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The waffles popped up and Jane began buttering. “Lots of jam or a little?” she asked.
Alexis ignored her. “Please, Daddy.”
Jane slapped huckleberry jam on both waffles, stuck two more in the toaster, then carried the plates to the table.
Alexis had lost interest in the second course of her breakfast. She kept weeping and pleading. Drew kept explaining that he couldn’t take her, that she wouldn’t be allowed back where Mommy was and she couldn’t stay by herself in the waiting room.
Jane wanted to do something truly useful today. Scour the woods around the accident site again. Knock on doors. Go on TV with a plea. Something. “You can stay with me today, Alexis,” she offered instead.
Her niece sobbed wildly. “I want to go with Daddy!”
He rose abruptly, pulled her arms from around him and almost ran from the room.
Alexis dropped to the floor and began to drum her heels while she cried. Wow. Jane hadn’t ever seen a kid actually do that. She knew how her father would have reacted if she or Lissa had ever tried it.
Jane looked after Drew, wanting to follow him, but what he needed most from her was for her to take care of Alexis.
Which did not necessarily mean rewarding a temper tantrum with sympathy, no matter how well Jane understood a little girl’s terror and need to cling to her one remaining parent.
The two waffles in the toaster popped up, and Jane hadn’t even taken a bite of her first one. She had an attack of guilt for being such a pig. Poor Drew probably hadn’t had a bite, and here she was wanting to stuff her face to make up for missing dinner.
“I’m going to eat your waffle, too, if you don’t want it,” she said, pitching her voice above the wails.
Alexis cried harder.
Jane sat down, staring at her breakfast and discovering suddenly that her stomach was churning. Sighing, she pushed the plate away and stood, going to Alexis and picking her up.
* * *
DÉJÀ VU.
With no windows in the small room where Clay assumed family members were brought when the news wasn’t good, day could just as well be night. He had used this same room to interview Drew yesterday evening. Now they were at it again.
Seeing his ravaged face, Clay felt some sympathy for the guy. But not so much that he wasn’t going to push today, and push hard. Clay couldn’t get the missing little girl out of his mind. If Drew Wilson had a secret, he was, by God, going to spill it.
“Let’s talk again about what your wife said before she left. Had she told you in advance that she needed to do an errand? Say, the evening before, or that morning?”
The chair scraped as Drew lurched back. “I’ve told you and told you!”
“Tell me again.”
“No! Why would she give me a lot of notice that, oh, gee, she needed some hair gel and tampons and she was going to run to the pharmacy?”
“Is that what she said she needed?” Clay asked thoughtfully. “Was it that time of month for her?”
The other man let out a hoarse sound. “How would I know? She didn’t say, I didn’t ask. We didn’t—”
Clay watched for every twitch on that face. “Did you sleep together the night before?”
“Yes!” A flush spread on his cheeks. “We just didn’t—”
Was the embarrassment because this guy was too repressed to talk about sex, or had he and his wife not had sex in so long, he’d lost track of anything like monthly cycles? If it was the second, that had a whole lot to say about the state of the marriage.
Clay made a point of relaxing in his chair, letting that subject go, if only temporarily. “Okay. So when did she tell you she needed to run an errand?”
“Five minutes before she went.” A nerve twitched beside his eye. “Longer than that, I guess,” he said reluctantly. “She and Bree went at it for a while.”
Clay walked him through the scene. Melissa had already had her purse over her shoulder and her keys in her hand when she announced that she was going out for a few things. Drew had asked where. Rite Aid, she said. Had she asked if he needed anything? Drew claimed not to remember, which meant no. He’d been the one to say, “Will you buy me some athlete’s foot powder?” Right after that discussion, their daughter had pounced. She wanted to go. Mom said no. Bree pleaded. Drew had finally asked his wife why she couldn’t take Bree since it was just a short errand. Clay saw the way his face tightened. His answers became more and more terse. Something about that squabble had bothered Drew, or the whole thing had blown up into a major fight. But the more Clay drilled, the more evasive Drew got.
