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“Yeah, about that...” Bree began guiltily, but Eric jumped in.
“Jillian, do you have a few minutes? We just want to pick your brain. It’s not official foundation business,” he added.
“Of course.” She perched on the edge of an empty desk and crossed her legs, revealing an impressive length of thigh and mile-high shiny black platform boots.
“I’m not really his girlfriend,” Bree blurted out. “I lied. But I was in a hurry and I just wanted to find him. So I let you believe what you wanted.”
“Oh.” Jillian seemed disappointed.
“I’m sorry. I’m usually a very honest person. I shouldn’t have lied. I put Eric in an awkward position, and I didn’t mean to.”
“So if you’re not his girlfriend, why was he stripping off his clothes?”
“It wasn’t sexual,” Eric said. “I don’t want people thinking I had a liaison at the office my second day of work.”
Jillian shrugged. “Okay. But honestly, no one cares. If you had any idea the amount of sex that’s gone on in this office between people who should know better, you’d understand. So what do you guys want with me?”
Eric held a chair out for Bree, then rolled another over for himself. “Bree needs some help finding someone.”
“I just want to know that she’s okay,” Bree added. “But I’m worried something happened to her.”
“Oh, that’s easy. Talk to Mitch.”
“We did that,” Eric said.
“Then he’ll find out soon enough whether she’s used her phone, bought gas, bought an airline ticket, left the country...”
“Really?” Bree was astonished. “He can do all that? Is that legal?”
Jillian and Eric shared deer-in-headlights looks.
“Ah,” Jillian said. “Since you’re not a client, you haven’t signed a nondisclosure agreement. So we can’t say any more about how we do things.”
“She’s right,” Eric said.
“I’m not going to tattle,” Bree said. “If you want me to sign something, I will. But you don’t have to tell me any more. All I want to do is find Philomene.”
“Okay.” Jillian got down to business. “In all likelihood, Mitch will tell you where and when she’s used her phone and credit cards and provide a list of people she knows—family, friends, coworkers, neighbors. Your job will be to chase down those people and see if any of them can tell you where she is or if they’ve seen or heard from her. I assume you’ve tried calling her?”
“She doesn’t answer,” Bree said. “She doesn’t call back. It’s possible she just doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“Call her from a number she won’t recognize. Have someone whose voice she doesn’t know leave a message like they want to send her a check, a gas company deposit from years ago, something like that. People always respond if they think you are going to pay them.”
Jillian outlined some other offbeat ways she’d heard of for finding missing persons. She seemed to enjoy sharing her expertise.
“People can try to hide,” she said, “but their personalities are the same. So your friend might seek out the same kind of job. If you can pinpoint a city, you can check businesses similar to where she worked. If she gets her hair done professionally, she’ll seek that out. If she wears acrylic nails, same thing. Sometimes Mitch can get hold of gas station security video near where you think she lives. That’s tedious, going over days and days of video. But people have to buy gas.”
Bree was truly impressed. No wonder Project Justice was so good at solving crimes the police had bungled.
“Well, I didn’t think up any of this stuff,” Jillian said modestly. “I’ve been taught by some of the best investigators on the planet. So let’s see, what else? You can—”
“Hey, got something,” Mitch said. “Philomene bought gas in San Antonio. She also used her cell phone there. She called another mobile number in the same area, but that one is a throwaway. We’ll never find who it belongs to.”
“Someone could have stolen her phone along with her credit card,” Bree pointed out.
“Okay, here’s one more call,” Mitch said. “Ah, we’re in luck. To a landline this time. Registered to a Mildred W. Hayes. Also in San Antonio.”
“Do you think Philomene might have had friends or family in San Antone?” Eric asked Bree.
Bree shrugged. “I didn’t really know her all that well. But we can call this Mildred Hayes, right? Ask her if she knows Philomene?”
“It would be better to go there in person,” Mitch said. “If Philomene is hiding, her friends might lie for her. It’s harder to lie face-to-face. You could also see if Philomene’s car is parked near Mildred’s place.”
“Can you get any info on this Mildred Hayes?”
“Workin’ on it.” Mitch tapped for what seemed like an eternity, but probably it was less than a minute. “Okay, here we go. Mildred is sixty-two years old. African-American.” He tapped some more. “On SNAP and disability. Doesn’t own a car. And...doesn’t live in the greatest neighborhood.”
“Can you give me her address and phone?” Bree asked. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“Not alone, you won’t.” Eric peered at the Google Earth image on Mitch’s monitor. “That does not look like the kind of place a woman should wander by herself.”
