The man’s eyes opened wide, and he stood up. He was tall and had Brody by three or four inches. He was dressed in a plaid wool coat that had seen better days two decades ago. His hair was a knotted mess of silver, both on the top of his head and on his face.
The shiver that laced down Brody’s spine was involuntarily, but he fought the urge to curl his lips. Hygiene was one thing Brody held sacred.
“We’ve got a car over there.” Brody jacked a thumb over his shoulder toward the Hyundai. He never took his eyes off the man, despite the overwhelming desire to do just that. “Did you see when it was left there?”
The man was walking away.
“Hey, get back here.” Brody followed him.
The man turned, blinked deliberately, and stayed still, standing about five feet away from Brody.
He was good with the distance. Even from here, the man’s movements wafted the aroma of cheap booze, ripe underarm odor, and urine.
“Did you see anyone around the car?” he asked again.
As Brody kept a connection with the man’s eyes, he realized what he should have noticed right away. The man was hammered, drunk out of his mind.
Brody took a few steps back to seek another candidate. “Never mind.”
“I saw a man,” the vagrant said.
Brody stopped. “A man?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe him?”
“It was late at night.”
“Was he alone?”
The vagrant nodded. “Yes.”
Brody took a deep breath, and he recited the mental mantra he repeated more often than he cared to acknowledge: patience is a virtue.
“What did the man look like?”
The vagrant shrugged. “I dunno. A man.”
“White? Black?” Brody hated to categorize human beings by skin color, but it was necessary in his line of work.
“White.” The man belched, renewing the strong scent of alcohol.
Brody twisted his head to the side, wishing for fresh air, but received nostrils full of rotting garbage for his trouble.
“When was he here?” Brody asked. He hoped that rewording one of his original questions might spark a useful response.
“I dunno.”
“Well, thanks.”
“It’s not like I have appointments to keep, son,” the homeless man added.
Brody waved his hand in a pacifying effort to tell him it was fine, he’d move on.
“I said, son.”
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Don’t they teach you to respect your elders anymore?”
Brody studied the man’s appearance. A rebuttal would have Brody responding with something along the lines of respect needing to be earned. The odd thing was, despite this man’s stench, obvious dependency on the bottle, haggard wardrobe, and detestable living conditions, Brody found some respect arousing within him. “Yeah, they do.”
“Then listen to me, boy.”
“I will if there’s anything else you can tell me.”
“I drank a bottle of Jack last night.”
Brody steadied himself. He tried to walk away from this man twice and was stopped. He’d wait out this tangent before wasting the energy a third time.
“The night before I had Skol.”
“And your point, sir?”
“I may not need to know the days, but I know what I drink. I tell the day by the drink. Sometimes I catch the date on the newspapers at the stand…when I can get close enough. Or I’ll see it on a TV in a coffee shop window before I’m shooed away.”
Who cared if this man tracked his days like that Bon Jovi song Wanted Dead or Alive if he had information. “So do know when the car was dropped off?”
The man nodded. “I do. And my point is that it woulda been three days ago. At night. I was drinking Bacardi. It’s actually my favorite. The gold stuff, not the clear. Yum, yum.” He let out a whistle.
“What did the man do after getting out of the car?”
“If I recall right, he just walked away, not even like he was in a hurry.”
Not in a hurry. This denoted self-assuredness, confidence. And the fact that he left on foot might mean he was headed someplace nearby. Then again, not necessarily. He could have taken public transportation or had his own vehicle somewhere close-by.
“For your help, I owe you a bottle.” The words slipped out and surprised Brody. With this man, he could look past what the eye saw. He imagined him being a father. And maybe he was.
“Brody?” Dawn, a female investigator, approached him. She was a pretty little thing—dark hair and blue eyes, a small, upturned nose, and a slim figure. They’d had drinks one night that resulted in more fun than either had intended. Their relationship had snapped back to a professional one quickly the next day, and neither of them had spoken of the tryst since.
“We’ve finished up,” Dawn said. “The car was pretty clean, but we took a bunch of pictures, of course, and we were able to pull some prints from the wheel and handles.” With her message delivered, she turned to leave.
“Let me know as soon as results come back.”
She waved over her head as she walked away.
When Brody turned back to the vagrant, he was gone. Just like a shadow—there or imagined, it was hard to say. Brody shook his head and walked toward the department sedan. Crime Scene would have the Hyundai towed to the police impound lot. He, however, was going to take a look at Sophie Jones’s apartment and hopefully find a clue not only as to her whereabouts, but also to see if he could figure out if she left of her own free will or if her life was, in fact, in danger.
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Chapter 32
SOPHIE’S STOMACH RUMBLED AT THE smell of steamed vegetables, garlic, and onion. It was nine thirty at night and the last thing she ate had been a muffin at noon. While it was true that she wasn’t moving around much, her body still chewed through the calories. She used to frequent a gym and was aware that a limited number were required for bodily functions, and she didn’t think she was getting enough to even cover those. She didn’t need to lose weight, but if she had, captivity wouldn’t have been the program she’d go with.
