“Sounds like you mean that, Frank. It’s weird, but it sounds like you mean it.”
“Then just let me say, for the record, I woulda done the same thing about Maginty’s money if you were ugly. The guy was a prick.”
“I think you would have.” Missy took another long sip. “I admire that. And, yes, Ed Maginty is a prick. But I did take his money.”
“You said he deserved it.”
“He owed it.”
“You said he shorted you . . . for babysitting.”
“He shorted me all right.” She shifted her gaze away. “Anyway, I came to the Snack Shack every day, spent time alone with a guy who could have done anything to me. There was nobody around for miles. You know what that makes you, Frank?”
“Stupid?”
“Trustworthy. After a while, I came there because it felt safe. At first I figured I was playing with fire.” Missy’s strawberry lips flattened and she wrapped her hand loosely around the neck of the beer bottle. “That first night, I thought you’d knock me unconscious, drag me off to the woods, and rape me. Maybe something worse. From there, you could have hopped on the next freight train.”
“Damn. Is that what you think of me?”
“I think I’ve never met anyone like you. Not in Surrey.” Missy’s gaze drifted, landing on the crotch of his jeans. “Works, doesn’t it? I mean, it didn’t get shot off or anything?”
“My life moved beyond a fast fuck a hundred years ago. Between war and my wife . . . it’s just not the first thing I think about anymore.” Frank grabbed the Rolling Rock from her and downed a long, needed mouthful. “I guess my thoughts don’t fit the norm. But, yeah, it works.”
She seemed confounded. Then she laughed. “I’ve never heard a man say that—that their life had moved beyond a fast fuck.”
Frank thought about asking how many conversations she’d had on the subject with how many men, but he assumed she meant universally, as if comparing him to the standard she’d seen in movies or read in trashy romance novels. “It’s not that it isn’t a thought. It just wasn’t my first one.” A sticky silence wove between them, like fly tape. Missy peeled herself away by taking a turn around the room.
“Do you think you’ll be comfortable here?”
“I’d be more comfortable if I knew what’s in this for you?”
She stopped, piling her blond locks on top of her head, spinning once, and letting her hair fall. “Maybe I like rooting for the underdog. Maybe I’m anti-establishment. Maybe I’m just fascinated by a guy who doesn’t fit the norm. Can we leave it there for now?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Have another beer, Frank. We’ll get around to what I want.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Present Day
The Surrey City Press conference room served as a mini command center. In it, Aubrey and Kim sifted through what seemed like endless Missy Flannigan files. The last box finally hit the table. “I think,” Kim said, “we are on the verge of documenting that there’s zero proof of Missy inheriting that car from an uncle.”
“And there won’t be any in this box.” Aubrey lifted a bundle of bound pages. “It’s the transcript of Frank Delacort’s original statement.”
“Why even bother looking at it? Unless, of course, nobody ever noticed that the homeless, penniless army vet mentioned buying Missy a car.”
Aubrey half smiled, skimming through the lengthy statement. Kim was right. No surprises. There was only Frank’s adamant insistence that he was innocent. His admission that Missy offered him shelter. The claim that she was injured and that Frank had come to Missy’s aid the day she went missing. Aubrey sat on the edge of the conference room table, murmuring, “Why, Frank, do I get the distinct impression that this isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the truth either?”
“You and Levi really believe there’s more to Missy’s story, don’t you?”
Aubrey looked up from the transcript. “Yes,” she said. “We do.”
“Well, do you also agree that the source of that car isn’t here?”
“Yes,” she said, dropping the file back in the carton. “And I’d thought as much yesterday.” Aubrey scanned the rows of vetted boxes, her next thought testing her real reporter skills. “So I made a phone call to a contact inquiring about Missy’s car. It’s a long shot, but an idea.”
“Wow, look at you.” Kim massaged her neck, stretching it from side to side. “The sleuthing reporter on a fact-finding mission. Sounds to me, Ellis,” she said mockingly, “like Levi is having his way with you.”
Aubrey wriggled her nose. “Excuse me?”
