Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1)

by Susan O’Brien

  “Okay. Do you need to come over and look at my computer or something?”

  “Maybe. But if you give me the passwords, I can start checking her accounts from my house. Would you be okay with that?”

  “Sure,” she answered without elaborating.

  Time and patience were slipping away.

  “What’s wrong, April?” I asked. “Please tell me so I can help.”

  “Remember I told you that I didn’t use her accounts? I didn’t really. But I read all her emails. I’m really sorry. I was just so curious and I wanted to help. I also sent some emails to her, especially right after she disappeared. If you find them I’ll be embarrassed. And please don’t tell my mom about them.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep them private,” I said. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you send any emails from her address?”

  “No,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I didn’t want to upset her, so I left it alone. Instead I tried to put her at ease.

  “If I were you, I’d have read her emails too. They could provide great clues. Did any of them stand out?”

  “No. I was hoping I could figure out where she is. But I couldn’t.”

  I asked if Beth had created any documents on April’s computer. She hadn’t, April said.

  “April?” I asked. “If Marcus did take Beth, why do think he did it?”

  “To get rid of the baby.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened?”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  I empathized. Neither did I.

  April’s Mom was next. She answered their home number, and our conversation was brief, but friendly. I apologized for not having anything concrete to share. I hoped my call to Edith would change that.

  “Hi, Nicki,” Edith greeted me warmly when she answered.

  “Hi, Edith. I wanted to check and see if you’d noticed anything with the Rushes.”

  “Well, not yet. I went to church this morning, and I’m baking cookies now. I’d like to bring them some, along with other neighbors, so it looks natural. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. They might think it’s strange, since you don’t normally socialize with them.”

  “Yes, but old ladies can get away with a lot without looking suspicious,” she said.

  She had a point. I confirmed that she still had my numbers and reminded her what to ask the Rushes. Then I paced the room, wondering if they were home, regretting I hadn’t checked before calling Edith, and willing her to call me back quickly.

  I also considered alternatives. Maybe April could call and ask for Beth—with me listening in, just to see how the Rushes responded.

  And if I didn’t get anywhere today, what then? I’ll have to talk with Dr. Rush tomorrow at that 10:30 appointment, I realized. That won’t be fun.

  While I waited, I used my cell to check Beth’s email using her password. The only thing better, I imagined, would be complete access to her Facebook page, which I’d check next, and her text messages. I really needed my computer back. My phone made this process nauseatingly slow.

  Beth’s old emails, it turned out, were a gateway to her past social networking messages. Anytime someone had posted on her wall, it showed up in her email, along with responses to any messages she’d left online. I scrolled down, looking for standout names or subjects. Unfortunately, most of it was teen talk and inside jokes that didn’t make sense to me, and if April hadn’t noticed anything suspicious, I probably wouldn’t either.

  I focused most on emails around the time of her disappearance. The day before she disappeared, she’d exchanged messages with the adoption social worker, giving the clear impression she had no plans to back out.

  Dear Beth,

  I hope your OB visit went well. Please call and let us know. We also need to arrange a meeting for you and the adoptive parents. They’re really looking forward to seeing you.

  Talk to you soon,

  Diane

  Hi Diane,

  The appointment was good. Everything’s fine. I’ll call you soon about the meeting. I can’t wait until this is over! Who is allowed to be with me at the hospital?

  Beth

  I wondered if she’d ever made that call. Once, Kenna had mentioned that being in the delivery room was a possibility—a choice that was up to Beth. I couldn’t imagine being in Beth’s position. Marcus was out of the picture. Her parents weren’t supportive. She’d fought with her best friend. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d turned to her grandfather, a relative and expert, for last-minute support.

  April’s emails after Beth disappeared were nothing to be ashamed of, although I appreciated her concern. She pleaded with Beth to understand that yes, she was gay, but she had a crush on a girl at school—not on Beth. Beth’s friendship meant everything to her. She wanted and needed her friend back. It was heartbreaking to imagine April coming out for the first time only to be rejected. Her emails sounded sincere, but I reminded myself to be objective. Only Beth and April knew the truth about their relationship.

  Reading email and arranging a same-day home security review passed the time before Edith finally returned my call.

  “Hello, dear,” she greeted me. “It’s Edith.”

  “Hi Edith,” I said. “How did it go?” I sounded relaxed but wanted to shriek, What happened?! Tell me everything!

  “Well, I talked to Dr. Rush about his granddaughter, and he said she’s not there currently,” she said. I was dumbfounded. Edith had gotten somewhere. She’d spoken with Dr. Rush.

  “You mean she’s not home? Or she’s not living there?” I talked as quickly as I wanted Edith to reply.

  “She’s not living there now, but she visited three weeks ago, which must have been when I saw her. He said after her visit, she went missing, which confirms what you told me. That was about it. He was rushing out the door so fast he barely remembered to take the cookies I brought.”

