Tell Me You're Sorry (32 page)

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “She's in Las Vegas.”

“I wouldn't hold your breath waiting for her to call you.”

“I know. So—in the meantime, tonight I started googling the hell out of Mark Metcalf, KIXY-TV News, and I found a photo of him that was from his daughter's Facebook: “Alison Metcalf, 16, West Seattle High School, Favorite Movie:
Perks of Being a Wallflower
, Favorite Book:
To Kill a Mockingbird
, Favorite Band: Fleet Foxes.” She's currently taking driver's ed and repeating a chemistry class in summer school, and she hates it. She's very cute in her Facebook picture. I could nab one of those Travelocity bargain fares and meet you in Seattle. If you can't get through to her old man, maybe I could infiltrate from within the family.”

“Are you crazy? We know Mark Metcalf is next on their list. That means right now they're probably keeping close tabs on him, his house, and his family. If they see you anywhere near his daughter, they'll know you're on to them. You'll be writing your own death sentence. You and your grandmother are reasonably safe right now, because they don't think you know anything. So just stay put, and don't rock the boat, okay?”

He sighed. “All right, I won't do anything.”

“I can just see you within seconds after we hang up,” Stephanie said. “You'll be online looking up cheap fares to Seattle. Listen, don't push your luck the way I did. You still have some family left with your grandmother, and you have your friend, Billy. You're not hiding in some hotel, constantly looking over your shoulder. I stuck my neck out and now look at me. I'm all alone here. I don't have any friends I can turn to—”

“I'm your friend,” he said. “You're not alone.”

Stephanie smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Thanks,” she said. “I needed to hear that. Thanks, Ryan . . .”

After they hung up, Stephanie switched on the TV for background noise and company. The hotel had a gym, but she didn't dare step outside her new room unless it was absolutely necessary. She didn't even want to go out for ice.

She double-checked the security bolt to make sure she'd put it in place, and then started to undress for a shower. She was down to her bra and panties when her room phone rang—just once.

She automatically put her blouse back on. Then went to the phone and dialed the front desk. He answered after two rings: “Front Desk, this is Jonah.”

“Hi, Jonah, this is Stephanie in room 107.”

“A man just phoned, asking if you'd checked out or switched rooms. I told him, ‘not to my knowledge,' and offered to take a message. I hope I did all right . . .”

“Yes, thank you very much,” she said, sitting down on the bed again. She told herself to breathe. She'd figured they might have managed to stay on her tail this afternoon. That was why she'd switched rooms. She'd prepared for this.

“Ms. Coburn?” he said. “Did you want to hear the message?”

“You mean he left one?” she murmured. “He didn't just hang up?”

“He said to tell you he was sorry he missed you
. . .”

She let out a sad, little laugh.

“And he wanted me to be sure to tell you that Scott called.” The desk clerk paused—as if he needed to read the next part, “And that ‘he, Rebecca and the kids will see you real soon.' ”

Stephanie felt her throat tighten up, and tears welled in her eyes.

“He had me read it back to him to make sure I got it right,” the desk clerk said. “Is there anything else, Ms. Coburn?”

“Just if he calls back tonight,” she said in a shaky voice, “please, tell him you weren't able to get ahold of me. Tell him I didn't get the message. Will you do that for me?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“Thank you very much,” she said. Then she hung up the phone.

She had a feeling he wouldn't be calling back tonight.

She'd gotten his message. And the son of a bitch probably knew it.

 

 

The alarm went off at 4:15
A.M
. Stephanie shut it off, and then sat up in bed.

She'd had an awful night of tossing and turning. The last time she'd looked at the clock radio on the hotel room nightstand, it had read 1:08
A.M
. Rubbing her forehead, she threw back the sheets and staggered out of bed to the bathroom. As she brushed her teeth, Stephanie cringed at her pale, haggard reflection. She told herself at least she was still alive.

She figured they were watching the hotel and her car. So after getting dressed, she phoned for a taxi and asked them to pick her up at the side entrance to Midge's 24-Hour Steak & Pancake House, next door to the hotel. With her bag, she slipped out the side door and made her way through the parking lot to Midge's. Standing by the restaurant's employee entrance, she didn't have to wait long. Stephanie was pretty sure she hadn't been spotted by whoever was on her tail. Still, she asked the driver to loop around, park in front of the restaurant, and pop in for a coffee or soda to go. “Whichever you prefer,” she said. “It's on me. And leave your taxi light on. I don't want anyone knowing you've picked up a fare.”

