Have You Seen Her? (13 page)

Steven smelled whiskey on the man’s breath and said nothing. Eggleston was a grieving father. Steven would have preferred to see the man sober, though, if for no other reason than to answer the questions he needed to ask. But everyone dealt with grief and terror differently. While Marvin Eggleston blustered, his petite wife sat quietly crying.

Anna Eggleston grabbed her husband’s arm, holding on for dear life. Her face was haggard, her eyes haunted. Beyond pale, her skin had a translucence, the look of being stretched too thin over her bones that came from forty-eight hours of constant fear and tears. Her voice shook when she spoke and Steven’s pity grew. “Marvin, please. Serena will hear you.” Steven was grateful Mrs. Eggleston’s mother had taken four-year-old Serena upstairs when he arrived. No child needed to see her parents so wildly grieving. More tears welled in Anna’s eyes and spilled to her cheeks, unchecked. “You’re not helping. Please, sit down.” She turned to Steven. “I’m sorry. It’s just that we’ve had no sleep.” She bowed her head, her shoulders shaking as a new wave of sobs took over. “We can’t sleep. He has my baby,” she whispered, her hand still clutching her husband’s arm.

Steven placed his hand over hers, feeling the chill of her skin. “It’s all right, Mrs. Eggleston. I truly understand. You don’t have to apologize to me.” He placed his other hand on Marvin’s arm, creating a circle, connecting them. “Mr. Eggleston, if I knew where your daughter was, believe me, she’d be with you right now. I know it doesn’t help, but we’re doing everything we can.”

Eggleston slumped, his chin dropping to his chest. “God, I can’t believe this,” he whispered. “I feel so damn helpless.” He looked up and in his eyes Steven recognized the desperate terror he himself felt when that bastard Winters held Nicky.

“Yesterday, the young one from your office . . .” Eggleston shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “The one that took the cast of Sammie’s footprint outside her window.”

“Agent Thompson?”

Eggleston nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Yes, he’s the one. He said it had happened to you. That someone had stolen your child out of his bed.”

Steven wasn’t sure whether to thank Kent or curse him to eternal perdition. “That’s true.”

Anna looked up, her face streaked and puffy. “But you got your son back.”

Steven nodded. “I did, yes.”

She bit her lip. “Was he... all right? After you got him back?”

Steven knew what she was asking. Was his baby molested? Was his baby normal? Was his family normal? The answer to every one of those questions was a resounding no. “The man that abducted my son didn’t physically hurt him, if that’s what you mean, Mrs. Eggleston. But no, my son is not all right. He has nightmares. He refuses to sleep in his own bed. His schoolwork suffers. He doesn’t hug anyone and hasn’t since that day.”

The Egglestons absorbed this information. Finally Marvin Eggleston drew a deep breath. “So even if we get her back, she won’t be our daughter anymore, will she?” he asked gruffly.

Steven carefully avoided the “if.” These parents were grasping at straws, trying to hold on to hope. “She’d need counseling. You all will.”

Anna blinked, sending fresh tears down her stained cheeks. “You did?”

Steven nodded. “I did.” He squeezed Anna’s hand and Marvin’s arm, then let go and sat back in his chair. “I need to ask you all some more questions. Some of them may sound the same as questions I asked yesterday and the day before. Please don’t become frustrated with this process, though. Sometimes you remember tidbits today that you didn’t think about yesterday.”

“And those tidbits could help you find our Sammie,” Anna said, very faintly.

“They might.”

Marvin Eggleston pulled his chair forward and collapsed into it. “Then ask.”

“Please understand I am in no way blaming your daughter for what happened,” Steven began. Marvin held out his hand and Anna placed hers in his, the gesture so trusting that Steven found himself wishing he had someone to lean on.
Jenna.
Steven let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and focused on his notebook. “Can you tell me about Samantha’s friends?”

“She was popular,” Anna said. “She had lots of friends.” “Did she date?”

Anna shook her head. “She had a boyfriend, but they broke up about six weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

Anna lifted a shoulder wearily. “They’re sixteen. Nothing lasts forever when you’re sixteen.”

“Why did they break up, Mrs. Eggleston?”