  My heart dropped. I’d been hoping for an answer. A miracle. This wasn’t it. I felt like a popped balloon.

  “I appreciate this so much, Edith,” I said. “You’ve been an incredible help. You don’t need to do anything else except stay in touch if you see any sign of Beth—or anything else notable. And keep this whole thing just between us.” I gave her all my phone numbers. “I’ll always be happy to hear from you.”

  I arrived at the police station at 10 a.m. sharp and asked for Sgt. Dwyer. His greeting was so friendly I could almost ignore his imposing height and stocky build. He led me to a bare interview room and asked me to review the whole story, start to finish. This time, I had Kenna’s permission to explain what I knew about Marcus, which was a relief.

  Dwyer’s gaze was a disarming mix of intense and understanding. I kept reminding myself to stick to the basics, but I ended up feeling lucky to escape without confessing my life story. I was thrilled when he stopped asking questions and walked me out.

  “Let’s go over it one more time,” he said, referring to anti-gang precautions I should take. “Tell me what you’re gonna do, and what you’re not gonna do.”

  I held up a hand to tick off four essentials. “I’m going to change my routines, relocate, avoid being alone, and stay accessible.” I pulled out my cell phone and wiggled it for emphasis. Dwyer wanted me reachable—and able to call for help.

  “Did you know that any cell phone with power should be able to dial 911—even old ones without service?”

  “No. I didn’t.” I hoped that tidbit would never come in handy.

  “Now you do. So take care of yourself and your family, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “These gangs are into drugs, weapons, prostitution, and more. Let us han
dle it. Just look out for number one.”

  That didn’t sound like advice a good PI would take.

  Before pulling away from the station, I left Kenna a message about the beer can. Part of me wanted it to be hers or Andy’s so I wouldn’t have to report it. Another part was hopeful it would show which lowlife had been in my house.

  So far, Dwyer had told me, none of the fingerprints in my house matched anyone on file. The DNA swabs would take a lot longer to process, but they kept hope alive.

  Halfway home, Kenna returned my call. I pulled over to talk.

  “What’s this about a beer can?” she asked.

  I described what I’d seen in the recycling.

  “I don’t drink that, and Andy doesn’t either. That’s weird. It has to be from the break-in.”

  “That’s the only explanation,” I said. “But a criminal who recycles? Come on. I hope it has fingerprints. Or maybe the recycling can will.”

  We hung up so she could teach and I could get home to meet the security company. If the salespeople preyed on fear, I was in trouble.

  I got home with a few minutes to spare and called Dwyer to report the can. He advised me not to touch it, and said he’d send evidence techs out. He’d also update Suarez and Walters, the officers who’d responded to the shooting and break-in.

  “Fingerprints aren’t the only thing they can get from a can,” Dwyer reminded me. “They can swab for DNA, too.”

  “Isn’t it weird that I found it in the recycling?” I asked.

  “Sure. But stranger things have happened. Criminals aren’t known for their smarts.”

  I excused myself when the doorbell rang and explained it was a two-man security team. They walked around the house, inside and out, and noted just how poorly I was protected. Where were my motion sensor lights? Prickly shrubs? Upgraded locks? Industrial-strength window and door hardware? Opaque curtains? And of course they wanted to install a system that would alert the world if it was breached. It would also alert Visa that I’d officially gone mad by adding the equivalent of a car payment to my monthly bill.

  I couldn’t afford what this company was selling, and the more I listened, the more vulnerable I felt—even before their speech about fire, carbon monoxide, and medical emergency features. Had someone told them I was an overprotective widow being stalked by gangsters? Because they had a way of hitting every nerve.

  When the doorbell rang again, it was the evidence techs, and the security guys looked surprised when I introduced them.

  “What?” I teased. “Is this the first evaluation you’ve done at a crime scene?”

  We laughed, but I could have cried. I wanted this process to make me feel better, not worse. Reassured, not frightened. I let everyone finish their work and sent them packing. I needed some time to think, I explained, before committing to a year of “alarming” monthly bills. I also wanted time to check out do-it-yourself systems at the local home improvement store.

  After my Dad passed away, I was forced to get comfortable with home improvement. When something needed repair, either I had to do it, or I had to pay someone else. Often I procrastinated until a problem became dangerous, unlivable, or embarrassing.

  I thought I’d seen alarm systems in the aisle with child-proofing supplies, so I headed there first and found two options. One had cameras, and the other didn’t. There were also single-room motion sensors and accessories, including outdoor signs and window decals. I wished the alarm company had let me buy those. (“Sorry guys. I can’t afford the system, but how much are those stickers?”) Maybe I could find some online.

  For ease of installation and affordability, I chose the non-camera system with a door alarm, window alarms, and a motion sensor for the basement. It also had a chime feature, so anytime the front door opened, I’d know. A great feature with a potential escapee like Sophie.

  It took two hours to install the system and test every sensor. I might have sustained hearing loss during the process. Afterward, I called Mom to check on the kids, hoping I wasn’t distracting her from their needs. We agreed to meet the next day for dinner at a mall restaurant. I’d make every effort not to be followed.

