by Burton, Mary
He stepped into the embrace, and she wrapped her arms around him. For a moment he remained stiff with all the anger that had left him rigid. She tightened her hold.
And he relaxed into her. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“That’s my boy,” she said, close to his ear. “Let Bonnie worry about everything, and the three of us will be a family again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, August 28, 7:00 a.m.
Sarah had been up since 4:00 a.m., though she really had not slept well in weeks. Two of her charges were missing, and though most of the world did not give a second thought to a missing prostitute, she cared deeply. She thought she’d grasped the evil these women faced each day, but after hearing Melina’s description of the Key Killer’s van, she wondered if the devil himself now walked among them.
She knew the Lord had sent her a series of tests over her thirty-four years, and she felt like she had risen to the challenge each time. She hoped she could again.
After refilling her coffee cup, she returned to her desk, determined to accomplish something productive today. With some effort, she shifted her mind to the reconciling of the Mission’s accounts.
The house was scheduled to wake up in the next half hour, and if she hustled, she could get the task completed.
The doorbell of the Mission rang, pulling Sarah gratefully from the obstinate numbers that were refusing to reconcile. She glanced at the security screens and saw a tall lean man who appeared to be in his early sixties. He was nicely dressed in a gray tailored suit, a white shirt, and polished wing tips. Dark hair was streaked with gray and combed back off his face.
Curious, she rose from her desk, walked down the hallway to the front door to the intercom.
“Can I help you?” Sarah said.
“I’m here on behalf of my client. She would like to make a donation to the Mission.”
Although grateful for new donations, Sarah was puzzled. “You’re here kind of early, aren’t you?”
“You’re a mission, so I assumed you’re always open. Besides, I have an early-morning meeting downtown. Thought I’d drop this off.”
Sarah had a trusting heart but a suspicious mind. And this man made her feel uncomfortable. “You could have mailed it.”
The man’s grin held little warmth. “My client wanted it hand delivered.”
“Hold up some form of identification, please?”
He removed a long slim wallet, pulled out a driver’s license, and held it up to the camera. Edward Mecum. Age sixty-two, and he lived in Franklin.
As Sarah started to throw the locks, Mr. Mecum carefully replaced his driver’s license into his wallet that he tucked into his jacket’s breast pocket. The door opened, and the spicy scent of expensive aftershave wafted over the threshold.
“Sorry for the questions. I have to be careful down here. My name is Reverend Sarah Beckett.”
He removed a gold card holder from his pocket, clicked it open, and selected a single card. “As you know, I’m Edward Mecum.”
Sarah stared at the card, moving her thumb over the fine linen paper stock. “You said you had a donation?”
“I do.” From the same breast pocket, he removed an unsealed envelope.
Sarah accepted it, and in a move that would have made her sainted mother roll over in her grave, looked at the amount on the check. $100,000. She blinked once. Twice. “Wow.”
“My client is impressed with your work.” Mr. Mecum had a unique accent, but Sarah couldn’t place it. It was not a southern drawl, but the way he emphasized the w in work hinted at New England. Boston, maybe?
“This is very generous.” A pan rattled in the kitchen, reminding Sarah that Sam was around if necessary. “Can I give you a tour of the place? The ladies aren’t all up yet, but I could show you the library and the kitchen.”
Interest sparked in his gaze. “I would like that.”
Sarah led Mr. Mecum down the center hallway, digging through her memory files for her canned presentation. She had done over a hundred in the last year, but none of those donors had come close to one hundred grand. “I founded the facility five years ago. We serve women who have worked on the streets or who are addicted to drugs and alcohol. Usually, the two go hand in hand.”
“How many women have you helped in the last five years?”
“Over one hundred.” Pride came before the fall, but this next statistic always made her stand a little taller. “We have a seventy percent success rate.”
“Enviable numbers.”
“Yes, they are.” Sarah led him into the library and switched on the light. “We put an emphasis on education, vocation, and prayer. This is a multipurpose room where everything happens, including Sunday supper, mass, Bible study, and math lessons, to name a few. I’m working on a brochure for the Mission, but it’s still a draft on my computer right now.”
Mr. Mecum’s gaze sharpened as he walked to a collection of lotions the ladies had made. “Very nice.”
“Let me show you the kitchen.”
“Of course.”
Down the hallway, they entered the industrial kitchen that had been donated by a restaurant undergoing a massive renovation. Sam stood behind the long stainless steel table and was cutting carrots. “Sam, this is Mr. Mecum. I’m giving him the grand tour.”
Sam chopped a large carrot in half. “Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
An alarm clock rang from one of the dorm rooms. The house was waking up, and soon the quiet would turn into controlled chaos.
As Sarah led Mr. Mecum back down the hallway, Sam’s chops echoed behind them. Sam was rough around the edges, naturally was suspicious of anyone new, but he had a heart of gold. “I’d like to acknowledge the donation with a proper thank-you letter.”