After they tied her to the bedframe last night, she was freed only for bathroom breaks and then restrained again. At least she was afforded privacy when it came to that, but she was desperate for a hot shower. She’d been wearing the same clothes for three days now. The pantyhose had long since been abandoned for the sake of comfort.
Her gag had been removed under threat that if she screamed they’d kill her, her friends, and anyone else who got involved. The man assured her that collateral damage didn’t bother him, and Sophie believed him.
The door swung open, and the man entered the bedroom. He stepped toward her, holding up his phone. “It’s time to record you again. Just say hello. I don’t really care. Just breathe and move a little.”
The light on the smartphone brightened. He had started recording. She spent many of the past hours thinking about how to work these sessions to her advantage, but she had to be careful not to make any of those efforts obvious.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Where did that other man go?” She asked, knowing she probably shouldn’t push it and say Ian’s name. “Is this his place?”
Still, she was met with silence.
“And where is the wom—”
The blow struck her hard across the face. It came so fast that she hadn’t even seen Veronica enter the room. Veronica must have figured out that Sophie was trying to lay some clues as to her whereabouts.
“You are a damn idiot!” Her arms flailed and her hired gun sheepishly retreated a few steps. The phone lowered, and the light dulled.
Sophie cupped her cheek with her free hand. It stung an
d burned to the touch, and it was already beginning to welt.
The woman turned her attention to Sophie. “You think you’re so smart. Maybe because you are friends with Matt, but I have news for you. He only is who he is because of me. I made him. Do you hear me?” The wildfire in her eyes tamed, licked by another side of the woman. She coolly took in Sophie’s face, and then let her gaze lower. “Maybe you are more than his friend.”
Sophie shook her head. The woman almost sounded jealous. She didn’t know what Veronica was thinking, obviously, but there was a flicker of jealousy and curiosity in her eyes.
“We are just friends.” Sophie’s voice slid from her throat, barely more than a whisper.
“Well, he seems very confident that he’s going to find this Paititi.”
“Matthew doesn’t know failure.” It was only a feeling, but there was something in the way the woman’s gaze left hers briefly, combined with the flash of emotion in her eyes. Unfortunately, to find out, she’d have to rouse the woman’s anger. A well-timed throb in her cheek warned her but went unheeded. “He left you for dead, didn’t he?”
Veronica’s nostrils flared, and her eyes fired.
Based on her reaction, Sophie’s words struck close to the truth. She had to press further. “He did. Your life was at risk, and he was willing to leave it that way.”
“What the hell do you know, you stupid bitch?”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You loved him…well, as much you are capable of such a thing. He turned his back on you. He broke your heart.”
“Shut up.” Veronica charged at Sophie, but the man held her back. She attempted to shrug him off, but he didn’t release his grip. She glared back at him. If looks could kill…
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, boss, but you told me not to let you hurt the girl.”
Veronica glared at Sophie and snorted before shirking from the man’s hold and leaving the room. The man slipped out of the room afterward. Sophie wondered if that meant she’d go to bed hungry. The first thing Cal was going to do when he got back was take her to an all-you-can-eat buffet. It was the least he could do after getting her into this mess.
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Chapter 33
SOPHIE JONES LIVED IN A one-bedroom apartment that she kept tidy and meticulously organized. Her closet was sorted by color and her dresser drawers were organized by function—casual, semiformal, pants, long-sleeved shirts, and short-sleeved shirts.
Brody wasn’t surprised by this. What the woman presented on the bus ads was a professional and put-together real estate agent. That image was just confirmed by her home.
As he worked over the apartment, nothing stood out to indicate that she had any enemies. In fact, it was the opposite.
Framed photographs on the walls and tables showed a socially active woman. In numerous poses, she was with a man Brody had concluded was her boyfriend. With her arms wrapped around him in one picture, her lips pressed to his in another, it was an easy assumption to make.
Her counters were bare with the exception of a coffeemaker, kettle, and toaster. There was also a picture frame and a vase holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Beside the flowers was a card signed, Love, Cal.
A first name wasn’t a major development in the case, but it was a start. Brody would hunt this guy down and see what he knew about Sophie, how close they were, et cetera. Maybe he would finally be able to make the conclusion that Sophie was, in fact, taken. It was possible she had run off with some other guy, but why have him dump the car? Based on the way she lived, she was a responsible and organized person and those factors didn’t support her dropping off the face of the earth intentionally. No, Sophie was made to disappear. The question remained: by whom?
There was a huge flaw to assuming the boyfriend was involved, though. His skin was mocha, and the vagrant had said the man ditching the car was white.
Brody was standing in Sophie’s kitchen, thinking everything over. At first, his focus wasn’t on anything. Then his eyes narrowed in on a framed photograph. He picked it up for a closer look and recognized one man right away. Matthew Connor.
