by V. K. Powell
Stooping to pick up the instrument, she envisioned Leigh nude, spread-eagled offering herself—to Gayle. This time Gayle’s fingers teased Leigh’s breasts, Gayle’s mouth sucked her clit, and Gayle’s tongue drove her to climax. Leigh screamed Gayle’s name, not hers, as she orgasmed. Macy flung the small wooden blade against the wall. Shit.
She paced circles around her work desk, repeating her calming mantra over and over. “I’m fine. Everything is under control. I’m fine.” The familiar words should’ve been reassuring, but they sounded hollow and filled with desperation as she tried to convince herself of a lie. She washed the clay off her hands, and her fragile control trickled through her fingers and down the drain. She’d never been an irrational drama queen, but now she couldn’t stop the random bouts of emotion. She was in big trouble and her normal escape avenue failed. But if she stopped working, she didn’t know where she would end up—maybe knocking on the apartment door.
It was four o’clock in the morning when she finished detailing the clay mouth and was satisfied with the results. She stretched her aching shoulders and went into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Caffeine wouldn’t hurt. She couldn’t sleep anyway as long as Gayle’s car was in her driveway and Gayle’s body in Leigh’s bed.
The apartment was dark like her mood. She didn’t know what to do with the petty comments rambling through her mind like a parade of stray cats. Part of her wanted to open the window and yell, “I bet she’s not as good in bed as I am.” Another part of her was afraid of Leigh’s possible responses. “At least she admits she loves me. She came back to me. We have history. I love her.” Macy couldn’t argue with any of it.
What could be worse than the woman she cared about making love to someone else only a few yards away? Having to watch. After having sex with Leigh and seeing Gayle, she could imagine vividly the two of them entwined. If she could just close her eyes and have the images disappear, but it only made them worse. She swallowed the last sip of tea, and it settled in a nest of tangled nerves in her stomach. How could she be so confused after only one sexual encounter? If she couldn’t handle this, anything else was doomed. The worst part was, she didn’t know what to do about it.
She returned to the studio and started developing the area around the eyes. The sex, race, and probable age of the subject taken into consideration, she laid thin strips of clay under and over the eye and manipulated them with the flat wooden stick she used for detailed work. She paid particular attention to the location of the eyelids inside the bony orbits, their thickness and angled corners. The slightest miscalculation or deviation would change the entire appearance of the face. As she added the final touches to the tissue around the eyes, the sun was rising through the trees behind the house.
Stepping away from the table, she evaluated her work and nodded. She expected to see some aspect of Leigh Monroe staring back at her. She’d spent the night re-creating a face she’d never seen while trying to block one she couldn’t erase. The reconstruction resembled neither of the women who now haunted her sleeping and waking hours.
As she cleaned up at the kitchen sink, Leigh lowered the apartment steps and came down. She held her hand and helped Gayle descend in her heels and tight jeans. Macy tried not to stare, but she scoured both of them for telltale signs of postcoital bliss. Did Leigh have the same satisfied look she’d had after sex with her only a day ago? Did their bodies seem magnetized, unable to bear any distance? Were their eyes blazing secret messages no one else could read? How ridiculous you are, Sheridan.
She dried her hands and moved away from the window as they walked toward Gayle’s vehicle. She refused to be seen pining like some love-struck puppy. If Leigh wanted a near-perfect model-type blonde, who could blame her, but she didn’t have to watch.
*
Leigh purposely looked away from the cottage as she walked Gayle to her car. Her ex didn’t need any more ammunition to speculate about her friendship with Macy. She just wanted Gayle on her way back to Toronto as soon as possible. She’d grieved the loss of their relationship and saw no point in belaboring the obvious. It had been over long before she ended it nine months ago. Now they both knew it.
“You’re sure about this?” Gayle leaned against the side of the car and reached for her, but Leigh sidestepped.
“Yes, I am. It’s best for both of us, don’t you think?”
“You’re probably right, but I had to ask. Will you keep in touch?”
“If you want, but not right away. I need a bit more time.” She gave her a quick straight-girl type hug and opened the car door. “Thanks for taking the time to come and talk with me. It means a lot.”
“You won’t hate me, will you?” Gayle asked as she cranked the car.
“I promise. We’re not bad people, we just want different things. Take care.” She waved as Gayle pulled out of the drive and then started back to the apartment when her cell rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” her contact at the Center for Missing and Exploited Children said.
“Yeah, what do you have?”
“You’re not going to like this but nothing really concrete about the child. I haven’t found anyone resembling your kid in the database, anywhere in the country.”
“Why do I sense a but?”
“I think I’ve narrowed down which of the alphabet agencies is blocking your inquiries. The Marshals.”
“I’d have guessed DEA, FBI, maybe even IRS, but never Marshals. How did you come up with that?”
“They contacted me when I searched the last name Temple, just like you did. Since I’m not law enforcement, they weren’t threatened but still told me to back off. Sounds like your guy might’ve been a witness or a turned informant, but that’s just my guess. Nothing they said specifically.”
