Power (34 page)

The scorching ninety-five degrees baking the city’s asphalt and concrete had invaded the interior of the car about two seconds after she parked and shut off the engine. That appeared to be of little consequence to whatever reason she still possessed considering that ten minutes later her fingers were still locked around the steering wheel as if the final hours of her two-day drive had triggered the onset of rigor mortis.

She was
home
. Two weeks’ worth of long-overdue leave was at her disposal. Her mail was on hold at the post office back in Stafford, Virginia, where absolutely no one would miss her. Still, she hesitated in taking the next step. Changing her mind and driving away was out of the question no matter how desperately she wanted to do exactly that.

Her word was all she had left at this point. The sheer enormity of her current circumstances should have her laughing hysterically, but the muscles of her throat had constricted in equal parts disbelief and terror.

Screw this up and there’s nothing left
.

With a deep breath for courage, she relaxed her death grip, grabbed her bag, and climbed out. A horn honked a warning and she flattened against the dusty fender of her decade-old Audi. Cars and trucks whizzed by, determined to make the Eighteenth Street and First Avenue intersection before the traffic light changed. Exhaust fumes lingered in the humid air, mingling with the heat and the noise of downtown.

She barely recognized the heart of Birmingham. Renovated shops from a bygone era and newer, gleaming buildings stood side by side, their facades softened by carefully placed trees and shrubbery. An elegant park complete with a spectacular fountain welcomed strolling shoppers and relaxing picnickers. Great strides had been taken to transform the gritty streets of the city once recognized as the infamous center of the civil rights movement into a genteel version of a proud Southern town.

What the hell was she doing here?

For twenty-two years she had worked harder than a prized pupil of Henry Higgins himself to alter her speech patterns and to swipe the last damned trace of the South from her voice. A master’s degree in psychology from Boston College and seventeen years of relentless dedication to build an admirable career distinguished her résumé.

And for what? To come running back with her tail tucked between her legs and her head hanging low enough to the ground to smell the ugly truth.

Nothing had changed.

All the spritzing fountains and meticulously manicured storefronts couldn’t hide the fact that this was still Birmingham—the place she’d put in her rearview mirror at eighteen—and the four-hundred-dollar red suit and matching high heels she wore would not conceal her plunge from grace.

He
had called and she had promised to come and have a look at his case. It was the first time he’d asked her for anything since they parted ways after college. That he extended any sort of invitation astonished her and provided a much-needed self-esteem boost. No one from her hometown had a clue about her current career debacle or the disaster zone that was her personal life. If she had her way, they would never know. The million-dollar question, however, remained: What did she do after this?

The wind from a passing car flapped her skirt around her legs, reminding her that this curbside parking slot was not exactly the place to conduct a cerebral overview of
This Is Your Life
.

Game face in place, her shoulders squared with determination, she strode to the Birmingham Police Department’s main entrance. Another bout of hesitation slowed her but she kicked it aside, opened the door, and presented a smile for the security guard. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, too, ma’am,” said the guard, Elroy Carter according to the name tag pinned to his shirt. “I’ll need your ID. You can place your bag here.” He indicated the table next to him.

Jess handed over her official credentials and placed her bag as directed for inspection. Since she’d stopped bothering with earrings years ago and the gold band she still wore for reasons that continued to escape her didn’t set off any alarms except in her head, she walked through the metal detector and waited on the other side for her bag.

“Enjoy your visit to the Magic City, Agent Harris.” A broad smile brightened the big man’s face.

Probably retired Birmingham PD, undeniably Southern through and through. He obviously took pride in his work, past and present, and likely carried a wallet full of photos of his grandchildren. The only trait that wouldn’t be readily discernible by way of a passing inspection was whether he was an Auburn or an Alabama fan. By September that, too, would be as clear as the rich color of his brown eyes. In Alabama, college football season turned even the closest of friends into fierce rivals.

“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”

Extending a please, welcome, and thank-you remained a stalwart Southern tradition. On the etiquette scale, the idea of passing a stranger without at least smiling ranked right below blasphemy. Keeping up with your neighbor’s or coworker’s business wasn’t viewed as meddling. Not at all. It was the right thing to do. Concern was, of course, the motive.

