Wish Upon a Christmas Star (5 page)

The tired look came back into Peppler’s eyes. His mouth was
set, as though he was about to refuse. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “If
it’ll get you out of here, sure. What’s his name?”

“Mike DiMarco.” She spelled out the last name and provided her
brother’s date of birth and social security number. Even though she’d already
run Mike’s particulars through some national databases, she couldn’t trust that
the information was one hundred percent accurate. To be thorough, it didn’t hurt
to check local channels.

The sergeant held up a finger, went to a nearby computer and
typed in the information. While he was busy, a woman with a black eye came into
the station and got in line behind Maria. A minute later, Peppler was back at
the counter.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he told the woman. To Maria, he
said, “Nope. Nothing on anybody named DiMarco.”

Just as she had suspected. She’d all but established that he’d
have to be using an assumed identity. “He could be going by another name.”

“What name?”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Peppler rested both forearms on the counter.
“Why do you think your brother is in Key West under an alias?”

She knew better than to tell him everything. “Mike’s
ex-girlfriend got an envelope of photos that appeared to be from him. It had a
Key West postmark.”

“Appeared to be?” Peppler picked up on the operative words.

“I misspoke,” Maria said, annoyed at herself for planting the
seed of doubt in Peppler’s mind. If Mike was in Key West, she’d never find him
if she didn’t put a positive spin on things. “The photos
were
from Mike.”

The woman behind her made an interested noise, not bothering to
hide the fact that she was eavesdropping.

A crease appeared between the sergeant’s white eyebrows. “Just
because he mailed the photos from Key West doesn’t mean he’s in Key West.”

Maria couldn’t argue with that conclusion. She’d arrived at the
same one a short time ago.

“I’m exploring the possibility,” she said. “Perhaps you could
direct me to somebody local who knows everybody.”

“You’re looking at him,” he said. “I’ve lived in Key West all
my life and been a cop for twenty-five years. You’ll be wasting your time
talking to other locals.”

“I’m a native, too, and I’ve never seen him before.” The
comment came from the lady behind Maria, who was peering over her shoulder.

“He could be a tourist.” The sergeant tapped the photo.
“Problem is your brother might not look like this. He might have gained weight.
He could have a beard. Or long hair. Hell, maybe he even shaved his head.”

Earlier in the year Maria had worked on a child abduction case
in which an age progression played a key part. Thirty years after the
kidnapping, the victim bore a remarkable resemblance to the aged image.

“Or maybe Mike looks just like this.” She didn’t see any point
in prolonging her stay at the police station. Sergeant Peppler wasn’t going to
provide any information that would help her. She got out a business card and set
it on the counter next to the age progression. “Could you keep this and show it
around to the other officers? If anyone recognizes him, I’d appreciate a
call.”

“Don’t expect one,” the officer said. “People come and go in
Key West. Even if that age progression is the spitting image of your brother, he
might not look familiar to anybody.”

Maria left the police station, spotted a branch of the Key West
post office and swung in. She didn’t have any better luck there. After checking
into a slightly run-down hotel that had appeared a lot nicer on its website, she
pounded the pavement in the tourist district, flashing a copy of the age
progression at anyone who agreed to take a look. By the time she got back to her
hotel at midnight, she was fighting frustration.

Unbidden, Logan’s voice filled her head.

“Mike’s dead, Maria. He died on 9/11.
You’ve got to accept that.”

She’d accepted a lot of disappointment in her life, including
Logan’s refusal to take a chance on her when they were both eighteen. She’d be
damned if she’d accept this.

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE
L
OUISVILLE
I
NTERNATIONAL
Airport buzzed
with activity. Travelers walked quickly along the moving walkway that connected
the two concourses, some arriving, others departing, all of them in a hurry. It
seemed as if Christmas was hours instead of six days away. A tinny voice over
the loudspeaker issued a periodic reminder not to leave bags unattended.

Logan and his parents had gone through the security checkpoint
together, since he’d thought to book early morning flights that departed within
thirty minutes of each other. The planes didn’t leave from the same concourse,
though. When the walkway ended, Logan moved off to the side to get out of the
way of other passengers. His parents did the same.

“This is where we part,” Logan said. “I hope you both have a
fantastic time on the cruise.”

His mother sniffed, her eyes dewy with unshed tears. In her red
coat, black pants and black shoe boots, she was dressed for winter in Lexington
instead of in the tropics. “I still wish you were coming with us.”

“Boy’s gotta work, Celeste.” His father slung an arm around her
and kissed the side of her head. He was gruff with most people but treated his
wife like gold. “Guy I work with, his thirty-five-year-old son lives in the
basement.”

“Logan’s only thirty-three,” his mother countered. “And I never
said I wanted him to live in our basement.”

“Basements aren’t for me, anyway,” Logan said, attempting to
lighten the mood. “We New York types prefer lofts.”

“But you’re not a New York type,” his mother protested. “Not
really. You love Kentucky. You’ve always loved it. Don’t you think it’s past
time you moved home?”

“Celeste, I thought you weren’t going to bring this up,” his
father said.

