by Stacy Finz
“Yep,” he said. “Someone’s gotta hold down the fort.”
Emily still hadn’t seen the place, but didn’t mention it, knowing that the development held bad memories for Clay. “Well, congratulations.” She couldn’t help but ask, “You hear anything from Lina? I know you two became buddies when she was working this summer at the Lumber Baron.”
He grinned in silent acknowledgment that she had kept his confidence. “She calls from time to time. Sounds like she’s liking school.”
“That’s what Maddy says.” Emily wondered if he missed her, or if the crush had burned out. Her eyes went to the barbershop. “Did you buy one of Colin’s rockers? Aren’t they amazing?”
“I wanted something for my deck and they’re pretty killer,” he said. “Listen, I’ve gotta get going, but good seeing you. Don’t forget, you still owe me a dinner.”
Clay stepped in. “We’ll have you over sometime,” he said proprietarily.
Apparently they were entertaining together now. At least Justin and Cody seemed oblivious to the undertones of the exchange, too preoccupied with watching a couple of kids play Frisbee on the corner of the square.
“Why don’t you join them?” Clay suggested to the boys. “I think those are Grace and Earl’s grandkids up for the weekend. Go introduce yourselves.”
The boys dutifully crossed the green. As soon as they were out of earshot, Emily mimicked, “We’ll have you over sometime?”
“I thought the kid was getting a little suggestive with you. Just wanted to let him know that you’re taken.”
Suggestive?
Clay ordered two ears of corn, which the proprietor slathered with mayonnaise, chili powder, and Cotija cheese. She took a big bite so she wouldn’t have to respond. The idea of her belonging to Clay McCreedy thrilled her in a visceral way. But she wasn’t quite ready to contemplate the implications of what it meant. If she was reading it right, he’d just made a declaration that he wanted to take the relationship to the next level.
Donna barged in on them before Emily could think any more about it. In her signature high heels, she came teetering across the grass. “How’s the wine-country book going?”
“Really well,” Emily said. “It’s nice dealing with professionals. And this deadline is thankfully realistic.”
“You doing a shoot for this one too?” For all her complaining about the high-maintenance Della James, Donna had loved being Emily’s styling assistant. She pretended that it was all about earning the extra money, but in Emily’s mind, Donna had missed her calling as a professional handler.
“Probably, but it’ll be in the Napa Valley.” Since that was the book’s theme. “If so, you game?”
“Count me in,” Donna said, flickering a glance over Clay’s arm, which was idly draped over Emily’s shoulder. Something caught her attention, making her look past them. “Uh-oh, here comes trouble.”
Emily turned around to see Lauren approaching them. With her hair falling in waves, wearing tight jeans, tall riding boots, and a fitted jacket, she looked like she’d just walked off a Town & Country cover.
“I thought that was you,” she said, addressing only Clay.
“How you doin’, Lauren?”
“Great, except for you haven’t been returning my calls. I was hoping we could get together while I’m here for the weekend.”
Hello, Emily wanted to say. Do you not see me standing here? I’m the one sagging under Clay’s arm.
Clay cleared his throat. “Would you ladies excuse us for a minute?” He didn’t wait for a yes or no, just pulled Lauren off to a secluded patch of grass.
“Oh, to be a fly,” Donna said, craning her neck to get a better look. “I wish I’d learned to read lips.”
Emily chuckled. “Am I like totally invisible?” She still couldn’t get over how Lauren had completely disregarded her.
“Of course not. She immediately sussed the situation with you and Clay. Ignoring you was her way of getting in a little dig. By the way, what exactly is the situation with you two?”
“It’s complicated. We have kids to think about. What are they doing?” Emily didn’t want to get caught snooping, but Donna had no such qualms.
“Clay’s talking. She’s invading his personal space.” Donna shielded her eyes from the sun to get a better look. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Lines out of control at the Bun Boy. I’ve gotta go bust some heads.” Emily watched her totter back across the grass, then went looking for a Dumpster to throw away her corn cob.
