On A Night Like This (The Callaways) (33 page)

He didn't want to give up, but time kept marching on. He picked up the photograph that he kept on his desk. Stephanie's blue eyes stared back at him. The picture had been taken on her sixth birthday. They'd gone to the beach, barbecued hot dogs and roasted marshmallows. For that day they'd been happy. It made him feel marginally better now to see the smile on her lips as she waved her marshmallow at the camera, the color in her sunburned cheeks, the traces of sand in her hair left over from when they'd made sand angels. What a great afternoon that had been. He'd never imagined it might be the last they would have together.

Stephanie had his eyes, the same direct, intense expression. Looking at her was like looking in a mirror, but she didn't have his dark hair, she was blonde like her mother.

Her mother …

Fury ripped through him as he thought of his ex-wife. It was Jennifer who had stolen Stephanie from him, who had violated the custody agreement, who had turned his life into a living hell. Crazy, messed up Jennifer, who had somehow believed their daughter was better off with her. The only thing that had kept him from losing his mind completely was the knowledge that Jennifer loved Stephanie. He had to hope that she was being a good mother, that she'd found a way to shake the drugs and the bad friends, but he couldn't count on that being true. And he would never be able to relax until he had Stephanie back in his arms.

Most of his friends and family had given up. They tried to pretend otherwise, but he knew the truth. It had been two very long years of false leads, dead ends and crushing disappointment. Stephanie's disappearance had once triggered Amber alerts, search parties and news media coverage. For months they'd set a place for her at family dinners. His mother had bought presents for every occasion, stashing them in a closet for
some day
. But
some day
seemed to be getting further and further away. He set the photo down on his desk, silently promising his daughter that he would never give up, no matter how long it took.

Even as he made the promise, his gaze tripped over the stack of file folders on his desk. There were other missing kids, other victims, other people who needed his attention. As much as he wanted to devote himself full time to the search for his daughter, he also had to make a living. He'd spent the first year of Stephanie's disappearance crisscrossing the country, following endless clues that had ultimately gone nowhere. Eventually, he'd had to go back to work, if for no other purpose than to make enough money to keep a private investigator working on the case. Unfortunately, that investigator had also come up with nothing and had moved on to other clients. Two years of work and he was back at square one, as lost as he'd been that very first afternoon.

"Wyatt, I have something you should see," Josh Burton said, waving him over.

He got up from his desk to see what his friend and former partner had to say. He'd met Josh in the police academy eleven years earlier, and they'd worked their way up the ranks together. They'd once been partners, but during his six-month leave, Josh had partnered with someone else. Once Wyatt had come back, he'd been assigned a new partner. He was always happy to collaborate though. He'd done some of his best work with Josh.

"I was reviewing the security footage we picked up from cameras in the area around Vincenzo's restaurant," Josh said.

He nodded. They'd all spent some time working on the robbery/homicide at the popular North Beach restaurant. "What did you find?"

"Take a look." Josh hit a button on his computer and the grainy video of the outside of a liquor store appeared. Three kids walked out of the store, pausing on the sidewalk to open a box of candy. There was a boy and two girls, all of whom appeared to be under the age of twelve. A moment later, the smallest girl turned her face toward the camera. In a split second, a pair of familiar blue eyes met his. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart began to race. Then she looked away, and the kids ran out of range of the camera.

"Play it again," he ordered, adrenaline racing through his veins.

Josh did as requested, pausing on the frame of the little girl. "She looks a little like Stephanie, don't you think?"

A knot was growing in his throat as he stared at the computer screen. "More than a little."

"She's older, and her hair is darker."

"It's been two years since we saw her, and who knows what Jen did to her hair."

"But why would Jennifer bring Stephanie back to San Francisco? She has to know you're still looking for her. And you have a lot of support and resources here. It's not logical."

"Jen was never known for her logic."

"It's more likely she'd be in Los Angeles where she grew up, where her parents still live. Someone has to be funneling her money, and they're the most likely suspects."