Anna clearly hesitated and Marvin turned to fully face her. “What, Anna? What happened that you two didn’t tell me?”

Anna sighed. “He dropped her for another girl.”

Steven watched Marvin’s fist deliberately clench and release. “You didn’t approve of the boy I take it?” Steven asked and Marvin tightened his jaw.

“No, I didn’t. He was a fast boy.”

Anna laid her hand on Marvin’s arm again, this time gently. “And she said ‘no,’ Marvin. That’s why he dumped her for another girl.”

Marvin swallowed hard. “She cried for a week over that sorry piece of shit.”

Steven cleared his throat and Marvin looked up, his eyes filled with tears. The sight shook Steven soundly. “Does the sorry piece of shit have a name?” he asked carefully.

“Gerald Porter,” Anna said, stroking her husband’s arm as Steven scratched the name on his notepad. “She didn’t want you to know because she knew you’d give him a piece of your mind.”

“And I would have, too,” Marvin muttered.

“And she would have been embarrassed,” Anna murmured. “She wanted to keep her dignity at school. To hold her head high and pretend Gerald hadn’t hurt her so badly.”

“So she may have been vulnerable in that respect,” Steven said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean by that?” Marvin demanded.

“Not that Samantha did anything wrong, Mr. Eggleston,” Steven reminded him and Marvin’s body relaxed a notch or two. “Just that if she’d been abandoned by the sorry Gerald, then maybe she would have been more readily accepting of someone new. Who would she have confided in?”

“My wife,” Marvin said.

“JoLynn Murphy,” Anna said at the same time. “I know you think my relationship with Samantha is that close, Marvin, but it isn’t. She doesn’t tell me everything.”

“She loves you,” Marvin said, desperately.

“Of course she does,” Anna murmured, stroking his arm. “She loves you, too. But I was a sixteen-year-old girl once and I didn’t tell my mother everything.” She looked over at Steven. “I also understand that you found no evidence of forced entry into the house or her bedroom. Wherever she is, she started out, at least, of her own free will.”

It was true, Steven thought. No forced entry and Samantha’s perfectly formed shoe print outside her window. What could he say? “If not her own free will, at least on her own two feet. JoLynn says she hasn’t talked with Samantha in over a week. Did she have any other friends?”

Anna closed her eyes, thinking. “Pamela Droggins,” she said finally. “And Emily Robinson. They’re all on the cheerleading squad together.” She opened her eyes. “And Wanda Pritchard. They knew each other from the drama club. I don’t think I gave you Wanda’s name the other day.”

Steven smiled at her. “No, ma’am, you didn’t. Thank you for trying so hard to remember. Now, do you happen to know the name of the girl that Gerald Porter dumped her for?”

Anna shook her head. “No, she wouldn’t tell me that. All she would say is that the new girl ‘put out.’” She curled her lip distastefully. “Sammie said she was a low-class slut.”

Steven looked at his notepad. He had names of one new friend and a sorry piece of shit and an unnamed low-class slut. Progress. He stood up and slid his pen in his pocket. “I want to thank you for your time,” he said. “I know how difficult a time this is for your family.”

“Agent Thatcher, wait.” Anna looked at her husband. “Marvin, CNN called this morning when you were out with Serena. They want an interview.”

Steven’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted was to give their perp any more media coverage than he’d already received. If Samantha was still alive, it could force him to kill her. If she was dead, the surge of publicity could incite him to do it again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Marvin demanded.

“I wanted to hear what Agent Thatcher had to say first,” Anna answered. “I’d say we have nothing to lose by talking to them.”

“Mrs. Eggleston, I don’t think that’s a good idea at this point.”

Marvin Eggleston looked at Steven with challenge in his eyes. “If you’re truly doing all you can, then you won’t mind the public seeing you do it.”

“That’s not it at all. Our team psychologist believes whoever took Samantha may have done it to call attention to himself. If you talk to the media, he will have what he wants.”

Anna Eggleston pursed her lips and Steven knew he had underestimated her influence on the couple’s decisions. For all his high-volume bluster, Marvin wasn’t the decision-maker. Anna was.

“I will consider your position, Agent Thatcher,” was all she said.

