by T. R. Ragan
“Good morning,” she said to Olivia as she watched the dog use his three good legs to scoot across the wood floor. Cecil had followed her from the bedroom. His long tail brushed across her calf before he jumped on top of the couch and stared the dog down. Higgins was too focused on Olivia to notice.
“Morning,” Olivia said. “I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up.”
“You should have woke me.”
“Bella is picking me up. And I knew you needed sleep after spending the night in jail.”
“Thanks,” Jessie said with a roll of her eyes, knowing she would never live it down.
Olivia scrunched up her nose. “I never asked you about being in jail. Was it horrible?”
“It smelled like body odor and bleach. I’ll leave it at that.” Jessie scratched her head as she focused her attention on the dog. “Is Higgins hungry?”
“No. I fed him and then took him outside to do his thing.”
“Can he walk?”
Olivia nodded. “I carried him down the stairs, but when I set him down on the patch of grass, he did pretty good keeping most of his weight on his three good legs. Will you be able to check on him during the day?”
Jessie stared at the dog. “Sure.” She glanced at the clock. “What can I do to help you get ready?”
“Can you give Higgins his pills?” Olivia asked before she disappeared inside her bedroom, where Jessie could hear the hamster wheel going round and round.
Jessie went to the kitchen and read the labels on the pills, then grabbed a piece of cheese from the refrigerator and walked back to the dog.
Higgins growled.
“Stop it, or I’ll change your name to Cujo.”
Another low rumble came from the dog’s throat.
“Do you want your pills or not?”
His ears perked up.
“That’s what I thought.” She wrapped the cheese around the biggest pill first, bent down on one knee, and held it toward the dog’s nose. He sniffed before drawing back his lip.
Jessie straightened. “Listen, Higgins. You’re in pain. I can see it in your eyes. You need to take these pills if you want to get better.”
The dog whimpered as he tried to get up on all fours.
Enough was enough. She knelt down and forced the cheese into his mouth.
It worked. He ate it.
“Good dog,” she said, surprised.
She repeated the process, stroking his back when he was done, ignoring his persistent growling. “You’re all bark and no bite.”
He whimpered.
“I know. I know.” Jessie sat on the floor next to him and continued to brush her fingers through his wiry, patchy fur. “We both had a rough day yesterday, didn’t we? The good news is you’ll feel better in thirty minutes when the medication sets in.”
Olivia came out of her room with her backpack, ready to go. Her face brightened when she saw Jessie petting Higgins. “He’s warming up to you.”
The dog growled.
“Oh, never mind.”
Jessie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you wearing makeup?”
“No.”
“We have a pact, remember? We always tell each other the truth.”
“It’s just a little mascara. What’s the big deal?”
A car honked.
“I’ve gotta go.”
Jessie frowned. Although she wasn’t Olivia’s mother, she thought of herself as one. Lunches and carpools, homework and discipline, tended to do that to a person. But lecturing Olivia about makeup . . . when had she become one of those mothers? Everyone wore makeup in high school. What harm could it do?
She thought of her sister then, and that was when it dawned on her. Olivia had helped fill the void in her heart after Sophie disappeared, and now she was scared to death—panicked, even—by the idea of Olivia growing up too fast. She wasn’t ready to let her go. And the worst part was, she might never be ready.
Colin had been at the lab talking to the people in forensics who had processed Erin Hayes’s abandoned car when he got the call about Natalie Bailey’s abduction.
As he walked up the path leading to the Bailey house, a two-story Victorian in Midtown, an officer lifted the yellow crime tape to make access easy for him.
The sun hit his back as he continued on to the wide-open front door. Inside, the house was crowded with technicians, who were busy collecting evidence and taking prints from doors and windows.
Gordon Douglas called his name from the living room.
He and Gordon had worked together for a number of years now. Gordon had given up his career as an urban sociologist after losing his brother to a habitual criminal. A good man, he had twelve years of field experience and multiple areas of expertise. His degree in sociology gave him a better understanding of criminal behavior and social influences on crime, making him a valuable asset.
Gordon met him halfway across the living room and then walked him back to where Mike Bailey, Natalie’s husband, sat.
Colin had talked to Gordon on the phone on the way over. He knew Gordon had completed the initial walk-through to see whether or not anything had been moved or disturbed. A video had been taken along with photographs. They would go over all that later.
The living room appeared neat and orderly, like a picture in a magazine. Beige walls, polished tables, no knickknacks. Clean and simple. Colin took a seat on the leather ottoman so he could talk to Bailey face-to-face. The man was clearly distraught. His eyes were bloodshot, his short brown hair disheveled. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Bailey shook his head.
“What time did you go to bed last night?”
“Around nine thirty, but Natalie was still reading a book on her Kindle when I fell asleep thirty minutes later.”
“Did you ever wake up during the night?”