Jen's parents had definitely been on their daughter's side, but then they'd spoiled Jen rotten. She was their only child and they believed she was perfect in every way. The problems in their daughter's marriage had all been his fault.

"Tom has been following Jen's parents for months," he said, referring to the private investigator. "He's never been able to connect them to Jennifer. He's never been able to find a money trail. I don't know who's helping her live, but it doesn't appear to be Greg and Wendy Miller."

"Well, I still think it's doubtful Jen is here in the city. To be honest, I debated whether I should even show you this video. There have been so many false sightings. We've seen Stephanie in a lot of little girls who turned out not to be her. I hate to see you chase another bad lead."

Everything Josh said was true. It didn’t make sense that Jennifer and Stephanie would be in the city, and the girl whose image had been captured by the security camera wasn't an exact match to his daughter, but there was something about her eyes that made his gut clench. He had to follow up, even if this lead turned out to be as bad as the others.

"Don't ever debate showing me something that might be important," he said sharply. "You don't need to worry about me. Stephanie is the only one who matters. Can you print out a screen shot for me? I'll take the picture by the liquor store and see if the clerk knows anything about these kids."

"Already done," Josh said, handing him a photo. "I'd go with you, but I have a witness to question."

"It's fine," he muttered. "I don't have anything pressing at the moment."

Josh sent him a warning glance. "Don't let the captain hear you say that. You're already on his last nerve."

He was well aware of that fact. In the beginning, the captain had been generous about giving him time off and looking the other way when he used department resources to look for Stephanie, but their caseload had increased in recent months, and the captain had warned him that if he continued to take time off, he might need to resign. It seemed unthinkable that he could lose his daughter and his job, but right now Stephanie was his main concern.

"Fortunately, we just wrapped the Delgado case," he said. "And I have a lot of overtime on the books."

"Are you going to Summer's engagement party tomorrow night?" Josh asked, leaning back in his chair. "I wish I could go, but I have to work."

"We'll see," he said vaguely. "There's going to be a big crowd. My sister won't miss me."

"She will definitely miss you, along with the rest of the family. Taking an hour out for yourself and your family doesn’t make you any less of a dedicated father," Josh said pointedly.

He'd heard the same argument from his mother, his father, his brother and his sister. Two years was a long time to run head-down at a dead sprint toward a finish line that kept moving farther away. But he didn't know how else to live. Every time he found himself thinking about something else or he caught himself smiling or laughing, he felt guilty. He couldn't have a life without his child.

"Just think about it," Josh said.

"I will. I want Summer to be happy, and Ron seems like a good guy, but who knows? I certainly never imagined Jennifer would turn into a monster."

"Neither did I," Josh said, regret in his eyes. "She was so sweet at your wedding. She looked up at you with adoration, like you were the only man in the world. I wanted what you had."

"Well, thank God you didn't get it," he replied. "Getting married was the biggest mistake of my life, and no doubt Jen feels the same way. Once the dream wedding was over, our lives turned into a nightmare."

"Her expectations were too high," Josh said. "After a moonlit wedding with a horse and carriage and a thousand perfect roses, reality was bound to suck a little."

"No kidding. That's why I told my sister when she announced her engagement that she should elope or go down to City Hall and skip the big wedding. It's not supposed to be about a day; it's supposed to be about a lifetime. But Summer wants the dream, too. You'd think she'd learn from my example." He paused. "I'll check in with you later – hopefully with some good news."

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When Wishes Collide

Excerpt: Ryan’s Return

Barbara Freethy

© Copyright 2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chapter One

His bed was on the sidewalk!

Ryan Hunter slammed the door of the cab, tossed a twenty-dollar bill at the driver, and ran across the busy Los Angeles intersection, dodging cars and honking horns. As he reached the sidewalk, two men emerged from his three-story apartment building with a bookcase.

"What the hell is going on here?" Ryan dropped his overnight bag on the ground, taking more care with his saxophone case and camera bag.