The driver was around her age, and handsome, with tousled dark brown hair and a bit of beard stubble. “Do you mind me asking what gives?” he asked.

“I've got a husband who likes to knock me around. I'm finally leaving him.”

“This ride's on me, lady.”

She ducked down in the backseat, and stayed there while he was in the restaurant. When he returned with his coffee, Stephanie remained hidden.

“What's your name?” she asked the driver.

“Steve—Steve McKinney,” he replied over his shoulder.

“Steve, could you drop me at the corner of Hilliard and 23rd?”

That was a block away from her house. She needed some things for the trip to Seattle. She'd left in such a hurry this afternoon, she'd forgotten her sunglasses and a few other essentials—including some decent clothes if she was going to call on Mark Metcalf at his TV station.

She remained crouched down in the backseat of the taxi until they were two blocks away from the hotel. Then she peeked out the rear window. No one else was on the road at this hour. It was easy to see nobody was following them.

She'd checked the bus schedules. There was a well-shaded stop down the street and around the corner from her house. She'd hide there until the bus showed up at 5:20. It went to the airport. It seemed less risky than having the cab wait for her. Whether it was at the end of her street or around the corner from her place, a parked cab would draw attention. Besides, they wouldn't be looking for her at a bus stop.

“Listen, Steve, you're saving my life,” she told the driver, finally straightening up in the backseat. “You sure I can't pay you?”

“Your money's no good here this morning.”

“Well, thank you,” Stephanie said.

“Here's my card,” he said, handing it to her over his shoulder. “When all this is done, could you call me, and let me know that you're okay?”

Stephanie stashed it in her purse. “Sure thing, Steve,” she said. She felt a little guilty lying to him about her predicament. He seemed like a nice guy.

“If I don't hear back from you,” he said, “I'll always wonder what happened to that pretty woman with the lousy husband.”

“You'll hear from me,” Stephanie said.

She looked at her watch: 4:50. He would be dropping her off in about five minutes. It was still dark out. She had that working in her favor. She would cut through a neighbor's yard to get to her back door. She'd have to keep the lights off in the house, too. Even then, it wouldn't take long to gather up what she needed. She'd be in and out of the house very quickly.

She glanced over her shoulder again, out the rear window. No one seemed to be following them. Stephanie told herself she was okay for now.

And it was only a matter of minutes before she'd be home.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

 

“T
he moving walkway is now ending,” said the recording. “Please look down . . .”

Under the stream of flashing multicolor neon, Ryan had just managed to edge past two idiots who stood side by side on the conveyor belt walkway. He was trying to get to United Concourse C for his Seattle flight, which left in forty minutes. He'd booked a one-way ticket for $97, with the provision he could be ready with three hours notice.

That had given him just enough time to pack and concoct a great cover story for his grandmother. He'd told her that he and Billy were driving up to Madison to check out the University of Wisconsin for the next two or three nights. He'd felt a little guilty lying to her, especially since she'd insisted on giving him eighty dollars for traveling money. He'd reminded her that he had over two thousand dollars saved in the bank from working as a clerk at Sunset Foods last summer. But she'd shoved the money in his shirt pocket anyway.

He'd phoned Billy to make sure he didn't blow his cover by impulsively coming over to the house anytime within the next few days. “You're really asking for trouble, aren't you?” Billy had said. “Like I told you, this isn't going to end well.”

“I'll be fine,” Ryan had told him.

Still, he remembered Stephanie warning him not to take this trip. “Don't push your luck,” she'd said. A part of him was reluctant about leaving his grandmother alone and vulnerable. But if these people spotted him in Seattle, they'd go after him, not his grandmother in Highland Park. Besides, he couldn't just sit around and do nothing. He'd seen Alison Metcalf's photos on her Facebook page. Yes, she was cute. But the pictures of her and her kid brother were what really got to him. They reminded him of Ashley and Keith.

He didn't want Alison and her kid brother ending up dead, too. If he could do something to prevent that, he would. It was worth the risk.

He was about to step onto the escalator when his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID:

Ryan immediately moved aside, away from the crowded escalator. Then he clicked on the phone: “Hello?” he said.

