Little Girl Lost (Georgiana Germaine Book 1)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “I wouldn’t say I ran him down. The guy took off when he saw me. He made the choice to sprint down the middle of the street. It seemed like a good opportunity to catch him, so I acted on it.”

  “You acted on it.”

  “Yeah. I caught up to him and gave him a little nudge, you know, just to get him to pump the brakes.”

  “A nudge? His lawyer has threatened to sue.”

  “Franko whatever-his-last-name-is—”

  “Sanchez.”

  “Sanchez chose to take off rather than answer my questions,” I said. “He’s also guilty of murder.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can’t run people down with your vehicle, Georgiana!”

  “So, it’s okay for him to kill Shane Curtis and burn Jack’s office building to the ground, but I can’t do what I need to do to apprehend the guy? He’s fine. He didn’t get hurt much, and he’s still alive. He should feel lucky he didn’t get hit harder.”

  “His arm is broken, and so is his tailbone.”

  An arm and a tailbone.

  Didn’t seem like a big deal to me.

  “He’ll heal,” I said.

  Wheeler huffed a disgusted sigh. “I knew there’d be trouble when Harvey told me you’d come back. Hasn’t even been a week yet, and you’re already causing problems.”

  “I’m doing what needs to be done for Jack and Lark.”

  He stood up and scooped his jacket off my desk. “I hear you gave Tiffany’s business card to Lenore Navarro.”

  I nodded. “You heard right.”

  “I don’t want her working their case.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want. Tiffany will decide for herself. She’s free to choose which cases she takes and which she doesn’t. Franko Sanchez may be an enabling dirtbag, but the Navarros are good people who deserve good representation.”

  He grunted something under his breath. “About what happened today ... I don’t have time to come down here and scold you every time you go off the rails.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t, then.”

  He pointed at me and said, “Keep it up and you’ll be off this case.”

  He looked like he wanted to string me up. I may have been forty-two, but when he looked at me, he still saw a smug, entitled cop’s kid. He may have ascended to a higher position in life, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t gotten a heap of dirt on himself along the way. Dirt I happened to know about.

  “It’s not a good idea to threaten me,” I said. “You know it isn’t.”

  He caught my meaning, opened the office door, and we locked eyes. For a moment, it seemed he’d flashed back to an old memory, one he wasn’t proud of—and one he couldn’t change.

  No matter who we were or where we came from, we were all scarred.

  Him.

  Me.

  All of us had battle wounds, dark stains which offered reminders of moments in time when we could have been our best selves, but we weren’t. I had no desire to raise his to the surface again, as long as he didn’t stand between me and what it took to find Lark.

  Lark had been missing for almost seventy-two hours, and I was no closer to finding her. She felt far away, out of my reach. Up to now, I had chased dead ends. I needed to find a live one.

  Hattie had built the first house in Jack and Phoebe’s neighborhood and knew all the residents by name. She was the kind of woman I imagined slept with a pair of binoculars beneath her pillow at night, because every time I’d visited my sister in the past, Hattie had more than her fair share of gossip to discuss about the residents in her suburb.

  I walked to Hattie’s door, pulled the screen door open, and was about to knock when the main door creaked open on its own. I stuck my head inside.

  “Hattie, you here? It’s Georgiana, Phoebe’s sister.”

  There was no response.

  I stood for a moment and listened.

  It was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  I readied my gun and showed myself inside, heading down the hallway after I’d heard movement in the kitchen. I rounded the corner and found Hattie bent over the stove, stirring whatever she was cooking. I tapped her on the shoulder. She whipped around, blinked at the gun in my hand, and dropped the wooden spoon she’d been holding.

  “What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?” she said.

  Oops.

  My bad.

  I backed up and holstered the gun.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Your front door opened on its own. I called out to you, and you didn’t answer.”

  She tapped her foot on the floor. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I don’t have my hearing aids in. As for the door, it’s been giving me problems for a while now. It doesn’t shut the way it’s supposed to anymore. Sometimes I lock the screen. Other times I don’t. Depends on what I’m doing.”

  “You need to get your door looked at.”

  “No, I don’t. Seems like a great big hassle if you ask me. I’d call someone to come out. He’d show up, see I’m getting up there in years, and give me a ridiculous bid about five times more than he’d give one of my neighbors. No siree.”

  “It isn’t safe to have an unlocked door after what just happened.”

  She opened a kitchen drawer, reached in, and pulled out a spectacular specimen of a thing. She pointed it at me like she intended to use it, and I hopped back.

  “Sheesh,” she said. “I’m not trying to stab ya. I’m trying to show you the artistry on this knife.”

  I leaned in.

  “This is a Tsukasa White Steel Enryu Kurouchi Damascus Wa-Gyuto,” she said.

  “A ... what?”

  “It’s Japanese. It was given to my late husband when he visited Japan.” She flattened it in her hands. “See the knife’s design? It’s hand-forged using carbon steel and then twisted, giving it a Damascus pattern. Takes more than six months to make. One stab to the abdomen with this beauty, and any intruder who dares step foot inside my house won’t live to see another day.”

