Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1) (3 page)

“But not defeated. I’ve looked over the files,” I said.

“That means you’ve stayed up for three nights scouring every letter of every word. Give me your take.”

“I’m sorry. Right now zip on the sleep and zip on any take. I’m bringing Schlep into the equation.”

“That has-been cop wannabe? Shepard something?”

I tossed my menu down on the table and rolled my eyes. “Shepard Brown, and he likes to go by Schlep thanks to you guys in the department sending him out on ridiculous gopher runs that you called an assistant desk job. He figures out things in that brain of his, Manning. And I’m not seeing anything. I need to go back to your board. I’ll bring Schlep in and you leave us alone. All day, if need be.”

“If he’s your guy, he’s good enough for me as long as your fee doesn’t double,” Manning said.

“Fuck you. That fee. You make me laugh which is a chore this early in the morning.”

“When are you going to ditch your potty mouth, Cassidy?”

“It’s part of my charming personality. And how I can best convey what I think of you, my sorry asshole friend.”

“You have this funny thing you do,” Manning told me. You are mean and ornery but when you say something you think is clever you lift your shoulders up to your ears, dive your head down like a turtle and let out a tiny giggle.

“Peachy!” I said. And then, before I could catch it, I did that turtle thing again.

The board had victims and suspects, with a little room to scribble down theories. The only items on the board were the photographs of the missing women, ages, dates missing and from where and occupations.

Arduous? No. Productive? No. We reviewed files and stared at the board. Nothing had been added prior to my first visit except the first-tier of the leader board no one wants to be on now listed the earliest possible victim; the eighteen-year-old seeking her real estate license with her entire future ahead of her. With liberties, we added a few more limited facts. I wanted to find any connection between these women.

Manning sent in lunch. Dry and unhealthy sandwiches but that was his way of coddling us. No doubt our retainer fee would be delayed.

At three o’clock as I was getting restless, the synergy between Schlep and me hit a wall. We looked at each other, both comprehending we noticed what was there for us to see all along.

We emphatically understood that none of these women would have entered a stranger’s vehicle without duress. Among the differences in age, race, wealth, locations, working women or socialite status, there was one common thread. None of the women had children.

“Whatever we have or don’t have, the victimology is consistent,” Schlep noted.

Nodding to me, he quickly left to do further background on the women, hoping to find something else that might further link the victims.

Excited, I called Manning in, asking him to sit in the chair Schlep had vacated to view the wall.

“What’s the connection?” I asked.

“I’ve given you all I have. There’s none that I can see.”

“Look at them, Manning.”

Manning grunted, frustrated by my challenge and scuffing his cheap leather shoes under the cheap metal chair.

“Damn it, Manning, you’re a guy. They’re all very pretty, don’t you think?”

Manning’s face turned a slight shade of crimson and he said, “Well, yes. They are. Beautiful. So, what are you saying? Rape? Being held hostage somewhere? Hostage wombs?”

I shook my head. “We have no bodies. We really don’t know if a struggle was involved because there’s no DNA under any fingernails. There are no fingernails. We can only theorize that their good looks come into play and sexual aggression
may
have been a motivation. They’re also quite small, or even with the taller ones, they’re thin. Maybe not too much strength.”

“I’ll go with being chosen to breed,” Manning surmised.

I nodded. “Maybe. What are the feds doing?”

“They’re only interested in the congresswoman. They have their hands full hunting down her political enemies of which she has plenty. That will keep them busy for a while,” Manning said, bringing his hands up to scratch at the unruly hair at his temples.

“And out of our hair,” he added.

“Like someone really wants to climb into that mop of yours,” I laughed.

After reading the card, she laughed, grabbing a cigarette and a Mimosa. An invitation from the bitch, Jessica Silva. The whore wanted to meet her for a late lunch at a local resort.

Delicious and perfect, Sandra thought.

Jessica, already seated out on the patio, stood to greet her guest. She extended her hand which was not accepted.

“I guess I’ve been summoned,” Sandra said, patting down her Chanel skirt.

“I thought it would be good to meet in person, rather than me seeing your car drive by my home and the television station almost every day.”

“Observant of you.”

Jessica cleared her throat, her fingers forming a steeple in front of her as she held her chin high. “I’ve ordered a bottle of Merlot. Will you have a glass?”

Sandra snapped at a nearby waiter and ordered call vodka. “I don’t consume anything that will stain my teeth. Now, amuse me and cut to the chase. Why are we here?”

“To the point. I like that. Not that we couldn’t be enjoying the waterfall and the flowering trees and delight in the birds,” Jessica said.

With pursed lips, a forced smile came across Sandra’s face. Her voice was remarkably calm and well-paced, masking the tenacity of the words she was about to say. “I know everything there is to know about you. You’re a lame reporter only getting by on your good looks to be a news anchor. And you’re sleeping with my husband.”

Jessica threw her back against the chair for support. With her posture perfect and her ponytail of black hair falling straight down the nape of her neck, she replied, “You are divorced. I know that. You know that.”

“It’s a piece of stupid paper which will be replaced with a new marriage certificate. One piece of paper. Does Jaxon know you have arranged this meeting with me? Or did he send you to do his dirty work?”

“It wasn’t his idea if that’s what you’re asking. It might have been quite the lunch if he could have joined us but he’s busy getting a restraining order against you. That’s why we could meet today, but not tomorrow, because there will be one from me, too.”

“Another couple of ridiculous pieces of paper,” Sandra snapped.

Jessica took a small sip of the Merlot. She paused while she pulled at her long hair before finally saying, “Why do you mean Jaxon harm? It’s been two years. The marriage is dissolved. Why harm Gecko?”