Clay circled back with more questions about the guy’s job hunt, his wife’s job, how she felt about the possibility of selling their home and moving. Had all this created some tension in the marriage?
Jane’s brother-in-law conceded that there had been some tension. Lissa loved her job and didn’t want to give it up. He didn’t like knowing she was having to carry the financial burden right now. The kids might have overheard enough to guess their parents weren’t happy.
When had he lost his job? April. Since he was home daytimes anyway, and their budget had to be a little tighter, had they considered not putting their daughters in the summer day camp? Of course they’d talked about it, but both of them were sure Drew would be getting a job any day, and then it might be too late to find quality day care. Besides, Lissa had been sure the girls needed the socialization with other kids their age. How much did it cost? Clay winced at the answer. It was a major chunk of change, in his opinion.
They went on and on, Drew’s answers terse while his eyes got wilder, until he suddenly jumped to his feet. “None of this has anything to do with where my daughter is! Why are you here instead of doing your job?”
“Mr. Wilson, I understand it’s distressing having to answer these kinds of questions, but I am doing my job in asking them.” Clay kept his tone deliberately soothing. “Part of any investigation is making sure family members don’t play a part. We are looking hard for your daughter, I promise you. Finding Bree is the first priority of the entire sheriff’s department.”
Drew stared sullenly at him. “Well, I’m done.” He pushed the chair away and walked out. By the time Clay followed, all he saw was Drew’s back as he disappeared through the double doors into ICU.
Clay leaned a shoulder against the door frame and mulled over the conversation. None of the answers had been surprising in any way, but he still felt a tingle that told him there was something there. Drew Wilson knew or suspected more about his wife’s errand than he was letting on. And maybe he had deliberately pushed her to take their daughter because he thought having her along would mean Melissa indeed went to Rite Aid instead of wherever she’d intended.
An affair?
That could be interesting, Clay thought. But if so—why hadn’t Melissa changed her plans and done the routine errand instead? Maybe called her lover and said, “Sorry, can’t make it?”
Clay didn’t know, but he was wondering. He was wondering about a lot of things.
For instance, her job. She was a bookkeeper. Nothing fancy like an accountant. Nonetheless, bookkeepers up on QuickBooks and whatever other software they used nowadays were surely in demand enough that she could get another job easily. Drew, on the other hand, was a mechanical engineer. His skills had required considerably more training, and were more specialized. There wasn’t a lot of the kind of manufacturing that required mechanical engineers in these parts. He’d be bound to earn a hell of a lot more than his wife when he was working, too. How could they not move so that he could find a job in his profession?
This time the tingle was tantalizing enough, it seemed to raise fine hairs on the back of Clay’s neck.
Visiting Melissa Wilson’s workplace had just risen to the top of his list of priorities.
* * *
CLAY DIDN’T MUCH like James Stillwell, Melissa’s boss and the owner of Stillwell Trucking. Of course, there were a lot of people he didn’t like, yet who were nevertheless law-abiding citizens.
Stillwell was a little older than he’d expected, at least if Melissa was sleeping with him. Fifty, maybe, although not bad looking for his age and if a woman liked the type. Five foot nine or so, he was lean and fit. Tanned as if he spent time out on a boat. Silver threaded his salon-cut hair and shone at his temples. His eyes were as blue as Clay’s, but projected sincerity in a way Clay didn’t trust.
“Heartbreaking,” he declared, shaking his head. With a surprisingly resonant voice, he’d have made a hell of a disc jockey. “I’ve stopped by the hospital twice now, but they won’t let me in to see her.”
That would be on Clay’s orders, even assuming Intensive Care staff would otherwise have been willing to allow people who weren’t family to troop through.
“Sit, sit,” Stillwell said, waving expansively at the conversation area on one side of his sizable office.