“I can’t help it,” she answered. “You tell me not to make waves
about it when Logan’s home because he’s here for such a short time. But it’s not
the kind of thing to discuss over the phone.”

“Whoa,” Logan said. “Where’s this coming from? I’m happy in New
York.”

“You wouldn’t have moved there in the first place if Maria
DiMarco hadn’t married someone else,” his mother said.

Logan sucked in a breath that felt jagged going down. His
mother was right. When he was in college, he’d fully expected he and Maria would
get back together again someday. Finding out she’d gotten married had come as a
vicious blow. In that instant, he’d decided to look for a job outside
Kentucky.

His father removed his arm from his mother’s shoulder and gazed
at her with rare disapproval. “Celeste, what are you doing?”

“Saying what I should have said a long time ago.” She took
Logan’s elbow. “I think it’s time you and Maria put the past behind you.”

“You’re way off base about this, Mom,” Logan said. “My living
in New York has nothing to do with her.”

It had nothing to do with Maria
now,
a voice in his head clarified. When he’d graduated from
college, the state hadn’t been big enough for him to risk running into her and
her new husband.

“If you’d seen her when you were home, you could have wiped the
slate clean,” his mother said. “You’d either have feelings for her or you
wouldn’t.”

Last night Logan had told his parents he was meeting friends
for a drink. Now he was glad he hadn’t mentioned Maria by name. He wasn’t up for
a postmortem session discussing his feelings.

“Maria and I were over a long time ago, Mom,” Logan
insisted.

Then why did he feel as if he was abandoning her? It was
ridiculous, considering that in the past Maria had been the one who’d failed to
wait for him.

“But—”

“Wish our son a merry Christmas, Celeste,” his father
interrupted. “You don’t want him to stop visiting us, do you?”

“Of course not.” She came forward and hugged him tightly,
smelling of the familiar light perfume he associated with his childhood. She
whispered in his ear, “Forgive a meddling mother for wanting to see her only
child happy.”

He hugged her back. “You’re forgiven.”

Then his father was grabbing his hand and pulling him into a
hearty hug. He ushered Mom toward the concourse, yet she looked back at Logan
three times.

Logan waved, both sad and relieved that it was time for them to
part ways.
Sad...
He wondered why that word had
popped into his head. And why had the sentence snagged in his throat when he
went to tell his mother he was happy?

An image of Maria’s face floated in his mind. He shut it out,
irked at how potent the power of suggestion could be. He wouldn’t dwell on how
things might have been. He liked his life in New York just fine, thank you very
much.

He started walking toward the opposite concourse from his
parents, again moving with the crowd. Though wreaths hung on the walls and
Christmas music spilled out of restaurants, he’d seldom felt less holiday
spirit.

Logan was halfway to his gate when his cell phone rang. It was
Annalise DiMarco. He quickly rolled his carry-on suitcase over to the side,
stopped and clicked through to the call.

“Annalise, what’s up?” he asked.

“I can barely hear you. Where are you?” Annalise hardly took a
breath. “Oh, my gosh, you’re already at the airport, aren’t you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just tell me why you
called.”

“Okay, but you won’t believe it. Maria’s in Key West. She’s
been there since yesterday.”

“Ah, hell.” He’d had an inkling that telling her about his
conversation with Mike on the morning of his death had backfired. Maria had
heard only that her brother was thinking about quitting his job. “I’m sorry,
Annalise. She told me she wasn’t going.”

“It’s not your fault, Logan. She told me the same thing. She
didn’t want us to know.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Annalise said. “I almost didn’t call to tell you,
but I hadn’t thanked you yet.”

“For nothing.”

“For trying,” she insisted.

Had he tried hard enough? Logan wondered after disconnecting
the call. He remembered as clearly as though it were yesterday how he’d
persuaded Mike to go to work on that fateful morning.

“I can’t let you stay here and freeload off me,” Logan had
said. “You’ve got to work.”

“I know it,” Mike had answered. “But I hate being a
busboy.”

“Then quit after you find another job,” Logan had told him. “In
the meantime, though, there are a lot of things worse than working at the World
Trade Center.”

Not on 9/11, there hadn’t been.

Logan felt sick to his stomach. It was bad enough carrying
around the guilt that he was responsible for Mike being at the restaurant that
day. Seeing the false hope in Maria’s eyes had been worse.

He couldn’t rewind time and take back what he’d said to Mike.
He could, however, do something about Maria.

He headed for his gate and got in line at the counter.

“How may I help you?” an airline representative asked when he
reached the front of the line.

Logan slapped his boarding pass down on the counter. “I need to
make a change. Do you fly to Key West?”

* * *

M
ARIA
WOKE
UP
W
EDNESDAY
morning thinking about
Logan Collier. She turned over on the lumpy mattress, half expecting him to be
on the other side of the bed, his chest bare, his face soft in sleep.

He wasn’t there.

She sat up, pushing the hair back from her face. Images from
her dreams bombarded her consciousness. Of Logan kissing her, stripping off her
clothes, making love to her. Of Mike bounding down the stairs, bursting into the
basement and covering his eyes with a hand.
“Whoa. Didn’t
mean to interrupt.”

