Too Close to Home Page 6

  Photographs dotted the ascending wall. Miranda as a newborn. Miranda about three years old, holding a baby in a blue blanket. Miranda graduating from kindergarten in her white cap and gown. And on they went, so that by the time Samantha reached the top of the steps, she had a pretty good outline of the teen’s life—at least up until the age of sixteen.

  Her phone buzzed. Stopping at the top of the stairs, she pulled it from the clip on her hip and looked at the number. Tom.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey there, where are you? Thought we were going over to Jamie’s to grab a pizza?”

  “Oh, Tom, sorry, I asked Jamie to call you. I guess she hasn’t gotten around to it yet. I’m still working this case.”

  “The missing teens case?” He grunted his displeasure. “I have a bad feeling about that one. You be careful, okay? Have you found anything helpful?”

  “I’m being careful. As for finding anything helpful, we’ll see. Even if they used their phones for texting, it’s kind of weird that the computers are as clean as they are.” She didn’t want to say too much since he wasn’t an official on the case. “I’m sure I’ll find what I need in due time.” Worry niggled at her on a different front. “Do me a favor, will you? Check on Jamie for me. She was acting . . . weird.”

  “Weird? Weirder than . . . what?”

  He had a point. But he didn’t know the reason behind her sister’s odd behavior. A borderline agoraphobic, Jamie rarely left her small house when she had company, but definitely never went out alone.

  “She said she was going up the street to the café to get a sandwich . . . by herself.”

  “Wow. That is weird. Want me to keep her company?”

  Sam paused. “No, just go . . . spy on her a bit. Make sure she’s okay, then call and let me know. Do you mind?”

  “Nope, you and Jamie were my plans for the evening anyway.”

  “We’ll do the original plan another time.” Sam stepped into Miranda’s room and looked around. “Gotta run, Tom. Thanks.”

  Classically elegant, it didn’t fit the soccer player in the picture she’d seen downstairs. Apparently, Miranda had another side to her personality. Cool blues and lace graced the window. A matching bedspread and pillow shams gave the room a completed look. White wicker furniture, a memory board. A corner computer workstation sat to the left of the bed. Samantha pulled out her digital camera and snapped several pictures of the room.

  Honing in on the board, she saw pictures of friends, reminders of specific dates, things to do, places to go, people to see. The life of a teen. Miranda had a math quiz tomorrow.

  “Hey, Samantha.”

  She turned at Connor’s voice . . . and gulped. He sure filled the doorway nicely. Clearing her throat, she nodded to the memory board. “This might tell us something.”

  “Sure doesn’t look like a teenager’s room to me,” she heard him mutter.

  Chuckling a little under her breath, she said, “Your teenager, maybe. But it looks a lot like my room when I was growing up. I was a neat freak.”

  A tanned hand plucked a picture from the board. “Was?”

  “Yeah, not so much now. I’m never home anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “Looks like this girl in the picture with Miranda might be the place to start.”

  “That’s probably Alyssa, her best friend.”

  Shoving her camera under her arm, Sam snapped on a pair of latex-free gloves and opened the closet door. Then she pulled the camera from where she’d wedged it against her side and took note of the contents of the closet as she snapped picture after picture. You never knew what you would spot in a photo that you didn’t see during an initial sweep.

  About twenty pairs of flip-flops neatly lined the back wall. Two pairs of black dress shoes, boots. Samantha flipped through the clothes. Typical teen stuff. Jeans, shirts she would consider too small but were all the rage now. Dresses. Nice ones. A dress still in a hanging bag with a receipt attached.

  Click went the camera, the flash lighting up the interior for a brief moment.

  She pulled the bag out and unzipped it. “Hey, Connor, look at this.” A black slinky dress spilled over her fingers. “Sexy. Expensive.” She looked at the receipt from an upscale local boutique. “Six hundred dollars. Wow.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Where do you suppose she got the money for that?”

  “Modeling?”

  Connor raised a brow. “Paid for with cash?”

  “Yep.”

  “Rats.”

  Sam nodded. “Of course. There’s nothing about this guy that says he’s stupid, just evil.” Connor wrote the information down in his notebook. Samantha sighed. “You know, I was just thinking about something. That IM said to ‘bring a friend.’ Did any of the friends you talked to say anything about accompanying the missing girls to a meeting of any kind?”

  “No, and we didn’t specifically ask because we didn’t have that information to ask about until today. I mean, we questioned friends and acquaintances, but none of them could really give us much. You can bet this will open up a whole new round of interviews. Bag that receipt and dress for evidence. We’ll ask, but I’m willing to bet Mrs. Abrams didn’t buy that dress. I’m calling in a buddy of mine who also works with the FBI. You might know him. Dakota Richards. I’m going to talk to the sheriff about getting that task force set up.”

  Samantha knew Connor didn’t need the sheriff’s permission to set it up. He was simply extending the man some professional courtesy. One more thing to like about Connor Wolfe.

  Connor arrived home late, the case still heavy on his mind.

  He’d been right. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Abrams had known how Miranda would have been able to purchase a dress that expensive. Or why she would have wanted one. The only thing they could come up with was that it had something to do with a modeling gig.