Kim laughed. “You have to admit, this is a change from your gentle home portrait pieces.”
“Real estate might not be riveting, but I run a valuable slice of the Surrey City Press.” Aubrey sat up taller, her mood bristling. “And, trust me, there’s more to those house stories than makes print.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect to the home portrait feature. I just never realized your penchant for hard news.” Kim waved her hand at their thorough, albeit fruitless effort. “That and you deserve a medal or extra vacation days for putting up with Levi.”
“He’s not so fierce.” Aubrey thought harder about her reporting partner. “Maybe a little fierce. Blunt, for sure. But underneath the buttoned-up exterior, I don’t think he’s had the easiest go of it.”
“Seriously? Unbutton him—which I think Bebe would still like to do—and I doubt you’ll find anything but an ice sculpture.”
“Probably.” Aubrey placed the lid back on the last carton. Her gaze caught on her healed index finger. She ran her thumb gently over it. “Maybe.” In between working on the Missy Flannigan case, Aubrey had mulled over the scent of seawater, the young man’s voice that had rolled in on a wave. The smell of burnt wood and the disturbing taste of whiskey. None of it had reoccurred since their dinner at the Chinese restaurant. It seemed as though Levi’s close-mindedness, combined with her practiced guard, was enough to ward off whoever had wanted in on his behalf. “Anyway,” she said to Kim, “the sooner we solve the mystery of Missy Flannigan, the quicker we send Levi back to his usual haunt. Besides, none of this is about how famously Levi and I get along, is it?”
“No. I suppose it isn’t.” At the sound of a male voice, the women turned to find their subject in the doorway.
“Levi. We didn’t see you,” Kim said, popping to her feet.
“I gathered as much.” Silence filtered through, but Aubrey didn’t flinch. The thought wasn’t harsh but true. Levi, of all people, should be able to grasp that. “I just spoke with Detective Espinosa. The ME’s report came back. The skeletal remains are Missy’s.”
“Wow,” Kim said, slumping back onto the table’s edge. “Shouldn’t be, but there’s a shock factor in confirmation.” She headed for the door. “I’ll go man my battle station. National media will be all over any update.”
“That’s good thinking, Kim,” Levi said. “Your work, liaising between us and national media, has been quite effective.”
“Uh, thanks . . .” She exchanged a curious glance with Aubrey as she left.
“And how goes your and Kim’s fact-finding mission?”
Instead of friendly co-worker, Aubrey heard stiffness, the all-business demeanor with which Levi had arrived. It annoyed her. Not so much the tone, but his ruffled feelings—or that she’d noticed them. Robotic Levi was easier to negotiate. She stayed on task. “In this room, there’s nothing to confirm the source of Missy’s car. Whether she inherited it or, just maybe, Dustin Byrd bought it for her.”
“Not terribly surprising.” Levi’s meditative gaze wandered the cardboard trail, making its way to Aubrey. “What do you mean ‘in this room’?”
His astuteness never faltered. “I know you’re skeptical of a Missy-Dustin romance. But I had a vague lead, so I pursued it.�
�
“What sort of lead?”
“A connection to Missy’s car via one of my homeowners. Remember the Stallworth house I told you about?”
“I remember the stubborn old man who didn’t want to move.”
“Uh, that’s right,” she said, dodging Jerry Stallworth’s postmortem state. “During our conversation, Mr. Stallworth mentioned that his daughter, Kitty, had a lot of years invested at the DMV. The DMV has access to all sorts of old registration records.”
“So you’re betting a stranger will go digging for decades-old information? Rather unlikely, don’t you think?”
“Ordinarily, I’d agree. But while I was at the Stallworth house, I came across . . . I found something of value that belonged to Kitty. I returned it. She was extremely grateful. In fact,” she said, folding her arms, “Kitty sent the flowers on my desk. The gesture, while ostentatious, was a good measure of her gratitude.”
“The flowers were from Kitty,” he said, his head bobbing. “Interesting. And so you took advantage of the woman’s appreciativeness by using her to do some DMV fishing. Ellis, that’s . . .”
