Stranger in Town

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  I set my glass down and looked up. “If she’s not your daughter, why are you here and why tell me this story?”

  “My daughter’s name is Savannah,” he said. “Savannah Tate.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Savannah Tate—of course,” I said.

  He perked up.

  “You’ve heard the story then?”

  “Everyone has,” I said.

  Savannah’s abduction took place at a preschool in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, six months earlier. Once the media got a good whiff of what had happened, things spun out of control. Finger-pointing and blame spread in all directions, most of it resting on the shoulders of the daycare itself. No one working that day understood how they had managed to lose a child—from an enclosed play area, no less. Even more bizarre was the fact that Savannah hadn’t been outside alone. She had been playing with another child who was the same age, leading to even more speculation. People wondered why they weren’t both taken, why one had been chosen over the other.

  The daycare employees were interviewed on WNN, Wyoming’s nightly news, each one tearing up on camera, but an unsympathetic public didn’t care. A toddler was missing because of the daycare’s mistake. It might have been an honest one, but it didn’t stop parents from pulling their children out of A Place to Grow Child Care Center until no children remained. Soon after, the child-care center was forced to close. A rumor circulated about a twenty percent decrease in daycare attendance across the nation. Mothers from every walk of life clutched their children a little closer that week, opting to find what they felt were more “suitable” arrangements. Many turned to in-home child care, thinking their children were much better off in the comfort of their own homes.

  Two weeks after Savannah was kidnapped a new website sprung to life called All Kids Safe. It was a place where parents could hand-pick quality nannies in their area. All employees had to undergo a background check and adhere to a code of ethics. The idea of children getting personal care made parents feel safe, making All Kids Safe a huge hit.

  “I hope you understand now why I wanted to wait until I could speak to you in person,” Mr. Tate said. “My wife doesn’t even get out of bed anymore. She’s tired of…well—everything. The media coverage, the constant interviews by the police, the ladies on the street bringing casseroles over every night. She can’t take it anymore, and neither can I.”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Seems like they’ve done more harm than good. We’ve been given the same statistics so many times now, I can quote them for you.”

  When I failed to respond in a timely manner, he backed up his statement.

  “Every forty seconds a child is reported missing or abducted,” he said, “eighty-two percent by family members, many taken within a quarter mile of the child’s home. Seventy-four percent of children who are murdered are dead within three hours of their abduction.”

  I stayed quiet. He kept going.

  “Why do they tell us this stuff? Do they really think it makes us feel better to hear it? I’m aware of the statistics.”

  “I believe they’re just trying to be realistic. The last thing they want is to give you some sort of false hope. It may seem harsh, but it isn’t. They just want you to know the truth.”

  “I’m not some delusional parent asking you to look for his daughter when there’s a good chance she’s dead,” he said. “She’s still alive—I know it.”

  I thought about how many times I’d watched parents on TV say the same thing. Admitting a loved one was gone wasn’t easy. But now wasn’t the time to explain everything police officers and detectives went through as a team when something of this magnitude happened. He wasn’t healthy enough to hear it yet, let alone understand.

  I removed a pad of paper and did what I do best.

  “Is there a specific person working with you—a detective maybe—someone who keeps in touch more than the others?”

  He nodded.

  “There’s a detective. Name’s Walter McCoy.”

  I jotted it down.

  “McCoy makes a lot of promises, but there’s no delivery,” he said. “McCoy says he’ll keep looking even if it takes the rest of his life, but if you ask me, he’s headed toward retirement. Why would he stay committed? It’s not like his daughter was taken.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t see it the same way.”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “You have no idea how many cops have ‘the one.’”

  “What one?”

  “The one they never solve,” I said. “It’s something they carry with them their entire life. It’s not some itch they can scratch to make them feel better. It’s always there, in the back of their minds. Even when they sleep, they have nightmares. It doesn’t ever go away.”

  “McCoy never tells me what he’s been up to, how much time he’s spending on my daughter’s case, nothing. What am I supposed to think?”

  “Maybe there are facts about the case that haven’t been revealed to you yet,” I said. “When the time is right, they’ll fill you in. I know it’s hard right now, but you have to be patient. I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.”

  “I’m done being patient,” he said. “I’ve been interviewed so many damn times, it seems like my wife and I are their only suspects. They waste time talking to us when they should be finding our daughter.”

  “Cases like this add a lot of pressure for everyone involved,” I said. “The public often pushes police, demanding answers, and when they don’t come—well—you can see how stressful it can be, right?”

  He tilted his head slightly. “I don’t know—I don’t trust them. And now there’s this new guy in town.”

  “A cop?” I said.

  He shrugged. “Not sure. McCoy just said he brought him in to work on the case, so it didn’t get ‘cold.’”