  But no one knew what the gig was, where it was, or when it was.

  So, now they had more questions and no more answers. Great, just what the governor wanted to hear. He looked at his phone. The man had called twice. Connor called him back, explained where they were in the case—refrained from venting his frustrations—and promised to keep the man posted.

  Exhaustion pulled at him, but he knew he had to talk to Jenna. To apologize for having to leave the dinner table again.

  And for not giving her fair warning about Samantha looking so much like Jenna’s mom. He definitely should have called. The thing was, once he got over the initial jolt, the resemblance ended with some physical similarities.

  His wife, Julia, had been demanding, sometimes downright nasty in the way she dealt with situations, with life—with him.

  Opening the door, he spied his mother asleep in the recliner, the television still on, the Bible open in her lap. Picking up the remote, he clicked the power button. The television went black. His mother stirred, her blue eyes fluttering open.

  Connor moved the Bible to the end table. “I guess Jenna’s pretty ticked with me, huh?”

  “So what else is new, Connor?” Awareness pushed aside any leftover fuzziness caused by her sleep. “She went to bed about an hour ago. You have to spend some time with her if you want to have a future with your daughter.” Her hand reached out to touch the Bible. “And you need to get Jenna into church.”

  “Church is your thing, Mom, not mine.”

  “What happened, Connor? You used to go when you could, and Jenna loved the youth group.”

  “Julia happened. Every time we came home, she’d start in. She’d complain about what was wrong with people in the congregation or roll her eyes over the boring sermon. I rarely heard her say anything complimentary about anyone in the church other than the group she hung out with.” He shrugged. “I got tired of listening to it.”

  “So you used work as an excuse to quit going.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jenna needs you, son. You can’t use work as an excuse not to spend time with her.”

  “I know, Mom.
But I’m a cop. A good one. It’s what I do, it’s my job.”

  “It’s your life.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “So what do I do? Quit?”

  His mother sighed, rose from the recliner, and hugged him. “I don’t have the answer. But I do know that unless something changes, you’re going to lose that girl.”

  Connor hung his head. Nodded. “I know you’re right.” He sighed, too tired to delve into the subject any deeper. “I’m going to bed.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  She headed for the stairs and Connor spied the Bible his mother had been reading. Picking it up, he clutched it, flipped through it without reading a word. He looked at the ceiling and wondered if there was Someone else he needed to have a talk with.

  Setting the book back on the end table, he turned to make his way up the stairs. Jenna’s room was the first door on the right. Shut, of course.

  He turned the knob, nudging it open, moving a pile of clothing with his efforts. A soft light, compliments of the moon, drifted across Jenna’s face. His daughter lay on her stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow, the blanket crunched around her waist. Her dark curls spread haphazardly across the sheets, and he could detect a gentle snore.

  Visions of her as a newborn flashed in his mind—red and wrinkled, the most precious bundle he’d ever held. Then she’d been a fearless toddler; an inquisitive six-year-old; a ten-year-old daddy’s girl, laughing, squealing, carefree, running to jump in his arms so he could swing her around and around until they both collapsed to the ground, her giggles the sweetest music ever composed.

  Then her mother died.

  And she’d stopped laughing.

  And it was his fault.

  He sidestepped the booby-trapped floor to reach the side of her bed. Lightly, oh so softly, he touched her hair, wanting to pick her up and hug her to him, to rock her and tell her how much he loved her. In the quietest whisper, he told her, “I’m sorry. I do love you very much, baby.”

  Jenna heard the door click shut and she opened her eyes to stare through the dark at the opposite wall. She’d been to the party, found herself bored, wishing she were anywhere but there. Bradley had stayed for, like, two seconds before leaving with only a brief glance in her direction, so she’d told Patty she felt sick and needed to go home. Patty had been disgusted with her, but had grudgingly brought her home.

  Jenna sighed and felt like she had a fifty-pound weight settled in the vicinity of her chest. Tears clogged her throat and her nose tingled with the effort to hold back the sobs.

  “I love you too, Daddy,” she whispered.

  But it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter much anymore.

  7

  Samantha’s phone had been unusually quiet. Devoting her time to one case severely cut down on her calls. Tom would continue to work solo, partnering up with another agent should he find himself in a situation that required it.

  Last night, after Connor assured her there wasn’t anything else she could do and had promised to keep her updated on any progress he made, she’d left, her mind humming with all the information she’d acquired in the last thirty-six hours.

  Sydney’s parents had found the girl’s journal, hidden under her mattress, and brought it to the station. Andrew was going over it with a fine-tooth comb. So far he hadn’t turned up anything pertinent. The warrant on the medical records had gone through, so those would be waiting for perusal today.

  Miranda’s computer would be waiting on her downtown when Sam could get there. She’d given it a glance-through before she’d left, but hadn’t found a thing. No hidden documents, no secret IMs, nothing. She’d look it over again today, but didn’t really expect to find anything. Very weird. Completely unheard of. But she still had a few more tricks up her sleeve and she’d find something. There was always a trail, no matter how careful someone tried to be.

