CHAPTER TWO
After dropping Jill off at the house, Alex broke more than one traffic law on his way to the Watson’s place. Halfway across the Aurora Bridge, he placed a quick call to Jackson, part of the missing child unit, to get permission to talk to Abby’s parents. Hanging up, he glided to a halt beside the curb and stepped off onto the cracked street.
For a moment, he thought about Jill. She’d be away all week on a business trip, and he hadn’t really said good-bye. He stuck a hand in the pocket of his favorite jeans and pulled out a cell phone, but before he had a chance to dial her number, the door swung open, and he found himself looking up into Abby’s stricken face. Alex’s heart skipped a beat.
How many times had he stood in this very spot waiting to see her? Now, here she was. Same petite build, same wavy blond hair, same bright blue eyes. She looked like a young Meg Ryan standing on the wide front porch in faded blue jeans and bare feet. The only thing missing was the playful glint in her eyes.
He pushed aside the conflicting emotions he felt. Too much time had passed. They’d both moved on. They were different people now.
“Hi, Abby,” he said at last. He climbed the stairs leading up to the Craftsman-style house. He slid the cell phone back into his pocket.
“Thanks for coming, Alex,” she said. Her soft voice sounded strained with worry. “Mom and Dad are waiting.”
Alex followed her inside with a growing sense of trepidation. The last time he’d set foot in this house was five years ago, when he’d called off their engagement. Now Abby’s little sister was missing, and he was here to help.
Joyce Watson sat hunched over the kitchen table, staring sightlessly at the cup of coffee in her hand. Her silver-blond hair was scraped back into a ponytail, and she looked up at Alex, red-rimmed eyes brimming with worry. This was not the Joyce Watson he remembered, the woman who met them at the door after school with lemonade and a smile. The grim expression on her face told him all he needed to know about her state of mind.
“Would you like some coffee, Alex?” Tom Watson asked. He leaned against the kitchen counter wearing a white T-shirt and a worn pair of jeans. Tom had aged significantly over the past half-decade. His hairline had retreated to a graying wreath that topped his ears, the steely hue matching the rugged stubble that shadowed his ruddy cheeks.
“No thanks,” he said.
He wanted to hug Joyce. She looked so small and so scared as she sat hunched in her chair. He wished there was some comfort he could offer. But that was no longer his place. Instead, he seated himself across from Joyce and met her watery gaze directly. She didn’t smile. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away. Alex pulled out his notebook and addressed the family.
“Tell me about Natalie. What did she do yesterday?”
Tom cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and started.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, really. She went for a bike ride and did some studying up in her room. Joyce and I left the house around three. We went shopping at University Village and met friends at Piatti’s for dinner. Natalie planned to stay over at a friend’s house. When she didn’t show up at work this morning, they called here.”
Tom paused and rubbed his creased forehead. His anxiety was palpable. “We called her friend. Natalie never made it to their house. When she didn’t arrive, they assumed her plans had changed. We didn’t know what to do, where to start looking.” Tom glanced at his wife. Joyce continued to stare at her coffee cup, as if an answer might be found in its dark depths.
Alex nodded, jotting a few notes about the timeline and events Tom provided. “What’s her friend’s name?”
“Emily Jenkins,” Joyce looked up as she answered, and her hand fluttered to her bloodless lips.
“Didn’t she think it was odd for Natalie not to call?”
Joyce angled her head to one side as she considered the question.
“Emily’s what you might call a free spirit. She doesn’t have the same rules at home that Natalie does.”
She looked like she wanted to say more, but she stopped herself. Alex jotted a few notes, careful to keep his expression neutral. That Natalie typically called, but hadn’t, made an impression. As a detective in the Seattle Police Department, he was privy to details about the most brutal child-abuse cases. Although it was not his area of expertise, the stories seemed to infiltrate the department at every level, making it hard for him to tune them out. Making it impossible for him to not worry about Natalie.
