Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1)

by Susan O’Brien

  A retired police officer must have raised his hand, because Dean called on him right away. “Yes, Jerry?”

  Jerry listed all of Mr. Conners’ “accomplishments,” which were available through the court system online—completely free—so I’d wasted $50. Dean led a follow-up discussion on records research, and I stayed quiet, listening intently and taking notes, since I had nothing to contribute.

  Finally class ended, and while everyone else filed out, I smiled, waved goodbye, and stayed in my seat, eating a breath mint and deep breathing. Dean sat down nearby, muscles straining against his white polo shirt. In my mind it burst Hulk-style, and I swooned. How pathetic.

  “So what’s goin’ on?” he asked. “Give me the update.”

  “First of all,” I said, “I have to be honest with you. I didn’t do the homework. I’ve been really busy, but that’s no excuse.”

  “It’s a great excuse,” he said generously. “You were helping someone in need.”

  I sighed. “Thanks. I feel bad about it.”

  “So tell me exactly what’s been keeping you occupied, other than Jack and Sophie, of course,” he said.

  Aww. He remembered their names. Since he wasn’t creepy, I liked it.

  “They go to camp a few hours a day, thank goodness, so I had time to interview the birth father, his mom, and the birth mother’s best friend. Plus I checked out some social networking sites.” I gave him the details.

  “You have been busy.”

  “Not busy enough. Beth’s been missing more than a week, and with the first hours being critical, it’s maddening.”

  He nodded. “I know. But how do you know for sure she’s been missing that long?”

  I thought for a moment. “I guess I don’t. That’s what April’s mom told me.”

  “Confirm it with April and anyone else you can. Then use that as a starting point. Talk to neighbors, potential witnesses—anyone who could have been around. You got Beth’s contact information?”

  “Yes.” I mentally crossed my fingers that he was about to offer help.

  “Jot it down for me. Maybe I can work with it.”

  “That would be incredible.” I looked anxiously at my notebook and purse, realizing that in my rush, I’d left Kenna’s “case” folder at home. I wanted to kick myself and add a punch for good measure. “I left it at home. I’ll email you as soon as I get there.” Afraid something would distract me, such as a wayward child in need of a tuck in, I added, “If you don’t hear from me, please call or email,” I told him. “I appreciate your help more than I can say.”

  “My pleasure.” He pushed up from the table. “I’ve gotta close up shop here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I shoved class handouts into my notebook and pulled the bulging mess to my chest. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”

  “I wish I could stay,” he said. “But I have another commitment.”

  Hopefully commitment wasn’t code for date.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m on my way.” I headed for the door and thanked him again. Amber was reading a paperback at her desk, and I desperately hoped she wasn’t waiting to leave with him, although if she was, I’d totally give up. I had no desire or ability to compete with her kind of pretty.

  “Keep in touch,” he said. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  Saturdays were all-day class sessions. This weekend we’d practice surveillance. Students would divide into two-car teams and follow someone, trying not to be spotted. “Remember to email me,” he added.

  As I pulled out, I glanced back to see Dean turn out the lights and hold the door for Amber. Great.

  My mom left on a kitchen light directly above a note that read Leftovers in the fridge. I found the plate of tofu, pasta, and veggies, all of which had shriveled since they were prepared, and I stuck it in the microwave for thirty seconds, hoping its beeps wouldn’t wake anyone. I mixed everything and added a little tomato sauce before eating. Not bad. Not good either.

  I’d invited Mom to spend the night, so it wasn’t a surprise that she was in the second floor guest room, fast asleep. It was a surprise, however, that she was alone, meaning the kids were flying solo in their beds, at least for now. I wondered how she’d accomplished that.

  Before anything got in the way, I slipped into my office, where the computer was on and ready to go. I sent Dean an email with Beth’s and April’s phone numbers, addresses, and social networking sites, thanking him again for his time.

  Within seconds, I got a response. It was so fast that I thought it must be one of those auto responses—Hi, I’m out of the office right now. Please contact so-and-so if you need immediate assistance. But it wasn’t. Got it. Thanks, he wrote. I’ll let you know if I find anything. A tagline said he’d emailed from his phone. If he had a date, at least she wasn’t distracting enough to separate him from email.

  It was almost ten o’clock, and instead of being drained, I was unusually alert, my head practically vibrating with thoughts.

  Most of all, I wanted to call April and double check who saw Beth last. I also wanted to drive to Beth’s again and look more carefully at who was around at night. Last time was at the same hour as her disappearance, 11 p.m., but I hadn’t paid close enough attention to the surroundings.

  I opened the file and looked at my notes. If only I’d documented every house light and parked car. Maybe someone who stayed up to watch late-night TV heard something. Fudge.

  I closed my eyes and imagined what I’d seen. Most of the lights were off. The neighborhood was quiet. Nothing stood out.

  I picked up the phone and risked calling April’s cell this late. I hoped her mom wouldn’t mind or even notice.

  “April?” I said when someone picked up.

  “Yeah.” She sounded wide awake.

  “It’s Nicki. I’m sorry to call so late, but I want to check something.”