  The longest they should stay with her, I thought, is one more day. But what if they’re still in danger? I have no way to “quit” this case or stop being a witness to Marcus’s shooting. Unless someone stops me themselves.

  I ended the day by reviewing my file about Beth. I read every detail and added anything I could think of. Then I set the new alarm system and went to bed, hoping I wouldn’t hear any unexpected noises, yet missing the familiar interruptions of precious kiddos.

  Twenty-Two

  It was a relief when the light of Monday morning arrived, although I couldn’t cancel my 10:30 appointment with Dr. Rush, since his timeline differed vastly from April’s. But I wasn’t going to get an exam today. He was.

  “My daughter Melanie couldn’t make it due to a last-minute work conflict,” I told Mrs. Rush when I arrived. “I’m so sorry. But could I ask Dr. Rush some of her most important questions?” I offered to pay out-of-pocket and was grateful when she said new-patient consultations were free.

  “Your daughter can fill out paperwork when she comes in,” Mrs. Rush said kindly. She was just as nice as the first time we’d met. “You can take a seat for now.” She nodded toward the waiting area.

  What a relief. I didn’t want to fill out a clipboard full of lies. I also wanted to review my notes. I sat a few chairs away from a woman who appeared in her thirties and flat-stomached. We exchanged smiles and returned to our respective tasks. She watched a video about prenatal nutrition while I ran a finger along every line of my interview plans for Dr. Rush. Hopefully I looked like an organized, prepared patient.

  I also inspected degrees and awards on the wall, including a plaque that listed him among the area’s “most respected” doctors for the past ten years—with plenty of space for future honors. Also framed were two news articles about Asheleigh Manor. One named Dr. Rush’s aunt as its founder in 1980. She and a young Dr. Rush were at the ribbon cutting. Her son, Dr. Rush’s cousin, had fallen from a ladder and suffered a devastating brain injury, which inspired her to open the center. I wondered if he was still alive and living at the Manor.

  The other article named Dr. Rush “volunteer of the year” for his work with patients there. Apparently he held certifications in internal medicine and obstetrics/gynecology. Impressive.

  “Mrs. Jacobs?” the nurse called out, looking at each of us. The other woman got up. Don’t hesitate when she calls Mrs. Smith, I reminded myself. That’s you today.

  When it was my turn to get settled in a room, I happily shunned the exam table in favor of an upholstered chair. Dr. Rush entered a few minutes later.

  “Hello,” he said brusquely, glancing at a thin chart and then at me. “Mrs. Smith?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” He pulled up a rolling stool. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here on my daughter Melanie’s behalf,” I explained. “She’s eighteen and pregnant, and she wanted to be here, but she got stuck at work, so I’m here to get some information for her.”

  “Okay. And when is she due?” His pen was poised over the chart.

  “November,” I lied. “Is there a certain hospital where you recommend delivering?”

  He named two where he had privileges. “I assume you’re local?”

  “Yes. We’re new in town. I know there are risks to having a baby so young. Can you tell me about those?”

  “Has she been getting good prenatal care?”

  “Yes. Before we moved.”

  “Good. You probably know teens are at higher risk for complications like anemia and premature labor. High blood pressure can be a problem too.”

  “Uh huh.” That
was news to me. I wondered if Kenna was aware.

  “Their babies are also more likely to weigh less, so that’s another concern. Does your daughter smoke?”

  “No,” I said firmly, remembering the agency forms Beth had filled out. She’d indicated clean living except for drinking a beer before knowing she was pregnant.

  “How about you or anyone else she spends time with? Any smokers?”

  “No.” I wondered if Beth’s parents, April, or Dr. Rush himself smoked. I definitely hadn’t smelled it on anyone.

  “Good,” he stated.

  He asked about drug use, drinking, diabetes, and lab work. When he started to discuss prenatal vitamins, I turned the focus to him and tried to seem legit.

  “Before we run out of time,” I said, “I need to ask, when you aren’t available, who covers for you?”

  He explained that although he ran a solo practice, an excellent local physician took call for him. I wrote down her name: Janet Lawrence.

  “Dr. Rush, my daughter is scared and embarrassed about being young, single, and pregnant. In fact she’s still in high school. Have you worked with patients like that before?”

  He stared at me for a moment. I held his gaze and waited.

  “I have,” he said with what sounded like confidence. “Fear is normal at her age, or at any age for that matter. I’m sure your daughter will do fine.” He closed the chart unceremoniously. “Any other questions?”

  Yes. But now wasn’t the time.

  Dr. Rush said all the right things, but his emotion was flat. I hoped intelligence made up for his lack of bedside manner.

  Out of curiosity—and to buy more time in his office—I asked Mrs. Rush if I could borrow her phone book. I wanted to see how many OB-GYNs were listed in the area. To my surprise, there were almost forty.