Alex looked up to find all eyes trained on him.
“Where does she work?”
“At the coffee shop a few blocks away.” Tom’s smile was bittersweet. “She’s saving up to buy a new bike.”
Alex nodded. He’d want to follow up with the people she worked with to learn more about Natalie’s habits. Was she reliable? Were there any customers who took a special interest in her?
He could feel Abby’s eyes on him. He glanced up quickly, and forced a reassuring smile.
“What did you do after you called Emily?”
Joyce picked up the thread of the story. Her voice, normally soft and soothing, crackled with emotion as she began.
“We called everyone we could think of—friends, work—but no one had seen her. By the time Abby arrived, we were half out of our heads with worry. We called you.” Alex could see tears clouding her eyes as she looked away.
“Does she have her cell phone with her?”
“We think so. It’s not in her room,” Tom said. “We tried calling her, but she’s not answering. We’ve left a dozen messages.”
Tom’s face had become a mask of stone. His skin had taken on a gray pallor. He watched his wife.
“Does Natalie have a boyfriend?” Alex asked, keeping his voice calm and even. The last thing he wanted to do was add to their worry. Without looking up, he could feel the magnetic pull of Abby’s gaze, and he avoided her stare.
“No,” Joyce responded quickly. “She’s sixteen and doesn’t date.”
The answer was definitive, typical of an overly protective parent. He wondered if it was accurate. Did Natalie have secrets she didn’t want to share? He remembered Abby at sixteen, and he felt pretty sure that there were a few things her parents didn’t know.
“Did you have an argument with Natalie last night? Is there any reason you can think of why she may not have come home?”
“No,” Tom said, shaking his head. “I wish there was.”
“May I see her room?” Alex asked, closing his notebook, his lips set in a grim line. He didn’t like where this was going. The hope that there was a simple explanation for Natalie’s whereabouts was fading fast. Her family was painting the picture of a responsible girl who did as she was told. So either Natalie was in the midst of a major teenaged rebellion or something significant had happened to her. Or maybe someone.
The room was neat, particularly for a high school kid, he thought as he examined it slowly, his eyes taking careful inventory of each small detail. Books crammed the shelves of the narrow bookcase, and more were stacked on the desk around her computer monitor. He scanned the titles. Natalie was an eclectic reader with a wide range of interests ranging from biographies to vampires to classic adventure stories.
“Is there anything missing? Clothes?” Alex asked, and Tom cleared his throat before answering.
“Not that we’ve noticed.” The members of the Watson family stood close together, clustered in the doorway, seeming to draw strength from each other’s nearness.
Alex noted the poster of Lance Armstrong from the Tour de France pinned to the wall above Natalie’s headboard.
“Where does she like to bike?”
“The Burke-Gilman Trail is her favorite for long rides,” Abby answered.
“Is her bike here?”
Both parents looked at each other in astonishment, as if each had assumed the other had already checked.
“I’ll take a look,” Abby offered and turned to descend the stairs.
&nbs
p; A few photographs were wedged into the edges of the corkboard above the desk, and he stepped closer to get a better look. One picture caught his eye. Natalie’s pretty smile beamed out from the snapshot. Her arm was wound around another girl’s shoulders. He noted that she was about the same age as Natalie, but that’s where the similarity ended. With a round face, heavy eyeliner circling her brown eyes, and dyed black hair, she had the look of a girl who had never seen the inside of a library. A small tattoo of a butterfly peeked out from beneath the neckline of her shirt. He wondered if her parents had authorized that little addition.
“Who’s that?” Alex gestured toward the picture of the two girls.
“That’s Emily Jenkins,” Joyce answered. “Natalie’s best friend. They’ve known each other since kindergarten.”
“The same girl she was supposed to visit yesterday?”
They nodded, and Alex continued to study the room.