She groaned aloud. Part of her dream was actually a memory.
Mike had been a fan of Logan’s, treating him like another big brother. On one
memorable occasion, he’d come to the basement to say hello to Logan and had
barged in on them necking.

That was all she and Logan had been doing. They’d never gone
all the way. Annalise had gotten pregnant when she was a senior in high school,
then married quickly. Even though things had worked out great for her sister,
Maria had been determined not to repeat that mistake. She’d wanted to wait, and
Logan had respected her wishes. If she was having erotic dreams about him,
seeing him again must have affected her on a deeper level than she’d
imagined.

Maria hugged herself and rubbed her upper arms. She’d been
right to get rid of Logan by telling him what he wanted to hear. Her entire
focus needed to be on Mike.

Although it was almost nine and she hadn’t bothered pulling
down the blinds, no sunlight poured into the room. The only window faced a brick
wall, which helped explain the relatively low price for a night’s stay. Since
she wasn’t getting paid and didn’t know how long the search would take, cost had
to be a consideration. She padded to the bathroom over thin carpet and splashed
cold water on her face to dispel the cobwebs.

By the time she’d showered and dressed, she was thinking more
clearly. She’d been so eager to show around the aged photo of her brother when
she got to Key West that she hadn’t done all the groundwork she could have.

It seemed a fair bet that Mike wasn’t using his birth name, but
there were other steps she needed to take before she was certain. Examining the
Monroe County property records. Checking listings at the local Clerk of Courts
office. Accessing the state of Florida’s criminal database.

Maria pulled out her laptop from her bag, called the front desk
for the hotel’s wireless access code and tried to log on. After three attempts,
she finally connected.

The wireless signal flickered in and out, making what should
have taken twenty minutes stretch into two hours. Predictably, she turned up
nothing. No property records. No addresses. No vehicles registered to him. No
tax liens. The trail simply stopped dead. If Mike were alive, she was even more
sure he wasn’t using his real name.

The tone on her cell phone signaled she had a text. It was from
Annalise. Again.

Worried about you,
it read.
When will you call?

Not
yet,
Maria texted back.

She couldn’t call until she had information that would convince
her sister she wasn’t spinning her wheels. Her next step was to visit the Old
Town post office, although that was admittedly a long shot. The employees at the
branch she’d already checked had been no help.

After that, Maria needed a better strategy. The desk sergeant
could be right about Mike not being a local, but she couldn’t ignore the
possibility. There were undoubtedly people in town besides Sergeant Peppler who
had a finger on the pulse of the real Key West.

She sat up straighter, the name of a Key West P.I. popping into
her head: Carl Dexter. Key Carl, everybody called him. A large bearded man in
his sixties who came to the workshops at the national P.I. conferences dressed
in guayabera shirts, shorts and sandals.

With Key Carl’s help, she had no doubt she could come up with
that better strategy.

* * *

I
NSIDE
THE
OFFICES
OF
Dexter Private
Investigations later that morning, Kayla Fryburger stood back and admired the
beaded white snowflakes she’d strung from monofilament thread in her uncle’s
office. The dozen or so snowflakes looked elegant, although making them had been
a simple matter of adding beads to corsage pins, poking the pins into cork and
applying white glitter.

Uncle Carl had nixed her Christmas tree idea so the snowflakes
would have to do. Kayla only hoped someone besides herself saw them.

Since Uncle Carl had left with his girlfriend earlier in the
week to visit her family in Chicago, nobody had stopped by the office. That was
partially due to Uncle Carl spreading the word that he was out of town until
after Christmas. Still, a girl could hope for walk-in traffic.

Dexter Investigation’s normal office hours were 9:00 a.m. to
noon. Even though Uncle Carl had suggested she take some time off this week,
Kayla had shown up each day just in case somebody stopped in.

Granted, she wasn’t a skilled investigator, but she could make
up for in enthusiasm what she lacked in experience.

The past six weeks had been some of the most exciting of her
life. Considering her previous line of work had been producing and selling
bottle art with her mother, that wasn’t saying much.

Kayla had come up with the idea of learning the ropes from her
uncle a couple years ago. After much resistance, he’d finally agreed to an
eight-week trial, providing she worked for a pittance.

She’d messed up a few times, including on surveillance duty
when it didn’t occur to her the subject might leave his house via a back window.
She was getting better, though.

If a client would walk through the door, she’d get a chance to
prove it. Kayla stared at the entrance, willing somebody in need of help to
materialize.

Five minutes later, she sank into the orange-and-teal-striped
sofa in the waiting area, wondering how to fill the time. In previous days,
she’d tidied up the magazines on the coffee table, fluffed the pillows and swept
the floor. All that was left to do was clean the baseboards.

Minutes later, with a wet paper towel in hand, she gazed down
at the short yellow skirt she’d paired with a white top. Not the best outfit for
baseboard cleaning. She balanced on her haunches but almost toppled over on her
wedged-heel sandals.

“Forget that.” She got down on her knees and went to work.

The swooshing noise was so unexpected it took her a moment to
realize the door had swung open. Kayla got to her feet with as much dignity as
she could muster and turned to greet the arrival.