Deceit (13 page)

Baxter lifted the gin and tonic. His eyes were still on her. “By the way, you look stunning tonight.” He said the words as a proud father would speak to his daughter.

Stunning
. The very word she’d thought about Linda.

Melissa cast a demure glance at the floor. “Thanks.”

TWENTY-THREE

FEBRUARY 2010

I arrived at the Tradden Lane address without getting lost, courtesy of the GPS system in my car. It was shortly after noon. I saw one car in the driveway of the house—a blue Mercedes. It looked new.

Interesting. Tony’s name had come up on a credit header just two months ago. From buying this car?

A RE/MAX “Open House” sign had led me to turn onto Tradden Lane. A matching red “For Sale” sign stood in the front yard, Tony Whistman’s name and picture on top. His sign dripped water. The rain had stopped only in the last five minutes.

On the passenger seat of my car lay a manila folder containing a printout of my HM file. I set it on the floor. I’d also brought a yellow pad and pen for quick note-jotting. It lay on the passenger seat.

I took a drink from the water bottle I’d brought along and got out of the SUV. My gaze swept the wet yard and two-story house. Too bad I wasn’t really in the market for real estate. This was a lovely home.

No other cars lined the curb. The rain couldn’t be helping the attendance at Tony’s open house. Good news for me. I hoped to talk to him alone.

My knees wobbled as I closed my car door. The lack of sleep had plagued me during the entire drive. A slow-moving brain I didn’t need. I took a couple of deep breaths, leaning against the 4Runner. I could only hope Tony wasn’t watching through a window.

A moment later I entered the house and closed the door behind me. Straight ahead lay a kitchen. I could see the edge of a black and silver granite counter top, a stack of flyers about the property upon it.

“Hello there,” a voice called out. Tony’s. A second later he appeared in the kitchen threshold. Tony stood under six feet, with a short torso and long legs. He smiled, but I could feel his gray eyes calculating my worth as a potential buyer. The vibes he gave off didn’t sit right with me, the sense I’d gotten from his picture only flowing stronger from the real person. Tony impressed me as a man who’d be hard to live with. Someone who knew what he wanted and viewed compromise as a failure.

If that trait spilled over into his business, he wouldn’t be selling many houses. Especially in this market.

“Hi. I’m Sarah Blair.”

“Oh, yeah, you called. Glad you made it.”

I smiled. “Nice car out there. New?”

“Got it two months ago. It’s a fine specimen.”

“That it is.”

I cast my gaze up the staircase, pretending to survey the wall colors, the carpet.

“Go ahead and look around, Sarah. I’ll be in the kitchen if you have questions.”

“Thanks.”

I started with the second level, taking my time, opening closet doors. Tony would expect to hear such sounds. Back downstairs I perused the living room, the den, a small office. By design I ended in the kitchen.

No one else had yet entered the house. I didn’t want to push my luck. All the same, a woman in search of a house checks out the kitchen with a detailed eye. I went through the motions, looking in cabinets, noticing the appliances and size of the sink.

Tony and I talked about the home, its square footage, and “fair” price. I told him I was getting remarried soon, my fiancé living in San Mateo. I wanted to move down to the San Jose area, closer to his job. Of course he’d have to check out whatever place I was interested in.

“Sure.” Tony leaned casually against the counter on one elbow, one foot crossed over the other. “I can show it to the two of you any time. Just give me a call.”

I ran my hand over the smooth, swirled granite, my body language saying I was in no hurry to leave. Open houses could be lonely, boring events. A good realtor without other customers would always be up for a chat.

“So who was this friend of Melissa’s who told you about me?” Tony asked.

Bingo
.

I faced him, head tilted, frowning. “I’m trying to remember. It was some time ago. Maybe my friend Ellie, who used to work with her at Macy’s?”

Tony screwed up his face. “When did Melissa work at Macy’s?”

“I…are we talking about the same person? Brown hair, pretty. About twenty-two?”

“Sounds like the one.”

My heart turned over.
Please let it be.
“Guess that was before you knew her.”

“Guess so.”

“Know what, I think I may even have an old picture of her with my friend.” I set my purse on the counter and pulled out my wallet. “Let’s see…” I flipped through a few pictures. “Yes. Here.”