Jess would give it twenty-four hours max before speculation about her business became the subject of watercooler talk. Then the sympathetic glances would begin. Along with the reassuring smiles and the total pretense that everything was fine.

Fine. Fine. Fine.

As much as she wanted to avoid her dirty laundry being aired, the odds of complete circumvention fell along the lines of being hit by falling satellite debris twice in the same day. Once the news hit the AP, there would be no stopping or even slowing the media frenzy.

Her life was a mess. She doubted any aspect of her existence would ever be
fine
again. But that was irrelevant at the moment. She was here to advise on a case—one that wouldn’t wait for her to gather up the pieces of her life or for her to lick her wounds.

Jess set those worries aside, steeled herself, and headed for the bank of elevators that would take her to the fourth floor.
To him.

None of the faces she encountered looked familiar. Not the guard who’d processed her in or either of his colleagues monitoring the lobby and not the woman who joined her in the elevator car to make the trip to the Birmingham Police Department’s administrative offices.

Once the doors glided closed, the woman attempted a covert inspection, taking note of Jess’s Mary Jane pumps with their four-inch heels, the swath of skin separating the hem of her pencil skirt from the tops of her knees, and the leather bag that had been her gift to herself on her fortieth birthday. When eye contact inevitably happened, a faint smile flashed, a superficial pleasantry intended to disguise the sizing up of competition.
If she only knew.

The car bumped to a stop. The other woman exited first and strolled down the long corridor on the right. Jess’s destination waited straight ahead. The office of the chief of police. At the door she conducted a final inventory of her appearance in the glass, straightened her belted jacket, and plucked a blond hair from her lapel. She looked… the same. Didn’t she? Her hand fell to her side.

Did she look like a failure? Like the woman who had just provided a heinous killer with a get-out-of-jail-free card and who’d lost her husband to geography?

Deep breath
. She reached for the door sporting the name Daniel T. Burnett and passed the point of no return.

“Good afternoon, Agent Harris.” The young woman, Tara Morgan according to the nameplate on her desk, smiled. “Welcome to Birmingham.”

Since Jess hadn’t introduced herself, she assumed that the chief had ensured his office personnel would recognize his anticipated visitor. “Thank you. I’m here to see Chief Burnett.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll let the chief know you’ve arrived.”

At last
, Tara politely left off. Jess was late by twelve minutes, most of which had been spent fortifying her resolve and gathering her composure to face the final buffeting winds of the emotional hurricane that had descended upon her life. The receptionist offered water or a soft drink. Jess declined. Getting anything, even water, past the massive lump lodged firmly in her throat was unlikely. Keeping it down, an unmitigated no-go.

Jess used the intervening time to evaluate the changes Birmingham’s newest chief had made since taking over the office of top cop. From the marble-floored entry to the classic beige carpet and walls, the tranquil lobby looked less like the anteroom to the chief of police and more like the waiting area of a prestigious surgeon’s office. Though she hadn’t been in this office since career day back in high school, the decorating and furnishings were far too fresh to have seen more than a couple years’ wear.

Law enforcement and political journals rested in a crisp stack atop the table flanked by two plush, upholstered chairs. The fabric resembled a European tapestry and carried the distinct flavor of his mother’s taste. It wasn’t enough that she’d influenced the decorating scheme of the palatial homes belonging to select members of Birmingham’s elite simply by hosting a grand soiree and inviting everyone on the city’s who’s-who list. Katherine set the gold standard for keeping up with the Joneses.

Jess wondered if the fine citizens of Birmingham approved of such wasteful use of their tax dollars. Knowing Katherine Burnett, she had paid for the renovation herself and spelled it all out on the front page of the lifestyle section of the
Birmingham News
.

Just another example of how nothing changed around here. Ever. Jess deposited her bag onto a chair and stretched her travel-cramped muscles. Eight grueling hours on the road on Tuesday and four this morning had taken its toll. She was exhausted. A flight would have provided far more efficient transportation, but she preferred to have her car while she was here. Made the potential for escape much more feasible.

