"Nothing new today except a press conference scheduled at eleven this morning," he said with a wink. "We've got an ID on that woman you found in the refuge."
Lacy's eyes popped opened, but before she could speak, Brian silenced her with a finger against his own lips. Then he said, "I was just on my way out. Why don't I walk you to your car?"
Chapter 4
One hundred and eighty-three miles dead south of Bismarck, in a little town just outside of Pierre, South Dakota, Martin and Sara Jones gazed blissfully into the bassinette he'd fashioned out of scrap lumber. As they feasted on the glorious sight of their newborn son, they could hardly believe their good fortune. It was the impossible dream come true.
In her younger, wilder days, Sara had sampled forbidden drugs as well as forbidden men, sometimes selling her body to those men in order to pay for food, lodging, and by then, her addictions. By the time she discovered that she'd contracted a nasty case of Chlamydia, it was too late for thoughts of ever becoming a mother. It was around this time that she met her soul-mate, Martin Jones, through an online pen-pal service.
With his early years a near parallel to Sara's, Martin's reckless youth also included robbery, starting small and working up to the armed variety that cost him twelve years of his life behind bars. When Sara began writing to him, he had four years left on his sentence. Her steadfast devotion during that period convinced Martin that together they could build a new life, one that might even include a family.
With Sara's infertility an insurmountable obstacle, the struggling couple checked into adoption. The pair quickly found out that not only were they financially unsuitable, Martin's felony conviction proved to be an automatic rejection. In desperation, the Jones' once again turned to the internet. There they discovered several methods of adopting a baby that didn't necessarily consider a fellow's prison record, or look at it as a roadblock for becoming a family man.
And now at long last, after scrimping and saving and living through agonizing years of needle-sharp anticipation topped by crushing disappointments, their son lay sleeping just inches from their hungry arms. They were almost afraid to touch this child, a babe born they were told, to a crack-addicted prostitute, afraid he might break or disappear as if he'd never existed. He was a miracle come to life, a gift too amazing to have been bestowed upon a pair of losers like Martin and Sara.
That was the way they viewed their young son, with love to be sure, but also with fear. With an inner dread that somehow and too soon, he would be taken from them.
Chapter 5
Brian didn't say another word until they came to where Lacy had parked her Jeep. Even then his words were hurried.
"I figure since you're the one who found the body, this case is pretty important to you. How would you like a little head's up on the victim?"
"I'd love it." Lacy reached into her bag for her reporter's notebook.
"You don't need that," Brian said, placing his hand over hers. "I've got one of those post-it notes on my palm with the name and address of the decedent's husband written on it. Don't blame me if it accidentally sticks to the back of your hand."
He pulled away from her, and sure enough, a small square of hot pink paper was stuck to her knuckles. Lacy could have kissed him.
"Thanks, Brian. I'm going to be in court for the next two or three days covering that murder trial, which means I won't have much time for anything else. This really helps."
"Glad to be of service as long as you understand that I'll be expecting some payback down the road... say Sunday?"
She frowned. "What's happening Sunday?"
"A little music fest, feast and services at my church. Everything starts at eleven in the morning so don't be late."
Lacy stifled a groan. "Oh, but Sunday is the day I drive to Napoleon to visit my mother."
He shrugged and patted the top of her head. "Go see her on Saturday this week."
When she hesitated, Brian reached over as if to snatch the post-it off of her hand.
"All right," Lacy said, dodging him. "I'll be there."
"I'll keep an eye out for you. I've got to get back now, but first a bit more about Mister Hankins, the victim's husband. He came home Sunday to find his wife missing, and when he couldn't find her after a couple of hours, he contacted us. The man spent most of yesterday and half the night with the BCI. He's probably beat, but he did say that he's open to short, gentle interviews if it will help find her killer. He also said that he'd come up with a picture or two for the media. It's not my fault if you're clever enough to beat everyone else to them."
Lacy nearly jumped out of her boots. "Then I can go see him now?"
