowbirds in and out. But it turns out our socialite frequents that same salon.”
“Schlep, you just said it’s a huge shop. There may be no connection to one another if she was buying services from someone else.”
“I know. I’ll see if I can find a crossover in appointments when the two might have encountered one another. It’s a start.”
I agreed. It was a start. It felt like we were on to something.
ONE FULL WEEK HAD PASSED. The images loomed large, splayed across Sandra Vickery’s thirty-inch monitor.
This time the photographs didn’t sicken her. She leaned back in her chair, feeling her face grow warm with delight and anticipation. What to do? What to do? The slut needed to be fired. Soon. Maybe something more for her? Maybe.
The toxicity in her blood and in her heart and mind led her to only one conclusion.
The next morning she researched libraries. Not the nearest one. Not the second nearest one. She drove over forty-minutes across town.
She signed in as a new user with a new email address. With that identity, she joined all the major players in the social networking game.
And she posted. Photographs. All of them.
The damned be done, she thought.
Chapter Ten
MICHAEL SCORES, THE co-anchor on both the five and ten o’clock news hours, sat at his desk rushing to powder his face and apply a tad of lip gloss. Jessica Silva walked in, air-brushed to perfection.
“In walks the princess,” he said, pulling out his aerosol hairspray and fluffing up.
Jessica tilted her head and said, “Why don’t you take that lethal can of hairspray into the bathroom? And why the cynicism?”
“You tell me, why is it that you always get the breaking stories? I thought we were a team.”
“We are great co-anchors, Michael. What’s this about? I get some of my own stories. You get some of yours. Everything else is divided up between us. Do you think we’re in competition with one another?”
“How’d you get the story on the congresswoman?”
Jessica sat down in her chair, patting down a few unruly strands of her long black hair.
“I got a tip. I happened to have a film crew out with me on the site of the near drowning. The tip was viable. The crew was good enough to tag along with me.”
Michael fussed with the scars of adolescent acne on his right cheek. He shuffled his shoes on the floor in front of him. Then his knees started shaking.
“I guess you have good tipsters,” he acquiesced, with a derisive grin.
“You would, too, if you’d pony up your charming personality,” Jessica said.
“I’m the one that set you up with my brother. Prince Charming, the real estate guru. Remember?”
“Yes, I do remember the day I met the better half of your family. And thank you for the introduction. Now, we have a job to do. Amiable co-anchors, right?”
Michael Scores stood from the chair. It was almost airtime and he wanted to get in the chair and primp, one more time, and breathe to center himself. Still, he rose.
“Wow. Is that a new suit?” Jessica asked.
“Yes. Saville Row.”
“Of course. It’s certainly rich looking.”
“Jessica, don’t undermine me. Don’t underestimate me.”
“Why would I do that? This isn’t a game of Last Man Standing. We just agreed we are a team, remember?”
Scores did not agree to anything.
AS JESSICA SILVA WRAPPED up the news, the station’s general manager walked over and asked her to follow him. They walked into the smaller conference room.
“What is it?” Jessica asked.
The GM slid a large packet over toward Jessica.
Jessica fondled the clasp of the envelope. “Do I want to see what’s in here?” she asked.
“No. But you need to.”
Jessica sat across from the man. Holding her shoulders tight, she accepted the envelope and opened it.
Her face grew ashen and her hands clammy. She bowed her head into her lap and let the photographs of her and Jaxon Giles, almost nude with not much more to imagine, drop to the floor.
“They were delivered by courier this morning. We’re trying to track down who sent them but we have to deal with the threat.”
“What threat?” Jessica muttered.
The GM handed a letter to Jessica. “It was inside with the photos,” he explained.
Quickly reading the letter, Jessica exclaimed, “Blackmail? You fire me or the photos go on the internet?”
“It’s pretty clear on both counts.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
The man rubbed his eyes. “For now, it’s over at legal. Do you have any idea who took these photos?”
Immediately, she responded as she stiffened her back. “I do. It’s my boyfriend’s ex-wife.”
“That would be Michael Scores’ brother?”
Jessica regained full composure. “Half-brother. They had different fathers.”
The GM lifted his retro-round gold-rimmed glasses from his eyes. “Good. No one will recognize Scores as your friend’s brother. That way I only have one anchor in the limelight.”
“Sir?”
“Tell legal about this ex-wife. And remember a tried and true fact in our business. Bad news is still good news.”
“But I’ll be—”
“I’m not firing you, Jessica. You can resign but that would be a damn shame. These folks over in legal don’t take well to what is clearly an invasion of privacy. If you can handle it, I sure as hell can.”
“Then let it play out,” Jessica said.
“It already has.”
JAXON GILES DROVE to Jessica’s house, revving up all the power his Jag could give him on the highway and he made it to her home in less than thirty minutes.
“That bitch!” he yelled, after using his key to enter the home to find Jessica in her backyard, her sturdy yet willowy frame folded in the lounge chair. A glass of red wine, untouched, sat on the table next to her.
“I have your glass,” she said, and began filling it with the smooth scarlet liquid of Merlot.
“You look like hell,” Jaxon said. “And I’m sorry for ranting.”
“I look better than I feel. And apology accepted.”
“I can’t believe that woman. When is she going to move on with her life?”
“I don’t think she will as long as she thinks she can destroy ours,” Jessica replied to the rhetorical question. “That’s what you insinuated.”
Turning on the gas kiva fireplace for ambience more than heat, Jaxon sat next to her and reached for her hand.
After an awkward silence, unusual for them, Jaxon spoke.
“You told me you won’t be fired. How are you going to feel about those photos splashed all over the Internet?”
“Maybe Playboy will take notice,” Jessica played for the joke.
Jaxon shrugged “I’m in your court, babe. Maybe Playgirl will come knocking at my door.”
Jaxon noticed Jessica’s shoulders drooping. She usually kept perfect posture. Her
fidgety fingers rolled around the rim of the crystal glass, to make it sing. She pulled her knees tight toward her chest.
“There’s something more. What is it?” Jaxon had taken the lounge chair next to her.
“It may not be Sandra.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s her.”
“Promise to listen to what I have to say. Hear me before you react?”
Jaxon’s eyes grew pensive as he sat his glass down. He leaned forward toward Jessica and loosely folded his arms.
“I’ve been noticing some odd behavior at the station.”
“Damn. Why didn’t you tell me about this? I’ll put on another security guard.”
Jessica shook her head, her long black hair catching glints of light coming from the moonlight. “No. You won’t want to do that.”
Jaxon’s arms rose up in a wide sweeping movement. “Then what?”
“It’s probably nothing,” Jessica said as she edged slightly away from Jaxon. “Lately, there’s been some tension between me and your brother.”
“Michael? Whatever for? You guys make a great duo.”
“That’s just it. On the air, we do. But he’s been pissed off with me lately. Mad that I’m getting better stories than him.”
Jaxon scowled. “That doesn’t sound like Michael. We may only be half-brothers but I know him.”
He reached back for his wine. Jessica said nothing. This time the silence was stifling. Jessica stood up and turned to face him.
Finally, Jessica said, “Do you really know him? Really?”
“Wait a minute,” Jaxon said. “You don’t think my brother is behind this?”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I were ousted.”
His voice grew gruff, “Look, he wouldn’t do this. I know it was Sandra. It’s about hurting me and those I love. You’re a huge target.”
“It’s more than friendly competition between Michael and me, Jaxon.” Sighing deeply, she continued, “I thought you were going to listen to me before you reacted.”
He raised his hands above his head. “Look. We’ve both had a long day. Let’s chill out and gather our thoughts later.”
Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1) Page 4