“Hi. Is this Mark?” she asked.

It took him a moment to remember that he'd told Mr. Jayne his name was Mark Metcalf, Junior. “Um, yeah . . .” he said, setting his backpack on the floor. Over the airport speaker, they were making announcements; and that recording about the moving walkway kept repeating. He covered his other ear to block out the noise.

“My name's Nikki Jayne,” she said. “I understand you paid a call on my dad last night, and you had some questions for him.”

“Yes, that's right. Thanks so much for calling me.”

“So how'd you like my dad? He's a million laughs, isn't he?”

“Well, I think I caught him off guard.”

“If he was pious, crabby, or cantankerous, you caught him at his most charming,” she said. “I understand your father worked with my older sister at Lake Ridge way back in the eighties. I'm sorry, but the name Metcalf doesn't ring a bell with me.”

“Well, he was a valet there for a couple of summers, including the summer your sister . . .” He hesitated.

“The summer Selena disappeared?” she interjected. “It's okay. I'm not my father. I don't mind talking about it. I was only ten and a half when it happened. I mean, I was still counting half-years. That's how young I was at the time. What's your interest in this, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Well, my dad mentioned her recently, and I just got more and more curious.”

“He probably had a thing for her. Selena was a knockout.”

“I know, I looked up some articles on her disappearance and saw her picture.”

“The photos didn't do her justice, believe me. She was even prettier in person. She looked like Marilyn Monroe—at least, I thought so when I was a kid. Anyway, about your interest in Selena . . .”

“Yes, well, I guess I just want to find out what happened to her,” he said, struggling for an explanation.

“You and me both,” she replied. “So—my father said you looked like you were in high school or college maybe. School's out for summer, so you can't be doing this for a term paper or anything. You sure you're not fronting for some tabloid or cheapie true crime rag? I mean, two weeks from now, I'm not going to open up a newspaper at the checkout stand and find myself quoted in a story about my sister, am I?”

“No,” he murmured. “God, no.”

“Okay, I've got about five minutes left on my cigarette break. What do you want to know?”

“Well, um, so you don't remember Selena ever talking about Mark Metcalf?”

“Nope, sorry. Like I told you, that name doesn't ring a bell—not even a distant bell.”

“What about Brent Farrell or Scott Hamner?”

There was a pause. “I don't think so. The first guy sounds vaguely familiar, but I don't remember Selena ever mentioning him. I think I heard the name somewhere else, more recently . . .”

Ryan figured she must have read about his father and the “murder-suicide” six weeks ago. “What about Dick Ingalls?” he asked.

“Oh, my God,
Dick Ingalls
, that name's a blast from the past,” she said. “Now, him I remember. Selena had a major crush on him. He was one of those rich, good-looking bad boys, always getting into trouble.”

“Did Selena ever go out with him?” Ryan asked.

“Oh, I don't think he would have given Selena the time of day.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you just said she looked like Marilyn Monroe.”

“Yes, but none of those rich kids at Lake Ridge would be caught dead dating the help. Plus I would have heard about it if she'd ever gone out with Dick. She talked about him enough: ‘Oh, I think he winked at me . . .' or ‘He nodded at me, I'm sure he was flirting . . .' But the puppy love feelings she had for him were unrequited. Funny thing about Dick Ingalls, he peaked in high school. When I was a kid, I used to hang out with the employees at the club, and help with chores—whether it was in the snack shack or wherever. I remember Dick was very sexy, very cute—and he knew it, too. But by the time I was seventeen and working at the club myself—I wasn't a waitress, I worked in the ladies' room, a loathsome job—anyway, I spotted him there with his parents one night. Dick was only twenty-five or so, but he looked—
spent
, you know, rode hard and put away wet. Too much partying, I guess. That was the last time I saw him. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

Ryan decided not to say anything about the fire that swept through Dick's Lake Geneva summer home. “The other three guys I mentioned,” he said, “Brent, Scott, and my dad, Mark, they were all friends of Dick's. They hung out together that summer Selena disappeared. I can't help thinking maybe they were all somehow involved in—”

“So—wait a minute,” she interrupted. “Do you think Dick, your dad, and these other two guys might have had something to do with what happened to Selena? Oh, honey, no . . .”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because like I told you, if Dick had so much as said ‘boo' to her, Selena would have told me about it—in detail. I was the last one to talk to her that night she went off to the movies by herself. If she was going on a date with Dick Ingalls, I would have known about it. Besides, the police interviewed a whole bunch of people at the club about Selena. No one from the club knew a thing—and believe me, everyone there was into everyone else's business. So if you're worried about your father being involved in my sister's disappearance, you can just relax.”