I held the wallet out to Tony, my thumb half covering Linda’s face. He leaned over and checked out the photo. “Yup, that’s her. Wow, she’s young. Look how long her hair was.”

He stared at the picture a moment longer, wistfulness flicking over his face. Then straightened, his jaw firming.

I gave him an empathetic look. “I haven’t seen Melissa in a long time. You two have some kind of break-up?”

He snorted. “ ‘Some kind’ is right. She got all weird on me and took off three days ago. Just—gone. All her clothes, everything. Have no idea where she went.”

I’d missed Melissa by three days? My expression froze. I covered my reaction by putting my wallet back in my purse. “You must have some idea. People don’t just…disappear.”

He scratched the base of his neck. “They do if they want to. Doesn’t matter, though, I’m better off without her.”

“Sounds like you’re not quite sure you believe that.”

He shrugged. “If I learned one thing from living with Melissa for four months, it’s that she’s hard-headed as can be. Nothing stands in her way.”

“Have you tried calling her? I’m assuming she has a cell phone.”

“Yeah, I called her.” He sighed. “She told me she had somebody new in her life and I was not to call her again. Then she hung up.”

“Wow. That’s…sudden. You had no idea?”

“None. I phoned the few friends of hers I’d met. They don’t know anything either.”

“What about going to her work?”

Tony snorted. “She didn’t show up after she took off. They don’t know any more than I do.”

This didn’t sound good. “You don’t think something’s happened to her.”

“Nah. She just…” Tony’s gaze roamed across the room. “That’s her other trait. Well, two traits. Independence and privacy.” His mouth twisted. “Except when she wants something.”

“I don’t…” I shook my head. “When I knew her she seemed unsure of herself, trying so hard to fit in.”

Tony spewed a mirthless laugh. “Like you said, that was a long time ago.”

“I guess.”

I desperately wanted to keep Tony talking. If only I could pry the name of Melissa’s “few friends” from him. If she’d moved in with some new man, one of them was bound to know, despite the denials to Tony.

“What kind of work was she in?”

“She answered phones at Whidbye Realty. That’s how we met. I had to call a realtor over there, and we got to talking…”

Real estate, how interesting. It fit.

Tony stood up straight and drew a deep breath, as if cleansing himself from the subject. “Enough talk about Melissa.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

My brain spun for something more to say, but the conversation had played itself out. At least I’d confirmed this Melissa was my gal. And she was still using the same cell phone number I’d uncovered.

But I didn’t expect to persuade her over the phone to end six years of silence. I would have to find a way to talk with her in person.

“Well.” I pulled myself up straighter, picked a flyer for the house off the counter. “I should be going.” I looked over the sheet in my hand. “Nice job here. Good photos to show my fiancé.”

I took my leave of Tony, promising to call him back if my fiancé was interested in seeing the place. I stepped outside to a sky bulging low and ominous, as if the clouds might crack any minute.

My watch read 1:10. In five hours it would be dark.

TWENTY-FOUR

As I drove away from Tradden Lane, I considered possible pretexts for my call to Melissa. My head was dulling by the minute, as if some drug had just hit my system. My body craved sleep. I sat up straighter, took a deep breath.

Didn’t help.

After about a mile I spotted a church parking lot and pulled into it. Cut the engine.

Maybe if I ate something. But I couldn’t be bothered with real food now.

I popped open the console and fished out a bag of emergency Jelly Bellies. It was a mixed bag, flavors for all situations, but I was beyond picking through them. I grabbed a handful, shoved them in my mouth, and chewed. Bursts of French Vanilla and Cotton Candy, Crushed Pineapple, and Jalapeño hit my tongue. I ate a second handful, and a third, reveling in the tastes, the sugar. An hour from now I’d probably crash. But I couldn’t think of that now.

When I’d had enough I stuffed the half-eaten Jelly Belly bag into the console and took a long drink from my water bottle.

There. I felt a little better. Emphasis on
little
.

From my purse I pulled out my regular cell phone. I dialed 411 and got the address for Whidbye Realty. Jotted it down.

I put that phone away and withdrew another from my purse—a prepaid cell with a blocked ID.