Over by a garbage can near the Lumber Baron she ran into Maddy’s brother, Nate. She’d only met him once at Shep’s funeral reception, but he had a city sheen that made him hard to forget in Nugget.
“How’s it going?” He bobbed his head at her in a pair of three-hundred-dollar Oakleys. Emily knew because she’d bought the same pair of sunglasses for Drew, and was heartened to know they were still in style.
“Good. You up for the weekend?”
“The whole week,” he said. “Maddy has some doctor appointments and without Lina, we’re down an employee. You know of anyone looking for a reservationist job?”
“No, but I’ll spread the word.”
“Thanks. I wanted to talk to you about a cookbook idea.”
“Yeah?” She got that a lot. For some reason people were of the notion that writers were short on ideas.
“I own a hotel management group in San Francisco. A good many of our places have critically acclaimed chefs. We were thinking of putting together a collection of the group’s best recipes to sell in our gift shops. We’d just publish the thing ourselves. But I’m looking to hire someone who can pull it together. If you wouldn’t be interested, maybe you know someone who is?”
Okay, this was actually an idea worth exploring. “I’d be interested.” She’d have to talk to Marge, of course, but ajob was a job.
“You have a business card on you?”
Emily searched her purse and supplied one. “I’m finishing up a project for Le Petit Déjeuner and am editing a wine-country cookbook, but by December my calendar should free up.”
“I’m not in any rush, but it would be nice to have it out in time for the summer tourism season. These are upscale hotels, so we’d want a pretty slick book.”
“Depending on how much you want to spend, I have a good photographer and know several wonderful designers.”
“Great. Then I’ll be in touch.” He held up the card. “Hey, Clay.”
“Nate.” Clay came up behind Emily and slipped his hands around her waist.
She twisted around so she could see him. “Hi.”
“What was that about?” He watched Nate go inside the Lumber Baron.
“He may want me to do a cookbook for his hotel group.”
“That’s good, I guess. But when are you doing your own book?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to do the one I told you about—the Sierra Mountains Cookbook.”
“Yeah?” He nuzzled her neck. “Good for you.”
“How did things go with Lauren?”
“It went,” he said. “Sorry about that. It was my fault. I should’ve communicated with her better. But it’s done now.”
“Okay,” she said, and left it that.
On Monday, Clay had just gotten back from dropping the boys off at school when Rhys came whizzing up the driveway in his Nugget PD SUV. Clay expected him to stop, but Rhys kept going, not even bothering to wave. The only things up that road were chickens, horses, cows, and Emily.
He took the trail to the barn at a run and got there in time to meet Rhys at the door. “What’s going on?”
Rhys never got the chance to answer because Emily came to the door, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Hi.”
“May I come in?” Rhys asked a little too formally for Clay’s peace of mind.
“Of course. I’ve got a pot of coffee on. Either of you interested?”
Rhys blew out a breath. “Emily, I’
ve got some news.”
She stopped midway to the kitchen, and Clay watched her face go chalk white. “Oh God.”
“Let’s sit down in here.” Rhys found a place on the couch and motioned for Emily to do the same. “I think it would be good if Clay stayed. Is that all right?”
She nodded, and Clay guided her to a seat. He’d always thought the front room was a good size, made to feel even larger by the open ceilings, but suddenly the space felt claustrophobic.
“Palo Alto police called me this morning,” Rhys said, and he saw Emily flinch. “They’ve been in contact with the warden at San Quentin about a man named Douglas Allen Fairbanks . . . You recognize that name?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar,” Emily said, her hands tucked under her legs. Clay thought it was to keep them from shaking.
“Two years ago he received the death penalty for murdering four women. The case got a lot of publicity because police believed that he and a partner killed at least ten others, but were never able to prove it.”
Rhys got up. “Emily, I’m gonna get you a glass of water. Clay?”
“I’m good,” he said.
