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Maria didn’t want to explain about the phone call and photos Caroline Webb had received. She couldn’t listen to anyone else telling her how unlikely it was that her brother was behind them.
If even the ghost of a chance existed that Mike was alive, she needed to investigate. Admittedly, an envelope with a Key West postmark wasn’t a lot to go on. But until Maria scoured every inch of Key West and determined that her brother wasn’t on the island, she wasn’t ready to concede anything.
The task didn’t seem terribly daunting. The island was roughly four miles long and two miles wide, with hotels, shops and restaurants packed close together. She should be able to cover a lot of territory in a short amount of time.
Her first inkling that finding someone on the small island might not be that easy came thirty minutes later. She’d booked a hotel on the far side of the island. The traffic en route was bumper to bumper.
A pale pink, two-story building with a circular entranceway flanked by tall palm trees caught her eye while she waited behind a line of cars at a red light. The police station. An excellent place to start her search.
She pulled into the parking lot and minutes later walked into the empty reception area. A burly middle-aged officer with a full head of white hair manned the counter. His name tag read Sergeant Pepper. She did a double take. No, it was Sergeant Peppler. He gazed at her expectantly, a bored expression on his face.
“My name’s Maria DiMarco,” she announced. “Is there somebody I can talk to about a missing person?”
The sergeant perked up. “You can talk to me.”
Maria knew how the police worked. He wouldn’t hook her up with a detective unless he thought her story had merit. It wouldn’t hurt to get him on her side.
“I used to be on the force, too,” she said. “In Kentucky. The Fayette County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Oh, yeah?” He stroked a beard as white as his hair. With his coloring, he could probably get a second job masquerading as Santa. “What do you do now?”
It figured he would focus on the wrong part of her revelation. “I’m a private investigator.”
Sergeant Peppler snorted. In Maria’s experience, only about fifty percent of the cops she ran across had a full appreciation of the profession she’d chosen. The other half acted as though P.I.s existed to interfere with police investigations.
“So this missing person,” Peppler said, eyes narrowed, “it’s for a case you’re working?”
“Not exactly.” She reached into her purse, dug out a computer-generated age progression of her brother and set it on the counter. She’d gotten the image off a generic website that instantly aged people in uploaded photos. “I’m looking for my brother.”
The cop raised an eyebrow. “This is an age progression. How long has he been missing?”
She’d rather not tell him but couldn’t avoid his direct question. “Eleven years.” She fired the next questions. “Does he look familiar? Have you seen him?”
“No.” Peppler shoved the paper back at her. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”
“That’s it? You don’t want to know why I think my brother is in Key West?”
“Lady, I’m sure you’re aware of how police departments operate,” he said. “It’s the start of the high season for us. That means crowds and lots and lots of tourists. We don’t have the resources to devote to someone who’s been missing for eleven years.”
“Could you at least see if he’s in your database? I think he might have lived here for a while.” Maria had nothing concrete to back up that theory. It stood to reason, though, that Key West’s remote location made it a good place if you wanted to fly under the radar.
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
THE LOUISVILLE INTERNATIONAL 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?”
* * *
MARIA WOKE UP WEDNESDAY 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.
