by Pat White
“Did you keep secrets from your mother, Agent Ramos?”
She didn’t expect that question. An image of sneaking out to dance with Antonio flashed across her thoughts. Jeremy caught her eye and she glanced at the sand.
“We all did.” Max shot her a knowing smile. “A mother’s impression is one-sided. Talk to the Lynks. Then drive out to Mountain View and speak to the boy’s sister and friends. Bring Lucas’s computer back with you. The police shouldn’t object since they’re so close to calling it an accidental drowning. Maybe Lucas shared secrets with friends over the Internet.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnes took a step on the sand and wavered, then steadied himself.
“You all right there, Barnes?” Templeton asked.
“Fine. We’ll check in later.” He started for the hotel. “Let’s get that interview out of the way.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” she said.
He eyed her.
“Let’s get some food in you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You almost fell over. You’re going to eat. If there’s one thing I know how to do it’s take care of a partner with a hangover.”
“I do not have a hangover.”
Wasn’t that what they all said, starting with Papi? The only way to live with him the morning after was to make strong coffee, as only Mercedes could, and give him peace and quiet.
Then there was Fitzsimmons, her senior officer in Chicago for six months. He’d show up at work irritable and hung over and she’d automatically fetch his coffee, resenting the fact that she was taking care of yet another man.
They went to Eagle Lodge and found the Lynks in the coffee shop.
“Good. Now maybe you’ll eat something,” she said.
“Why the concern about my health?”
Barnes would flip if he knew she’d been assigned to watch over him.
“I don’t want you slowing us down because you have low blood sugar.”
She spotted the Lynks at a table by the window and picked up her pace.
“Mr. Lynk, we’re with the Blackwell Group,” she said. “I’m Mercedes Ramos and this is Jeremy Barnes.”
“Yes, of course.” He stood. “Please join us.”
They did, and Mercedes flagged the waitress, a twentyish girl with red hair. “What’s the soup today?”
“Chicken rice or split pea.”
“Bring him a bowl of chicken soup, mostly broth, dry toast and a glass of orange juice. I’ll have coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jeremy shot her a look probably meant to scold her.
She smiled at him, then turned to Mr. Lynk. “Your son was friends with Lucas?”
She pulled her notebook from her suit jacket pocket.
“Yes, close friends, although they were a year apart in school.”
“Your son attended public school?”
“Private, actually. The Mercer Academy.”
“How often did your son and Lucas get together?”
“Once, twice a week,” the wife said. She picked at a half eaten salad. “They had play dates. Plus, we belonged to a fantasy investment club with the Weddles. We met every month.”
“Fantasy?”
“It was an excuse to get together,” Mr. Lynk said. “There was no real money involved.”
“And children were invited to your meetings?”
“Sometimes they came and watched movies or played video games.”
“We’ll need names and phone numbers of club members.”
“You don’t think this has anything to do with the club?” Mr. Lynk said.
“No, sir. But it would help to speak with anyone who has been around Lucas recently to get an idea of his state of mind.”
“My address book is up in the room,” Mrs. Lynk said. “I’ll leave the information at the front desk.”
The waiter delivered soup, toast and juice. Jeremy stared at it as if it were a live squid. His stomach must feel like hell.
“Where is your son now?” Mercedes asked the mother.
“My parents are staying with him at the house.”
“I didn’t think it would be a good idea to bring him along in case…” The father’s voice trailed off and he stared into his coffee.
She knew what he was going to say—in case they found the dead body of Lucas Weddle. It was a definite possibility, even if members of the Blackwell Group were determined otherwise.
“How did you meet the Weddles?” Mercedes asked.
“We were business associates for years,” Mr. Lynk offered. “I’m a marketing consultant and he hired me to promote his new line of software. It really took off. Anyway, when he sold the company he became an instant millionaire. He grew a little jaded after getting the screws put to him by family and so-called friends wanting handouts. I kept in touch, but I didn’t want anything from him. I thought he was an interesting guy. Then our wives became friends.”
Mr. Lynk glanced over Mercedes’s shoulder. “There’s Paul. Paul, over here,” he called.
Mercedes glanced across the restaurant. A tall, thin man, maybe forty, with a receding hairline joined them.
“This is Paul Reynolds, a family friend,” Mr. Lynk said. “These are the investigators hired to find Lucas.”
They shook hands.
“Any news?” he asked Jeremy.
“They found the boy’s backpack in the ocean,” Mercedes offered.
“God, no,” Mrs. Lynk said.
They shared a moment of contemplative silence.
“But no sign of Lucas?” Reynolds said, hope in his voice.
“Not yet,” Jeremy offered.
“Paul, join us for lunch,” Mr. Lynk said.
“Thanks, but, I’ve got business in town buying some property. I just thought I’d stop by and check on the progress. Where are Doug and Susanna?”
“With the task force,” Mercedes said.
“Oh, right,” he said, somewhat distracted. “Well, nice meeting you.” He nodded and left the restaurant.
“Mr. Reynolds is part of this investment club?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes, he and his wife, Ann,” Mr. Lynk said. “They’ve actually invested real money in club stock and have done pretty well. Wish I could say the same.”