“Did you mention why you were checking the missing kid?”
“They wanted the whole story. I tried to keep it vague. They’d already figured out GPD was involved. Their focus seemed to be primarily Steven Temple. Sorry I couldn’t do more.”
The information didn’t help and didn’t really make sense. Why would the marshals still be interested in a dead witness? She retrieved her notes on the Jesse Quinn case from the apartment and drove into town, still no closer to finding Jack’s family. Maybe she’d have more luck with Jesse’s case, or maybe she was just doing busy work to avoid telling Macy about her involvement in the original investigation and to keep from discussing Gayle’s unannounced visit.
She’d been doing a lot of conversation avoidance with Macy, and the discomfort settled inside her like an extra organ, squeezing and jostling for room. She preferred the open approach, but life was complicated…more so where Macy Sheridan was concerned. She certainly didn’t want to hurt Macy further, especially when she’d just started dealing with her feelings about Jesse’s loss. But she couldn’t keep hiding things from her. She had to make time to tell her the truth, and soon.
She parked in the club parking lot and flipped through the four remaining residences she needed to check. A twentyish girl answered at the first location and had no idea what Leigh was talking about. She’d inherited the apartment from a distant aunt and moved in only two years ago. The second and third locations produced similar results, both college-aged kids with no interest in or knowledge of an old missing-person case.
Her energy and enthusiasm waned as she knocked on the last door and waited for an answer. She heard a distant murmur from inside, knocked again, and waited again, but still no response. As she turned to walk away, she heard a voice from inside.
“I said wait a damn minute. I don’t move as fast as I used to.”
A few seconds later the door opened but she didn’t see anyone, until she looked down. A man in his mid-forties, shaved head, broad shoulders, and sitting in a wheelchair stared up at her. If he’d been standing, he would have been at attention or at least parade rest. He gave off a strong soldier vibe with the short haircut, posture, and direct eye contact. “I’m sorry to di
sturb you, sir, but do you have a minute?”
“Does it look like I’m going anywhere in a hurry? Who are you and what do you want?”
“I’m Detective Leigh Monroe, Greensboro Police Department.” She flashed her credentials and gave him time to check their authenticity. “I’m doing an old-case review.”
He rolled the chair back and waved her inside. “Excuse me for not standing, but I didn’t have time to strap on my prosthesis with you pounding on the door.” From the contour of the blanket across his lap, she saw his right leg was missing below the knee.
“I’m sorry.”
“For knocking, for being so damn impatient, or for not knowing I’m a cripple?”
She searched for an answer this obviously proud man might not find offensive. “All of it, I guess. War injury?”
He shook his head. “Should’ve been so lucky. An actual goddamn training accident.”
He struck her as the sort of man who’d rather have been killed in war than injured in some simulation. “Can I ask your name, sir?”
“Sorry.” He offered his hand. “Bradley Duncan, Brad. Have a seat, Detective.”
The meager apartment appeared to be a one-bedroom with kitchenette and bath but was meticulously tended. If she looked under the sofa, she’d expect it to be as spotless as the kitchen countertops. “As I said, I’m looking into an old missing-person case.”
“Little fucking late, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve been waiting for you people to contact me for years. Is this about the shooting in the alley outside the club, too?”
The hairs on the back of her neck saluted. “What shooting?”
“Damn, don’t you fucking people talk to each other? A guy was shot outside that hellhole the same night the girl went missing. I saw it from the window right there.” He pointed to the small kitchen window facing the alley. “Nobody came by to ask me questions, and the next day I shipped out for maneuvers—and got this.” He waved a hand over the remaining portion of his leg. “Fucking nightmare for the next six months in a goddamn foreign country. The injury didn’t sever the leg cleanly so I had multiple surgeries to remove shrapnel and debris, and then I had a reaction to almost every medication they gave me for pain and infection. Fucking wonder I didn’t die in that godforsaken place.”
“So, you weren’t here when they did the initial investigation.” The comment was more for her clarification than an actual question.
“I was here the damn night the guy got capped, but they didn’t bother then. And they dropped the ball, I guess.” His statement made her cringe because it confirmed what she’d suspected but didn’t want to believe. “I had more pressing matters to deal with when I came back, and I rationalized you’d probably already found the girl anyway.”
“What did the shooting have to do with the missing girl?”
“Aren’t you listening? The fucking killer took her.”
“He took her? The killer?” She was almost dizzy as fragmented pieces of different puzzles swirled in her head. Jesse was kidnapped? By a killer? Why would he take her? If she’d seen something, the killer would have certainly disposed of her. The initial officers hadn’t conducted a proper investigation, and they hadn’t connected the two cases or even considered the possibility they might be connected. Maybe she was grasping at straws. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“Pretty much what I said too, with a fuck thrown in here or there for good measure.”
“Did you call that night and report what you’d seen?”
“Yeah, but the dispatcher said the shooting had already been reported. Guess they didn’t need my details. They didn’t even find the body until almost dawn.”