“Stupid dog.”

“I take it you aren’t fond of Gecko?” Jessica asked.

“He was a wretched dog. Sometimes I think Jaxon loved that damn dog more than me.”

Jessica resisted the urge to scream. She put her hands back to form the steeple, this time leaning forward to rest her chin on top of her fingers.

“You used the past tense. Now, how would you know that Gecko died? It wasn’t exactly in the news and I didn’t say anything to you.”

Sandra knocked back her vodka, unflinching. “He’s a past in my life.”

Jessica glanced at her cell phone. A second text message. She smiled and eased her posture.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Sandra said.

“I’m a busy woman. I get calls.”

The waiter came by to collect their orders. Sandra shooed him away with a flip of her hand. “Not yet. But bring me another vodka, heavy on the pour.”

She turned back to look Jessica straight in the eyes. “I don’t need to know one more thing about you, so bring it on. What do you want from me?”

“I thought maybe we could make a truce, beginning with a gentler cadence in communication.”

“Peace between you and me and the triangle you’ve created?”

The fresh drink arrived and Sandra grabbed it.

“You seem like a strong and confident woman. Why do you feel this need to be a stalker, Sandra?” Jessica asked.

“My name is pronounced Sondra.”

“Oh, my apologies. My cousin is named Sondra but it’s spelled with an O. It’s on her birth certificate. It’s in the spelling, you know.
“I’m no stalker, and I don’t give a damn about the alphabet.”

“I guess I care more about proper grammar and pronunciation. A force of habit, based on my career.”

Another slug of vodka. “You’re invitation amused me, so here I am. But I have a full calendar. Probably more full than yours. Move on.”

“Why are you stalking us, Sandy?” Jessica blurted out.

“I am not a Sandy, you goddamn slut. Never call me that, messy Jessie!”

Sandra, or Sondra, obviously couldn’t stand being called Sandy. She got up, spilled the remains of her vodka across the bread basket and stormed away from the table.

Jessica sent a quick text. Even though Sandra Vickery had left the table earlier than anticipated, everything was in place. The county processor would be waiting for her at the valet station to serve the restraining orders. She was not to come within one hundred feet of Jaxon’s residence, real estate offices or the country club where she was no longer a member. She was also ordered to stay away from Jessica Silva’s home and the television station. If she accidentally ran into either of them out in public, she was mandated to turn around and vacate the premises.

Jessica ordered two crab salads, both heavy on the teeth-staining fresh beets.

When Jaxon arrived at her table, Jessica couldn’t help herself. “She’s very beautiful in a stoic sort of way. She’s elegant. Tall and slim. Maybe even fragile. I’m sorry, but that’s certainly not how you described her.”

Jaxon chortled as he poured himself the red wine into the stem Jessica had waiting for him.

“Seriously. I’ve never seen her up close,” Jessica added.

“Don’t let that fool you. She works out every day. She can heave two forty-pound bags of pool salt, one on each shoulder, as if they were a short stack of pancakes.”

“True. Tough. And mean. She exuded hatred the moment I offered her a glass of red wine.”

“Oh, yeah. She won’t consume anything darker than pink champagne. But I bet she would drink blood,” Jaxon said.

“Must be nice. Drinking while on duty, Cassidy,” Manning said.

“I have no on-duty days and it keeps me nice. Or at least nicer,” I retorted.

“You have something for me, Cassidy?”

“I will after Schlep arrives and we order some food.”

“What’s up with this sidekick of yours?” Manning asked, while ordering an iced tea with a look on his face as sour as the lemon he requested.

“You don’t get him. He never fit in on the force because you idiots didn’t recognize his brilliance. You used him as a freakin’ errand boy.”

Ignoring my comment, Manning announced to nobody but me, “I’m ordering a hamburger.”

“I’m waiting for Schlep,” I said, still nursing the alcohol-infused lime juice.

We snacked from the basket of hot tortilla chips and salsa, talking about anything but the cases at hand. Schlep arrived a few seconds before Manning gave up and was going to order. “Shepherd Brown. Glad you could finally join us,” Manning said.

“Heck. You can call me Schlep. I think I’ve earned that name.”

I laughed, patting the place on the fake red leather booth seat next to me. I could read Schlep like a polished book of fine poetry. He had something brewing in that boy-genius mind of his.

He always wore his own uniform which consisted of khaki pants with a belt and a tucked in long-sleeved dress shirt. Short and with a very slight build, he’s also pulled the shirt out from his abdomen. I think he was trying to give the appearance that he was a bit more buff. The thick crepe-soled shoes gave him a bit of extra height. His shirts were always crisply starched, in opposition to his shaggy brown hair that was more fitting in the seventies. I called him a walking hippy yuppie.

Manning and I ordered but Schlep declined. He wanted to talk.

“Sir,” he stammered, “you understand that the reason you’ve asked us to work with you on these cases is because we can devote a lot more time than you can.”

Manning nodded with a slight yawn. Looking at him, I was itching to straighten his crooked tie and drop it down about two inches.

Schlep continued, “Law enforcement responds reactively, looking for signs of foul play. The PI approach is different. We tend to be more proactive. For example, when your department interviews family, friends and any eye witnesses, your goal is to find out where these women are, correct?”

“Damn right.”

“While that’s all good and true, sometimes it helps to dig deeper. We determine not only where these women were prior to their disappearance, not to mention their patterns, but we attempt to determine where they wanted to go. We all know these women had high aspirations for their future, but where would they be going the next day? The next week? Their immediate plans on their calendars?”