bleach and a couple of tattoos made her look tough. But at five foot four she was no match for an angry pimp. "I'll keep that in mind." Standing, she managed a smile. "Thanks for coming in. I'll call you when I've had a chance to do some checking."
When Jane walked her to the door, Gloria said, "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Jane wasn't prepared for the embrace that accompanied those words, but as Gloria's shoulders shook beneath her arms, she felt a renewed determination. She wanted to help, but could she handle this case?
Pimps. Prostitutes. Drugs. She'd never been part of that world. She'd lived with a psychopath, but Oliver was dead, and she was safe. She'd been safe for nearly five years....
Jumping into this was asking for trouble. Most people were kidnapped or killed by a family member or friend, which meant she
had
to contact Latisha's father. She had to talk to everyone associated with the missing girls. That was one of the cardinal rules of a good investigation.
But if Luther had anything to do with what had happened to his daughter and her sister, he certainly wouldn't want her snooping around....
20
Two
S
ebastian Costas held the slip of paper the ATM had just spit out closer to his face. This wasn't a pleasant way to start the week. Was the damn machine running out of ink? Because the figure he saw had to be missing a zero. He knew he was getting low on funds. It'd been more than a year since he'd worked. In addition to the payments on his Manhattan flat and vehicles--not to mention parking for those vehicles--he'd spent a fortune on private investigators, skip tracers, airfare, hotels and rental cars. But...
"Shit, I must've thought the money would last forever." Apparently, he'd gotten too used to being able to buy whatever he wanted.
What now?
he asked himself. He couldn't keep on like this.
"Excuse me. Are you finished?"
A woman stood behind him, waiting to use the ATM. He hadn't heard her approach, hadn't sensed her presence. He'd been too absorbed in considering what the paltry figure on that receipt signified.
Muttering an apology, he crumpled the paper and tossed it in the garbage on his way to the car. Nearing the end of his money meant he was almost out of time.
He had a month, max. Then he'd be absolutely broke and the effort he'd put into his search would be wasted because all progress would grind to a halt.
He couldn't let that happen. He was closer now than he'd ever been.
His cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Constance, the woman he'd been dating when he left New York two months ago. They'd been together since before Emily and Colton were killed. But she was growing impatient with his lengthy absence and the intensity of his preoccupation.
He almost silenced the ringer and let it go to voice mail. He didn't want to talk to her right now. But ignoring her call could very easily mean the end of their relationship. He was already hanging on to her by a very thin thread. Did he want his life to be in
total
ruins after the nightmare he'd been living was over?
No. He needed to fight for her, fight for what was left of his former existence. "Hello?"
She didn't bother with a greeting. "Have you thought about it?" she 21
demanded.
"Thought about what?" He knew exactly what she meant, but he was stalling for time. Although he'd had all morning to think about it, he wasn't any closer to making a decision now than when she'd delivered her ultimatum late last night.
"About coming home! Will you give up this...this obsession, Sebastian?"
Obsession? Was that what it'd become? He supposed so. A man didn't abandon the kind of life he'd led for less. He'd been making more than half a million a year as one of the best investment bankers in NYC--until his ex-wife and son were murdered. After that, all he'd cared about was finding the man responsible.
Of course, given what the market had done since he'd taken leave from his job, he probably wouldn't have continued to make that amount even if he'd kept on working.
He unlocked the Lexus he'd rented. "Why the sudden rush, Constance?"
"Rush?" she echoed with incredulity. "I've waited eighteen
months
for our lives to return to normal."
"I've only been gone two."
"Are you kidding me? In the past year and a half, you've traveled all over the country, talking to various people, researching leads. Even when you were home, you shut yourself up in your condo and worked like some kind of mad scientist.
This case is all you've been able to think about since the night it happened. We haven't made love in four months, haven't had a decent conversation since you turned into Dick Tracy."