  “Do you have a name?”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  “I’m surprised this new person hasn’t met with you yet,” I said.

  “He tried.”

  “And you refused?”

  “Why would I want to start working with someone else at this point?”

  You’d think he’d be willing to work with anyone if it led to finding his daughter.

  “You could at least give him a chance.”

  He swished his hands through the air like he thought I was crazy. “He’s just another person working for them. I want someone working for me.” He aimed a thumb at himself.

  I felt like I was missing something important, something he hadn’t said yet. It didn’t sit well with me.

  “Is there anything you haven’t told the police?” I said. “Because if there is, I can’t take your case unless I know about it.”

  Noah leaned back in his chair, placing one of his hands on his forehead like he’d just been stricken with a massive migraine. “Before I answer, I need to know one thing: Do you believe there’s a chance my daughter is still alive?”

  Statistics weren’t in his daughter’s favor, but numbers had never meant much to me. “I believe you think she is, and that’s enough for me.”

  Noah closed his eyes and smiled. “Good. I want to show you something.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Flattened on the table in front of me was a piece of paper. A princess resembling Sleeping Beauty frolicked in the middle of a field of flowers, all of them pink. In fact, the entire page was pink. I lifted the piece of paper up and examined it. There was no writing of any kind, just outside-of-the-line scribbling done with a waxy Crayola.

  “What is this?” I said. “I mean, I can see it’s a torn page from a child’s coloring book, but where’d you get it?”

  “In the mail.”

  His tone of voice had changed so much one would have thought I was holding a newly discovered artifact.

  “When?” I said.

  “Three days ago.”

  “If you’re showing this to me,
obviously it means something to you,” I said.

  “I believe it was colored by my daughter.”

  I stared at the picture, not knowing what to think. Could it be possible?

  He grabbed the paper, waving it back and forth in front of me. “Don’t you see what this means? She’s alive!”

  Or someone had a twisted way of turning a wayward parent into a believer.

  “Why haven’t you shown this to the police?”

  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. He had a smug grin on his face like my astute observation had impressed him.

  “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  “It’s still in your possession,” I said. “If you would have handed it over to Detective McCoy, it wouldn’t be.”

  “You’re right. He would have taken it from me and said something about how it needed to be ‘entered into evidence.’ I’d never get it back. You have no idea what this means to me—to my wife. It’s—helping her cope.”

  I understood the attachment he’d formed and why, but he wasn’t doing himself any favors by hanging onto it.

  “You don’t know what they’ll do until you show it to them,” I said.

  “Olivia Hathaway’s parents got one too. They handed it over, and once the investigators all looked at it, her mother asked if she could have it back. What do you think they said?”

  Now I understood why he’d taken the time to mention the other kidnapping: if both parents received the same type of correspondence, the kidnappings could be connected.

  “When did Olivia’s parents receive their coloring page?”

  He leaned in. “Last week. And do you want to know what the cops did with it? They published it in the local paper. Why the hell would they do that?”

  “It’s a new lead. Olivia has been missing for two years. Maybe they’re trying to generate some interest.”

  “I always thought the kidnappings were connected,” he said. “McCoy looked into it, but he never found any evidence to support my theory, other than the fact both girls were taken from the same part of Wyoming. When I received the coloring page in the mail, I found out where Olivia’s parents lived and paid them a visit. Imagine how good it felt to know they’d received one too. I’ve been right all along.”

  “I don’t mean to sound callous Mr. Tate, but how do you know this isn’t someone’s idea of a sick joke?”

  “Mrs. Hathaway said Olivia’s favorite color was green. The page they received was full of stars, all of them colored green.”

  “What’s the significance of the star?”

  “Apparently Olivia had some kind of glow-in-the-dark solar system on the ceiling of her bedroom, and green was her favorite color.”

  “And I’m guessing Savannah’s room is pink and princess-themed?”

  He nodded.

  “It must have been checked for fingerprints,” I said.

  “Olivia’s parents said when the prints were processed the only ones they found besides theirs were Olivia’s. They checked the envelope it was sent in too. There were no prints that couldn’t be accounted for.”

  I held the page in front of me. “Mr. Tate, you have to turn this over to the investigators working on your case. You can’t keep it.”

  He slapped his hand against the side of the table. “I will not!”

  “This coloring page is the one thing connecting both abductions to each other. Can’t you understand why the police need to be informed? It will give them the first solid lead they’ve had in months.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t get it. I don’t care about Olivia’s case. I mean, of course I feel sorry for what her parents are going through, but my only concern right now is finding my daughter.”

  I pressed my pointer fingernail into the pink wax on the page. “I’m sure you can’t see it right now, but you’re hurting your chances of finding Savannah by hanging on to this. I understand what it means to your wife, but you need to listen to me.”