This was it. I’d better make it good.

I had one chance to contact Melissa and coax an address from her. Melissa could well be suspicious of anyone who called, knowing Tony was trying to find her. If this didn’t work, I’d be relegated to checking for new leads on my computer. But it could take days for her to apply for new credit or change her address on some bill.

Baxter’s hate-filled expression bloomed in my head. As long as that man walked the streets, I would not feel safe.

The prepaid cell phone felt heavy in my hand. I still felt so tired.

I got out of the car, paced around. Swung my arms and stretched. If anyone saw me they’d surely wonder. Mine was the behavior of a tired driver at a long-awaited rest stop, not someone in a church parking lot.

As I walked I mentally practiced my spiel. Finally feeling a little more alert, I got back in the car—and punched in Melissa’s number.

While waiting for the connection I asked God’s help on this one.

“Please enjoy the music while your party is reached,” said a woman’s canned voice. Some horrible rap begin to play as a ring-back tone. I held my cell away from my ear.
Come on, come on
. The tune—if you could call it that—seemed to go on forever.

This was the downside of a blocked ID. Melissa would most likely ignore the call and let it go to voicemail.

The rapper sang a few real notes—then cut off.

“Hi, I’m not here. Leave a message.”
Beep
.

Even though I hadn’t heard her speak in six years, I knew it was Melissa. Skip tracers tend to become quite astute at recognizing voices.

“This is Janet White with UPS.” My tone sounded clipped, professional. “I have a package for special Sunday delivery from Whidbye Realty for a Melissa Harkoff at 820 Willmott, San Jose. The owner there refused the package and could give me no forwarding address. If you call with that information, I’ll reroute the package. Otherwise it’ll need to return to sender.”

I rattled off my number and hung up.

Now—the waiting game.

I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes.

TWENTY-FIVE

The ringing of his special cell phone shot prickly heat through his veins. He snatched it up and pushed
talk.
“I’m here.”

“Just checking in like we agreed.”

“Where is she?”

“In her car, sitting in a church parking lot in San Jose.”

“Why? What’s she doing?”

“Sleeping.”

His head drew back. “Sleeping.”

“Looks like it.”

His jaw pulled to one side. He took a long, slow breath. Exhaled. “Tell me, is
that
what we want her to be doing? With time running out?”

“No.”

“Think maybe you should do something about it?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

His teeth clenched. “That would be most helpful.”

He punched off the line before the idiot could reply.

TWENTY-SIX

JUNE 2004

“You look stunning tonight.”

The compliment rolled through Melissa’s head as she followed Baxter to the living room, carrying the white wine for the police chief’s wife.

More guests were still to come. Now it didn’t matter what any of them said. Melissa would cling to Baxter’s words.

“Here you go.” She handed the wine to Mrs. Eddington with a charming smile.

The third couple soon arrived at the dinner party—the Brewers. Mrs. Brewer looked twenty years younger than her husband. Around Linda’s age. She was dressed in black, with shiny black hair and big brown eyes. Her eye shadow and liner were in shades of purple and looked like a professional had applied them. Melissa watched her eyes as she blinked, trying to figure how to duplicate that look. Mr. Brewer’s thick, gray hair, tanned face, and piercing blue eyes made him appear like some big-shot criminal lawyer on TV. He even had the voice. He
was
a lawyer, Linda informed Melissa in the kitchen. But not on the criminal side.

“I thought all lawyers were criminals.” Melissa deadpanned.

Linda smiled. Either she was really enjoying herself or she deserved an Oscar. Melissa had heard that hearty laugh of hers more than once tonight.

Maybe Baxter had made it up to her, promised never to hit her again. Who wouldn’t want to believe Baxter? Despite the argument Melissa had heard, despite the new bitter suspicion of his hypocrisy, she couldn’t dislike him. Every day since that argument he’d warmed to her even more. He’d been nothing but nice and encouraging, and she’d seen him and Linda hugging more than once. Some moments Melissa told herself she’d imagined the slap. Every couple argued now and then. That’s all she’d heard. Now, after Baxter’s kindness to her in the middle of a dinner party of important people, she found herself even more convinced of that.