Sea Glass Cottage (17 page)

Climbing outside he fell into the bushes under the sill. He picked himself up and made his way across the lawn. Once he got to the sidewalk, he took off running, heading east to Main Street and then south out of town. His plan was to walk out to the 101 until someone picked him up and gave him a ride.

He’d show Ms. Dickinson he didn’t need school. She could kick him out whenever she wanted and he didn’t care. It wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference to him because he had no friends anyway. But most of all his leaving would show his parents he didn’t need to listen to their stupid arguments all the time. They didn’t want him? That was fine with Bobby Prather.

As he took off toward the Pacific Coast Highway, eight-year-old Bobby decided he was done listening to anyone.

It wasn’t until
five o’clock that afternoon that the Prathers noticed Bobby wasn’t in his room.

“That damn kid, where is he now?” Peggy ranted, tearing from room to room. “Bobby, you stop this nonsense this minute and get out here where I can see you.”

“Bobby, you listen to your mother. You hear me, get out here now,” Greg shouted. “I don’t have time for this bullshit. I have to get to work in thirty minutes.”

But after hunting throughout the house twice, they found no sign of their son. He wasn’t in the garage or the shed in back. When they walked up and down Athena Circle calling his name, they got nothing but stares from the neighbors. Even after widening their search along Ocean Street, they still couldn’t locate Bobby.

“Maybe he walked over to see the seals. He does that sometimes,” Greg suggested.

After looking everywhere she could think Peggy gave up. “We don’t have a choice. We’ll have to call Brent and tell him we can’t find Bobby,”

“Okay, okay. I’ll put in the call. But when I find that kid, I’m tanning his hide for sure for making us worry like this.”

Thane and Isabella
were playing with Jonah and the dogs on the front lawn when they spotted Brent Cody pulling up at the curb in front of his brother Ethan’s house just a few doors down. The police chief got out of his truck and met Ethan on the sidewalk.

Because both brothers looked harried and tense, Thane called out, “What’s going on?”

“Bobby Prather’s gone missing, ran away most likely. But I’ve issued an AMBER alert just in case because of his young age. Any eight-year-old out there on his own is in danger until we locate him.”

“Bobby Prather got in trouble today at school,” Jonah reminded his dad. “He’s the one who said nasty things about my mom.”

Thane relayed that back to Brent.

“That’s what I understand from his parents,” Brent said. “They punished him once they got him home from school and sent him to his room. But he hasn’t been seen since. The parents got into another fight and apparently lost track of the boy.”

“Need any help?” Thane asked. “I’m here to help anyway I can.”

“You bet. All I can get. What I need right this minute is for people who know what the boy looks like to cruise up and down the streets, see if we can spot him that way. I’m taking Ethan out to look along the Coast Highway.”

“You guys get moving and I’ll round up everyone else I can to start the search.”

As Brent and Ethan jumped into the cab of the pickup, Brent turned back. “Text or call if you should find him.”

Thane turned to Isabella. “You stay here with Jonah and the puppies. I’ll take my SUV and check the pier and the beach along Smuggler’s Bay.”

“I’d like to help too,” she offered.

“Then start making calls, round everyone up. Use my phone.” He handed off his cell. “I have just about everyone in town listed under my contacts. Start with Ms. Dickinson and Ryder first. Then move on to Nick and so on down the list.”

“Got it. I’ll call Logan, too.” She traded phones with Thane. “Take mine. That way you can keep us up-to-date with text messages.”

Once word got out, people wanting to help began to gather at the school parking lot. Murphy took out a street map of town and began marking up grid sections. Nick formed teams and assigned each one a section of town to search while Tucker Ferguson handed out flashlights. Men and women and children volunteered to spread out along Tradewinds Drive to Ocean Street looking in every alleyway and behind every business location sorting through every dumpster and trash bin along the way.

Despite their best efforts, by seven-thirty there had been no sightings of Bobby anywhere.

Back at Thane’s, a hungry Jonah persuaded Isabella to fix chicken fingers and mashed potatoes for dinner. Underfoot, Jax and Jazz looked on as she worked in the kitchen. With each step she took, the puppies seemed agitated and worried, perhaps picking up on the underlying tension of the situation.