The moving men set the bookcase down on the sidewalk. The younger man, who wore white coveralls with the name Craig embroidered on the pocket, grinned. "Oh, hi, Mr. Hunter. Your lady's moving out. Third one in a row, isn't that right?"

"Yeah? Who's counting?" Ryan grumbled.

The older man, Walt, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill. "I do believe you're our best account, Mr. Hunter. Shall we put this on your tab?"

Walt and Craig laughed in unison as they picked up the bookcase and set it in the truck.

Ryan surveyed the furniture strewn around the sidewalk and the steps leading up to his apartment building with a weary sigh. He had spent the past thirty-six hours on three different planes, traveling through three different time zones. All he wanted to do was sleep -- in his own bed. Only his own bed was now in a moving van.

The men loaded the easy chair next, the one perfect for stretching out with a beer. Behind the chair was the big-screen television.

"Not the TV." Ryan groaned. He gave it a loving pat as the men walked by him.

Craig laughed. "You don't have much left up there, Mr. Hunter, just that old sofa with the springs sticking out, a couple of crates, and a fan. Maybe instead of getting a new woman, you should buy yourself some furniture."

"Thanks for the tip, Mack."

"The name is Craig, and you're welcome."

Ryan stalked up the steps. He met Melanie on the landing just inside the front door. She wore her usual aerobics gear, a pair of hot pink Lycra shorts, a midriff tank top, and tennis shoes. Her blond hair bounced around her head in a ponytail. She was the perfect southern California woman, tan and fit -- great body, great in bed, and great furniture. Sometimes life sucked.

Melanie stopped abruptly, her bright pink lips curving downward in dismay.

"Oh, dear," she said. "I thought I'd be gone before you got home."

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I'm moving out, Ryan."

"That's obvious. Without saying good-bye, without offering a word of explanation?"

"Ryan, honey, you've been gone seven weeks."

"I was working."

"You're always working."

"Did you see my photographs from Israel?"

"Yes, they were on the cover of
Time
. Very impressive. Excuse me, but I have to go."

"Melanie, wait."

She shook her head. "Ryan, we've been living together for three months, and you've only spent ten nights in that apartment with me."

"It has to be more than that," Ryan said, truly surprised by the number.

"It's not. I should know. I had plenty of time to count." Melanie sighed wistfully. "You're a great guy when you're around, but you don't love me."

"I don't?"

"Seven weeks, Ryan." She poked her fingertip into his chest. "No phone calls, no letter, not even a postcard."

Melanie was right. She was a nice woman and fun to be with, but he didn't love her. He didn't love anyone. It was not an emotion that he wanted in his life. Love was too complicated, too messy.

Ryan touched Melanie's cheek, feeling genuinely sad at her departure. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"I'll live," she said with a regretful smile. "I just wish I knew what you were running from or running toward." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips. "Whatever it is, I hope someday you find it."

Ryan watched her walk down the steps. The movers closed up the van, and within minutes a big part of his life disappeared -- again.

He retrieved his bags and saxophone case from the sidewalk and walked slowly up the stairs to his apartment.

The door stood halfway open. He walked inside and stared at the emptiness. His old sofa bed stood against one wall next to the lamp with the tilted, yellowed shade. The wooden crate with his antiquated record collection featuring jazz musicians Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong, as well as an eclectic mix of rock and roll artists like Bruce Springsteen, Mick Jagger, and the Grateful Dead, spilled out onto the beige carpet.

A card table had been opened up in one corner of the living room. On top of the table lay his mail, piles and piles of it. Ryan walked over to the table and spread the envelopes out so he could see what he had -- electric bills, telephone bills, and sales offers. Dismissing most of the mail as junk, Ryan's gaze came to rest on an ivory-colored oversize envelope with his name engraved on the top. The return address caught his attention. For twelve years he had hoped for a letter with that postmark. To get one now was unsettling.