  She stared at the knife in awe, like she welcomed the opportunity to use it one day for something other than cooking. Although the knife was the most impressive piece of cutlery I’d ever seen, unless she was quicker on the draw, an intruder could get to her before she got to him.

  “I can ask Harvey to take a look at the door when he gets a chance,” I said. “If it’s an easy fix, I’d guess he wouldn’t charge you anything.”

  She shrugged. “If you must. Like I said, I’m not worried. Been wondering what’s taken you so long to come here, and why you haven’t stopped by sooner. Thought you’d come over when you first got back into town.”

  “I’ve been busy. I’ve had a lot of leads to follow up on.”

  “Any of them get you closer to the deviant who took Lark?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  She placed the knife back into the drawer and grabbed the kettle. She set it under the tap, filled it with water, and switched it on. I sat down.

  “What will it be, then?” she asked.

  “I want to talk about the night Lark went missing.”

  “I meant, what kind of tea do you fancy, dear?”

  “Oh, you can choose for me. Whatever you have is fine.”

  She stared at me for a moment. “Hmm ... you look like a girl who drinks Earl Grey or maybe even Lady Grey.”

  I had no idea what criteria she used to make her assessment, but I smiled and nodded anyway.

  The tea boiled, and she poured us both a cup. She set mine in front of me and joined me at the table. I was about to ask her about the night Jack died when something furry rubbed against my leg.

  I looked down. “Willy?”

  Hattie nodded. “Phoebe asked me to keep Lark’s cat for now. I don’t mind. He’s no bother. It’s just that every time I open the front door, he bolts for it like he’s trying to get out. It’s not like him, you know. Up to now, I’ve always found him to be a rather lazy cat. I suppose he’s been riled up since the other night and just wants
to go home. Can’t blame him. Anyhoo, what would you like to know?”

  Everything.

  I wanted to know everything.

  All of it.

  Every last detail.

  “Can you tell me what happened the other night?” I asked.

  “I can. It would be a repeat of what I’ve said to everyone else who’s been here before you, though, and I’m sure they’ve filled you in.”

  “Telling me isn’t the same as telling them.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  For whatever reason, it seemed Hattie was playing hard to get today.

  “What did the man look like—the one you saw?” I asked.

  “It was dark outside.”

  “I know. There are streetlamps. Try to remember.”

  She tapped her finger on the side of her cup. “I don’t know. I guess I’d say he was average.”

  “You know, Hattie, I’ve always enjoyed our talks in the past. You have a great eye for detail. Are you sure you don’t remember anything more?”

  “He sprinted by the window so fast. He was in a hurry.”

  It may have happened the way she said it had. Still, I felt she was holding back.

  “And you didn’t see Lark before or after you saw the man?” I asked.

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. Right before he ran by, I could have sworn I saw something shiny. I thought it was a reflection, or my mind playing tricks on me. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Where did you see it?”

  “In the air. I know how it sounds, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  I sipped my tea and thought of ways to inspire her to talk about whatever she hadn’t yet. “Lark’s been gone for three days.”

  Hattie stared into her tea and frowned. “I know. I think about her every hour of every day.”

  “When a child goes missing, the first few days are crucial.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? Almost three-quarters of people who go missing are found within twenty-four hours. After the third day, the leads tend to slow down and there’s a risk the trail will go cold. I tell myself Lark’s out there somewhere, alive, because I need to believe she is. But each day that passes, odds are ... she isn’t. I know how much you care about her. So, I’ll ask one more time. If there’s anything you haven’t said, now is the time to say it.”

  Hattie poured some cream into her tea, swirled it around with a spoon, took a sip, and set it down. She leaned back and sighed, but she still wasn’t talking.

  Come on, Hattie.

  Whatever it is, speak.

  “There is one thing,” she said. “It’s not a big thing, and it will prove to be nothing more than my eyesight playing tricks on me like it does from time to time. If I tell you, I want you to promise not to go off half-cocked afterward. I know how you are at times. You rule yourself by the heart first and the head second.”

  She was wrong.

  My heart had never been a match for my head.

  “I got it,” I said. “What is it?”

  “The man I saw ... he turned toward me for a moment when he passed. Just for a second, maybe two. I’ve thought about it ever since. There was something about him. Something familiar.”

  “You know who he reminds you of, Hattie,” I said. “Name him.”

  “It was his physique, you know, the way he leaned forward when he ran. It reminded me of Mitch Porter.”

  Mitch Porter had been over at Jack’s house the night of the murder, along with his wife Holly. I’d never heard Phoebe speak in a negative way about him, but Holly was another story. Phoebe seemed bothered by her, and I didn’t understand why. I wasn’t even sure Phoebe knew why. She often made assumptions about people with little evidence to back it up.

  Holly had gone out of her way to become friends with Phoebe when they first moved in, after Jack and Mitch golfed together on the weekends. Holly wanted the twosome to become a foursome and suggested they all take a trip to Florida together. Everyone was on board with the idea except Phoebe, who shot it down. At the time, I’d asked her why, and she’d said she didn’t know Holly well enough to commit to a five-day vacation together. I mentioned the trip seemed like the perfect time to get better acquainted. She then said she didn’t trust Holly, and she changed the subject. I hadn’t thought much about it since—until now.