While she prepared dinner, Jonah attempted to play a game of baseball in the living room by batting the ball around. When it went flying into the ceiling fan with a thud, the dogs went wild.

“Are you supposed to be doing that in the house?” Isabella wanted to know. By the droop in Jonah’s shoulders, she already had her answer.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then maybe you should put the bat up for now.” To give him something to do, she suggested, “Why don’t you get out the food we bought for Jax and Jazz and scoop some into the dish? They’re probably as hungry as you are.”

“Sure,” Jonah said with zeal. “I’ll give them water, too.”

When the timer dinged signaling the potatoes were done and ready for mashing, she let Jonah help with the prep. They got out milk and butter and she let him plop in both before putting her hand over his. Together they ran the mixer around the bowl, working the texture into the right consistency.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever used a blender,” Jonah beamed with pride.

“Mixer,” Isabella corrected. “You just made your own mashed potatoes, something to tell your dad about later.”

“I can’t wait to tell Uncle Fisch, too!”

During the meal, once things settled down somewhat, she was bombarded by twenty questions every other bite from the anxious six-year-old.

“Have they found Bobby yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Is he dead like my mom and my Mimi?”

“No, I’m sure he’s scared, but he’ll be fine. They just have to find him.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“I’m sure his parents are worried sick. They’ll be so glad to get him back they won’t think about punishing him.”

But by the time she put Jonah to bed at eight-thirty, there was still no word about the third grader. Thane had sent several text messages back and forth without adding much hope. He’d driven as far north as Promise Cove, scoured the area around Taggert Farms, and searched the woods near the lighthouse.

With every hour that passed, a sick feeling invaded Isabella’s heart and stayed there. Even the dogs couldn’t provide the comfort she needed. She decided to turn on the TV for a much-needed distraction.

But the local news anchors only confirmed what she already knew. Bobby’s disappearance had become breaking headlines all over the area.

When Jax and Jazz started whining, then barking, then going crazy, she followed their gaze only to gape in astonishment as Scott materialized next to the fireplace.

“Shush,” she commanded the puppies, snapping her fingers to get them to settle down. It was then she heard Scott utter the words, “Tell Brent to stay on the 101. Tell him to go to the turnoff to San Sebastian, south of town. Tell him Bobby’s at the intersection there hiding in a ditch on the southeast side. Bobby’s scared. He’s cold. And he’s crying.”

Still clutching Thane’s phone, Isabella hunted for Brent’s number and keyed in the information just as Scott had relayed it to her. When she was done she said, “You’re a godsend, you know that? Thank you.”

A few seconds later, the cell phone rang and the digital readout told her it was Brent.

“Hello?”

“Is this Thane?”

“No, I have his phone though.”

“Did you just send me a text? How do you know this is where the Prather boy is?”

Isabella didn’t even hesitate. “Scott Phillips says that’s where you’ll find Bobby. I believe him.”

T
hirty minutes later, the front door burst open and Thane walked in, looking spent and haggard.

“Is Jonah okay?”

“He’s sound asleep, has been for two hours.”

Thane ran a hand over his face. “It wasn’t even my kid out there tonight but I have to tell you, I was scared to death that we wouldn’t find Bobby or that maybe we would, and he’d be…somewhere near the water, washed up onshore. I don’t know. Brent finally found him all the way down the 101 near the junction to San Sebastian. How in the world do you suppose an eight-year-old goes ten miles on foot and gets that far from town on his own?”

“I’m sure he was very motivated.”

For the first time in several hours, Thane let out a shaky laugh. “I suppose that’s true. Makes you wonder though.”

“Want food?”

“I guess. Yeah. My appetite’s coming back.” Snatching her around the waist, he covered her mouth, worked out his worry and frustration. “I needed that.”

“No problem. Were you able to get a look at Bobby?”

Thane cut her an odd glance as he took a seat at the table to eat what she’d warmed up. “I saw Bobby when Brent and Ethan pulled up at the school where we were all gathered. I’ve never seen a kid that afraid. I can’t get over the fact that little boy didn’t want to get out of the truck. I mean his parents were right there and instead of yanking the door of the car open and running back to them, he just sat there in the backseat.”

