Little Girl Lost (Georgiana Germaine Book 1)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  The answer to my question would have to wait.

  Phoebe had tossed the binoculars onto the grass and took off running.

  I charged toward Phoebe, even knowing I wouldn’t catch her before she caught him. She’d been on the track team in high school and in college and ran in the Asics marathon in Los Angeles each year. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed we weren’t alone. Hunter was sprinting in our direction too.

  Phoebe reached the guy and catapulted toward him, tackling him to the ground. Once he was pinned down, she straddled him and began slapping his face while shouting a string of words I couldn’t understand. I threw my arms around her shoulders and yanked back, a gesture that infuriated her. Free from Phoebe’s wrath, the young man crossed his arms over his face and shielded himself from the possibility of a second round of attacks.

  Phoebe jerked back and forth, trying to free herself from my grip. When it wasn’t a success, she screamed, “Let me go! This is between him and me. Back off, Gigi!”

  “No,” I said. “You can’t take your anger out on him. Not like this.”

  “Why can’t I? You’ve done it plenty of times. You do whatever you want whenever you want. Why is it different when it’s me?”

  “Before we do anything, we need to question him.”

  “He’s guilty. Nothing else matters.”

  Hunter leaned against nearby tree, caught her breath, and blinked at me, confused. It took me a minute to realize why and then it clicked.

  “It’s a disguise, Hunter,” I said, “a wig.”

  “I mean, yeah,” she said. “I can, ahh ... see that.”

  I tipped my head toward the Sandwich Delivery Guy. “Hunter, I need you to restrain him until I figure out who he is and what’s going on here.”

  Hunter nodded.

  “Let go of me,” Phoebe said.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  She jerked her head in the guy’s direction and yelled, “Where is she? Where’s my daughter? Tell me what you did with her you creep!”

  He waved his hands in front of him. “Whoa, wait a minute. I don’t know anything about your daughter. I would never hurt her or you, I swear. You believe me, Phoebe, don’t you? Tell me you believe me.”

  I glared at the kid. “Shut up for a minute, mmm...kay?”

  It looked like he was about to say something else. I narrowed my eyes, and he kept his trap shut.

  “Who is he, Phoebe?” I asked.

  “He’s the sandwich delivery guy from work.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. Ask him what it is. I can’t remember.”

  He frowned at Phoebe. Whatever idyllic notions he’d had of the two of them running off together had just been shattered.

  “Phoebe?” he asked.

  Phoebe shrugged. “What? I have no flipping idea what your name is. And if you think I ever liked you, you’re an idiot.”

  My plan of conducting an interrogation without being interrupted wasn’t working. I looked at Hunter and said, “Let’s try something different. You take my sister while I take a walk with the kid here.”

  “I’m not a kid,” the kid said.

  “Take her where?” Hunter asked.

  “To your car,” I said. “Stay with her until I’m finished here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Phoebe said.

  I leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t test me, Phoebe. You may be my sister, but right now, you’re keeping me from what I’m trying to do here.”

  She took in a deep breath, stood still for a moment, and then her face softened.

  I didn’t trust it.

  “I want to stay,” she said. “Please. I have a right to hear what he says. After all I’ve been through, don’t deny me this, okay?”

  “I can’t do my job with you here. You keep getting in the way.”

  She nodded. “I understand. I won’t cause any more trouble. Just give me one more chance.”

  I wanted Hunter to take her home so I could take him to the station, and we could talk without further distractions. Phoebe hadn’t done what I’d asked. If she had, we wouldn’t have been dealing with the mayhem we were now.

  Decisions.

  Decisions.

  I handed Phoebe off to Hunter. “Don’t attack him again, Phoebe. Stand there and keep quiet. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  I approached the kid. “Who are you? Why have you been stalking my sister?”

  “Stalking her?” he said. “What makes you think ... I’m not stalking her. I love her.”

  “You love her?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I know she’s married ... well, she was married, I guess, but—”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be twenty-eight in three months. Why? Love is love. What does age have to do with it?”

  Twenty-seven.

  Nine years younger than my sister.

  Apparently “love is love” was the way he rationalized stalking a married woman.

  “You’ve been leaving her notes, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And flowers and gifts, and yet you didn’t reveal you were the one doing it. If you weren’t stalking her, what were you doing?”

  “I don’t ... I didn’t mean to ...”

  I’d pressed his overwhelmed button.

  “Let’s back up and start simple,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Zachary Baldwin.”

  “How do you know Phoebe?”

  “I got a job at the television station several months back as an intern for the summer. I’d hoped they would hire me once it was over, but they didn’t. They just said they had no positions available, and that was it.”

  “How did being an intern turn into you stalking Phoebe?”

  He brushed some dirt off his arm and said, “Can I sit up?”

  I reached out my hand and pulled him to a sitting position.

  “Continue,” I said.