“My client wants to remain anonymous. Email a receipt to my address. I’ll forward it on to my client. She’ll need it for tax purposes. If she responds back, you can simply thank her in a return email.”
“Of course. I’ll do it this morning.” She would be at the bank when it opened. This kind of money would solve a lot of problems. “Bless you and our donor. And thank her for me.”
“I will.” Mr. Mecum paused at the door. “You have a very impressive operation.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Mecum watched as Sarah opened the locks on the front door. “I suppose down here security is a concern.”
“It’s a rough part of town, but with people like your donor, we’re making an impact.”
“What made you bring your ministry down here? Your bearing suggests money and education.”
She opened the door. “I picked the place with the greatest need.”
Mr. Mecum surveyed the asphalt parking lot and the run-down buildings beyond it. “Looks like you’ve come to the right place.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Mecum.”
His grip was strong and determined. “The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Beckett.”
Another quick nod and he strode toward a dark Mercedes parked in her lot. Sarah quickly looked over the vehicle to make sure the hubcaps and wheels had not been stripped. Down here, a car like that did not last long. Finding it intact, she said a prayer of thanks as she waved one last time and closed the door and locked it.
She dropped her gaze back to the check, making sure she had not read it wrong in her haste. “One hundred thousand dollars. Amazing.”
She saw the donation as a sign. Perhaps her fight against evil was not so hopeless.
Sam’s chopping grew louder. He had an opinion to share, and the sooner she heard it, the better.
She tucked the check in her pocket and returned to the kitchen. “What do you have to say?”
He dumped the carrots into a pot on the stove. “Big donation, right?”
She pulled out the check and handed it to Sam. “The biggest we’ve ever gotten.”
Sam whistled and handed it back. “That’s good.”
She reached for a mug in the cabinet and filled it with coffee. “We’ll both believe it when it clears the bank.”
Melina woke to the sound of a coffeepot gurgling and a shower running. For a second or two, she did not know where she was. It wasn’t her bed. It belonged to . . .
She closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips to her lids. Awkward.
Her dad used to say, “Don’t mix business with pleasure.”
It was not the first bit of good advice she had ignored.
She rose out of bed, glanced at the clock, and realized it was after seven. Tossing back the covers, she hunted around for her clothes. Most were easy to locate, but the panties remained MIA.
She was feeling too good right now to stress, so she opted to pour herself a cup of coffee. She tore open a packet of sugar and dumped in one of the fake creamers.
She sipped and moved to the small table and chair beside the bed. Ramsey’s files were arranged in a neat line. The guy was meticulous. Last night the clear demarcation both had adhered to had been obliterated. But now she was counting on that laser mind of his getting back on track.
She opened the first file and was quickly rewarded with a grisly rural murder scene. The tab was marked Denver, Colorado. She opened two other files with similar gruesome scenarios.
The shower shut off. She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair, sipping coffee that was barely this side of acceptable.
He stepped out of the steam, a towel wrapped around his waist. He had shaved and combed his hair. All he needed was a suit and he would be ready for any boardroom.
“Good morning,” he said.
She held up the cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“There’s a coffee shop in the lobby if you’d rather have something tastier.”
“This will do just fine. I can already feel the caffeine shaking off the cobwebs.”
He poured himself a cup. And for the first time, some of that trademark intense energy had shifted in a way she found really appealing. “We have to be at the crime lab at nine thirty.”
“That’s almost ninety minutes.” She took one more sip of coffee and set her cup down beside the closed files. Again, the warnings demanding distance and the impersonal went silent. “I have a few ideas, but it’s going to mean messing up that pretty hair of yours.”
He crossed to her and set his cup down beside hers. She rose and reached for his towel, unfastening and tossing it aside.
“I can’t find my panties,” she said, nestling closer to him.
“That’s a damn shame. Better call a cop.”
He cupped her naked buttocks and pushed her against his erection.
“I just did.”
The morning school bus was making its rounds in the neighborhood as Bonnie sat in Ralph’s car, which she had promised to have back to him by the end of the day. Poor Ralph. Still worried she would out his extracurricular activities.
The little neighborhood children were gathered on the corner, and a couple of the mothers stood post with them. Everyone looked tired, as if they were still adjusting to the school schedule. The excitement of the first days had worn off, and they were all settling into the long grind of another school year.
Bonnie had never bothered with formal schools for her kids. Schools required registration forms, identification, and immunization records that she ignored. She did not buy into the conventional wisdom that kids needed school. Hers had learned well enough. Life was the best teacher as far as she was concerned.
Mrs. Shepard and Elena came out on the front porch and watched as the kids got on the bus and it drove off. Mrs. Shepard was talking to Elena, and together they were waving at the kids on the bus as it passed.
Shepard was probably feeding that girl a line of bull. Telling her about all the fun things she could do at school. Elena seemed to be paying attention, as if she could easily be led to a conventional life.