He'd loved her, would've married her if murder hadn't disrupted his whole world. But what used to be didn't matter. Colton and Emily were dead and Emily's money was gone. Why? He couldn't give up the quest to uncover the truth. He was Emily and Colton's last hope--the only person, besides his own mother perhaps, who truly believed Malcolm Turner was still alive.
"I can't blame you for being disappointed." He slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. A Sacramento winter wasn't nearly as cold as a New York winter, but it was chilly enough to require a heater.
"Then what are you going to do about it?"
She was far more direct now than she'd been before, which made him assume she might've met someone else. He'd expected it to happen a lot sooner, couldn't blame her for being ready to move on. A model-turned-stock-analyst, she 22
was intelligent, successful, beautiful.
And yet, every day he widened the chasm between them. He couldn't promise to fly back to New York because he knew he'd break that promise. When he and other family members had gone through the house and boxed up Colton's and Emily's belongings, they hadn't found several things they should have. One was evidence of where the money had gone, money Emily had mentioned to him a week before her death. She'd said there was a safety-deposit box containing the five-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance settlement she'd received for being hit by a drunk driver. She'd said she was keeping it liquid, saving it for a new life, one without Malcolm in it, and showed him where he could find the key in case something should ever happen to her.
Planning to donate it to NYU--where Colton had hoped to go to school--
Sebastian had attempted to claim it. The key was there. But the box was empty.
And there was no indication of where the money had been moved.
Malcolm had not only killed Emily and Colton, he'd profited from it.
Sebastian was sure of that.
"Malcolm didn't die in the crash, Constance."
"Oh, God, here we go again!"
It was beginning to rain. The windshield wipers came on automatically--a minor luxury he wouldn't be able to afford much longer. Considering his financial situation, he'd have to get a cheaper rental car.
"And what evidence do you have?" she went on. "That insurance settlement you're always talking about? You told me yourself Malcolm liked to gamble on football games, basketball games, any kind of sporting event. Did it ever occur to you that he paid off his debts with that money?"
"If he paid off his debts, why didn't he pay off his credit cards, some of which were at almost thirty-percent interest?" Sebastian had seen the bills when he cleaned out the house. Emily's parents had died in a plane crash just after he and Emily had divorced, so even her stuff had fallen to him.
"Maybe they weren't as good at financial planning as you are. Or maybe they paid off things you know nothing about," Constance responded. "Maybe they helped a family member who was about to lose his house. You weren't still married to Emily, Sebastian. Malcolm was her husband. For all you know, they invested it and lost everything."
He shook his head, even though she couldn't see him. "There would've been 23
proof of any investments."
"You want to talk proof?" she nearly shouted. "The police have DNA evidence! Do you know what DNA evidence means? It's irrefutable. It means the body found in that car was Malcolm Turner's!"
Clenching his jaw, Sebastian struggled to control the urge to lash out. These days she always seemed to get under his skin. "It wasn't much of a body. It was mostly ashes. And he wouldn't kill himself, Connie."
"He would if prison was his only other alternative. You know what they do to cops in prison."
Sebastian pictured the man he'd been chasing for a year. The buzzed red hair; the freckles that covered his face and arms; the blue eyes and long, effeminate gold eyelashes; the stubborn jaw; the short but stocky-bordering-on-overweight build. "He was too arrogant to give up that easily."
"Arrogant," she repeated in disgust. "That's what has you turning over every rock between here and the Pacific? Sebastian, we've been through this dozens of times. It's no secret that Emily and Malcolm were having problems. Emily told several people she wanted a divorce. She probably tried to act on it and, being the control freak he was, Malcolm snapped and killed her and Colton. Then he realized what he'd done and killed himself."
"Maybe that scenario would be easier to accept if it was your son and not mine," he said.
She didn't have any children, but it was still a cheap shot. The pain he felt at Colton's loss ate at him like acid, made him act in ways he'd never guessed he would. Some of that was because he felt partially responsible for Emily's helplessness. She'd had no family to rely on. He should've done more to help her.