“I need to talk with the names you’ve given me,” Steven said evenly, controlling his frustration. “Please don’t go to the media. In my experience, that would be the wrong thing to do.”

“I understand, Agent Thatcher,” she said quietly. “I understand.”

So did Steven, all too well. He understood she was a desperate mother willing to do anything to get her child back and that even though she’d given him her full cooperation in his investigation this desperate mother needed to feel she was doing something. Something, anything was better than the helpless waiting.

He also understood he’d be seeing the Egglestons on the never-ending CNN loop before midnight.

Dammit.

N
INE

Saturday, October 1, 6:00
P.M.

J
ENNA STOPPED AT THE BASE OF THE STEPS
leading to Allison’s house, her ankle throbbing from the trek up the steep driveway. Her feet didn’t move, even though the foot in the sock was becoming chilled. Shivering, she admitted to herself just how much she’d been dreading this dinner.

Adam’s memorial dinner. On the week before the second anniversary of his “passing.” She’d never heard the Llewellyns say “dead.” They said “passing.” Talk about being in denial, especially Allison. But even as she dreaded it, she could never bring herself to tell Allison “no.” This dinner was a family tradition, and the Llewellyns were her family.

So move, Jenna. Get up those stairs and get this dinner over with.

But still her feet didn’t move. The dread of how it would be overpowered family traditions.

Jenna knew exactly how it would be—exactly as it had been the year before. Allison would set her table with her Noritake china and Waterford crystal. The table would be set for six, although they’d be only five—Allison and her husband Garrett, Charlie, Seth. And herself, sitting next to the chair Adam had always occupied. His now-empty chair. They’d sit and join hands and Garrett would say his solemn grace.

And that would be the first bad moment—having to reach across Adam’s place setting to grasp Seth’s hand. It was such a physical reminder that Adam was no longer there.

Like she could ever forget. But somehow reaching across his not-to-be-used butter plate made it worse. It was stupid, she knew, but true. The next bad moment would come when they all toasted him. Jenna couldn’t even remember what she’d said last year. She had no idea what she’d say this year. The very thought made her nauseous.

Lifting her foot to take the first step, Jenna felt her stomach do a cartwheel so strong she swung around and sat instead. From here she could see Adam’s car at the curb. The shop had done a good job finding the old-style tires on short notice, but it had cost her. She’d paid the bill, grateful she had the car to bring tonight. The last thing she wanted was to add anxiety over Adam’s car to the family angst on memorial dinner night.

She heard the door open behind her and caught the jingle of bangles—Allison’s daughter Charlie—along with a whiff of what was to be dinner. It would be Adam’s favorite meal, just like last year. That was another part of the family tradition, preparing the deceased’s favorite meal at their memorial dinner. They remembered Adam’s mother with liver and onions, Adam with sloppy joes from a can. On top of being the tiniest bit eccentric, the Llewellyns had terrible taste in food.

The bangles jingled louder until eleven-year-old Charlie dropped down to sit on the step beside her. She crossed her arms, creating another jingle from the bracelets that hung from both wrists. “Hi, Aunt Jenna,” she said in a dramatically melancholy voice. Charlie had called her Aunt Jenna from the time she was six years old and Jenna wasn’t about to ask her to stop.

“Why so glum?” Jenna asked, knowing Charlie needed no real reason. She was a pre-teen girl and that said it all.

“I hate sloppy joes,” Charlie grumbled. “Why did Uncle Adam pick that for his favorite?”

Jenna looked down with a fond smile. “You don’t know?” Charlie puckered her lips. “If I knew I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

Jenna ruffled her short hair. “Sarcastic little brat,” she said affectionately. “Your uncle picked sloppy joes because your mom’s such a terrible cook he figured it was the only thing she couldn’t totally ruin.” Jenna leaned close and whispered, “He liked spicy Chinese food the best.” A memory hit, so clearly it took her breath. The tiny apartment they’d shared after grad school, Adam, hale and hearty, sitting in their bed with a carryout carton in one hand and chopsticks in the other, wearing only his glasses and a broad smile at something she’d said. She remembered thinking she’d be happy with nothing else as long as she had him.