Rhys went into the kitchen and returned with both water and a cup of coffee. He placed both on the coffee table in front of Emily. “Fairbanks has been talking to a reporter. He claims that he and Robert Manski—the two are known as the Interstate Killers—murdered fourteen others and has agreed to show authorities where the bodies are buried.”
On the same part of the couch as before, Rhys took his seat. He swallowed and reached for Emily’s hand. “He claims one of those victims is Hope.”
Emily let out a high-pitched whimper. Pain. Shock. The sound reminded Clay of a dog that had once gotten itself hopelessly tangled in barbed wire, yelping a bloodcurdling cry before it died.
“Why?” Clay asked angrily. “Why all of a sudden is this guy confessing? How do we know it’s not a load of crap?”
“It very well could be,” Rhys said, directing his answer to Emily. “It’s happened before. A lot of these guys want attention, leniency, or both, and will say anything to get it. But two weeks ago, Manski hanged himself in his cell and left a note that seems to corroborate some of what Fairbanks is now saying.
“Although Manski didn’t leave the names of their victims, Fairbanks is willing to give them up for twenty-five thousand dollars. He says he needs the money to buy his father a hearing aid.”
“Does he have any proof about Hope?” Emily asked in a shaky voice, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Clay got up to find her some tissues.
“The police believe he knows information about the case that has never been released.”
“Like what?” Emily demanded.
Rhys blew out another breath, and for a second closed his eyes. “That she had on Cinderella underpants.”
“Oh God,” she said.
Clay handed her a wad of toilet paper, pulled her into his arms, rocking her back and forth. “No more,” he ordered.
“No, I need to know. Please, Rhys.”
At first Rhys hesitated, because even for a career cop this had to be difficult. When at last he proceeded, he was methodical and matter-of-fact. “He knew that she had a birthmark on her right hip bone and that she was expecting her father to bring her rock candy when he returned home from his business trip.”
Clay could feel Emily’s whole body shudder as she silently wept into his chest. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. He wanted to wrap his hands around this son-of-a-bitch Fairbanks’s throat and choke the life out of him. Hope had been just a little girl.
“Emily,” Rhys said. “I’ve just started going through the thousands of news clips and am floored by how many details of your daughter’s life were released. I haven’t even touched the TV footage, yet I know what kind of cereal she ate, her favorite cartoon, and that she was allergic to raspberries. What I’m trying to say is that there is no way on earth for investigators to know everything that was publicized. And this Fairbanks is a crafty psychopath. He’s had two years to do nothing but read and memorize.”
She clung to Clay’s shirt and asked, “What happens now?”
“Tomorrow the police and FBI take Fairbanks on a field trip to the alleged grave site.”
“Will you go?”
“I asked,” he said. “But I have no jurisdiction. The Interstate Killers operated along the I-5 corridor, between Tracy and the Oregon border, nowhere near Plumas County. Tomorrow’s expedition is sure to be circus enough without gratuitous law enforcement.”
“Then why Palo Alto? It’s not even in that geographical area.” Emily asked exactly what Clay was thinking.
Rhys cleared his throat. “Fairbanks had an aunt who lived a quarter mile from your house.”
God, it just kept getting worse. Clay pulled Emily into a hug, trying to reassure her, but she pulled out of the embrace.
He could see her screwing up her courage when she asked, “Did he say what he did to her? Did he say whether my baby was in pain when she died?”
Rhys’s gaze dropped to his shoes. “He didn’t say.” When he lifted his eyes, they met with Clay’s and a silent message was conveyed.
“But, Emily, the press is aware of what’s going on. My office has been fielding calls all morning from reporters looking for you. It won’t be long before they show up here.”
She shut her eyes and nodded. “Oh God, Drew. I have to call Drew.”
Rhys glanced at his watch. “He’s being briefed right now. Look, I’m not exactly in the loop on this, but I’ll do my best to keep you informed up to the minute. In the meantime, you might want to come up with a game plan for the press, maybe designate a spokesperson, or you don’t have to talk at all. It’s entirely up to you.”