"Don't see why not." He paused then and thought about something that forced lines across his forhead.
"Be careful though," he added with concern. "Maybe take somebody with you. None of us really like him for it, but until we get a better handle on this case, the husband is our only person of interest."
As if on cue—and Lacy half-way suspected that Brian had set it up this way—Mike's shiny black truck pulled up a few spaces down from her Jeep. As he climbed out of the vehicle, she saw that he wore black jeans, a red button-down shirt, and a black windbreaker. One word came instantly to mind—scrumptious.
Waving to them as he approached, Mike said, "Hey, just the two people I'm looking for."
"Good to see you Mike," Brian said with a brisk handshake. "What brings you to the courthouse?"
He handed Brian the folder he was carrying. "That's a criminal complaint against the bowling paraplegic Lacy was kind enough to help me catch the other night. The insurance company has decided to sue."
"Good for them," Lacy said, finally finding her tongue. "Why were you looking for me?"
He smiled, dark eyes flashing and said, "I just wanted to thank you again for helping me catch the guy and let you know the outcome."
Forefinger against his chin, Brian struck a thoughtful pose. "You might be able to repay Lacy in kind. We got an ID on the refuge victim yesterday afternoon and Lacy is just on her way out to interview the woman's husband. We're pretty sure he didn't have anything to do with the murder, but I'd feel better if she wasn't alone with the man."
"I'd be happy to go along."
"Oh, that's not necessary," Lacy protested.
"Not a problem," Mike assured. "I was only planning to go back to the office and answer the phone. I can let the machine do that. Besides, I'd like to meet the husband, get a feel for him myself."
"Once a cop, always a cop, eh?" Brian said. He socked Mike lightly on the shoulder, and then headed back to the courthouse.
"My ride or yours?" Mike asked breezily.
She considered a moment. "Since this is directly related to my job, not yours, I'll drive this time."
The air went out of him. "Uh, actually, I was kidding."
"I wasn't," Lacy said with a wink. "Hop in or follow. Your choice."
Laughing to herself, she strode over to her Jeep and took her place behind the wheel. Giving Mike about a half a second to make up his mind, she fired up the engine and pulled the gear shift into reverse.
"Hang on a minute," he said as he opened the passenger door. "Can you give a fellah enough time to get inside?"
"Sorry." She wasn't, of course. "I just assumed you have problems with women drivers and that you'd be taking your truck."
Mike settled into the seat and buckled-up. "It's not women drivers exactly. It's all drivers. I'm afraid I'm a terrible passenger."
She shrugged. "Then I suggest you close your eyes."
With that Lacy roared out of the parking lot and headed toward Fox Island, a recreational area on the banks of the Missouri River, but also a prime real estate site. The area had seen a lot of residential construction over the last few years, and Lacy noticed even newer and bigger homes were still popping up along the waterways. She thought about giving Mike a grand tour, complete with commentary, but one look at him sent that idea to the recycle bin. He had his right hand
hooked firmly around the 'panic' handle above his window and the other clamped to the dash in front of him. His lovely bronzed complexion was a few shades lighter as well, the Greek influence notched down to her own light shade of tan.
Chuckling to herself, she checked addresses along the way and finally came upon the home of one Jerry Hankins. The place was one of the newer houses, perched on its own private harbor with lots of riverfront access and panoramic views of the river and Fort Lincoln State Park.
Wondering what Hankins did for a living, Lacy turned to Mike and said, "You can open your eyes now."
"They're opened."
Those were the first words he'd spoken since they'd left the courthouse. "Are you all right?"
He gave her a sidelong glance. "I will be. Who taught you to drive?"
"I'm not that bad." Despite her best efforts, Lacy did recognize that she would never be voted the best driver anywhere for any reason. She forced a pride she didn't feel into her tone as she said, "I'm sort of self-taught."
Mike nodded sagely. "How many tried before you became your very own Professor Disaster?"
She raised her chin, but Lacy had to admit, "Three. My father, my mother, and my brother."