  “On the last day of my internship, I was sitting in the lunchroom. I was bummed out because I liked working there. I didn’t want it to be over. It was a mistake for me to assume they’d hire me, but I figured they would. I was so confident about it I’d quit my waiter job.”

  A stupid move.

  “I’m still not sure where Phoebe ties in,” I said.

  “She walked into the lunchroom to get the food she’d ordered. She saw me sitting alone, looking like the loser I was, and she asked if she could sit by me. We got to talking. I told her what happened, and she placed her hand on mine and said she might be able to help me.”

  “And did she help you?”

  He nodded. “There was nothing she could do about the internship until a position opened up, but one of her friends had just opened a sandwich shop and started delivering to businesses. He was looking to hire a couple of people to help with the deliveries, and the pay was great. She suggested I work for him until a position opened up at the network. Phoebe gave the sandwich-shop guy a call, and he hired me.”

  It was all starting to make sense.

  “I think I understand what happened,” I said.

  “You do?” he said.

  “When Phoebe touched your hand, you assumed she felt something for you.”

  “She wouldn’t have gotten me the job if she didn’t want to keep me around. We deliver to her office every day.”

  Since when was a woman not allowed to touch a member of the opposite sex without them getting the wrong impression?

  Since forever.

  In her naivety, she’d sent the wrong signal without even knowing it.

  “She touched your hand because she felt bad for you,” I said. “It’s called sympathy, and it’s a hell of a lot different than love.”

  He shook his head. “You’re wrong. She cares for me. I know she does.”

  “I’m not wrong. You need to face facts.”

  He looked at Phoebe. “Tell her.”

  “Tell her what?” Phoebe said.
“There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Tell her about the times I dropped off lunch and you stopped what you were doing to have a conversation with me. Or the time you gave me a piece of cake when one of the guys in the office had a birthday, or the time your assistant called me a cab when the tire on my bike went flat.”

  A stunned Phoebe stared at him, her jaw dropping open. “You’re delusional. I wasn’t the one who liked you, you moron. Janet did.”

  “Janet?” he said. “Your ... assistant?”

  “Think about it,” Phoebe said. “I offered you a piece of cake because she was sitting in my office at the time, getting ready to have a piece. If you recall, I handed you a piece and walked out. And I never asked her to call you a cab. She did it because in her own introverted way, she was trying to let you know she liked you.”

  He bowed his head and said, “No. I can’t believe it. It’s not true.”

  Phoebe blinked at me, and I nodded at Hunter, who released the loose grip she had on my sister’s arm.

  Phoebe knelt next to Zachary and said, “You don’t have my daughter, do you? And you didn’t kill my husband.”

  He looked up at her and said, “No, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

  Phoebe stretched her arms out, bent down, and buried her face in the grass, sobbing. “It’s over. We’re never going to find her. We’re never going to find my baby girl.”

  It broke me to see her so disheartened.

  Once again, I’d come up short.

  I asked Hunter to escort Zachary back to the station for further questioning. I wanted to be sure there wasn’t something he was hiding or hadn’t said. Once they were out of sight, I scooped my sister off the ground. She was like a ragdoll in my arms, lifeless, like she didn’t have the will to walk.

  “Don’t give up on me, Phoebe,” I said. “Not yet. I know how you’re feeling right now, but I’m going to find her. I—”

  “Just stop. Stop it, okay?” she whispered. “Take me back to Mom’s. I want to be alone.”

  The words “alone” and “Mom” were like oil and water—they didn’t mix. But I complied with her request. On the way there, she didn’t utter a single word, and we spent the entire drive in awkward silence.

  When the Jeep rolled to a stop in front of our mom’s place, she got out and headed for the door without looking back.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything. Okay?”

  She pretended not to hear me. I watched her until she made it into the house, and then my cell phone rang. It was Harvey.

  “I just received a call from a frantic woman who said she’s found her husband in his study with a bullet in his chest. I’m headed there now.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Think so.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I believe he’s someone you wanted to question. The fellow’s name is Andy Sanders. Isn’t he the PI Jack hired?”

  He was.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Andy Sanders was slumped over his desk with his head resting on a pile of papers when I found him. His wife was sitting on a chair beside him, patting his arm with one hand and sniffling into a tissue with the other. Harvey hovered over her doing his best to keep her calm while Silas explained in the most diplomatic way possible that he needed her to give him a few minutes with her husband so he could examine his body.

  So far, the wife hadn’t budged, and she appeared to be mumbling to herself.

  “I went out for ice cream,” she said. “I wasn’t going to since we’ve both been trying to stick to a new diet we’re doing together, but he had a craving for butter pecan, and since tomorrow is our cheat day, I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal if we started a tad early.”

  “What time did you leave the house?” I asked.

  She looked up at me, startled, like she hadn’t noticed me enter the room.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name is Detective Germaine.”

  “Oh. I see. How many more of you will be coming?”