“Witnesses are often contacted later in the investigation, after the scene is cleared. But why didn’t you call and check when you returned?” The minute she asked the question she regretted it. His face was etched with the pain and guilt of loss and failure.
“I know I should’ve, but when I got back I was fucked up on drugs for a while, then in rehab, and finally working my way out of that. You don’t understand. I had my whole life planned—a distinguished military career, family, kids, and a comfortable pension when I retired. Instead, I got an abbreviated stint in the service, a disability retirement, a fake leg, drug addiction, and no wife or children. The last thing on my mind was playing do-gooder for the local police who couldn’t find their fucking asses with both hands. No disrespect intended.”
“I understand, and you’re right. It’s not your job to fix our mess. I just wish someone had followed up.” What would they have uncovered if they had? Was the homicide case cleared? If so, she might uncover something in the file to help her find out what happened to Jesse Quinn. “Do you mind if I record your statement? Sorry to ask you to repeat it, but I had no idea what I was going to hear.”
“Sure, go ahead.” For the next thirty minutes, he recounted the story of that night and what he’d seen as she recorded it on her phone. When he finished, she thanked him and drove directly to the police station.
The detectives were leaving lineup when she opened the back door and stepped into the hallway. “Nate, got a minute?” He didn’t ask any questions but took her by the arm and guided her to his car in the parking lot.
“I’d know that look anywhere. This is serious.”
“Can you get me a copy of a homicide case that happened sixteen years ago outside the club on Patterson Street?”
“Probably. Rickard owes me after getting Macy to do his reconstruction. Why do you need it?”
“I can’t really say right now. Just trust me, it’s important. Think you can get the file on the QT? I really don’t want Rickard or anyone else to know about this yet.”
He gave her a skeptical look, wrinkling his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion for show. “Seriously? You’re talking to the King of Smooth. Besides, one of the girls in records and I have been out a couple of times. Shouldn’t be a problem. How’s ten minutes?”
“Great.” She replayed Brad Duncan’s statement again while she waited. The circumstances of his life and the time lapse between the homicide and the report of Jesse Quinn’s disappearance had collided in a sequence of events that made the two cases seem unrelated. Now it was obvious they were. The uneasy feeling in Leigh’s gut told her the possibility of Jesse Quinn being alive had just gone from miniscule to nonexistent.
Nate walked across the parking lot like a man who’d just gotten laid, all smiles and self-assurance. “Here you go. Don’t clap. Just throw money.” He offered her the file like a present. “You’ve got twenty-four hours before I have to slip this back where it came from. Even my considerable charm has its limits.”
“I’m shocked. Thanks, Nate.” She started to leave but turned back. “Anything from the phone company yet?”
“They’re slower than a wet week. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything. And if you need help with that,” he pointed to the file, “just let me know.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a feeling the further you stay away from this, the better. I’m going to the diner to look it over. I’ll call if I need anything else.” She couldn’t explain why she needed the homicide file without telling him about the Quinn case, which Captain Howard wanted kept quiet. Another secret she’d have to keep to protect someone she cared about.
She left her car in the lot, tucked the file under her arm, and walked next door to the diner. She’d missed dinner thanks to Gayle’s unannounced visit and had rushed out before breakfast to get an early start. Her stomach growled as she entered the small establishment filled with the scents of bacon, toast, and coffee. She felt like she’d been transported back to the fifties in the retro-clad diner, but it was one of her favorite places to eat. Their gifted cooks could make anything from eggs and grits to pasta with pesto sauce or a perfectly grilled steak.
She settled into a booth in the back and spread the file out on the old laminate tabletop. When the waitress passed, she plac
ed her order for the breakfast special and lots of coffee. She was so engrossed in the details of the report she didn’t notice the woman standing next to her until she cleared her throat.
“Mind if I join you?” Macy asked. Her dark eyes shielded any emotion that might’ve clued Leigh in to her mood.
“Of course. I mean no…join me.” When Macy sat down, Leigh noticed the discoloration under her eyes and the rigid set of her jaw. She looked exhausted. Had she spent another sleepless night with dreams about Jesse? “Are you all right?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Her tone was more curt than normal, and Leigh felt the distance between them. “I didn’t know you were here. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but the place is packed and I’m starving.”
“I’m happy to share a table. What are you doing in town so early?”
“Ran out of modeling clay and had to make a supply run.” Macy glanced at the papers scattered across the table. “I thought you were suspended.”
She swept the pages back into the file. “I am. My partner’s afraid I’ll get rusty so he gave me something to keep me busy.” She’d been staring at Macy, trying to figure out what was so different about her. What had happened? Gayle happened. “Sorry I didn’t stop by on the way out this morning. I was in a rush.”
“You purposely avoiding me?” Her eyes were suddenly sharp and probing, more intimidating than any interrogator Leigh had ever faced.
“I’m sorry about Gayle showing up out of the blue. She didn’t call. I mean I wasn’t expecting her.” Why was it so difficult to just say what she wanted to say—it was over with Gayle and they’d finally put it to rest?