Again he nodded, and then glanced out the windshield. "The Jeep doesn't look too bad. Just get it out of the shop?"
"No. I don't get into crashes." She thought about that. "Not very often anyway. Now enough of that. I'm here to interview a grieving widower. You can either drop the subject of my driving now, or stay here in the Jeep. Again, your choice."
With that, she climbed out of the rig and crossed the street. Mike was just two steps behind her.
Lacy gestured toward the big home, a sprawling tri-level made of chocolate bricks and taupe stucco, and said, "Unless these directions are wrong, that's the Hankins place."
With a long, low whistle, he said, "Who is this guy—a Senator or something?"
"I don't know. All I have is his name and address."
With Mike alongside her, Lacy started up a gracefully curving walkway made of river stones set in mauve-colored cement. She had no doubt the walkway was heated in the wintertime, keeping it ice and frost free.
When they reached an arched staircase made of polished teakwood, Lacy paused to say, "Shouldn't we have some kind of ground rules between us? I'm going to be conducting an interview of the man, and would appreciate not being interrupted. Maybe you can speak to him when I'm finished."
Mike shook his dark head. "No need for rules. I'm just here to observe. Introduce me as your... "He hesitated, and laughed as he said, "Driver."
Lacy resisted the urge to jab his ribs with her elbow. "I'll think of something."
Then she walked up to the landing and rang the doorbell next to the massive oak and stained-glass doors. After a few moments went by, one of those huge slabs opened to reveal a man of around fifty. His eyes were swollen and streaked with broken veins. He had salt and pepper hair cut short, a ruddy complexion, and a slight paunch. Other than the stomach, he looked very fit, well-muscled across the shoulders and upper arms. He was dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt with the words 'Hankins Construction' printed in bright yellow letters.
"Mister Hankins?" Lacy said, extending her hand. "I'm Lacy Erikson with the Bismarck Herald. I'm terribly sorry about your loss. Sheriff's Deputy Freyburg said that you might be up to a short interview. Would that be possible now?"
He took a deep breath that kind of chattered out of his body as he said, "If it's short, I guess that'd be all right."
She gestured toward Mike. "This is my photographer. Do you mind if he joins me?"
Hankins shook his head. "He's welcome, but I don't want him taking any pictures of me or my son."
"No problem."
With that out of the way, Hankins led the pair into an enormous entry that spotlighted a pair of curving staircases leading to the upper floors, ladies to the right, and gentlemen to the left.
"Oh, how beautiful," Lacy blurted out.
Hankins gave her a wan smile. "I designed and built this house myself. It is—was—our pride and joy."
He continued on then, pushed opened a pair of saloon-style doors, and led them into a sunny sitting room. The walls were painted lemon yellow with white trim on the French doors and window casings. Three plush sofas covered in blaze red velvet shot through with ribbons of tangerine, lime, and lemon satin, were artfully arranged for conversation as well as viewing the park-like grounds beyond the windows.
Pointing to one of those sofas, Hankins said, "Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Oh, no, thank you," Lacy said as she pulled a pen and notebook out of her bag. "We don't want to put you out at all. I'm just hoping to gather some information about your wife along with a picture or two of her. Will that be all right?"
As he sank down on the puffy sofa across from them, Hankins rubbed his hands across his face. Then he said, "Sure. I found a couple of photos when I got home last night, although I guess it was early this morning. I'm kind of out of it."
"Maybe we ought to come back at a better time."
He shook his graying head. "No. Let's get this over with." Then, in a much louder, booming voice, he hollered, "Jeremy? Can you come to the sitting room?"
A few moments later a boy of around twelve slouched into the room and stood with his hands in his jeans pockets. This tugged them so low on his hips, Lacy feared they might fall to his ankles.
"Yeah?" he said to his father.
Hankins bobbed his head in Lacy's direction and said, "These two are from the newspaper. I put some pictures of Candee on my desk in the study. Would you mind bringing them to me?"