“Yes. I woke up a little before one in the morning to go to the bathroom. She was in the bed next to me.”
“Are you sure?”
He blushed. “I’m positive. She snores. Her snoring was what woke me up.”
“And when did you finally notice she was missing?” Colin asked.
“I had a nightmare where I was being attacked by a pack of wolves and I was bit in the arm. Semiawake, I jerked my arm away and fell back to sleep. I didn’t wake up fully until six.” He lifted his shirtsleeve. “After I started looking around for Natalie, I began to feel woozy. My arm was sore, and I noticed a drop of dried blood right there.” He pointed to what could be a needle mark.
“We took a blood sample,” Gordon said.
Colin nodded, made a note. “And your wife was gone?”
“Yes, but that didn’t set off any alarms for me. She’s an early riser. I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and then headed downstairs. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but Natalie was nowhere to be found. When I saw her car in the garage, I panicked and rushed back upstairs. Everything was there—purse, car keys, wallet, and cell phone. I called her dad, who lives nearby. He hadn’t seen or talked to her in the past two days.”
“Had she made any calls during the night?”
“No. I checked her phone. No incoming calls, either.”
“She works?”
He nodded.
“What does she do?”
“She’s a psychotherapist. She does inpatient work at a local hospital.”
Colin made a note. “Has your wife had any trouble with anyone she’s been helping?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Would she tell you if there was a problem?”
“Absolutely,” he blurted as if the question offended him. “We share everything. I would know if she was upset or having problems at work.”
“Do you keep an extra key anywhere inside or outside of the house?”
“Yes. When we first moved in, Natalie put a key under the gnome in the planter box.”
Colin made notes. Getting in and out of the house without being noticed or leaving any trace evidence had si
milarities to the Heartless Killer’s MO. And yet it was way too early to make assumptions. One of the reasons the Heartless Killer had not been caught was that absolutely no one was safe. There was no connection to race, gender, or age that would indicate any one particular target. He’d taken people from their homes, bicyclists from the street, and kids from bus stops.
Colin looked up from his notepad and asked, “Is the planter box at the front of the house or the back?”
“Right outside the front door. I’ll show you.”
They followed him outside. The planter was filled with flowers.
Bailey picked up the gnome.
There was nothing there.
“It’s gone,” he said.
FIFTEEN
Jessie had been at the office for a while when she looked at the time and saw that it was already ten thirty. Looked like Ben Morrison was a no-show. She would give him until noon before she went to check on Higgins.
Her phone rang. It was Adelind Rain. “Sorry I had to run off yesterday,” she said without prelude.
“No problem.”
“I’m calling to let you know I quit my job. My parents are worried, and so am I. I’m moving back to Seattle.”
“Did something happen since I saw you?”
Adelind hesitated before saying, “I got a call in the middle of the night. Heavy breathing. Are you sure Parker Koontz is still in the hospital?”
“I was told he’s in a coma, but I’ll call the hospital to see if there has been any change.”
“If it’s not him, who would be calling me? It makes no sense, and yet it can’t be a coincidence.”
Jessie didn’t have an answer for her.
There was a long pause before Adelind said, “If you could let me know what I owe you, I can get that taken care of before I leave.”
Jessie tapped her pencil against her desk. “You might be subpoenaed when I’m brought to court.”
“I understand.” Adelind proceeded to give Jessie her parents’ address and phone number.
“Is there anything else I should know?” Jessie asked.
“Just be careful.”
The call was disconnected.
As Jessie stared absently ahead, thinking about the Koontz problem, a short and extremely pale man entered her office. He marched right in and took a seat in the chair in front of her desk. His gray hair was messy, his jaw unshaven. The dark shadows under his eyes made him look as if he might be sick.
Without bothering to introduce himself, he reached for a tissue and used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The only person she’d been expecting was Ben Morrison, the crime reporter. And this man was definitely not him.
But something was seriously wrong. Jessie stood. “Do you need help?”
“Are you Jessie Cole, the private investigator?”
“I am.”
“Then yes. I need help.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“No,” he answered sharply, his shoulders tense. “My daughter disappeared five days ago, and the police won’t do anything about it. I am not all right.”
Jessie kept a close eye on him as she slowly sank back down into her chair. He looked a bit unhinged, making her wonder if he was on drugs. She knew the best thing she could do was remain calm. “Did you fill out a missing person’s report?”
“Of course I did.”
“What makes you think the police aren’t doing anything?”
“Because they said as much,” he said, his shoulders relaxing some. “Zee has disappeared before. Many times, in fact. She has problems. Don’t we all? But she’s a good person—kind and compassionate. The sort of person who would never harm a flea.”
In a matter of seconds, his anger had changed to hopelessness. A part of her wanted to reach across her desk, place her hands on his, and tell him to take a breath. The other part wondered if the pepper spray was still in the drawer in front of her. “Exactly what sort of problems does your daughter have?”