Charlie brought her back to reality with an amused chuckle and the memory slipped away like a wave going back to the sea.
Wait,
Jenna wanted to scream, but knew it was a fruitless waste of energy. Adam was gone. She no longer had him. And she’d learned to be happy anyway. She had.

“He really said that about my mom’s cooking?”

Jenna swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Really.” “And I thought I was the only one.”

She swallowed again, willing away the emotion that threatened to overwhelm. “You’re not.” She pulled herself to her feet. “But this means a lot to your mom, so let’s go.”

Saturday, October 1, 7:00
P.M.

“You wanted to see me, Dad?”

Victor Lutz looked up from the ledgers he’d been reviewing. Rudy stood in the doorway of his home office, the breadth of his shoulders completely filling the opening. His son was a handsome boy. Dark hair, bronze skin, strong jaw. Got his looks from
his
side of the family, thank God. “Yes, Rudy, come in and sit down. Did I also hear your friends out in the hall?”

Rudy sat down in one of the rich wine leather chairs and slid into a slouch. “Yeah, we’re going down to the Y to lift weights.” He winked. “Gotta keep my throwing arm in shape for next week.”

“Yes. That’s a good idea. Rudy, we need to talk about this problem at the school.”

Rudy’s smile faded. “I thought you fixed it.” “Blackman promised you’d play next week. But I’m not certain he’ll keep his word.”

Rudy was frowning by this time. “What are we going to do?”

Victor shrugged. “Depends how highly your teacher values her principles.”

Rudy’s expression went blank and Victor sighed. Got his looks from his side but unfortunately Rudy’s brains came straight from Nora. God help the boy if he ever lost football, because he sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere on the force of his intellect.

“Whaddya mean, Dad?”

“Let’s be direct, Rudy. I heard her tires got slashed yesterday.”

Rudy sat up straighter in the chair. “Now I had nothin’ to do with that,” he said quickly. “The boys, they did it all on their own. Kinda like a show of support.”

“Of course. That’s the ‘kinda’ thing that may make her change her mind—and your grade.”

Rudy’s eyes went narrow. “You mean, it’s cool?”

“It’s cool, Rudy. She’s a teacher, for God’s sake. How much can she realistically afford to replace? Tell your friends to keep it up, and you stay as far away from them as possible. Tell them to just keep it discreet.” He leaned back in his chair with a frown. “You do understand discreet?”

Rudy gracefully rose to his feet, white teeth flashing against his tanned face in a bold grin. “It means don’t get caught.”

“Exactly.” Victor watched his son amble toward the door, the picture of a cocky boy with the world by the tail. “Rudy?”

Rudy paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “What now?” he asked, his expression a familiar mix of teenaged sarcasm and boredom.

“Don’t mention this to your mother or Josh.” Nora was so unpredictable, it was hard to tell how she’d react to such a plan. Josh, well, he was predictable all right. Predictably slow-witted. Left on his own, Josh would probably lead police right to Rudy and his friends with the tire-slicing knife still in their hands. No one could believe Rudy and Josh were brothers. That they were fraternal twins was a detail Rudy would never even have to bother to deny should it ever come up. It never would, if Victor had anything to do about it. Josh had the misfortune to take his brains
and
his looks
and
his athletic capability from Nora’s side of the family. Josh had once shown promise as having some measure of intelligence, but even that seemed to evaporate at the onset of puberty. Now he had trouble remembering his own name most days. It was better to keep him away from anything of any importance whatsoever.

Rudy rolled his eyes in disgust. “Like I’d let that retard anywhere near me. I don’t think so.” But when he pulled open the door, Josh stumbled in, red-faced and stuttering an apology.

Victor tightened his fists on top of his desk. Well, fuck. He might as well have had Nora in the room, too, because Josh would go straight to her when this conversation was over. Unless Josh somehow became locked in the root cellar ...for the rest of his life. The idea unfortunately was only a fantasy—a recurring fantasy with immeasurable appeal. “Well, Josh? What do you want?”

Josh straightened and tried for dignity. And of course failed. “It’s wrong,” he said, haltingly. “She’s a nice lady, Dr. Marshall.”

Rudy snorted. “So nice she’s ruining my chances to be recruited by that college scout.”