The mayor’s son?
He studied the face. It was definitely him.
Scanning the rest of the photograph, Brody spotted another familiar face. He only knew it because an ex-girlfriend was fond of history and had taken him to the ROM every week of their six-week relationship. The woman in the photo was Robyn Garcia, a curator at the museum.
He dialed the museum’s main number on his cell and was connected seconds later.
“This is Detective Brody Fuller, and I’m looking to speak with Robyn Garcia.”
“One moment, please.”
Instead of hold music or silence, he listened to news on the latest exhibits while impatiently tapping his foot.
Two minutes later, the same woman who had placed him on hold picked back up. “I’m sorry, but Miss Garcia is not in the office today.”
“When will she be back?” Brody sensed the woman’s hesitation and reminded her of his position. “I am a police detective.”
“She’s on holiday, Detective.”
“Holiday? Where?”
“I don’t know, and even if I did, I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, of course.” He hung up slightly discouraged but far from feeling defeated.
His eyes fell to the photograph again. The same black man from the other photos had his arm around Sophie’s waist. He surmised, based on his gut feeling, he was the Cal from the card. And if they were as close as the photos indicated, his full name had to be in this apartment somewhere.
He worked through the space again and found a shoebox full of postcards. All of them were from a Cal Myers.
A QUICK BACKGROUND CHECK ON Cal Myers showed his employment as a freelance travel photographer. There wouldn’t be an office to check with, but Brody obtained the man’s address.
His high expectation that he’d find the man at home was met with disappointment.
He had a couple of options left, but first he’d speak with a superior and a friend. He knocked on Chief Snyder’s office door. Despite it being almost nine at night, the chief didn’t adhere to strict office hours, and Brody expected he’d still be at work.
“Come in.”
Brody entered.
“Ah, Brody. What’s up?”
Brody had always appreciated the chief’s laid-back approach to things. It actually threw new people off because, despite that first impression, the man was tenacious and had no issue backstabbing both professionally and personally if the need arose. He and Brody had a history and got along well. In fact, better than well. They’d gotten drinks together on many occasions and were on a first-name basis unless they were around their colleagues.
“Please, sit.” The chief directed him to the chair across from his desk.
Brody closed the door before sitting. “Erik, there was an abandoned car left down at the harbor.”
“That’s exciting news,” he said sarcastically. He laughed, and it shook the man’s taut frame. He was in his midfifties, but he could probably bench press more than some men in their twenties.
“Normally I’d agree, but it’s not your run-of-the-mill ditching. It wasn’t taken on a joy ride. I believe it was involved in an abduction. The vehicle is registered to a Sophie Jones.” He caught the brooding look on Erik’s face as he tried to place the name. Brody eliminated the guesswork. “She’s the real estate agent plastered on the buses.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Well, there’s no sign of her or a struggle. The car was clean, no blood. Crime Scene was able to lift some prints so I’m waiting on the results. In the meantime, I checked out her apartment and had a good look around. I even spoke to her employer, and they haven’t heard from her for three days. He said that it wasn’t unusual
for her lately. She’s been obsessing over selling this one property.” He had made the quick call to Sophie’s boss while driving from Cal’s apartment to the station. “Apparently, when agents show a house, they call into the office for safety reasons. I have the address for the last house she showed. It was the night her car was dumped, as verified by an eyewitness. I drove by the place but need to get inside to have a closer look at things.”
“Sounds like a good lead.”
What he needed to say next was where hesitation crept in. Brody’s strength had never included politics and diplomacy. “There’s something else.”
Erik leaned forward, clasping his hands on his desk. “And why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like it?”
“Because you have good instincts. There was a photograph of Jones with the mayor’s son.”
“Matthew Connor?”
“Yes, sir.”
He waved his hand, dismissing the more formal address. “Erik.”
“I trust that you know what I’m asking?”
“You want to make sure I’m on board with you questioning the mayor’s son?”
“I do.”
Erik let out a deep breath. “Let me talk to his father first.”
“You’re sure?”
The chief bobbed his head side to side. “I’ll handle this.”
“Thanks, and in the meantime, I’ll see if I can get inside that house.”
-
Chapter 34
THE ENVIRONMENT MIGHT HAVE SOFTENED Ian’s dangerous nature, but Matthew didn’t trust that he was harmless. And multiply that threat by two when factoring in Vincent’s other man, Kevin. He’d been the one ordering a cavalry of men after them in India.
Juan got a large fire going, and it instantly removed the shadows from the immediate area so they would be able to see when darkness fell. But more importantly, it would keep the wildlife to the outskirts of their camp.
Matthew and his friends, along with the Bolivians, favored one side of the clearing while Kevin and Ian pitched Kevin’s tent—Ian didn’t bring one—across from them on the other side of the fire. Watching them set it up was painful and time-consuming. Dusk had sunk its teeth into the sky before they had finished.
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