"Screw you," she said. "I'm tired of being sensitive. I've done all I can to support you. And now--"
"And now that I'm really finding something, you're giving up. Malcolm's in Sacramento. He tracked down his high-school girlfriend and moved here to be close to her. And he's living on the money he stole from Emily."
"Or you're more involved with his ex-girlfriend than you want to admit," she said.
He rolled his eyes. There'd never been anything between him and the woman who'd placed the call that had brought him to the west coast. They'd only met face-to-face twice, and that was in a coffee shop. "We're
friends,
Constance. I'm here 24
because Malcolm's here. You've seen the transcripts of their chats. I've faxed them to you."
"Who's Your Daddy could be anyone! He claims to be someone named Wesley Boss who lives in L.A., and for all we know that's true."
"It's Turner, Connie. Mary should know. She dated him for two years."
"Why'd she have to call you?" she muttered.
Because he'd tracked her down first, her and anyone else Malcolm had ever known, and asked them to call if they ever heard from him. He'd also told them why. "Are you kidding? She was an angel to do it. Judging by some of the things this Wesley Boss has said, he's far more familiar with Northern California than Southern California. I don't believe he's in L.A. I believe he's right here in Sacramento."
"That's it," she said. "I can't do this anymore. I now realize I've been hanging on to a dream, to the memory of a man who no longer exists."
Closing his eyes, Sebastian let his head fall back. She'd just accused him of being interested in someone else, but it was probably the other way around.
"What's his name?" he asked.
No answer.
"Constance?"
"Stop it. This isn't about another man. This is about me being unable to cope with the person you've become. It's over between us," she snapped and hung up.
Panic, caused by the finality in her voice, tempted Sebastian to call her back.
But he didn't. They'd never agree. Besides, she was better off without him. All he could think about was finding answers to the questions that'd been burning inside him since that hot summer day last year. That was when Emily's neighbor had gone over to see why Emily hadn't shown up to carpool for basketball practice and stumbled upon two bodies. They'd been murdered the night before.
Opening his eyes, he focused on the transcripts in the seat next to him.
Whoever sent those instant messages and e-mails to Mary claimed to be someone she'd met in the past, someone named Wesley Boss as Constance said, but Mary didn't remember a Wesley Boss. Their first contact had come through a Web site she used to sell jewelry she made as a hobby, so it could've been anyone. After several months of "talking" to this person online, she'd come to the conclusion that it had to be her high-school sweetheart--Malcolm Turner. He knew too much about her to be anyone else.
25
Sebastian had flown to Sacramento, hoping that the alias Malcolm was using would be enough to find him, but it hadn't been so far. He'd managed to track down only four men in California named Wesley Boss, three in L.A. and one in Bakersfield. One was an old priest who didn't even have a computer, one was happily married with five kids, one was a ten-year-old, and the other, the one from Bakersfield, was dying of cancer. Mary had been trying to get Sebastian an address almost from the moment she'd figured out who she was really dealing with, but Malcolm was too cautious. A man with his background knew how risky it was to contact someone from his former life. That made him traceable, if anyone was bothering to look. And Sebastian was doing more than looking--he was scrutinizing every possibility. He'd even hired a private investigator to see if he could trace through whatever means--legal or not--where the e-mails were coming from. But Malcolm was using a remote server. He'd thought of everything.
Popping the transmission into reverse, he backed out of the parking space.
Regardless of the cost, he couldn't give up. Mary was his conduit to the bastard who'd killed Emily and Colton and, right or wrong, he'd keep the promise he made while bearing their coffins to the grave.
Jane had decided to interview Luther on her way home from work, the first task on her list of actions in the missing-girls case. But Oak Park was the most dangerous neighborhood in Sacramento, and Jane was fully aware of it.
The metal of her gun pressed into her waist as she crossed the weed-infested postage stamp of dirt that comprised Luther's front yard. In the early months after Oliver's funeral, she'd learned how to shoot--Skye had seen to that--but this was nothing like a visit to the range. She'd never carried her Glock to someone's house, never approached anyone with the thought that she might have to use it. Until now.