The two rose and vanished inside, reappearing fifteen minutes later. They crossed the lawn to the car, and Mrs. Shepard hooked Elena into her car seat.
Bonnie could not make her move now, but if she bided her time, there would be an opening. And when it came, she would reach in and grab Elena. Elena, Sonny, and she would leave this damn town for good.
A smart fisherman knew the right bait was critical for success. And his little donation was just the kind of lure he needed to access the Mission records, which he hoped had information about Ms. Perky Breasts.
Mecum reached for a cold beer, watching a movie on his computer while he waited for his little fish to take the bait.
The movie was Pretty Woman. All the hookers wanted to be Julia Roberts’s character, Vivian, the whore with the heart of gold. The young ones might have stepped over the line into prostitution, but they could still look back and see who they had been. The older ones had accepted their fate and no longer looked back.
He watched the computer screen, knowing that he needed to find his Vivian and get her into his van before this damn disease rendered him useless. He had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours outfitting his van with new restraints so that it was almost a mirror image of the one he had lost.
A small bell chimed on his computer. He turned off the movie just as Vivian was about to see what was in the blue velvet-lined jewelry box. This was a favorite place for him to stop. He loved denying her the surprise and pleasure.
The good reverend had sent an email to the fake address he had given her, offering her humble thanks. Her response immediately created a virtual tunnel that burrowed under firewalls and brought him up in the Mission’s computer. He was like a vampire. He could not enter a home unless he was invited. But once the link was clicked, he was over the threshold in a nanosecond, and there was no getting rid of him.
His fish took the bait and issued him his invitation at 9:15 a.m.
“Gotcha.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Friday, August 28, 9:30 a.m.
Melina followed Ramsey as he drove from his hotel to the forensic lab. As they approached the facility, she took an extra turn around the block so they would not arrive at the exact same time. Neither had suggested a shared ride to the office. As intimate as they had been, showing up in the same vehicle made a personal statement she was not ready to make. First sex, then a car. What would be next? Holding hands? The image made her chuckle as she showed her identification.
“What’s so funny?” the guard asked.
“Can you picture me living the white picket dream?”
It was his turn to chuckle. “With who? You’re married to your job.”
“Exactly.”
“What brought that up?” His eyes glinted as if he had caught her doing the walk of shame.
She laughed, catching Ramsey’s approach in the corner of her eye. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Ramsey’s stoic features always struck a good balance between disinterested and mildly impatient. He studied human expression and used it to peer into minds, so it stood to reason he was an expert at masking his own thoughts.
Her shoes clicked against the tiled floor as she walked toward the elevators. Raising her gaze to the polished door, she caught a hint of brittleness in her eyes. Those eyes had always held a measure of wariness, but she’d believed hope had tempered it. Maybe not so much anymore. She sensed Ramsey’s gaze on her but did not look toward him. Maybe because she did not want him seeing her worry.
They rode the elevator to her floor, and while he headed to the conference room to get situated again, she entered her office. As soon as she set her backpack down, her phone rang. It was Andy.
“Agent Shepard,” she said.
“It’s Andy. I have an update on your half brother.”
“Really?” She sat, not quite sure if she should be standing. “That was very fast.”
“I do work magic.”
Melina leaned forward a bit, unable to summon a smile. “And?”
“Your DNA was a familial hit to a young man by the
name of Dean Guthrie, who it turns out does have a juvenile record. He was arrested for vagrancy and petty theft when he was seventeen. The records were in sealed juvenile courts, which is why I didn’t find them immediately. Dean received six months’ detention followed by probation. After that, he wasn’t arrested again.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“An old picture. It was taken about twenty years ago when he was arrested. It should be in your email now.”
Once Mecum got into the Mission’s personnel files, he had access to all the employee and volunteer information for anyone who worked at the Mission. However, the data required that he search each individual, and he did not have that kind of time. Then he spotted the draft of the Mission brochure Sarah Beckett had mentioned.
It was full of pictures from everyday life at the Mission. He scrolled through the pages, searching the faces of the women who had been through the doors of the Mission. He looked through each not once but twice, but he did not see his girl. He sat back, disappointed that he had not found her. “Where are you?”
He scrolled to the volunteers’ page, not sure what to expect. Midway down the page, he saw her. It was a headshot, and she was staring into the camera. Her lips were compressed into a not-quite-grim line that was somewhere between a smile and annoyance.
“Melina Shepard. Ms. Perky Breasts!” he said.
He scrolled to the next page and saw a group shot of the volunteers. Everyone was staring at the camera except the man standing beside Melina. Instead he was staring at her. As he continued through the brochure, there were more group pictures. Each time this man was in a picture with Melina, he was either close to her or looking at her. The man’s name was Sam Jenkins.
He could see Sam had a thing for Melina, so what had she been doing out on the street? Was she trying to help the girls? Was she looking for someone?
He searched her name on the internet and was caught off guard when an article popped with her name and real profession. Melina Shepard. Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.