Chirp(15)

After fighting Houston traffic, it was almost two when Tom arrived at the police department. He’d called ahead to make sure Benny was still working. Although his friend was old enough to retire, he hadn’t opted out yet.

The elevator doors opened, and Tom got on and rode up to the third floor. He should use the stairs. God knew he needed the exercise, but his knees had given out years ago. And the extra fifteen pounds he’d gained didn’t help.

The place hadn’t changed much. Same standard-issue metal desks and cubicles, and it reeked of stale coffee and day-old donuts. He stopped for a moment and considered the last time he’d been here. Right after he’d left the FBI and started his PI firm. He’d made sure local guys understood he wouldn’t step on any toes when he got an open case. Law enforcement was a country club of sorts. You didn’t get to play on their turf without a membership.

Benny glanced up from his desk, unfolded his massive frame from the chair, and embraced Tom. “Damn, Tommy Fraser, how you been?”

“Okay. You?”

“Counting the days.”

“When?” Tom asked.

“January first, I’m out of here. Heading to Florida. Deb’s mom and dad left her a condo there. We’re gonna move in, prop our feet up, and grow old.”

Tom laughed. “Don’t you mean older? We’re already old.”

Benny gestured toward a chair. “You got that right, and I’m feeling it.”

Tom plopped into the seat, the leather squeaking with his weight. “Me too.”

Benny sat again. “So, after you called, I pulled up the file. Put it on a flash drive for you.” He slid the small black stick across the desk. “The girl is twenty now. I’m surprised the stepmother is still pursuing this.”

“Says she needs closure. Most people do.”

“I guess. So, what do you want to know?” Benny asked.

“You didn’t keep the case open long. I’m wondering why. No judgment. Just curious.”

The cop shouldered back in his chair. “The stepmom insisted it was kidnapping, but there was no proof. I thought she’d left of her own accord, but because she was seventeen, I still worked the case hard with no luck. The courts are so overrun with cases like this, even if I’d found her, she would have been almost eighteen. No longer a juvenile. So the case moved to the back burner.” Benny picked up his glasses and chewed on the earpiece. “You know how it is. We have a stack of missing kids a lot younger.”

He shifted in his seat again, opened a file folder, and put his glasses on. “I based my decision on conversations I had with former household employees.” He scanned the page. “The nanny they’d had for fifteen years, one Helga Scudder, and the homeschool teacher, Jeanette Lester.”

Tom made notes, then looked at his friend. “What’d they have to say?”

Benny removed his specs and pitched them down on the desktop. “The stepmom made this kid out to be disturbed, but that’s not the same description I got from others. Odd. Strange. Obsessive. Lacking social skills, yeah, but not crazy. Tutor claimed she had an IQ of 125. When I arrived at the house, I photographed every inch of the girl’s room. By that time the nanny had been fired, so when I showed her the photos, she noticed the girl’s cherished concert T-shirts were missing. Now, what kidnapper allows his prey to pack their favorite things?”

“I see your point. The girl ever labeled with a disorder?” Tom asked.

“Dad never allowed her to be tested. That’s not all. Her computer and cell phone—gone. Debit and credit cards—never got a hit. She had a college fund she’d cleaned out weeks before she disappeared, and here’s the kicker: Daddy Dear had to sign for the withdrawal. Now, you tell me what conclusion you’d get from that.”

Tom rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Sounds like the father helped the kid leave.”

Benny flicked his finger. “Bingo.”





7


Blaze


Blaze stood in the middle of the kitchen and took it all in. The simplicity of it. Vinyl flooring. Well-worn Formica countertops. White bead-board cabinets. A drastic contrast to the marble and granite custom work she’d grown up with. She’d been happy here—with Dessie, and then alone. But now he’d shown up and spoiled everything.

The men she’d seen and construction plans on Rance’s bedside table told her there was about to be more activity than she wanted. But complaining would be another reason in his arsenal to get rid of her. Dealing with the mess and strangers would be a challenge, but she had no choice.

Earlier, when he’d driven away in the new truck, she didn’t know if he’d return for supper or not. But to be safe, she’d cooked. After years of prison food, her meals had to make an impression. But more cooking meant more groceries.

After locking her bedroom door and retrieving the paint can from behind the chair, she removed the lid, peered inside, and found the contents out of order. Her family photo should be on top, then Dad’s. Had Rance been in her room? Found her hiding place? Gone through her things? He had no right. This was her stuff. She counted the bundles. All there. She was being paranoid.

To be cautious, she should find a new location. Under the mattress? No. He’d look there for sure. She stepped into the bathroom. In episode 26 of Perfect Crime, drug dealers hid their goods in a plastic bag immersed in the toilet tank. The thought made her queasy. She opened the cabinet below the sink and spied the sanitary napkins. He’d never check there. She transferred the loot, placed the remaining pads on top, and slid the box back in its spot.