“Are you positive?” he asked.

“I'll tell you what I think, and I know the police are pretty certain this is what went down. I think Selena met somebody at the movies and he offered her a ride home—and that was that. Selena was always so trusting. My guess is the guy did what he wanted to her, killed her, and buried her body someplace. I just hope—whoever it was—he got paid back in spades for what he did to my sister.”

“Are you really that certain she's dead? I mean, isn't there a chance she could have run away?”

“She left the house in a blue sleeveless dress and sandals. And all she was carrying was a tiny change purse. If you're going to run away, you pack a few things.” She paused. “Besides, if Selena had skipped town, she would have let me know. She wouldn't have left me alone with our old man in that miserable house. She would have contacted me somehow. Selena wouldn't have ditched me. We were six and a half years apart, but we were very close. No, my sister didn't run away, honey. She's dead.”

Ryan didn't know what to say. He wondered if it was true. Maybe his father and the other three guys in that photo hadn't had anything to do with Selena's disappearance.

“Listen, my break ended about five minutes ago,” Nikki Jayne said. “I should skedaddle. Anyway, put your mind to rest about your dad and his pals having anything to do with my sister's disappearance. I'm sure he wouldn't have brought her up in conversation if he was hiding something from you. I mean, really, think about it.”

“You're probably right,” he said. “Thanks.”

He did think about it—after they hung up. The truth was his father had never said anything to him about his three buddies or Lake Ridge Country Club or Selena Jayne. And Mark Metcalf had told Stephanie that he barely knew any of the others—including Selena.

So what were they hiding?

He still had twenty-five minutes left before his plane took off. Ryan didn't move from the dark alcove off to the side of the escalators and stairway. He wanted to tell Stephanie about this conversation with Selena Jayne's surviving sister. He just hoped she wouldn't hear the airport announcements in the background. He didn't want her to know where he was—or to guess where he was headed. He speed-dialed her number.

He counted the ringtones. There were six of them before an automated voice from the service provider came on to tell him his party wasn't able to answer the phone. The beep sounded for him to leave a message.

Ryan hesitated. “Ah, hi, Stephanie. I just got finished talking with Nicole Jayne. I want to go over it with you and get your take on it. This is weird that I didn't get you or your regular voice mail. Give me a call as soon as you can, okay?”

Then he clicked off, picked up his bag, and headed up the escalator.

 

 

 

As she walked from her hotel toward the Seattle Center, the woman checked the text her cohort had just sent:

It only took the woman a moment to type and send her response:

“God, Dad, I just said good-bye to you like an hour ago,” Alison sighed on the other end of the line. “Danny and I are fine—except he's driving me crazy, as usual. Cate's coming over in a bit. If he starts to bug us, I may strangle him.”

Mark sat at his desk with a news script in front of him. But he hadn't been able to focus on it. He kept thinking about Stephanie Coburn's warning that he and his family were in danger. He'd advised the kids this afternoon to be on their guard. He'd told them someone had threatened the TV news team and their families—something that actually happened from time to time. He told Alison and Danny not to wander off by themselves, and to keep a cell phone close by at all times. He didn't want them taking any chances.

This warning had, of course, prompted Danny to hide around corners and jump out to scare Alison at every opportunity possible.

What bothered Mark most was that if someone went after his kids, it wouldn't be too difficult for them to figure out when Alison and Danny had been left alone in the house. All they had to do was turn on the news to see he wasn't home. He really wished he had someone older there staying with the kids—just as extra insurance.

He never owned a gun, and hadn't known how to get one in a hurry. Then he'd remembered one of the news team reporters recently did an exposé about local gun shops flagrantly ignoring firearm-sales guidelines. The focus of the piece was one particular store owned and managed by a smug, oily sleazeball. The exposé had helped shut down the place. However, a lot of undercover footage had been shot at another negligent store, but never used on TV. The old owner had come across as sweet but clueless. It didn't make for very dramatic footage. Mark had called Jesse earlier and found out the name of that second store: Sportsman Pete's Gun & Ammo Supply.