“You mentioned that Natalie spends a lot of time on the computer. What does she do?” he asked with a growing sense of foreboding. As part of the cybercrimes unit, he had investigated his fair share of child-abduction cases, kids who had been lured by online predators to a dark underworld of sexual fantasy and abuse. Some of them came back to their homes to continue on with their lives, beginning a long journey to overcome their painful experiences. And some did not.
“Schoolwork, mostly. She emails her friends. Watches videos. Normal kid stuff.”
A small frown formed between Alex’s eyebrows, drawing them closer together. “Do you have any tracking software on your computer?”
“Tracking software?” Tom’s brow wrinkled.
“Some parents put it on their computers so they can see what their kids are doing online.”
Underneath the bushy moustache, Tom’s lips twitched, and he traded worried looks with Joyce.
“We trust Natalie.”
Alex nodded. He paused for a long moment, his eyes focused on the computer tower under her desk, mentally listing his next steps. He had tools he could use to track her online activities—email correspondence, websites she’d visited, chat rooms.
“If it’s all right with you, I’m going to take her computer with me.”
CHAPTER THREE
Jill Shannon sank slowly into the luxurious pile of pillows on the king-sized bed. Candlelight glimmered, reflecting off her long, bare legs. She smoothed down the red silk negligee as she waited.
It seemed like she spent half her life waiting. Waiting for Alex to come home from work. Waiting for the sparks between them to reignite. Once upon a time, their many differences drew them together, like yin and yang. Now it seemed they barely knew each other. Alex was never home. And when he was, they didn’t talk. She didn’t understand his slavish devotion to duty. He didn’t understand her drive, her ambition. They spoke different languages.
Jill took a sip of champagne, savoring the dry, crisp taste.
Well, she was done waiting. She was ready for some action.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted her musings and brought her to her feet in a smooth, fluid motion. Her pulse began to race. With a few graceful strides, she crossed the room. Jill smiled as she swung open the door and found him leaning against the door jamb.
Jamie King was without a doubt one of the sexiest men she had ever met. Salt-and-pepper hair, ice-blue eyes, average height. In his early forties, he was in top condition. Today he was dressed casually in a long-sleeved white linen shirt and dark jeans.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside the room without a word, his kiss hot on her lips. With nimble fingers, she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders.
Jamie looked down, his eyes taking a meticulous inventory from her long glossy hair down to her scarlet-painted toenails.
“My, my, aren’t you the little vixen?” he asked in his crisp British accent. His hands ran down her bare shoulders and back, gripping her silk-clad hips.
“I was just thinking about you.”
“Good thoughts, I trust?”
“Very bad, actually.”
She brushed against him and stretched up on her toes, nuzzling his rough cheek. She breathed in his scent—warm leather and soap—as she trailed hungry kisses down his throat.
“Where did you find this naughty number?” he asked, with a playful smile.
She loved his accent, and how it could make even the corniest lines sound sexy.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she whispered in his ear, grazing her lips lightly along the length of his throat. He chuckled softly.
“Ah, bought it for your husband. I see.”
Jamie grabbed the hem of the negligee. He pulled it up over her head in a smooth, fluid motion, and tossed it carelessly aside. His mouth lowered to hers, smothering her response.
Desire simmered hot through her veins. His hands blazed fiery trails across her skin. Breathing hard, she pulled away and gazed up into his face. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes glittered in the dim light. A need, sharp and hot, jolted through her.
“I’ve been waiting. Where were you?”
Jamie backed her up toward the bed, his hand skimming past her waist to cup her breast. Jill groaned as his fingers closed over her nipple, tugging hard before shoving her back. She fell onto the mattress. Her dark hair fanned out across the creamy sheets. She looked up. In the flickering candlelight, she saw his wicked grin.
“You’re certainly not the patient kind, are you, Jill? Maybe that’s why I like to keep you waiting. I like the pot simmering when I get here.”
He shed his clothes and finally bent over to kiss her. She felt the scorching heat of his lips brand her. Cupping his neck with her hand, she pulled him closer. Jamie resisted, though, suspended above her, content to prolong the moment as his fingers and lips played across her body. Slow. Teasing.