Mercedes glanced at Jeremy’s plate. He hadn’t touched it. She inched it closer to him.
“A few more questions,” she said. “How were things between Mr. and Mrs. Weddle lately?”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Lynk leaned back in his chair.
“These are routine questions,” Barnes explained. “We’re trying to understand the family dynamics.”
“Doug and Susanna are very happy.” The man glared at Mercedes.
Ay carumba, she’d stepped into it again.
“When was the last time you saw the Weddles?” Mercedes asked.
“About two weeks ago,” Mr. Lynk said. “The Reynolds had a barbecue and invited our family, Doug, Susanna and Lucas and another family that has a son about Lucas’s age. They were neighbors of the Reynolds.”
“Lucas seemed okay?” Mercedes asked. “Not worried or bothered by anything?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Lynk?” Barnes said.
“Hmm?” She glanced up.
“Everything seemed okay to you?”
“Yes, fine.” She shot Mercedes a strained smile.
Then, maybe that was a normal smile for the woman.
“If you think of anything that could be helpful, here’s my number.” Barnes handed Mr. Lynk a business card, then stood and shook his hand. “We’re heading to Mountain View this afternoon. May I have your permission to speak with your son?”
Mr. Lynk eyed Mercedes. “If you can manage not to upset him.”
“We’re trying to keep his hopes up by telling him Lucas got lost in one of the caves or something,” Mrs. Lynk said. “But I’m sure he hears the worry in our voices.”
“Of course,” Barnes said. “Thank-you for your time.”
“Eh, eh,” Mercedes said. “Your lunch. I’ll have them box it for you.”
She motioned for the waitress who brought their check and a to-go container.
Barnes took the check. “I’ll meet you up front.”
Feeling like Barnes’s mother, Mercedes boxed the toast, nodded at the Lynks and hooked up with him by the register.
“I need to speak to my waitress,” he said.
“Okay.” The hostess went into the back.
“Hey, it’s not her fault you didn’t feel like eating,” Mercedes said.
He ignored her.
“Stop acting like I’m invisible.”
Nothing. Old frustrations tangled with her common sense. “You’re being rude,” she said.
“And you weren’t when you insinuated the Weddles were having marital problems?”
“I didn’t insinuate—”
“It’s the way you asked the question. Do you have to be so direct?”
“Ask a direct question—get a direct answer. It’s my style and it’s always worked for me.”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
Okay, maybe not always.
Their waitress approached. “Was there a problem, sir?”
“Did you write this?” He flipped over the check and Mercedes noticed scribbles on the back.
“No,” the waitress said.
“Who had access to your order pad?”
“The cook, anyone in back, I guess.”
“Show me.”
The waitress led them into the kitchen, past grills, refrigerators and sanitizing sinks.
“What’s through there?” He pointed toward a door.
“That leads out back.”
“Thank you.” He pushed open the door and went outside.
Mercedes followed him to the break area—a cement patio with a picnic table. Barnes followed a stone path that led to a split-rail fence and a spectacular view of the ocean.
“Are you going to clue me in here, boss?” Mercedes said.
Without looking at her, he handed her the order ticket. She flipped it over. The words abandoned, lost and betrayed were scribbled across the paper at least a dozen times.
“What does that mean?” she said.
He stared her down, the intensity of his sky blue eyes disarming. “I’m wondering why the Weddles haven’t received a ransom demand. Or have they?”
Chapter Four
They waited in the lobby for the Weddles to return from going through Lucas’s backpack. Jeremy hoped he was wrong, hoped the parents weren’t playing both sides by pretending there had been no ransom request.
But it wouldn’t surprise him. A powerful man like Doug Weddle probably feared the authorities would muddle the ransom drop, causing him to lose his son.
Besides, when you had money it was easier to take care of things yourself. Isn’t that how Father always handled it? Buy his way out of a marriage; buy his way out of fatherhood. Easy enough.
“You sure you’re up to this?” she asked.
“Meaning?”
“You didn’t eat your lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Ah, you and your macho thing.” She stood. “I’ll get you a Gatorade.”
“I don’t need…” His voice trailed off as he watched her walk through the lobby and disappear around a corner.
Was she trying to earn points with him by playing concerned partner? Or was she looking for an excuse to get away from him? That was probably it. Their energy was like wind and water—she was all over the place and he was calm and controlled. It must drive her crazy to be around such a composed man. She wouldn’t be the first. Collegues found Jeremy’s nature disarming and unpleasant at times. Even his longest partner, Smitty, used to taunt Jeremy to get a reaction.
But Jeremy’s reserved nature was his protection, his strength.
He scanned the lobby, waiting for Mercedes to round the corner. She was probably trying to get on his good side to earn a permanent place on the team.
Fine, as long as it wasn’t as his partner. Her frenetic energy distracted him, made it hard to think. Or was it something else that distracted him? Those big brown eyes, perhaps?
“Mr. Barnes?” the hotel receptionist called across the small rustic lobby.
“Yes?” He walked to the front desk.