  He threw both of his hands into the air. “I thought if I paid you to do a job, you’d have to do things my way. I’m the client. You work for me.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood up. “I work for myself. And I don’t appreciate you treating me like I’m some factory worker you can order around just because you’re waving a wad of cash in front of my face.”

  “Now, hold on a minute. Listen—”

  Breathe, Sloane, breathe.

  “No, you listen. If I agree to take your case, and by ‘agree,’ I mean, I make the decision—not you—I’ll stick with it until it’s solved or I’m certain there’s nothing else I can do. You can take it or leave it, but I’ll tell you one thing—you’ll never find another PI with the same kind of devotion that I have.”

  The way his face twisted up while I talked told me he hadn’t been spoken to that way by a woman very often, if ever.

  “Wow, you sure think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

  “Here’s how it works with me,” I said. “If I decide to take your case, you’ll comply by doing exactly what I want you to do when I want you to do it. You have the right to refuse, giving me the right to walk away. I will never ask you to do anything that isn’t in your best interest. And if you want my help finding out what happened to your daughter, I suggest you accept my offer.”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t how I thought our conversation would go at all. I’m not sure…”

  “You thought money would allow you to call the shots,” I said. “Making money is great, but I choose cases based on what interests me. Perhaps we both should take some time to think about what we’re getting ourselves into.”

  Although I meant every word of it, my insides burned. I had every intention of looking into the case of both missing girls, whether he decided to be my client or not. Mr. Tate remained silent. I assumed he was second guessing our arrangement. I took the money out of my bag and chucked it across the table. It landed half on his lap—and half on the seat he was sitting in.

  He snatched the envelope and stood up. “Wait just a minute. Don’t go—please.”

  “If I’m not the right fit for you, Mr. Tate, I understand,” I said.

  His shaking hand rubbed his watery eye. “Ms. Monroe, can you imagine what it’s like to lose the one you love, and just when you’ve given up, something happens that gives you renewed hope? I wish you could understand what it feels like.”

  I thought of my sister, Gabby, and the emotions I’d experienced when I learned she’d been captured and murdered by a serial killer who had no regard for human life. A serial killer who later ended up dead when he learned what happened when you messed around with the wrong girl’s sister.

  “You do know what it’s like,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. You lost someone too, didn’t you?”

  “My sister.”

  “How then can you ask me to hand over a part of my daughter? This paper is the only connection to her existence that I have left.”

  I sighed. I didn’t want to empathize, but I couldn’t help it. But he’d still have to let go of the paper sooner or later if he expected to ever see his daughter again. Connecting the two murders would reignite the flame in both cases.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “I’ll accept you as a client. But, if I find any new evidence, you agree to hand the page over without question.”

  He let it sink in for a moment before responding and then said, “You have my word.”

  “Good. I need to go home and get my things together. I’ll be in touch.”

  He walked over, throwing his arms around me unexpectedly. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I didn’t mean to be so hard on you. These last few months have been rough. Losing my daughter is hard enough, but lately it feels like I’m losing my wife too.”

  I leaned back, breaking from his embrace. “You have every right to be on edge right now. But I need you to remember, I’m not the enemy. I’m here to help you, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  He nodded
. I pushed the front door of the restaurant open, and we both walked out.

  “Oh, one more thing,” I said. “Who referred you to me?”

  “Some guy I met in a bar.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  He scratched the side of his head. “Called himself Calhoun.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Nick Calhoun. The man was, in a word, pushy. The mention of his name, or in this case, half of it, caused my anxiety to spike on several levels. I sat down in the driver’s seat but didn’t start the car. Instead, I opened the glove box, removing a bottle of prescription medication. I didn’t take it often, but reserved it for moments of high intensity like this one.

  I hadn’t seen or heard from Nick in months. Not since we’d broken up over his control issues. A three-year relationship wasted—all because he couldn’t meet me halfway. I even moved in with the guy when I wasn’t ready, but it still wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was with him. Nick had never approved of me being a private investigator, so the fact he’d mentioned me to someone else was startling.

  I picked my cell phone out of my pants pocket, scanning the contact list until I spotted his name. And then I sat there, staring at Nick’s number, trying to make a decision. It was time for me to experience an important rite of passage every girl endured at some point: the ‘should I’ or ‘shouldn’t I’ of past relationships. I’d never met a woman who hadn’t reached out to at least one of their exes, but I’d never done it. I preferred to remember why things ended and how reestablishing contact usually led to the guy getting the wrong idea about why the girl called him in the first place. Women had several different reasons for reconnecting, of course, but the main one? Closure. And I already had mine. So when I dialed his number and the phone started ringing in my ear, I was anything but prepared.

  “You still with the suit?” he said.

  “Hello to you too,” I said.

  “I didn’t know how long our conversation would be, so I thought I’d get the important part out of the way at the beginning.”