  “Okay.”

  “When was the last time you saw or heard from Beth?”

  “I dropped her off at eleven at her house, not last Sunday, but the one before that. She missed a big test the next day.”

  “That’s exactly what your mom said. What was Beth’s mood that night?”

  “Her mood?”

  “Uh huh. How was she feeling?”

  “I told the police she was kinda down. But nothing weird. Just a lot going on. The baby, summer school, you know.”

  “Was she worried about the test?”

  “I doubt it. We studied pretty hard.”

  “Was anything else on her mind? Did she mention anything?”

  “Not really.”

  Something felt off. I didn’t want to push it, but then again, teens lie a lot, and I needed the truth. I’d lied to the police without good reason myself.

  “April,” I said. “I know it’s hard to trust me, but you’ve done a good job so far, and when you do, I think it gets us closer to Beth. You said you dropped Beth off at eleven on Sunday. And you told the police Beth was kind of down, but nothing unusual. Is there anything you left out? I really need to know.”

  She took a breath and blew it out like I do when I’m trying not to panic. A breath is proof you’re okay.

  My voice softened. “You can tell me.”

  I heard a tiny noise—something between a whimper and a cough. Definitely a precursor to crying.

  “April,” I comforted her. “What’s wrong?”

  I flashed back to high school, when everything seemed so serious, make or break, life or death, yet in retrospect forgettable. No matter how serious or innocuous April’s news was, she had to tell me, and I think she knew it. But I was petrified she’d back out.

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice wet with tears.

  “You can,” I said. “I know it’s hard. I remember being your age. I had
so many secrets.” I paused and waited for a response. “I promise I won’t tell anyone if I don’t have to. I only want to find Beth.”

  “It’s about her,” she admitted. “But I don’t think it matters. Oh my God, I hope it doesn’t.”

  “Okay.” Keep going, keep going, I urged her silently.

  “It’s something I told her that night. I thought she knew, but she didn’t. I couldn’t help it. I had to tell her. I felt like it was showing anyway.”

  I was starting to get a feeling, but I wasn’t going to share it. April was self-conscious enough without anyone filling in the blanks.

  “I think I might be...” She stopped. I sensed it wasn’t pregnant. “Gay!” She burst into tears.

  “Oh, April. It’s okay.” Part of me wished I was there to hug her. Another part wanted to stay right where I was—at a distance.

  Everything in me wanted to trust her, but there was always a chance she was involved in Beth’s disappearance, and I had to stay objective. “Is Beth the only person you’ve told?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She let out a laugh combined with a cry. “Except for you now. Definitely not my mom. She would freak.”

  “But your mom seems okay.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “True,” I said. “But maybe she’d surprise you.”

  “I doubt it. She thinks I don’t date because I’m too mature for high school guys. And she likes that.”

  I remembered what her mom said about April and Beth being shy and keeping to themselves. I wanted to point out that April could be gay and more mature than guys, but I let her keep talking.

  “I couldn’t fake it anymore,” she said. “Either I had to stop being friends with Beth, or I had to tell her. So I told her. I don’t know why I picked that night,” she moaned. “I just felt like it was getting obvious.”

  “How was it obvious?”

  “I don’t know. Just the way...I don’t know. I can’t talk about this!” More tears.

  “Well, I’m glad you are. I think it would really help if you told me Beth’s reaction.”

  “She couldn’t believe it. Maybe she was disgusted. But I was totally wrong to think she knew. Then it’s like she was mad, saying stuff like, ‘How can we be friends now? I need to trust you, and I don’t even know you.’ It’s not like I was any different. I told her I didn’t like her or anything. But she didn’t get it. I had to drive her home, so I did, and that was it. We didn’t talk the whole way. She just got out. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “Did you watch her walk in?”

  “Yeah. Because I was hoping she’d turn around and come back. But she didn’t. She shut the door.”

  “And that was the last you saw or heard from her?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Did you notice anything else in the neighborhood?”

  “No.”

  “Any people? Cars? Lights? Anyone walking a dog? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t think so. All I could think about was her. I didn’t care about anything else. I could barely even see because I was crying.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “I drove home, went to sleep, and took my stupid English test the next day. When she didn’t show up, I thought she was mad. I didn’t even worry about her.” She started crying again. “Do you think she could have left because of me?”

  I wanted to say no, but it was more important to hear her opinion. “What do you think?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Why?”

  “The baby. She loved it. She wanted to do the right thing.”

  “And to her, that was...”

  “Adoption.”

  “April, if Beth didn’t have you available, who would she turn to if she was upset? Is there anyone she could have called that night?”

  “I thought of Diane, the social worker at the adoption agency, because birth mothers are allowed to call her anytime. But I asked, and she said Beth didn’t call. Also the police said I was the last one she talked to.”

  I mentioned the school guidance counselors and “friends” I’d seen online. April assured me they weren’t possibilities. Beth had withdrawn during pregnancy, not reached out.

  “Okay. Last question for now. Did Beth have any marks that would stand out on her, like tattoos, birthmarks, or piercings or anything?”