Could be it was the office he didn’t like, Clay reflected. A trucking company should be utilitarian, shouldn’t it? The exterior of the building was. A long row of loading bays dominated it. He shouldn’t have been surprised at how extensive the facility was, because the trucks, displaying a logo of a stylistic elk head circled by the name of the company, were a common sight on the highways in Oregon. It hadn’t really clicked, though, until he’d noticed the logo on the cab of a semi backed up to one of the bays.
Once he’d stepped through a steel door, he’d found the reception area to be fancier than he’d expected. Ditto the receptionist, a twenty-something beautiful blonde who looked as slick as her boss.
Other offices opened from the hall extending behind the receptionist’s desk. Stillwell’s was at the end, which put it on the corner of the building and allowed two large windows, in one of which Angel Butte, a small volcanic cinder cone, was framed. The deep blue carpet was so thick, his footsteps were silent on it. Clay wouldn’t have liked that. When he was absorbed working on his computer, he wanted to hear anyone approaching.
Call it paranoia.
The desk was a huge slab of wood from some ancient tree. He kind of thought ponderosa pines didn’t get that big. A sequoia? The chair behind the desk was scaled to make the man sitting in it look more imposing than he was.
Clay let himself be directed to the set of four leather chairs surrounding a low table topped with a matching slab of wood.
“Nice office,” he commented.
Stillwell couldn’t hide his gratification, although he tried. “The appearance of success breeds success,” he murmured.
Could be. In Clay’s world, success didn’t look quite like this. It was often the sweet click of handcuffs closing on a pair of wrists.
“I’m getting the feeling Stillwell Trucking is a much bigger company than I’d imagined. Doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m here about, but I admit I’m curious. Are you entirely regional?”
When he began the company, James Stillwell said, he’d had only a couple of trucks. Used ones, but with shiny new coats of paint and the logo that had now become well known. “Mostly we operated within the state,” he explained. “There were runs between Portland and Bend, The Dalles and Klamath Falls. Ten years ago, we expanded to encompass the Northwest. Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana. Now we cover the entire west coast.” He chuckled. “San Diego to Vancouver, B.C. We’ve kept the original business, of course. We have long-haul trucks and short-haul ones. There’s scarcely a business of any significance in the tri-county area that doesn’t turn to Stillwell Trucking for their transportation needs.”
That was the brochure version, but Clay couldn’t really blame him.
“So, Ms. Wilson. I gather she’s in your bookkeeping department?”
Department, it developed, was a misnomer. There were only three people in Finance—Stillwell laid it on heavy when he corrected Clay—including, yes, a CPA as well as Ms. Wilson and a Betty Jean Bitterman. Betty Jean had been with the company the longest, but Stillwell implied that, as much as he valued her for her loyalty, she hadn’t caught on to new software well. He couldn’t imagine functioning without Melissa. He shook his head in dismay and repeated, “I just can’t imagine.”
Clay asked a few polite questions. Did Mr. Stillwell have the sense anything had been troubling Ms. Wilson? Did he socialize with the Wilsons? Was he aware that a move out of the area was a possibility?
Troubling her? He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Not at all. But of course he didn’t see that much of her on a day-to-day basis. Perhaps Sergeant Renner would care to speak to the people who did...? Delicate pause. Yes, Sergeant Renner would.
Stillwell claimed he’d never been to the Wilsons’ home, but naturally had met Melissa’s husband at Christmas parties, company picnics and the like. The children, too. He’d found them delightful. Delightful.
He did love to repeat himself.
“Yes,” he agreed, frowning enough to make plain that he had been concerned, “she did tell me that her husband’s job hunt hadn’t borne fruit. We would hate to lose her, but certainly will understand if she and Drew have to make that choice.”
What else could he say?
Clay was ushered to the finance department, where utilitarian made a reappearance. Walls were white, floors vinyl, desks nothing fancy. Betty Jean, who at a guess was in her early sixties, expressed her deep emotions and assured Clay she had been praying for Melissa and that poor, poor child. As for troubled, on the contrary, she’d had the impression Melissa had been feeling especially pleased about something. Betty Jean, too, had known that a move was a possibility, but didn’t recall Melissa saying anything about it in some time. Perhaps as much as a couple of months? she said hesitantly.