“You mean he didn’t want to go home?”

“I don’t think he did.”

“What did the parents do?”

“They started yelling at him.”

“Oh, Thane. No.”

“Brent took them aside to have a talk with them. God, I’d hate having his job, the things he has to deal with. I’m not sure what Brent said to them but the Prathers pulled it together after that. I think maybe that one impression of Bobby bothers me more than his running away does.”

“What?”

“The look Bobby gave Brent when he caught sight of his parents. It broke my heart,” Thane confessed, digging into the leftover chicken. “Julianne mentioned to me this morning the boy’s homelife wasn’t the best, but I had no idea he’d rather be somewhere else, anywhere else, including hiding in a ditch, than back at home with his mom and dad.”

“That’s a sobering thought. Were the Prathers worried sick?”

“I’m sure they were.”

She noticed the evasion. “That’s not what I asked.”

Thane blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t actually know the answer to that. Greg was more interested in how Murphy would surely dock his pay tonight and Peggy wanted to know if Janie Pointer would do her hair if she had to make a statement on TV.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Unfortunately, I am.”

“Thane, that’s pathetic.”

“Yeah, well, real life isn’t always a bowl of cherries.”

“I’d better get home.”

“I should walk you there.”

“Look, let’s not go through this again. You need to stay here with your son. Besides, I have Jazz now. She’ll be my guard dog. And there’s always Scott nearby.”

Thane looked over at the ball of fur sound asleep in the corner. “You start work tomorrow, right?”

“Yep.” The light bulb went off in Izzy’s mind. “Oh no. What will I do about Jazz?”

“You might as well drop her off here on your way to work.”

“Really? You’ll dogsit for me?”

“Why not? How much trouble can sisters be anyway?”

While Thane and
Isabella were bringing their Monday night to a close, Henry Navarro’s day had just gotten started. Everything he did these days centered on one thing. The motivation for him was to get back anyway he could at the woman who had not only defied him but had done the unthinkable. She’d divorced him.

This little trip out of the country reminded him that their ties went back years, ties that had been bound and sanctioned by a priest, something that couldn’t be severed by a silly piece of paper.

Henry knew that no matter what Isabella did, she couldn’t negate the fact that their families had known each other for decades. Both ancestries could be traced back to the fifteenth century. The Rialtos branch belonged to a Spanish nobleman named Marqués Carlo Frederico, a landowner who settled in the present-day area near River Turia. While impressive, Henry liked to boast that his lineage went all the way back to royalty and a series of Spanish dukes and duchesses who’d hailed from Barcelona.

Whichever one had the strongest ties to wealth and position, it didn’t seem to matter. The two families were so close the lineage had long since blurred. They’d forged a bond so tight they’d gone into business together in the 1920s, buying and running the prosperous Castle de Vega Winery located in the fertile, rolling hills near the border of France. It still did a brisk business today despite the death of its owner and operator, Isabella’s father, Javier Rialto.

A pity Javier had to go, thought Henry, as he scurried through the airport with a single task on his plate.

It had been Isabella’s roots as much as her beauty that had captivated Henry. He’d figured their pairing would be a match made in financial heaven. Too bad Isabella had possessed an independent spirit, one that had been difficult to break. God knows, he’d tried. As for now, he refused to accept that all the time they’d spent together had been for naught. He would continue his effort to keep her in line until his last dying breath.

Through his family’s connections he used the services of a skilled private detective who had managed to track down his wife’s solicitor in London. The man, Alistair Chatswick, would pay dearly for providing Isabella with such misguided advice about ending their marriage. Henry would see to it personally. Instead of sending anyone else to do his bidding, this chore he would carry out for himself.

After sneaking out of his current country, Henry had made the best use of a friend’s passport. He’d worn a convincing hairpiece over his own thinning hair and added a fake moustache to the disguise. Landing at Heathrow in the middle of the day, he’d hopped into a cab and taken it to the five-star Cornelius Piazza Hotel and checked into a luxurious suite. Even if his trip was short, only for one or two nights, there was an image to maintain. Henry was good at maintaining that haughty air that came so natural to him. But make no mistake, like any common criminal, he could and often did, circumvent the law to get his way.