  The slight stirring of excitement at the thought of going downtown again surprised her. She wanted to see Connor. He’d offered to pick her up, but she’d forced herself to refuse.

  And then kicked herself. If it had been any other cop, she wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting. But Connor made her feel things she wasn’t interested in exploring.

  Okay, she was. But . . .

  First things first. Settling herself in the oversized recliner facing her one extravagance, her forty-six-inch flat screen television, she dialed her parents’ number, sighing and mentally psyching herself up for the conversation. She glanced out the sliding glass door to her right. The balcony sat empty, forlorn. No plants, not even a plastic ficus tree to liven things up. At least she had the quiet woods beyond. After four rings the answering machine picked up. Sam glanced at the clock: 8:30. What was today?

  Tuesday? No, Wednesday. Wednesday morning. Right. Felt like it should at least be Sunday. Of next week. Her parents would be doing their weekly grocery shopping this morning. She hung up. Oh well, she’d tried, right?

  She picked up the remote and hit the power button. A commercial for some fast-food restaurant filled the screen, but her mind mulled over other things.

  Tom had called just as she’d walked in the door last night to report Jamie was fine . . . and had indeed walked down to the café to get a sandwich and a cup of coffee. She’d made it safely back to her small house, eaten her sandwich, watched some TV, then went to bed.

  Sam felt like crying. Ten years ago, when Jamie was eighteen years old, she’d been brutally assaulted, raped, and left for dead. The road to recovery had been a rocky one, with numerous ups and downs. One of the ups being, she’d moved into a small cottage-style house she managed to purchase while doing some contract work with the FBI. Samantha had roomed with her the first two years, then Jamie insisted she needed to learn to live alone. And so the recovery period continued. She’d finally gotten to the point that she was able to talk about the attack, but to Samantha’s knowledge, had refused to leave her home by herself ever since she’d moved in. The fact that she’d ventured out on her own last night was . . . wow.

  Thank you, God. Keep working on her spirit, her self-esteem. Help her conquer the fear. And help us catch the guy who did this to her. I know it’s been ten years, but he’s still out there, possibly still destroying lives. Let us get him, God, please.

  Click. She changed channels. Glanced at the clock. Time to go downtown. To see Connor.

  Movement to her right caught her attention. Setting the remote on the table, she looked out the glass doors to the trees beyond. A shadow? The sun changing positions. A cloud gliding past? She shrugged and turned.

  Her sliding door exploded into a cloud of glass, an object missed her nose by a fraction of an inch. Sam released a scream and reacted instinctively, rolling to the floor, hands and arms covering her head.

  Connor slapped the paper down on his desk and gave a frustrated growl. Then glanced at the clock. She’d be here soon. His growl subsided at the thought.

  “What’s wrong, partner?”

  Looking up, Connor watched Andrew sit down across from him, coffee cup balanced on a stack of files.

  “Oh, hey. Morning.”

  “You look frustrated.”

  “To put it mildly. It’s this case, of course.”

  “Yeah, it’s stretching out too long.”

  “Way too long. I’ve been avoiding the governor. Not a good thing. Somehow, we’ve got to get this guy before any more girls go missing or turn up dead.”

  “The media’s getting stirred up again. I noticed them on the steps when I came in this morning.”

  “I know. I had to barrel through myself. I guess they’re hoping one of us will slip up and give them a juicy morsel.”

  “Ha. Not likely. I like my job too much.”

  “Yeah, well, listen to this.” Connor picked up the paper he’d just thrown down. “‘In the last sixteen months, seven girls have disappeared. Three of those girls have been found dead. Is there a connection? With four girls still missing, what are the pol
ice doing? Why is it taking so long to apprehend this vicious killer? And when will another one go missing? The authorities have declined to comment. This reporter wants to know what they’re doing to keep our teenage girls safe.’”

  Andrew shook his head. “At least he doesn’t have the fact that the three girls we do have were pregnant . . . and we don’t know where the babies went. And,” he added, “they don’t have the IM information or text message stuff. Shoot, even we don’t have that, yet. Unfortunately, it won’t be long before they have those facts either. I wonder who they’re bribing at this very moment. We’ve got to get this guy, Connor, and get him yesterday.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to catch someone who covers his tracks so well. It’s almost like he’s . . .” Connor let his words trail off, not wanting to voice his horrid suspicion.

  Andrew finished it for him. “Like he’s a cop?”

  Connor blew out a sigh. “Yeah.”

  “I know. I’ve thought it too. If so, that just means we’ve got to work extra hard and be extra smart.”

  “Smarter. I’ve got an idea, but want to run it by Tim.” Tim Fields, a forensic psychiatrist, often worked with them on cases. He’d already profiled the killer of the teen girls. Now, Connor wanted to use that information in a rather unorthodox manner.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “What if we went public with the information Tim’s profiled about this guy?”

  “Like a news conference?” Andrew looked thoughtful, and Connor could almost see that the man’s mind clicked along the same track as his.

  He smiled. A partner like Andrew was a rare gift. They always seemed to be on the same page when it came to thinking things through. “Uh-huh.”

  “Draw the guy out. Take his focus off the girls.”

  “And put it on us.”