“Yeah, well, it’s unlikely I’ll get a police escort.”
“I’ll go with you. I told you I’d help you out tomorrow. Now how about lunch? You might not be hungry, but I am.”
“I’ll keep working on this while you eat.” Mitch pulled a sandwich and an apple out of his desk. “I usually work through lunch any— Okay, that’s weird.”
“What?” Bree stepped closer to peer over Mitch’s shoulder. But the lines and lines of type on the monitor swam before her eyes.
“Another purchase on the credit card just popped up. From the Gap. She just bought...a leather jacket.”
“That does not sound like Philomene,” Bree said. “Eric, you saw her place. She lives modestly. She drives a ten-year-old Toyota.”
“Maybe she forgot to bring a coat. A front is supposed to be moving through tonight.”
“That doesn’t make sense. There’s something wrong here. Because if Philomene met with foul play, it means I was right. Someone wanted to keep her quiet. Someone doesn’t want the truth to come out. Which means someone besides Kelly raped Philomene and killed all those girls. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Eric was about to retort when his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and walked a few steps away, but spoke only briefly before returning.
“Sorry, Bree, but I have to get back to work.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at the Home Cookin’ Café. Nine o’clock. We’ll find Philomene. Ernie?” He addressed a young man at a nearby desk. “Please show Dr. Johnson out. She’s parked in the garage.” Eric did an abrupt about-face and left the room—as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS HE STIRRED half-and-half into his coffee, Eric could have slapped his own face for putting himself in this position. Having Philomene disappear was a stroke of good luck. Without Philomene, Bree had no case. No case, no chance Kelly Ralston would ever see daylight.
Finding Philomene was the last thing he wanted. Yet he was helpless to walk away. What if she really had met with foul play? He couldn’t just ignore the fact that a woman was missing, and no one gave a damn. No one but one passionate, determined doctor who made his knees go wobbly.
He didn’t think Philomene was in any real trouble. She probably just had cold feet about recanting her story, as he’d thought all along. Perjury was a serious crime. She’d unburdened herself to Bree on impulse, and Bree had grabbed on to the possibility of helping Kelly and refused to let go. Now Philomene had second thoughts. She probably had friends or relatives in San Antonio, where she could hang for a while and hope that Bree would forget about her.
Bree wouldn’t forget. Unfortunately. And Eric was caught in the middle.
If he didn’t help Bree, he reasoned, she would find someone else to help. She would find Philomene on her own. At least if he remained involved, he could keep a close eye on things and try to turn the circumstances his way. Because if Kelly Ralston got out of prison, Eric would be the one disappearing. He would take MacKenzie and go to Canada. Or maybe South America, where people could get good and truly lost.
Vengeance will come when you least expect it.
“Sorry I’m late.” Bree slid into the booth across from Eric. He’d been so engrossed in his dismal thoughts he hadn’t seen her arrive. “I worked the graveyard last night so I could have today off, and I had to shower and change before I came here. A patient threw up on me last night.”
“Oh, God.”
“I should know by now to jump out of the way faster. People are always barfing in the E.R. Whether they’re drunk or have a head injury or severe stomach virus, or they’re just terrified.”
Was it him, or did she seem entirely too cheerful given the subject matter?
“You really love your job,” he observed.
“Yeah, I do. I think most young girls want to grow up and get a job that ‘helps people,’ but few are lucky enough to find a vocation where you can provide such immediate aid. I go home at the end of a shift knowing I’ve made a difference. Maybe a small difference—stitching up a cut or just telling someone their injury isn’t serious and they aren’t going to die still has an impact. Have you had breakfast? I thought maybe we could get coffee and something to go—in the interest of time.”
“Sure, sounds good.” They flagged down a waitress and ordered a couple of breakfast burritos. The paper cups of coffee arrived first, and Bree gulped down half the cup without taking a breath.
“Need caffeine much?” Not that Eric didn’t drink an impressive amount of coffee himself, but she’d drunk it scalding hot.
“I was too busy to drink any at home. I need the caffeine, trust me.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, being a doctor and all, having an addiction, even if it’s only coffee?”
“It was a necessity in med school and during residency. Now that my schedule is a little less hectic, I could wean myself off. But then I have a day like today. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and it’s not likely I will for another twelve.”
“I guess there are worse vices.”
“Sorry if I’m a little hyper,” she said in a voice that sounded deliberately slower and softer. “I delivered a baby this morning.”