  There was a pause. “She would kill me for saying this, but she has a little tattoo near her tailbone. Her parents don’t know. We got the same one—a rose. I already told the police.”

  “Do you have a picture of it?”

  “Yeah. We took a picture right after.”

  “Could you send it to me?”

  “It’s on my cell. Do you want me to forward it?”

  I gave her my number and watched the photo arrive.

  “April, thank you so much for everything, especially for confiding in me.” I considered the best words to say, but nothing seemed good enough. If I were Jen, I’d have said, “I love you” or “I love who you are,” but I wasn’t. So I chose, “I’m here for you. Call me anytime you want to talk. And I’ll email you some hotline numbers too. When you call them, you’ll see you’re not alone in this. In fact, you should be really, really proud of yourself. Are you going to be okay?”

  She said yes, thanked me, sniffled, and hung up. Before doing anything else, I hit the Internet and emailed her the best LGBTQ hotline numbers I could find.

  Breaks from parenting are few and far between. And when they come along, sometimes it still takes a crowbar to pry me away. Never mind all those days of wishing, “If only I had a free moment.” When someone offers to watch the kids for a night, I spend half the time worrying.

  Technically, though, my mom hadn’t offered to babysit all night. She was spending the night out of convenience. No matter how tempting it was to sneak out of the house for more investigation, it was also tempting to stay home, in my comfort zone, available in case my kids needed anything. But the conversation with April tugged at my conscience like Sophie pulling at my pant leg. I knew I had to do a better job of surveillance at Beth’s.

  I scribbled a note to Mom and left it in the guest room doorway.

  10:30.

  So sorry, Mom. I had to run out again. Will be back by midnight, I hope. Thanks for everything!

  On the road again, I opened my window and let humidity fill the car and penetrate my skin. For some reason, it felt good—almost like company. Definitely better than being chilled and alone.

  The DJs on my favorite old-school station added to the illusion. I wished I could close my eyes and float away to Freddie Jackson’s Rock Me Tonight.

  The car moved to the music, around turns and bends, finding Beth’s house without my usual brain racking. The street was rectangular with five townhomes per end and ten on each side. In the center was a median with guest parking.

  I chose a spot and turned off the van to think. I wanted to walk around and get a closer look at homes—maybe even peek in a few windows—but I needed an excuse to wander the neighborhood this late. Something like a dog.

  Since one wasn’t available, I considered undercover schemes, such as pretending to be a real estate agent or homebuyer. It was too late at night for that. I’d have to save them for daytime. Plus, there were no homes for sale on the street.

  I decided to become the confident woman I’m not and simply take an evening stroll. It was plenty warm enough, and I still had my white cardigan from class. Being camouflaged with a dark sweater would have been better, but I’d based my outfit on Dean, not surveillance. I needed one of those hunting getups that looks like shrubbery. That made me smile and think of Kenna, always my partner in crime, and wish we could put this crazy situation behind us and move on to other things—fun crazy things. In my
dreams she’d become a PI, too, and we could investigate together.

  My rubber-soled sandals were almost silent on the cement that led past each house. I started at the opposite end of the street from Beth’s, since that’s where I parked and, honestly, I needed to gather my courage. I swung my arms as though I’d put off my power walk and was just squeezing it in before bed. Good for me! Kenna would be proud. Hopefully I looked determined enough to ward off would-be attackers. If worse came to worst, I’d press the alarm button on my van remote to attract attention.

  I paused under a lamp post to scan the community mailbox, which was plastered with ads: a treadmill for sale ($100), a lost dog (a German Shepherd named Rocky), after-school childcare at an Internet café (thank goodness, because today’s kids need more screen time), and an upcoming social event for seniors.

  I continued walking past mostly dark homes with porch and foyer lights on here and there, casting a soft glow. In one house, a man watched local news on a couch, while in another, laundry hung on a treadmill in the basement. Maybe that was the one for sale? I should buy it, I told myself. Despite chasing kids around, doing housework, and generally being on the go, I felt bad about not truly exercising, especially since I was breaking a sweat on this little walk. I hoped fear was to blame. But calling about the treadmill might be a good way to chat with a neighbor and investigate.

  When I got to Beth’s row, two homes had lights on, Beth’s and the one with toys in the yard. In the young family’s house, curtains covered the bottom half of the windows, with only a valence over the top, which allowed me to see a heavyset woman with messy red hair and a screaming infant. She was opening the refrigerator. Probably getting a bottle, I thought.

  Curiosity pulled me out of her sightline and closer to Beth’s home, where a crack in the curtains offered a tiny glimpse inside. In an unexpected surge of resourcefulness, I slipped a sapphire ring off my finger—a birthstone gift from my father—and clutched it as tightly as possible. If anyone asked, I’d say that in the heat of my power walk, it had flown off my finger, bounced off the sidewalk, and landed somewhere on their lawn. I even felt the grass a few times with my other hand, desperately afraid of actually losing my ring, when it hit me. What if I knocked on their door, told Beth’s parents I’d lost a piece of jewelry, and talked with them? My heart beat faster than it had on my walk. If only anxiety counted as aerobic exercise!