“This was dropped off a minute ago.” She handed him an envelope.
Probably contact names and numbers from Mrs. Lynk.
“Thank you.” He opened the envelope and pulled out a photocopy of a newspaper clipping, “Officers Shot in Drug Deal Gone Bad.”
His heart slammed against his chest. Beneath the headline was a photograph of Jeremy and Smitty taken ten years ago. What in the bloody hell was this about? No one knew about that case except for Templeton and he had no reason to taunt Jeremy.
Across the top of the clipping someone had written,
How r u feeling, Inspector?
Meaning what? Whoever sent the clipping knew that he’d been ill this morning? Or worse, this person caused Jeremy’s illness?
His well-ordered life unraveled at his feet. “Who gave this to you?”
“Freddie from maintenance said some guy from Blackwell dropped it off.”
Which made no sense. No, someone must have been pretending to be with the team. Who would go to all this trouble to torment Jeremy? He mentally listed off felons he’d put away, but to his knowledge they were back in London.
“Interesting reading?” Ramos said, smacking an energy drink to the front desk.
“No, nothing.” He folded the newspaper clipping and shoved it into his pocket. He didn’t need his partner or anyone else knowing about this, not when he didn’t know what to make of it himself. He didn’t want to distract the team from their current case.
He’d let a boy down once before. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
“You okay? You look worse than when I found you this morning.” She eyed him.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re dehydrated.” She slid the energy drink in front of him.
He could argue with her, but it seemed easier to drink the yellow-green liquid. His mind spun like a slot machine, trying to land on the identity of his tormentor.
He spotted the Weddles entering the lodge.
“I’ll handle this,” she said. “You don’t look so good.”
Of course not. An unknown stalker had threatened him during a critical missing persons investigation.
“Besides,” Mercedes added, “I seem to be a natural at the bad cop role.” She shot him a smile and glanced at the couple.
“How did it go, Mr. Weddle?” Mercedes asked, motioning for them to join her and Jeremy in the lobby.
The husband led his wife to a sofa and they sat down.
“We went through Lucas’s backpack,” Mr. Weddle said. “I’m not sure what’s missing. God…” He ran an open palm across his face. “I don’t even know what he keeps in his backpack.”
“His compass,” the mother said, staring off into space. “He always has a compass with him.”
“Mr. Weddle, I need to ask you a few questions, okay?” Mercedes said.
Jeremy was relieved that she’d elbowed her way into the role of lead interviewer. He needed a few minutes to get his focus back. Had the note from the restaurant been for Mr. Weddle or Jeremy? He’d have to show it to Templeton. Mercedes knew about it. There was no pretending it didn’t exist.
But Jeremy wouldn’t allow it to be a distraction. He was a master at compartmentalizing his feelings. For now, he’d shove this personal attack into a chamber and lock it up so he could focus on finding the boy.
“Anything unusual happen in your family during the past few weeks?” Mercedes started.
“Unusual?”
“Odd visitors to the house, strange mail or e-mail threats?”
“No, nothing like that,” Mr. Weddle said. “Why aren’t you out there looking for my son?”
“The loca
l authorities and Coast Guard are on top of the search,” she said. “We want to try a different angle.”
“What angle?”
“The possibility that he was abducted.”
Jeremy studied Doug Weddle’s expression. It transformed from anger to relief at the suggestion that his son was still alive. Or was it relief that his secret had been found out? That he didn’t have to hide the ransom demand?
“Has anyone been in contact with you, sir?” Jeremy tried.
“God, no. Don’t you think I would have told you?”
“Of course.” Mercedes shot Jeremy a perturbed look, then turned back to Mr. Weddle. “How has Lucas been acting lately?”
“Good. Fine. He’s ten. He’s going through some things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“He’s fighting a lot with his sister,” Mrs. Weddle said. “She’s four and wants all the attention. She’ll break things to get it if she has to.”
“Lucas’s things?”
“Yes.”
“Which means what?” Doug Weddle said. “That he ran away because his sister broke his toy tower?”
“It was more than a toy to him,” the mother said. “It was an exact replica of your building in downtown Seattle, Doug.”
“He wouldn’t have run away because she destroyed it. That’s absurd,” the father argued.
“Mr. Weddle, we’re not casting judgment or making accusations,” Jeremy said. “We’re trying to get a sense of what was going on in his life at the time of the disappearance.”
“Nothing was going on. He’s a typical ten-year-old.”
“He’s not typical,” the mother whispered.
“You know what I meant.” He hugged her.
“He’s smart. Like you,” she whispered. “He always admired you so.”
“Don’t talk like that. He’s not gone. He’s just lost.”
“And we’re here to find him,” Jeremy interrupted before they went too far down that road. “We’re headed to Mountain View to interview Shayne Lynk. With your permission we’d like to bring your son’s computer back with us.”
“Sure,” Doug Weddle said. “My parents are staying at the house with Natalia.”
“Would you mind if we spoke with her?” Jeremy asked.
“She’s only four,” the father protested. “Okay, fine. Whatever you need to do, do it.”