Actually she’d needed time to think.

“You made it.”

Whether it was the sound of his voice or the idea that he looked better now, in spite of current circumstances, than he had on Christmas Eve ten years ago, she suddenly felt very fragile and unquestionably old. His dark hair was still thick, without even a hint of gray. The elegant navy suit he wore brought out the blue in his eyes. But it was his face, leaner than before but no less handsome, that conveyed the most damage to her brittle psyche.

The weight of the past seventy-two hours crashed down on her in one big knee-weakening wallop. The floor shifted beneath her feet and the urge to run into his strong arms or to simply burst into tears made a fleeting but powerful appearance.

But she wasn’t that kid anymore. And they… they were little more than strangers.

She managed a stiff nod. “I did.”

Funny how they both avoided calling each other by name. Not funny at all was the idea that five seconds in his presence had the two little words she’d uttered sounding as Southern as the day she’d hit the road after high school graduation.

She cleared her throat. “And I’m ready to get to work. First, I’d like some time to review the files.”

“Of course.” He offered his hand, then drew it back and gestured awkwardly as if belatedly realizing that touching was not a good idea. “Shall we go to my office?”

“Absolutely.” She draped her bag over her shoulder and moved toward him, each step a supreme test of her self-control. Things that hadn’t been said and should have battled with the numerous other troubles clashing in her head for priority.
This wasn’t the time
.

“Coming all this way to help us figure this out means a great deal to me.”

Still skirting her name
. Jess pushed aside the confusion or frustration, maybe both, and the weariness and matched his stride as he led the way. “I can’t make any promises but I’ll do what I can.”

He hadn’t given her many details over the phone; that he had called at all was proof enough of the gravity of the situation.

He introduced her to his secretary, then ushered her into his office and closed the door. Like the lobby, his spacious office smacked of Katherine’s touch. Jess placed her bag on the floor next to a chair at the small conference table and surveyed the four case files waiting in grim formation for her inspection. Clipped to the front of each jacket was a photo of a missing girl.

This
was why she had come all this way. However much his call gratified her ego, piecing together this puzzle was her ultimate goal. She leaned forward to study the attractive faces. Four young women in the space of two and a half weeks had disappeared, the latest just three days ago. No common threads other than age, no suggestion of foul play, not a hint of evidence left behind. Macy York, Callie Fanning, Reanne Parsons, and Andrea Denton had simply vanished.

“These two are Jefferson County residents.” He tapped the first and second photos; Macy and Callie were both blondes. “This one’s Tuscaloosa.” Reanne, a redhead. “The latest is from Mountain Brook, my jurisdiction.” The fourth girl, Andrea, was a brunette, and his attention idled there an extra moment or two.

Jess lowered into a chair. She opened the files one by one and reviewed the meager contents. Interviews with family and friends. Photos and reports from the scenes. All but one of the missing, Reanne, were college students.

“No contact with the families? No sightings?”

She looked up, the need to assess his facial expressions as he answered a force of habit. His full attention rested on the files for a time before settling on her. The weight of the public service position he held had scored lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Lines that hadn’t been there ten years ago. Funny how those same sorts of lines just made her look old, but on him they lent an air of distinction.

He shook his head in response to her question.

“No credit card or cell phone trails?” she went on. “No good-bye or suicide notes? No ransom demands?”

“Nothing.”

With a fluidity and ease that spoke of confidence as well as physical strength and fitness, he propped one hip on the edge of the table and studied her, those familiar blue eyes searching hers as blatantly as she had assessed his seconds ago. “Sheriff Roy Griggs—you may remember him—and Chief Bruce Patterson in Tuscaloosa are doing all they can, but there’s nowhere to go. The bureau won’t budge on the issue of age of consent. All four of these girls are nineteen or over, and with the lack of evidence to indicate foul play there’s nothing to investigate, in their opinion. File the report, add the photos to the various databases, and wait. That’s what they can do.”