She moaned in frustration. She was done waiting. She wanted him.
Jill wound a leg around both of his and heaved against his shoulder. Set off balance, Jamie flipped onto the mattress. He looked up, electric-blue eyes wide in surprise. Jill straddled him, smiling sweetly down into his face. His breath quickened. He gripped her hips and guided her into position.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” she said, sinking slowly along the length of him, savoring each delicious sensation rippling through her.
“I can see that.”
Jamie’s grip tightened. He arched his hips and thrust deep inside her, and Jill forgot everything else.
Stretched out face-down on the sheets, Jill opened her eyes slowly as she surveyed the hotel room. Clothes were strewn across the Berber carpet in a trail that began just past the doorway with Jamie’s shirt and ended a foot from the bed, where the silky negligee lay, discarded in a pool of red satin. She turned her head to one side, a lazy smile slanted across her lips.
“Well, that was as good as advertised,” she sighed.
“Right. Customer service is our number-one priority, ma’am,” Jamie said as he reclined against the pillows, the sheet folded at his waist. She rolled over on her side facing him, legs stretched out, with only her feet tucked under the covers. The bare curves of her body were exposed to the air, allowing her velvety skin to cool. If she were a cat, she’d be purring right now.
Jill felt the warmth of his gaze on her as she met his blue eyes with a sated smile. He ran a finger across the jagged, two-inch line on the side of her neck, scar tissue raised against the soft skin surrounding it.
“Remind me again how you got that,” he said, retracting his hands and folding them behind his head.
Jill swung her hair around her shoulders, hiding the scar from view. “Missed the jugular by inches,” she remembered the doctor telling her stepfather, whose stony expression revealed no hint of emotion. No relief. No hatred. Just a yawning blank emptiness that stretched between them. A few inches to the right and her name would have been added to the headstone, alongside those of her mother and brother.
Feeling a chill, sh
e rolled onto her flat belly, breaking eye contact.
Over the years, she had concocted a number of stories about how she had gotten the scar. All plausible. All entertaining. All a safe distance from the truth. After so many years, she almost believed them. But for some reason she didn’t care to define, she told Jamie the truth. The short version of it, anyway. Free from the crunching of metal and her mother’s scream, followed by the profound silence of falling snow.
“Car accident when I was a kid.”
“How old were you?” he asked.
Jill averted her gaze. She didn’t want to think about the accident, or the years that followed. Some things were best forgotten. She had spent those years learning how to forget. That’s the problem with telling the truth. One question led to another and then …
Reaching out, she pulled the leather-bound menu off the nightstand and opened it.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, chin propped on her fist, abruptly changing the subject. Jamie let it drop.
“Not really. You?”
Relieved he didn’t press, she said, “Starving. I’m ordering room service. Would you like anything?”
“Not me.” He shifted to the side of the bed and pulled on his boxer shorts. She glanced up when she heard the jingle of his belt buckle just in time to see Jamie slide his dark jeans over his lean hips.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” she asked, a seductive smile drifting across her face. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stay.” He picked the linen shirt up off of the floor and buttoned it.
“What do you mean?” she asked, dropping the menu and pulling her knees up to her chest. “It’s still early. Why don’t you stay and finish the champagne at least?”
“Not tonight. I need to prepare for a meeting with the executive team. It’s been a mad week, so I’ve not been able to get to it.” Jamie sat back down on the edge of the bed and pulled on his socks.
“You know what they say, ‘All work and no play makes Jamie a dull boy,’” she said, grinning playfully and tugging gently at the back of his shirt. The banter was part of their routine, one of the best things about being with Jamie. He was smart and witty. But tonight he was not engaging with her in quite the same way. She could feel it, as if there had been some subtle shift in the landscape between them. His lively edge was sorely lacking.
Deadly Lies Page 2