Finding Jessie: A Mystery Romance (25 page)

“Wow. Poor girl has a lot going on in her head. There’s nothing nefarious in her tracking you down, though.”

“Yeah. I know that now.”

“Sam, before we discuss that letter and what a jerk-face you can be—how you always have the need to prove you’re right about everything—I talked to my ex. I told him everything that we know about Jessie and he threw me a bone.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you about it in a minute. I need to open an email that he sent so I don’t misreport any of what he told me.”

“That’s wonderful! A break in the mystery of ‘Who is Jessie?’ How is the detective anyway?”

“Complaining about how much his new wife spends on keeping her hair blonde. But he’s okay otherwise. He gave me hush-hush breaking-case information that might, and I repeat, only
might
, be pertinent to Jessie. He wants to talk to her, immediately.”

“What’s happened?”

“There’s a huge problem with Jessie going off on her own to, I assume, find her family or her identity. Let’s hope she doesn’t meet up with serious danger.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we don’t think she was exactly kidnapped. Well, kidnapped, yes, but add something even more shocking.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bob thinks that Jessie, as a newborn, might have been sold to a trafficker. There’s a yellow-taped crime scene over in The Strands—same neighborhood where she was held captive—and it’s about to blow wide open. Among other female victims, the mostly decomposed body of a young red-haired woman has been found buried in the crawlspace of a bed and breakfast inn that used to be a home for unwed mothers in the 70s.”

“Holy cow. This sounds like a lead.”

“It does to me, too. And to Bob, too.”

“How did they come to discover the bodies?”

“The new owner went under the house in the crawlspace to spray for termites and saw a bone sticking out of the ground.”

“That’s horrible. Do you think Jessie’s mother died there?”

“I don’t know yet, but the PD isn’t ruling out that unwed mothers were murdered and their babies were sold to the sex trade.”

“Really? Sold?”

“Baby trafficking is not unheard of. And the proximity to the house where Jessie was held prisoner is about six blocks. And the red hair connection. It’s a recessive trait you know. Red hair.”

“Those sick bastards! I hope she’s all right out there,” Sam said. He looked in the driveway. “Linda! She took my car. I did give her keys to it and told her she could use it anytime.”

“Then she’s not in your neighborhood then, walking around crying?”

“I doubt it. It’s frickin’ cold out there and she hates the cold because she’s so slender. Will you come and get me, Linda?”

“Say please.”

“Come on! Please!”

“On my way.” There was a pause. “Go on her computer and grab her internet history.”

“It’s my computer, but she uses it, too.”

“Even better. See if she printed out any Google directions.”

Chapter Eighteen

Sam heard Linda’s car screech around the corner and Mrs. Foster from next door stuck her head out the door to see what the commotion was all about.

“What’s going on?” she shouted to Sam.

“I’ll tell you when I know something!” he called and ran toward his driveway.

When Linda pulled up, she rolled down the window on the passenger side.

“Get in, ya book geek!”

“I know where she went. Head toward Stanton.”

“Oh, good! When this is all over, the three of us are going for some good baked beans and lobster.”

“How can you think of food at a time like this?”

“You’re right. Into the fray on an empty stomach, then. Buckle up, Sam, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

Holding some printed pages from Jessie’s internet history, he got in Linda’s sleek, blue vintage Lincoln Continental, the model with the suicide doors and a white landau top. He snapped the seat belt in place as she laid a scratch on the pavement, just coming away from the stop sign.

“Children play ball in the street in this neighborhood. Slow down!” he cried.

“Fine! Until we get on the expressway. Are you still messy?”

“Huh?”

“I’m asking if your house still looks like a bomb went off in a used bookstore.”

“Of course it does.”

“Doesn’t she care?”

“I guess not. She doesn’t complain and sometimes, she sings while she cleans up my messes. I found out that one of the songs is
The
Happy Working Song
from the movie,
Enchanted
.”

“Poor thing! If you make her wear a white poufy princess dress to clean your house, I will have my cousin Vinnie take out a contract on you.”

“Very funny, Linda. Vinnie’s a clown and his job is literally to throw cream pies at people. Like a singing telegram, but meaner.”

“Still. I might hire Vinnie to pie you!”

“Stop with the cream pie threats. She likes me. She loves me!”