“Really? In the E.R.?”
“By the time they wheeled her in from the ambulance, the baby was crowning. It happened so fast. Basically all I did was catch the kid as he came out. But still... It certainly doesn’t get old.”
“Did you ever think about becoming an obstetrician?”
“Oh, sure. Most med students do. I mean, babies and all those excited parents, seeing the start of a new life. But the other side of the coin...I don’t think I could handle that.”
“You mean when things go wrong.”
“Yeah.” She grew still, and for a moment she was very far away.
He stirred his coffee and took a sip. He had no idea what to say.
She snapped out of her reverie, smiling brightly. “Did you watch MacKenzie being born?”
Eric really didn’t feel like sharing anything about those days. He’d lived in a different world back then—perfect job, perfect wife, perfect kid. He’d known poverty and loss, and he’d convinced himself that those days were over. He didn’t like being reminded of how fragile life was, how everything could change in one heartbeat. One minute he was driving home, looking forward to a nice dinner with his family. The next, he was staring at his wife’s brutalized body on the kitchen floor and trying to calm his screaming daughter while dialing the police.
“I’m sorry,” Bree said when he didn’t answer. “I’m babbling like a crazy person, prying into things that are none of my business. Blame it on sleep deprivation.”
“It’s okay. Bree, you’ve never asked me why I went to prison.”
“You said your conviction was overturned.”
“They thought I murdered my wife. Turned out her lover did it. So you can understand why I don’t really want to talk about the tender moments with her.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll pay for breakfast—no arguments.” His macho pride still stung a little from letting her buy him dinner Tuesday night. The waitress motioned for them to pick up their breakfasts at the counter.
Eric drove to San Antonio while Bree fidgeted in the front seat. He sipped his coffee and ate his burrito while Suzy the GPS led them unerringly to the run-down home of Mildred Hayes. It didn’t take as long as he’d feared, only about ninety minutes from Tuckerville.
Eric was glad he drove a modest car. Back when he was a hotshot real-estate lawyer, he’d driven a BMW. Those chrome rims wouldn’t have lasted long in this neighborhood.
He found a parking spot along the edge of the curbless street, having strong reservations about bringing Bree to a place like this. But before he could voice his doubts, she was out of the car and charging toward the apartment building where Mildred Hayes lived. He grabbed a folder from the backseat and hurried to catch up to her.
The interview with Ms. Hayes was a waste of time. The friendly silver-haired woman could tell them only that the call had come from her hoodlum grandson, Jerome Taylor Hayes, who had probably called her from a “borrowed” phone. She didn’t know how to locate him, as he’d never given her a permanent address. She thought he was in a gang, and probably a drug dealer.
“So some hood has Philomene’s phone? This isn’t good. Not at all.”
“I agree. So maybe the sheriff’s department will listen now.”
“I doubt it. They’ll just say this Jerome person must be a friend of hers.”
“If the sheriff’s department won’t do anything, maybe the San Antonio police will.”
“Or maybe it’s up to us. How can we find this Jerome character?”
“Whoa. Bree, we aren’t cops. We can’t go around interrogating people like we are. Jerome’s not the kind of person we want to tangle with.”
“If you won’t help me, then I’ll just do it myself.”
“Get in the car, okay?” Great. Now Bree knew just how to push his buttons. She knew he was just protective enough of her that he wouldn’t want her poking and prodding at lowlife drug dealers by herself. “I’ll go with you to talk to the sheriff. And if he doesn’t take it seriously, I’ll drop Daniel’s name. Sometimes that’s all it takes to light a fire under someone.”
For the next few minutes, Eric focused on getting them out of the hood. He breathed easier once they’d found the freeway.
“You know Daniel Logan pretty well?” Bree asked.
“Some. He’s hard to get to know. My brother doesn’t get along with him—Daniel threatened to kill Travis at one time. But despite that, Daniel offered me a job when I got out of prison. He knew I’d be a mess, and he gave me a safe place to land. That was pretty generous of him.” If Eric did drop Daniel’s name, he’d have to be careful not to come out and say his interest in Philomene was official Project Justice business. The work he and Mitch were doing was completely unofficial, and Daniel would blow a gasket if he thought Eric was invoking his foundation’s name where it wasn’t legitimate.
But no harm in letting the sheriff—and maybe that obnoxious D.A.—know that Eric knew Daniel Logan.
“He seemed really nice when I talked to him. I thought if anyone even read the application I sent in, it would be some intern or something. I was shocked when the head guy himself called me.”