The boy shrugged, turned, and dragged himself out of the room.
Taking pity on the young man, Lacy said, "I would imagine that losing his mother has been pretty hard on your son, too. How's he holding up?"
Hankins made a noise that was almost a laugh. "Candee wasn't Jeremy's mother. He lives in Bismarck with my ex-wife and just visits here. I can't say that he was particularly close to Candee, so even though it's hard to tell with him, I think he's probably holding up pretty well."
Lacy wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so she changed the subject. "How long were you and Candee married?"
"Almost two years." He swallowed hard and lowered his head for a moment. "Her due date was on our anniversary, two weeks from now."
Lacy glanced at Mike and heaved a sigh. "Again," she said. "I'm terribly sorry about your loss. Losses."
Hankins raised his head, his tortured eyes frantic. "Have they found the baby? Is my son dead?"
"Oh, goodness, no. I mean, I don't know. When your son is found, the sheriff will be in touch with you long before I know anything."
Young Jeremy wandered back into the room then and held out his hand. "Who gets these?" he asked in a voice riddled with puberty.
"Give them to, ah... the lady," Hankins said. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name."
"It's Lacy." She accepted the photos from the boy, but before she could thank him, he addressed his father.
"If it's okay, I'm going out front and wait for you there."
"Sure, son. And thanks for getting the pictures."
With a shrug, he shuffled out of the room.
There were three photos in all. Lacy took a few moments to study each of them. In the first, Candee stood on the porch of this home, beaming as if it was both the first and best house she'd ever owned. She appeared to be twenty-something and a good twenty years younger than her husband. She had gobs of curly blonde hair and long well-shaped legs that probably spent a lot of time at the gym. Lacy surmised this because the young Misses Hankins wore a little too much makeup and not nearly enough skirt.
In the second photo, a close up, Candee held a long stem rose near the tip of her perky nose. She wore a puffy white blouse with a plunging neckline and a come-hither look that must have melted the camera lens. The girl struck Lacy as a touch too hard and a lot too young
for a man of Jerry Hankins age, but then again, her job was not to judge, but to observe.
The third picture made Lacy ashamed of her thoughts about the previous photo. Obviously on their honeymoon, or possibly after a wedding ceremony in a tropical setting such as Hawaii, Jerry and Candee were in a clench, face to face, and staring deeply into each other's eyes. She was dressed in a simple white sheath with one lei draped around her neck and another, smaller version nestled in a cloud of her blond hair. Jerry Hankins was decked out in a Hawaiian shirt and white slacks. Both were barefoot and appeared to be completely in love.
Lacy leaned back against the couch and said, "Your wife was absolutely beautiful, Mister Hankins. You must miss her terribly."
A sob escaped his throat and he nodded.
Mike got to his feet. "If you don't mind, I think I'll go out front and wait with Jeremy." Looking at the widower, he added, "Would that be all right?"
"Sure. I think he might enjoy a little conversation. I haven't been much company for him today." His voice, his shoulders, his eyes. Everything about him sagged. "Just don't ask him questions about Candee and what happened."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't. I thought maybe we could toss a baseball around or something."
"That would be great. He'd like that. Just don't take his picture."
"Not a problem."
After Mike left the room, Lacy put on her reporter's hat and set pen to paper. "If you're still up to it, I'd like to ask a couple of questions."
"Sure. I'll let you know when I've had enough."
"Thank you. I very much want to memorialize your wife as a person, not as a victim. Other than you and Jeremy, does she have any family in the area?"
Hankins shook his graying head. "Not here and really, not anywhere else either."
This answer was so obscure, Lacy thought it necessary to clarify. "You mean she had no living parents or siblings?"
He shrugged. "Candee had a hard, hard life before we met. As far as she knew, she never had brothers or sisters. Her father ran out on her mother before she was born, and then her mother ran off with the man who was abusing her when she was fifteen. Candee pretty much raised herself after that, and never did hear from her mother again. Didn't know if she was dead or alive. Didn't care."
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