  Why didn’t she trust her?

  On my way out of Hattie’s house, Willy remained by my side. I assumed he was planning to escape when the door opened, and I welcomed it. I wanted to see where he’d go. I opened the door, and he bolted outside. An irked Hattie threw her arms up, and I told her not to worry—I’d go after him. She shook her head and disappeared into the next room.

  Willy raced in the direction of Phoebe’s house. When I caught up with him, he was scratching at the door to get inside. I worried he expected to see Jack, Phoebe, and Lark on the other side of the door and what would happen when he didn’t, but he ran toward Lark’s room the first chance he got.

  I went after him. “She’s not there, Willy.”

  I’d said the words like I expected the cat to understand me.

  Willy ignored the fact I was talking to him and kept going.

  He reached Lark’s room and used his nose to push the door open. I thought he might search for Lark or jump onto her bed, expecting her to be buried beneath the covers. He didn’t. He stepped into his cat bed and started digging at the fabric.

  “Willy,” I said. “What in the world are you doing?”

  He stared up at me like he thought I was an imbecile and then went back to digging. I reached down and tried to lift him up. He hissed at me, something he’d never done before, and I backed off. He knew what he wanted to do, and I needed to let him do it.

  I bent down next to him and maintained my distance while I attempted to understand his strange behavior. Hunched over, I saw what I hadn’t seen before—a hole in the lining of his cat bed. He wasn’t digging. He was sticking his paw into the hole and pulling it out.

  I tried talking to him again, this time with a calmer tone.

  “What are you looking for, Willy? Can I help?”

  I eased my hand toward the hole. Willy turned toward me. I waited for him to lash out and express his aggression again. He looked at me, and then at the hole, and he moved to the side. I stuck my hand into the hole, ripping a generous piece of the fabric in the process. I clawed around with my fingers for a few seconds and pulled out a ball of batting. I set it down and stared at it. Whatever the operation was, it had not been a success so far.

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to do here, Willy,” I said. “But I’m not going to sit here all night and pull your bed apart. Come on, I’ll take you to see Phoebe. Maybe it will help.”

  He didn’t budge.

  Maybe if I took the bed with me, he’d be more inclined to follow.

  I scooped him out of the bed, picked it up, and felt something hard beneath my fingers. There was something inside the lining of the bed. Instead of doing any further excavation, I shoved my hands inside the torn fabric and ripped the edge of the bed apart. A small, rectangular piece of metal fell out, clanking on the floor between my feet. I grabbed a tissue from a box sitting on Lark’s nightstand, leaned over, and picked the metal up.

  Could it have been the shiny object Hattie had seen?

  I turned it over in my hand and recognized what it was—a money clip. Inscribed on one of the sides were the words To TP with love.

  TP.

  I knew someone with those initials.

  Dr. Terry Pearson.

  Terry was sitting on a chair on his front porch when I arrived, staring up at a sky full of stars and indulging in a beer. I parked the Jeep, and he stood up and walked over to me.

  “It’s a bit late for a visit,” he said. “What brings you here, Detective?”

  I pulled a plastic baggie out of my pocket and shoved it in front of his face. “Recognize this?”

  He scratched his he
ad and leaned in. “I mean, it’s a bit dark out here for me to see what you’re trying to show me.”

  “Take a closer look.”

  He did and then said, “You came all the way here to show me a piece of metal inside of a plastic bag? I still don’t know what you’re getting at. Why don’t you just tell me why you’re so worked up?”

  A young boy no older than six with a pale-blue bathrobe wrapped around his body tiptoed onto the porch and said, “Dad? What are you doing? Who’s she?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Terry said. “Get your pajamas on and brush your teeth. I’ll tuck you in once I’m done here. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had kids,” I said.

  “You didn’t ask. I have a wife too, if you’re interested. She’s at the grocery store right now, but if you stick around, she’ll be home soon, and then you can interrogate both of us at the same time.”

  His sarcasm hit hard, and I was beginning to see how the “heart before head” assessment Hattie had made about me earlier made sense. Terry didn’t fit the profile of a ruthless killer who murdered his business partner and friend and then stole his child. If I’d taken a few minutes to think it through before I’d speed-raced over to his house, I wouldn’t have been here now, making a fool of myself.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to your kid.”

  “Kids. We have three. Two boys and a girl. I could get them out here, and you could do a lineup of all of us to decide who is innocent and who is guilty. I mean, my son threw a few pieces of spaghetti at my daughter tonight. Hit her in the face. Made her cry. Maybe jail time is just what he needs.”

  Who knew the good doctor had so much grit to him? He’d struck me as a bit of a nerd when we’d first met, but now he seemed to be the complete opposite. His attempt to belittle me had been a success. My wound was salted to capacity.

  “I ... I just ... I shouldn’t have ...”

  “You’re right,” he said. “You shouldn’t have. I don’t appreciate being accused without having a chance to respond first. I’m guessing whatever you found relates to me in some way, or you think it does, at least. Right?”