Once he’d settled into his studio, Henry ordered steak from room service, ate the rare meat in an ease of leisure while he waited for the cover of darkness.

Once the sun went down, he donned the pretense and made his way around the corner to the Bristow Law Firm. Dressed in black, Henry used the back entrance and the access card he’d paid dearly for to gain entry to the building. He held his nose while taking the service elevator to the fifteenth floor. There, he used the same key card to slide through the reader. Because the law offices were empty, he was able to take his time going through file after file until he found what he was looking for.

According to the paperwork, he discovered that since their divorce, Isabella had settled in some disgusting backwoods community called Pelican Pointe, California. As Henry read the words, he realized he should have known she’d go running to that bastard, Logan Donnelly, for comfort and help.

“Typical bohemian behavior,” he muttered under his breath as he shoved the file back into its slot in the drawer.

The urge ran through him to set fire to the entire office, watch the whole building go up in flames from the street. But Henry had a better idea. He’d take that brilliant plan to Alistair’s own back door, the place where the solicitor and his family felt the safest. He’d show him the power of Henry Navarro.

Henry took the elevator to the basement, walked out the way he’d come in. On Stratton Street he hailed a taxi and directed the driver to drop him off near the intersection of Abbey and Wellington Roads.

With traffic, the drive took twenty minutes. At the appropriate spot as instructed, the cab driver pulled to the side allowing Henry to pay his fare.

There was a moment of hesitation before Henry reached across to the front seat, waved two fifty pound notes under the man’s nose and told the driver in a heavy Spanish accent, “Forget you ever saw me here. Got it?”

“Whatever you say, mate.”

From there, Henry got out and footed the half mile into the trendy neighborhood of St. John’s Wood carrying a tote bag. On a tree-lined street, the address went with a spacious red-brick, three-story mansion. Studying the opulent digs only increased the fury he was already harboring. It seemed Isabella had contributed to the solicitor’s success. Apparently the divorce business was a worthwhile occupation.

From the inside of his satchel, he drew out a pair of mini binoculars and surveyed the building for a security system or camera setup. Unable to spot one, the gate persuaded him he’d have to scale the brick wall at the most advantageous position. After breaching the perimeter, he circled around to the back of the property. Once there, he brought out a flashlight. Slicing his way through a thick line of hedges, he missed his footing and stumbled over the stone statue of a cherub near the entrance to the garden. Like an idiot, he swore and kicked the ugly thing with his foot.

Even with the beam of light it was difficult to see in the darkness. He had trouble locating the circuit board. But when he did, he flipped each breaker to the “off” position just in case. From there, he made his way to the backdoor where he took out his lock pick.

When he heard the mechanism click, he pushed open the door and strolled inside. Taking out his flashlight again he slipped past the kitchen and prowled through the first level collecting small items he could carry away in the pockets of his jacket. His scavenger hunt continued as he moved into the study. There he pilfered a Montblanc pen set. From the living area he took a platinum figurine in the shape of a bird adorned with a ribbon of diamonds and rubies. In the library, he perused the bookshelves, decided the first edition copy of
The Velveteen Rabbit
by Margery Williams would fetch a fair price on the black market and pay off a few of his debts. He shoved the loot down into his bag. On his way out of the room he picked up a silver Cartier cigarette lighter. This he would put to use in about ten minutes. He moved upstairs with a purpose, finding the nail polish remover he needed in the second floor bathroom.

He went out into the hallway, stood with pride on the landing near the bedrooms and the singular staircase. He opened the small bottle and emptied its contents onto the carpeting. He took out the fancy lighter belonging to the solicitor. Flipping open the top, he triggered the flame. With one toss, he pitched the entire thing on the floor and watched as the spark flared then burst into a full-blown blaze. Calm and satisfied with his work, Henry walked down the stairs and out the front door, escaping into the night and with the feeling of a job well done.

Back in Pelican
Pointe something caused Isabella to jolt upright in bed. The unease had her reaching for the gun in the nightstand drawer. At the foot of the bed, the movement caused Jazz to raise her head in a foggy gaze.

“A lot of watchdog you are,” Isabella grumbled, staring at the pooch. “Or is it me? Am I imagining things that go bump in the night?”