“She’s probably just so grateful to have a roof that she puts up with your toenail clippings swept against the baseboards—you better keep this one happy and stop being a clueless caveman!” Linda said. “And don’t make her clean for you and then take her to bed. That’s so ‘trailer park.’”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with trailer parks! They can be very upscale, especially in beach communities. And I intend to improve myself for her. I’m working on me. I’ve lost twenty pounds. I found my hipbones!”

“And added an inch somewhere else?”

“Don’t be crude. She’s the love of my life!”

“You do look happy.”

“That’s because I am, when she’s not running away from me.” He paused. “So…let’s get to the business at hand.”

He looked at the papers in his hand.

“How in the world, you may ask, did she find that horrible Tansy, one of her abusers?”

“Um. On Facebook?” she replied.

“
Ding! Ding! Ding!
You are
so
smart, Linda!”

“The hell you say. Really?” Linda blurted.

“Yes! According to her internet history, in the middle of the night, after a bunch of internet searching various missing children’s web sites, Jessie found our first real clue on Facebook: someone with the first name of one of her long-ago captors.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Nope. She found the Facebook page in two clicks. Then she created a fake profile on Facebook and private-messaged Tansy’s Pampered Pets, a relatively new FB profile, asking to meet her to look at some Yorkie puppies for sale. The address is in The Strands, so head there.”

“Again with The Strands?!”

“I guess criminals stay on familiar turf. Even for years.”

“I’d be surprised if there were any puppies at all,” Linda said.

“Now I’m really scared,” Sam said. “There better be frickin’ puppies.”

“Never underestimate the value of Google and a vast, interconnected social network like Facebook,” Linda said, getting on the expressway.

“Is Jessie not the most clever woman you have ever known?”

“She’s not so clever.”

“What do you mean?”

“She left you, the giant, klutzy bodyguard, at home.”

“Hey, I am not klutzy. I am fifty-seven.”

“That is not old. I am fifty-eight and I can still touch my toes, so there.”

“I have a bad back.”

“I know. You need to stop lugging books around.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Congrats on losing the 20.”

“Thanks. She cooks healthy.”

“Nice. I assume Jessie didn’t call the police either,” Linda said.

“I gotta tell you why I think she didn’t.”

“Uh-oh, what else do I need to know?”

“My handgun is missing from my top desk drawer. And a box of ammo. And from the internet history, I discovered that she also watched a few videos on YouTube of how to load that particular gun and fire it.”

“
Crap! Why didn’t you tell me all that in the first place!
” Linda shouted, stepping on the gas and shooting the Lincoln into the carpool lane across the double-yellow line.

“That’s like a three-hundred dollar ticket if you get caught doing that, crossing the double yellow into the HOV lane.”

“That’s what money is for, counselor,” Linda said. “To spend on the people you love.”

“Bless you. I hope we get there before it’s too late. As they say in the movies, ‘Step on it!’”

She did.

Linda said, “Use your cell phone and call the police.”

“I don’t have it. I couldn’t find it before we left, but maybe it was buried under books or papers.”

“Maybe Jessie took it?”

“Maybe.”

“Get in my purse and use my cell phone to call the police.”

“And say what? We don’t even know if this dog seller is the correct Tansy, or what’s really going down. It could just be another woman in The Strands named Tansy.”

“You tell me. What
are
the odds that there are two women in The Strands named Tansy?” Linda cut in and out of traffic at a speed that scared him.

“Linda, I love ya, but your driving is going to make me hurl.”

“All right. I’ll slow down. I don’t want my car to stink of vomit. And we don’t want to get in trouble for a false call to 9-1-1. Use my cell phone to call your cell phone. See if she answers.”

“That I can do.” He paused, rummaging through his friend’s purse for her phone.

“Why do you have a condom in your purse?” he said, holding it up.

“Why do you think? Get out my cell phone! Call her!”

“Don’t yell.” He grabbed it and dialed his own number. “Who is he, your new guy? Do I know him?”

“We’ll talk about my boyfriend later. Focus, Sam!”

“Okay,” Sam said. He listened to the phone ring and then go to voicemail. “She’s not answering my phone.”

“Leave a voicemail.”

He did. “Jessie! Don’t go to Tansy’s house. Get away from there, now! And call me right back!” He hung up.

Linda said, “We’ve got to get over there and stop Jessie from shooting Tansy. Even if it’s one of her abusers, she can’t just walk up to her house and shoot her. That would be a ‘murder one’ charge, right, Sam?”