“What do you think I should do?” she asked Clay.
Clay looked at Rhys. “How much time do we have?”
Rhys dug out his cell phone and hit speed dial. “Hey, Connie.” When Rhys hung up, he said, “There are already four satellite trucks on the square.”
On his way out, Rhys signaled for Clay to follow him. They stood on the front porch, Rhys’s hands tucked in the pockets of his Blauer police jacket. Despite ample sunshine, the air had turned nippy.
“This could all turn out to be bullshit,” Rhys said. “But no question it’s gonna be a circus and poor Emily is stuck in the middle. The feds are already wetting themselves to take over the case. If there really are as many bodies as this asshole says, it’ll be huge. And if one of them is Hope . . . Ah, Jesus.”
He leaned against the wall as if to prop up all the pounds of worry weighing him down. No one bringing their first baby into the world, even a former jaded Houston narcotics detective, could be immune.
“Every jurisdiction involved is leaking shit to the press.” Rhys sighed. “At this point, the media know a hell of a lot more than I do. But I don’t think Emily should get her information from them, not before it’s been vetted for accuracy. Otherwise, it’ll turn her inside out. So try to keep her away from the reporters.”
“Yeah, okay.” Clay nodded. “Level with me, Rhys. You think this guy is telling the truth?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. These types are narcissists who like to mess with people and make headlines. Most of the Interstate Killers’ victims were prostitutes, hitchhikers, and runaways—not as splashy as a six-year-old whose big blue eyes and toothy smile lit up the front page of newspapers, tabloids, and the six o’clock news. We just have to wait and see.”
Emily had been waiting four nightmarish years to find her daughter. Clay supposed that even though it would be torture, she could wait a little longer. But the real irony was that even if this turned out to be a hoax, Emily would be no better off than she was before. Hope would still be missing—her fate unknown.
Chapter 23
By the time Rhys returned to the square, Connie’s satellite van count had multiplied. Nearly every parking space was taken by a vehicle he didn’t recognize. S
ome of them had the logos of news organizations.
He pulled into his designated spot and before he could get out of the driver’s seat, reporters swarmed him.
“Chief, does Emily Mathews know yet?” one of them shouted, while some of the others stuck microphones in his face.
“Hey, guys, would ya at least let me out of my car?”
A few of them backed up and for a cowardly second, Rhys considered running for the police station and locking the door.
But a chorus of “Chief, what can you tell us?” stopped him; he knew these folks weren’t going to let up until they got their sound bite.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna do this one time and one time only. Nugget PD is a small department, so I’ve got plenty of work to do.”
“Wait,” said one of the reporters as a piece of white paper was shoved in front of Rhys’s face. “Give us a second to set up and do a sound check.”
Rhys tapped his watch. “While I’m young.”
Some of the merchants wandered out of their shops and onto the square to watch. A cameraman signaled that they were ready and told Rhys to speak into a cluster of microphones.
“About an hour ago I notified Ms. Emily Mathews that Douglas Allen Fairbanks, a convicted serial killer on San Quentin’s death row, has confessed to kidnapping her daughter four years ago in Palo Alto, California,” Rhys said, sticking to the basics as if he were reading from a press release. “I told her that Mr. Fairbanks has agreed to show authorities where he and his partner, Robert Manski, buried her body along with thirteen others. I also informed Ms. Mathews that it’s not uncommon for serial killers to boast about crimes they didn’t commit. That’s it, folks. That’s all I’ve got.”
“What was her reaction?” someone in the back of the crowd asked.
“What do you think it was?”
“Does this mean she’s now been cleared as a suspect?” a blond woman with a lot of makeup asked.
“According to my information, Ms. Matthews has never been a suspect. Early on in the investigation she was a person of interest, as are most family members. Investigators, however, soon dismissed any connection between Hope’s disappearance and her parents.”