To Victor’s surprise, Josh met his eyes with a full stare. “Rudy failed. He should have to follow the rules like everybody else.” Then grunted in pain when Rudy shoved him up against the door frame, one strong hand around Josh’s throat, lifting Josh an inch off the ground.

“I don’t follow the same rules, turd,” Rudy ground out. “Remember that, if you can.”

Josh gasped for air and Victor said mildly, “Let him go, Rudy.”

Rudy abruptly stepped back, threw Josh a baleful glare, then stalked from the room. Josh sagged back against the door frame, huffing and puffing.

“Don’t be stupid, Josh,” Victor said softly and went back to his ledgers.

Saturday, October 1, 9:30
P.M.

Steven closed the door to Interview Two behind him and came to a stop next to ADA Liz Johnson who looked like she’d been thoroughly enjoying herself. “Sorry I had to drag you all the way down here for nothing, Liz,” he said and she grinned.

“Don’t be sorry. Watching you finesse the sorry piece of shit Gerald Porter was worth my gas money. I think the real fireworks will happen when the Porters get young Gerald home tonight.”

Steven leaned against the glass, on the other side of which Mr. Porter was ominously promising the sorry piece of shit Gerald that he’d pay for his sins.

“Too bad the only thing we can really get him for is carrying an illegal ID,” he said glumly. “The bar where I found him conveniently hadn’t noticed their sixteen-year-old patron was carrying the ID of a forty-five-year-old Hispanic man.”

Liz patted his shoulder as she had on countless occasions before. “Well, Mrs. Porter seems to have been a mite put off by the fact Gerald dumped Samantha because she wouldn’t sleep with him. I think he’ll be sufficiently punished.”

“But I wanted a murder suspect,” Steven grumbled. “Not a candidate for asshole of the year.”

“You’ll get one, honey. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.” Steven smiled and pecked her cheek. “You’re a good woman, Liz. Why hasn’t some man snatched you up?”

Liz shrugged into her jacket. “Well for starters, I don’t have a fairy god-aunt like Helen to handpick me a man. And for finishers, I work too damn much.”

Steven sighed. “Let’s make that two beers.”

Saturday, October 1, 10:30
P.M.

“Good boy.” Jenna slipped the leash off Jim’s collar and patted him on the head, grateful she could finally sit down. Her ankle throbbed, her head ached, and her stomach burned. Damn memorial dinners with sloppy joes from a can. She eased her body into the sofa and sighed as her tense muscles relaxed. A hot tub would be better, but that would mean getting up.

The phone jingled and Jenna glared at it. If it was Allison...But on the off chance it was only a telemarketer trying to put himself through college she made her voice pleasant.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jen, how did it go?” It was Casey and she was yelling over the din of a noisy band.

“Okay, I guess. My bottle of Tums is all gone.”

Casey chuckled. “Poor baby. So what feast did Allison serve tonight?”

Jenna winced, her stomach remembering all too well. “Sloppy joes. It’s a family tradition.”

Casey made a rude noise. “That family is weird, Jen. They’re like the Munsters and Charlie’s the only normal one, like... what was her name again? The blond one?”

Jenna smiled, accustomed to Casey’s quicksilver topic shifts. “Marilyn.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, now that Allison’s dinner is done, why don’t you come down to Jazzie’s? The band is great.”

“Can’t. My foot is killing me.”

“What happened to your foot?” Casey shouted above the din.

Knowing Casey would hear about her tires soon enough, Jenna told her the story, as briefly as possible, again keeping the threatening note to herself. Casey would have a conniption over that. “Steven brought me home and that was all there was to it,” she finished.

“Steven?” Casey asked and Jenna felt her face heat. “Who’s Steven?”

“Nobody,” Jenna said, but it was too late. Casey would never let it go. “He’s Brad’s father.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean, hmm?” Jenna gritted, her jaw clenching.

“It means nothing.”

“It
was
nothing,” Jenna insisted, but the denial sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

“Just like your Steven is nobody,” Casey added, her tone one of patronizing amusement.

Your Steven.
Too bad the name conjured the face. Too bad it was such a very nice face. “Go back to your band, Casey,” Jenna growled.