  “It’s just us for now,” I said.

  She was on edge.

  The present moment didn’t seem like the right time to tell her we weren’t the only guests she would receive tonight.

  “I guess it was around eight thirty or so,” she said.

  “And what time did you get back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long would you guess you were out of the house?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Did you speak to your husband before you left?” I asked.

  “I came into the office, yes.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  Questioning her wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I was supposed to meet with your husband today,” I said. “When I arrived at his office, he wasn’t there.”

  “What time was your meeting?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “He would have been there then. Maybe you didn’t see him.”

  “The office door was locked.”

  “How strange. What was the purpose of your meeting?”

  “Have you heard about the murder of Jack Donovan?” I asked.

  “The doctor? Sure. I suppose everyone in the state knows about it by now, don’t they? It’s all people around here are talking about. What does the doctor’s death have to do with you meeting my husband?”

  “Jack Donovan hired him before he died.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure yet. That’s why I wanted to meet with him.”

  Silas raised a brow to suggest I move our conversation elsewhere.

  “I’d appreciate a cup of tea if you have it, Mrs. Sanders,” I said. “I’d be happy to make you one too.”

  She gazed at her husband, now clutching his hand. “I’m not ready to leave him. Not yet.”

  “Ma’am,” Harvey said.

  “Polly,” she said. “My name is Polly.”

  “Polly, I know how hard this is, but if Silas here doesn’t look your husband over right away, we’ll lose valuable information.”

  “Can’t you just ... I don’t know ... go around me?” she asked. “I can sit still.”

  “We can’t,” Harvey said. “Now please, let us do our job.”

  She sighed. “Will it take long? I don’t want to be away from my Andy for more than a few minutes.”

  Polly didn’t seem to grasp that her husband wouldn’t be staying with her tonight or any other night. Once Silas finished his assessment at the house, Andy would be transported to the morgue for an autopsy.

  “Come on, Polly. Let’s step out for some tea,” I said, “and you can check on your husband after they’ve finished in here.”

  She focused on her husband for some time and said, “You’ll forgive me, won’t you? I won’t be long.”

  Harvey, Silas, and I exchanged glances, but kept quiet.

  I’d seen various kinds of mourners in my time, and the more Andy’s wife spoke, the more concerned I became about her falling into a category of people who went a bit mad after their loved one died. These types of people were extremists, and often they were so brokenhearted they ended up in a psych ward of some kind. I hoped the judgment I’d just passed on her turned out to be inaccurate. I hoped she was just in shock.

  Polly released her husband’s hand, nodded at me, and stood. “Let’s get to it then.”

  I followed her out of the study and into the kitchen. She told me where I could find the tea in the pantry. I made us both a cup and joined her on the sofa.

  She crossed one leg over the other and said, “I’m not sure I’m up to answering any questions right now. It’s all a bit fuzzy, you see.”

  “Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”

  “Andy and I have been married for forty-nine years. We celebrate our fiftieth next month, and then he promised to re
tire after that. We thought we’d take a cruise, the kind you live on for several months. There are so many places I haven’t been, so many places I still want to go. What about you? Do you travel?”

  “Whenever I can,” I said. “I’ve thought about going to Africa this year.”

  Polly pressed a hand to her chest. “Africa? Seems a bit scary with all those wild animals running around. I’m not as adventurous, I’m afraid. I’ve never been much of a risktaker. The cruise I have my eye on goes to Highclere Castle in England.”

  “What’s at Highclere Castle?”

  “Downton Abbey, of course. If you’ve never seen the show, you should. Pity it’s no longer on the air.”

  I had seen the show. Every episode.

  “What kind of investigating does your husband do?” I asked.

  She took a sip of tea, scrunched up her face, and held the cup out to me. “It needs more honey, dear. Do you mind?”

  I took the cup into the kitchen, stirred in a heaping teaspoon of honey, and returned it to her. She sampled it a second time and said, “Hmm ... might be a bit too much honey now. Ahh, well. Thank you for trying.”

  “Did your husband discuss his cases with you?” I asked.

  “He does not. Well, not many of them, anyway. There was an actress who went missing some decades ago. He was thrilled to get the job and couldn’t keep the details of it from me. I won’t say whom she was, but she’d been in all kinds of movies. Her disappearance made headlines everywhere. It was a big deal.”

  “Was the woman ever found?”

  “She was, and it turned out she’d had enough of the limelight and just wanted to take a break. Trouble was, she didn’t tell anyone. She just left.”

  “Sounds like he was good at his job.”

  “You asked before what kind of investigating Andy does. Most of the time he finds people.”

  “What kinds of people?”

  “Anyone who needs to be found. He has a ninety-three percent success rate. People call him from all over the country.”

  She’d been speaking about her husband like he was still alive, and I wondered how long it would continue.

  “How many cases was your husband working on in the last month?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said, we don’t talk much about the details of his work.”