She tensed. “Too underhanded?”
“I was going to say ingenious. What did you find out?”
“Nothing yet. I was hoping to hear something today.”
“At least it keeps the ball rolling. But we do need to decide our next move. Confirmation of Missy’s body will weigh heavily in Delacort’s favor. A judge won’t have any choice but to cut him loose, not if they intend to charge Dustin Byrd.”
“But there’s still no motive. No hard connection between Missy and Dustin.”
“No, there’s not. But imagine the headline if we could produce one. So if you hear from Kitty, let me know.”
“Sure. And I can hang around for a while. I already asked Inez if she’d mind staying late.”
“Sounds good.” Levi glanced at his watch. This one was newer, all silver metal. No leather band. No glint. There was no reference to anything but the time. “I’ll be in my office. But I can’t stay too long. I have a, uh . . . thing later.”
“I missed lunch,” Aubrey said. “Did you want to get quick takeout?”
“Can’t,” he said, backing out the door. Aubrey followed. “The thing later, it’s kind of a dinner.”
“Fair enough. Are you courting the DA or Detective Espinosa?” Levi’s work focus was nonstop. “I doubt drinks will sway Espinosa into divulging anything. But you might have better luck with Marvin Kitteridge. I hear Surrey’s sitting DA is susceptible to a few libations.”
“Actually, it doesn’t have anything to do with the Flannigan story,” Levi said, still moving. “It’s a dinner date.”
They both stopped. Apparently, Levi St John did have a social life. “Right . . . sure. You’d kind of said that. Sorry, I just assumed . . .”
“That I slept here?”
“Of course not. Well, maybe on weeknights.”
“But if you’re hungry, feel free to order something. You know where the menus are.”
“Me? Nah, I’m fine,” Aubrey said. “I might have plans later myself. I should hear from Owen anytime,” she said, picking up her phone and glancing at the blank screen.
“I take it the marital reconciliation is underway.”
Aubrey touched the traffic jam of studs that lined her ear. “We’re working on it.” She put the phone down and folded her arms. “Owen’s just been delayed . . . business. Serious business.”
“You said that he designed computer security systems.”
“Right . . . designs, implements. Actually, he’s kind of a computer genius.”
“Is that a job description or more of a specific title?”
She rolled her eyes. “The network security he designs is super high tech, custom. It’s a lot of responsibility. It also keeps him on the move.”
“So you mentioned.”
“Did I?”
“Yes—when you were defending him at the Chinese restaurant. But clearly I’m not the one who has to be convinced.”
“I told you, Owen’s hesitation wasn’t about us, it was about leaving a job that also required a serious commitment.”
“Right,” he said, holding up a hand. “I remember. I couldn’t possibly understand the issues involved.”
Levi’s ability to find her last nerve and stomp on it was remarkable. “You know, if I thought you had any capacity to understand the whole situation, I might confide—”
Levi’s phone interrupted. “I have to take this—Detective Espinosa,” he said. “I’ll be here until about seven.”
He left the room. It was just as well. Personal conversation had hijacked any work-related atmosphere. Again, Levi was annoyingly on point. Aubrey sighed, leaning against the edge of the conference room table. She needed to hang on to the truth: the marital rift between her and Owen had been a test—wisdom they’d pass along to their children someday, the story they’d reminisce about on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Reconciliation was about believing that Owen was ready to commit to one job and a permanent address. And why not? From the moment they’d met, he’d seemed so sure about the life he wanted.
Owen Kennedy hadn’t grown up in a carnival, but his childhood had been as unorthodox as Aubrey’s. His mother was the CEO of a large pharmaceutical company. He’d never known his father. Aubrey had been amazed by that, as she at least had vague memories of her own. The story went that Owen was the product of a medical convention experiment—his mother had carefully selected the gene pool with no regard to a specific candidate. But apparently she’d been more intrigued by the idea of producing a child than raising one. She’d been a cursory parent, supplying her son with a childhood of travel and nannies and five-star hotels.
