Twice Kissed. Lisa Jackson
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days Henderson had talked to most of the people associated with Ms. Gillette. He didn’t much like any one of them. Including her surly first husband. That guy was hiding something. Henderson could feel it in his bones. He intended to find out what it was; he just needed a little more time.
He’d put out a nationwide APB on Marquise, with her description as well as that of her Jeep Wrangler and the license plate of the vehicle. He’d also filed a missing-person report through the National Crime Information Center via the FBI. Sooner or later, she’d show up—dead or alive, he couldn’t begin to guess. An enigma, that one. But people didn’t usually fall off the face of the earth.
Then again, years ago, when he was still at the academy, he’d made a bet that Jimmy Hoffa would eventually turn up. That five bucks was history; he’d be damned if the same thing happened anywhere near his jurisdiction.
The door to his office swung open and Hannah Wilkins poked her head inside. Though it was the weekend, she, too, was working. “No news on the whereabouts of Thane Walker?” she asked, eyeing him with disapproval as he flipped the baseball toward the ceiling again. He knew she objected to his lack of reverence when it came to things of value. Hell, everyone did. But he didn’t believe in gilded cages, and, because of it, he supposed, he’d lost Karen and the kids.
“Nope. Walker seems to have taken a hike. Along with his ex-wife.” He caught the ball, careful to avoid his fingers’ touching Sandy’s signature, which was still intact, then gave it another toss toward the ceiling. “You talk to anyone at his ranch in Wyoming?”
“Nope. No one answered.” She slid into the room and leaned against the doorframe. Folding her arms over her chest, stretching the blue wool of her jacket, she added, “But I called his other place—the spread in California. Talked to a manager there. No one knows what happened to him.”
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
“Keep looking.”
“I will.” She nodded, her short blond hair moving a bit, brushing her collar. “They both can’t be lost.”
“You wouldn’t think so.”
“And he claimed he didn’t leave with her. Remember you questioned him yourself the day that she was reported missing.”
“I remember. He’d had a fight with her.”
“He wasn’t the only one.”
“But he was the last. Good ol’ Marquise was on a tear last week, wasn’t she?” he muttered, recalling that she’d had it out with the cohost of her morning program and her latest boyfriend as well as her first husband. And those were only the ones he knew about.
“Walker’s not on the up and up.” Henderson frowned and replaced the baseball in its stand, a small metal replica of a catcher’s glove that once had been painted shiny gold, but now showed dull black where the paint had chipped away. Narrowing his eyes on the skyline of the city, visible through a thick, plate-glass window, he scratched with one finger at the itchy stubble beginning to shadow his jaw. “I don’t like the guy.”
“This isn’t exactly a news flash,” Hannah remarked with that irritating half-smile of hers. “You don’t like anyone.”
With good reason, he thought. Most people weren’t to be trusted. Especially ex-husbands with personal axes to grind.
“Looks like your lucky day,” Maggie said as she walked into Becca’s room and lifted the shades of her windows. Sunlight danced over the patches of snow that clung to the ground, and the room was suddenly awash with bright morning light. But as Maggie looked out the window, she saw the storm clouds gathering in the distance, gray and threatening, promising more snow than had been left in the middle of the night.
Becca, groaning, rolled over in bed, and the ice bag, a Ziploc plastic container now filled with water, tumbled to the floor. Fortunately, it didn’t burst open. “What’s so lucky about it?”
“You’re flying to California.” Maggie picked up the bag.
Becca’s eyes sprang open. She pushed herself into a sitting position. “What happened?” she asked suspiciously as she rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“I decided you were right. I have to go to Denver.” Maggie sighed and sat on the window ledge as the bright morning began to fade and the storm clouds encroached. “I don’t know what happened to Mary Theresa,” she admitted, staring at the clear sagging bag of water that had once been ice. “And I’m the only family she has left, so I’m going to Denver.”
“Cool.” Becca didn’t seem too worried about her missing aunt.
“Now, let’s look at that ankle of yours.” She walked to the bed and Becca willingly showed off her bruised and swollen foot. Gingerly, Maggie ran a finger over her daughter’s skin. Becca didn’t wince.
“It’s better.”
“It is?”
“Much,” Becca assured her. It seemed as if the swelling had, indeed, gone down, though the area around Becca’s ankle had turned an even uglier shade of green-blue this morning and the discoloration had spread, running down to the back of her heel.
“If you say so.” She forced a smile as she straightened, then walked to the bathroom, where she dumped the contents of the bag into the sink and tossed the used plastic into a wastebasket. “This isn’t the greatest time for you to visit Connie and Jim,” she said, returning to Becca’s room. It looked as if the proverbial cyclone had hit with the clothes, towels, books, and magazines scattered helter-skelter on the floor and every other available surface.
“Sure it is.” Becca wasn’t going to relinquish her mother’s promise. “You can’t change your mind.”
“I won’t.” Maggie hated leaving Becca while the kid was still struggling with crutches. Not that she had much choice in the matter, considering the circumstances. “So, I’ve already called Connie, and the airlines, and your teacher at home,” Maggie said, updating her daughter and ignoring her unease at leaving Becca with Dean’s relatives, who sometimes seemed more interested in the family money than they were in their own daughter. “We’ll pick up your assignments from school on the way to Boise, and you’ll fly from there to L.A. Connie will meet you at the airport. She told me Jenny is beside herself. She can’t wait for you to get there.” Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, Maggie opened the closet and, standing on her tiptoes, dragged down an athletic bag that was precariously balanced on the top shelf. “I guess we’d better both get packed.”
Becca threw back the covers and, using one crutch, hobbled to her dresser. “This is so great,” she said, her eyes bright, any groggy little hint of sleep long vanished from her eyes. “I mean, I’m worried about Marquise and all, but nothing’s really wrong with her. She’s just missing. Like before. She’ll turn up, don’t ya think?”
“Sure.” No reason to dampen Becca’s suddenly bright spirits, though Maggie wasn’t certain of anything. True, Mary Theresa was flighty and had, over an argument with her agent, a fight with a lover, or a battle with the production company of the few movies she’d acted in, been known to walk off the set, take off for a few days, only to return refreshed and ready to do battle. Since working in Denver, Mary Theresa hadn’t been much happier, though Maggie hadn’t heard of her temper tantrums and never before had Maggie received an anguished, silent call from her sister. More to the point, never before had Thane Walker shown up on her doorstep.
This time was different.
“If you need any help in the shower, just let me know,” Maggie said. “Breakfast’ll be on the table in fifteen.”
”’Kay,” Becca mumbled, but Maggie doubted if the information registered in her daughter’s brain as she was into sorting through T-shirts, shorts, and jeans—warm weather wear for Southern California.
Maggie paused at the door. “Pack enough