Clay had to wonder how friendly these two very disparate women really were.
The CPA was fortyish and gave the impression that the interruption wasn’t welcome. Glenn Arnett had his own office, so although he surely interacted on a regular basis with the two women, he wouldn’t be spending the day listening to their chatter. Clay got the feeling he’d hardly known Melissa Wilson had children or a life outside Stillwell Trucking. If in fact, he had a closer relationship with her, he was a damn good actor.
Clay thanked them all, thought about detouring back by James Stillwell’s office but decided not to. He hadn’t learned anything especially useful. It was possible Stillwell knew all his employees intimately, but his enthusiasm for Melissa, his insistence that he relied on her, had pinged on Clay’s radar. She was a lowly bookkeeper. Why would she have any special significance to him?
Unless...
Damn it, he thought, shaking his head as he walked to his department-issue Explorer, how could Jane not know what her sister had been up to? Was there any chance she was shielding her?
He unlocked the vehicle and got in behind the wheel, mulling over his next step. After a moment he grimaced.
Somehow, all he could think about was Jane.
CHAPTER FIVE
STEAMING FROM HAVING to run a gauntlet of reporters outside, Jane held on tight to Alexis’s hand. Couldn’t they see they were scaring a little girl? Thank God the hospital administration was refusing to let them inside even as far as the lobby.
She hated thinking that the two of them might appear on the evening news. Thank God she’d taken Alexis by her house so she could change clothes and pack. Viewers would have really loved the sight of her in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes.
A day or two and the vultures will lose interest, she told herself. No, better yet, they’d lose interest as soon as Bree was found. It was the missing child that had them all thinking this was a gripping, front-page, top-of-the-hour story.
Walking down the broad hospital corridor, her steps shortened to accommodate her niece’s, Jane was startled to see Drew sitting on one of the chairs clustered in the open alcove in front of ICU. Even from a distance, she saw despair in his posture. He was bent over, both of his hands fisted in his hair.
Fear shot through her like an electric shock. Oh, dear God—had Lissa died?
“There’s Daddy!” Alexis cried. “Daddy!” she called.
For an instant, he didn’t respond at all. At last he slowly, painfully straightened and Jane saw his face. He’d aged yet another ten years. Oh, no.
“Drew?” She didn’t realize she was whispering until Alexis looked up at her.
“What’s wrong, Auntie Jane?”
“I... Nothing.”
Drew had risen to his feet. “Lexie.”
She ran to her daddy, and he swung her up into his arms and held her as if she was a glimpse of heaven. Eyes closed, he laid his cheek against her head.
Jane walked as slowly as she dared, fighting the desperate desire to turn and run away. She didn’t want to know. Her chest ached. My sister.
But Drew was looking at her now and holding out an arm. Jane walked into the circle of it and, for a moment, laid her head on his chest, feeling the comfort of an embrace that also contained Alexis’s small bony body.
But finally, she had to know. She straightened and stepped back, and his arm dropped away. “What’s happened?” Jane was horribly conscious of the way Alexis’s head came up and her alarmed stare, but how could she not ask?
He only shook his head. “Nothing’s changed. It’s just...getting to me. Here, sweetheart.” He bent to set his daughter down. “Look, they have some toys over in the corner.”
She hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave her father, but temptation sent her trotting to the play corner, where there was a child-size plastic table and pair of chairs, coloring books and crayons, and toys that looked designed to keep little hands busy. She took the seat that allowed her to keep an eye on her father and aunt, however.
“Something’s wrong,” Jane said with certainty, keeping her voice low.
“That cop.” The kindest, most easy-going of men, he snarled the two words. “He thinks I did something to hurt Lissa, and God knows what he thinks I did to Bree. He asked if we have life insurance on each other or the kids.”
Despite herself, Jane was shocked. “Sergeant Renner?”
“Who the hell else?” Drew never swore, either.
“Do you?” she blurted.