“She’s been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. She suffers from depression, hallucinations, and delirium, which sometimes happens when she overmedicates by mistake.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“You said she’s disappeared before. Where does she usually go?”
His shoulders fell. “I have no idea. I work for a software company, and there were a couple of times I came home and she wasn’t there. But she’s also left the house in the middle of the night when I’m sleeping, so I’ve never had the chance to follow her. She’s usually home within twenty-four hours.” He looked down at his lap. “Until now.”
“Was she left alone during the day?”
“The last caregiver quit within hours and didn’t bother telling me until I called her looking for Zee.”
“Is Zee her nickname?”
“It’s short for Zinnia. Her mother named her after the flower. Is that important?”
“No,” she said. “It’s not. Has Zee ever told you anything about where she goes when she runs off?”
He shook his head. “She’s usually disoriented and confused when she returns. That’s what happens when she doesn’t take her pills.”
“I see.”
“Do you really?” he asked, his face pinched. “Or are you saying that because you think I’m crazy?”
“Why would I think you were crazy?”
“Because of the way I look. I hear what people say behind my back. I’m not deaf.” He huffed. “I’m as pale as a ghost. My head is way too big for my body. And throughout grade school my nickname was Dumbo, thanks to my enormous ears.” His tone sharpened. “I’ve heard whispers about Zee running off because I’m so hideously ugly.”
People’s cruelty had no bounds. “You’re not ugly.”
“So why did you practically jump out of your skin when I took a seat?”
“Because you are unusually pale, just as you said. And between the dark circles and sheen of sweat on your brow, I thought you might be having a heart attack.”
He seemed to ponder that before he said, “Fair enough.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Arlo Gatley.”
She opened the top drawer, ignored the pepper spray rolling around, and grabbed a pricing sheet instead. She slid the paper across the desk in front of him. “As you can see, it can get costly for you to hire me to search for Zee, which is why you might want to reconsider letting the police handle this.”
He closed his eyes—sort of a long, exasperated blink. “Money isn’t a problem.”
“I charge by the hour, and I would need a retainer,” she said. “I’m going to assume you’ve already looked for your daughter in all of her favorite spots. I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork if you’re interested in moving forward.”
She pulled out another small packet with a list of basic questions: name, address, telephone number, hobbies, favorite restaurants, friends and family, and so on. She was having a hard time building up enthusiasm for the job, mostly because she had a lot on her plate. But he looked into her eyes just then, and for the first time since Arlo entered her office, she saw through his frustration. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes welled with tears as he said, “I’ll be forever in your debt. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said with a smile.
“If I fill out these papers right now and write you a check, when would you be able to begin your search?”
“Today,” she said. “Fill out those papers, and I’ll get started.”
He released a sob, and it took everything not to cry along with him. Seeing him so distraught reminded her of how she’d felt when Sophie had disappeared. She didn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone.
He grabbed another tissue and wiped his nose. “There is one more thing you should know about Zee before you agree.”
“What is it?”
“When you find her,” he said a
s if that was a given, “you’ll need to be careful.”
Jessie lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“She’s been known to be violent at times.”
“How so?”
“She’ll kick and bite if someone tries to restrain her. She’s strong, too. She broke my finger once. She didn’t mean to, of course; it was an accident.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but I am curious about something.”
He nodded, waited.
“How did you hear about me?”
“I saw you on the news recently, but that wasn’t the reason I came to you. It was three or four years ago when you found that fifteen-year-old girl—”
He paused, trying to remember, so Jessie said, “Tonya Grimm?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Everyone else had given up on finding her, thought she was a runaway. Some people even accused the parents of having something to do with her disappearance. But not you. You didn’t give up. And you found her.”
SIXTEEN
Arlo Gatley remained in Jessie’s office for another hour and a half, filling out paperwork and talking about Zee. Apparently his daughter heard voices. Zee talked to herself, even got into arguments with her reflection in the mirror. She’d once hidden inside a mail truck, and twice she’d made herself at home at the neighbor’s house. The first time she was making a sandwich, and the second time she was asleep in the master bedroom. Two years ago she was fired from her job at a large retailer after she slapped a customer across the face for being rude. All the stories combined made Jessie realize that this girl could be absolutely anywhere.
It was two o’clock by the time Jessie stepped outside and walked down the block toward home to check on Higgins. A few minutes later, she slipped the key into the lock on her front door when she heard someone call her name from across the street. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man heading her way. She recognized him immediately.
Ben Morrison in the flesh. He appeared taller than the six foot three specified during her Internet search yesterday. His hair was longer, too, pulled back with a rubber band at his nape. She could see the scarring from third-degree burns on the left side of his face and neck. Part of his left ear was missing. The skin was pulled so tight she could see the formation of muscle and bone beneath.