From their first conversation forward, Owen had been as committed as Aubrey to the idea of a mortgage and a landline. Buying his Boston loft was a huge step in that direction, something Owen had surprised Aubrey with a week before their wedding. But the trendy space had never felt like home. That’s when she suggested a house in Surrey—a town that stood out from her own nontraditional childhood.
Owen had been wholly on board, enamored with ideas about lawn mowing and backyard barbecues, even children to fill the spare bedrooms. Fate lent a serendipitous hand when their realtor showed them the Arts & Crafts home on Homestead Road. With a little paint, it’d be perfect. And while Aubrey took a turn around the vintage but charming kitchen, the realtor also told her about an opening at the Surrey City Press. Owen and Aubrey couldn’t have been happier. But their grounded life began to quake not long after the new paint had dried and the lawn mower had barely been used. The first hint of unrest came when Owen stalled, refusing to sell the Boston loft. It had led to loud arguments about her husband choosing to stay in the city after a business trip. “Come on, Bre. You’re being unreasonable,” he’d said. “It was a six-hour flight after a twelve-hour day . . . And I’m leaving again tomorrow afternoon.” Part of their plan had been the mutual agreement that Owen would accept a permanent position close to home. Last she’d checked he was still living a freelance life, moving from country to country faster than a FedEx delivery.
The final straw had come for Aubrey when she’d received a message from her husband via Nicole Lewis—a like-minded assistant Owen employed when the workload got too crazy. She was polite but direct, wanting to know if Aubrey could run into Boston and grab the USB drive he’d forgotten and get it to Madrid by the next morning. When Aubrey told the girl what Owen could do with his USB drive, the shy Nicole was flummoxed, replying, “Uh, okay. I’ll pass that along . . .”
Aubrey supposed Owen’s last straw had come a few months before that, when he finally learned about her extraordinary gift. Her secret had tumbled out by accident, crushing them like snow from an avalanche.
Standing in the conference room now, Aubrey swallowed do
wn the memory as if it were a bitter pill. The troupe’s old master of ceremonies, Carmine, had stopped by Charley’s apartment to visit, the moment innocent and impromptu. Owen and Aubrey were there as well, putting on a good show for Sunday dinner. Charley had grown suspicious as to why her granddaughter always seemed to be home alone. In the midst of casual conversation, Carmine was quick to assume that Aubrey’s husband was privy to her gift. Information veered out of control before she or Charley could stop it. Owen’s fair complexion blanched before turning fiery red. Aubrey was left with no choice but to fill in the blanks. She’d never seen her husband so upset—not even when defending his on-the-go life.
A shouting match had accompanied them back to the craftsman. “Are you serious?” he’d yelled. “Just make me understand how you could keep something like this from me!” Once home, he’d grabbed his pillow from the bed and a blanket from the linen closet. “I’m sleeping in the guest room. Jesus, Bre, that’s just creepy . . . freakish.” From there things had unraveled like a runaway spool of thread. Owen’s travel schedule amped up, which was his response to dealing with the news of her gift. And it wasn’t necessarily the way he’d found out—though certainly the timing couldn’t have been worse. Their rift was more about his stunned reaction, insisting that his wife’s need to hide the truth only proved her own farce: a normal life was never anything more than an impossible dream.
Aubrey wrapped her arms tight around herself. She felt small against the backdrop of the cavernous conference room. The irony was laughable; a gift that kept her so in demand had left Aubrey utterly alone. She needed to fix that. And now, with Owen’s change of heart, it would happen. She’d been right about what she said to Levi. Owen needed time to grasp her gift, to realize what she already knew—they belonged together. Maybe, before long, Owen would move back into the house on Homestead Road. Life would go on as they’d planned. Aubrey picked up her phone, which sat on the table. She reread Owen’s last text; it encouraged renewed hope. Done ASAP, I swear. If not I’ll blow my own damn firewall and pull a Robin Hood with the client’s 800-mil. Aubrey smiled, brushing her fingertip over the two hearts at the end of his message. He’d made the initiative; that was huge. For the moment it would have to be enough.
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