Storm Gathering (4 page)

“Anything else you can think of?”

Liz took a lighter from her purse. “We had an incident at the airport Tuesday.”

“An incident?”

“Guy went nuts on us when his flight was canceled. Had to be dragged away. Made some threats to Taylor, really shook her up. But that sort of thing happens. It’s just part of our job. I can’t imagine Taylor not coming to work because of it. But . . . there was something strange about her. Usually she can handle something like that. This time it seemed to really bother her.”

“Know the guy’s name?”

“Airport security will have it.”

“We’ll go see what we can find out for you. I’m sure Taylor’s fine. Okay?” Aaron handed her his card and said they’d be in touch.

“Let’s go find out why this young woman didn’t make it to work today,” Aaron said to Jarrod, who was staring at a woman pumping gas into her car.

“Coach Kline.” Owen Gruber, the athletic director for the high school, said his name with the kind of enthusiasm one uses when talking about a mouse problem in the home. Mick was trying to smooth down one side of his hair, which he hadn’t realized until now was sticking straight up. Owen didn’t fail to notice. “Looks like you had a productive evening last night.”

Mick bit his lip, trying to hold in the string of slander that wanted to rip Owen from the top of his small head, down his pencil neck, through his flat chest to his size-8 shoes. A not-so-kind smile replaced the words. How Owen Gruber, who hadn’t played a sport in his life, managed to become athletic director was still a mystery. It was rumored to have something to do with how much money his grandmother gave to the private Catholic school.

With the religion came the code of ethics that was continually stated and hardly ever followed. Last year, the head basketball coach was caught partying with the players after they won conference. He was reprimanded with a slap on the hand and continued congratulations for his success. There were some things ethics simply couldn’t control—the heart of a man driven by power and sports politics.

Mick tried to nod, realizing that Owen was right in the middle of giving him the speech about his tardiness. Just one nod would get Owen off his back. But he couldn’t seem to give the guy respect. So he simply sat there, his hands folded in his lap, staring at the gold carpet under his feet because it was more interesting than Owen’s beady, judgmental eyes.

“Don’t you want to make something of yourself, Kline?” Owen said.

No, Owen, I want to be a loser for the rest of my life. That’s what I’ve wanted to be ever since I was a little kid and my dad had dreams of me being just like my brother.

“You’re still working on your bachelor’s, right?” Owen asked.

“Of course,” Mick said.

His second bachelor’s. He had his first in accounting, which he found out he hated. He’d been working on the second for four years. Money was the first problem. Lack of drive was the second. He didn’t want to teach kids math. He wanted to teach them football, in hopes of one day climbing that almighty educative ladder to a Big Twelve school. It was a pipe dream, really. At the age of twenty-eight, he was still assisting at the high school level, albeit a large high school.

Mick was well-known around Irving. Everybody had had such high hopes for him when he was quarterbacking over a decade ago—his family still did. He wished he had those same hopes for himself, but as far as he was concerned, he was a has-been. He’d dropped out this semester. That was before he knew he was going to have extra time since he got fired from his accounting job for being perpetually late.

Outside, thunder rolled over the flat roof of the athletic building. Owen barely noticed. Mick could hardly stay in his seat. He loved the weather. Just like his dad. He and his brother and his dad would pass the spring watching storms roll over the plains of Texas, analyzing the direction, the wind . . . the feel of them.

When a big one came, which it always did in a Texas spring, it was unmistakable. The air seemed to swallow itself. The sky looked as if it were lowering. The birds would fluster in the trees. The animals would pace their dwellings.

But Owen Gruber would never be able to appreciate—or even notice—what Mick considered to be glorious. Owen Gruber never looked up. He always looked at himself—which was exactly what he was doing now. Picking balls off his fancy knit sweater that he thought made him somebody.

“Stop being late,” Owen finally said, flicking the lint away. “You know Coach Rynde hates it, and so do I. Rynde thinks you have coaching talent. I don’t know that I agree with him, but as long as he sees it, why don’t you take advantage of it? Breaks hardly ever come in life, Kline. Especially for people like you, who seem to abuse any break you get.”

“Are we finished here?” Mick asked.

“Yeah, fine. We’re finished. In one ear, out the other.”

“Mom used to say that,” Mick said, standing and walking out the office door. Rain pelted the skylight of the athletic lobby. Mick stood at the front glass doors, watching the rain wash the parking-lot concrete.

His mind drifted to Taylor. He could see her face clearly. The hangover was starting to free his thoughts, one by one, through the pounding pain in his head. How many drinks had he downed last night?

“Kline,” Coach Rynde called, “let’s go pump some iron.”

“On my way,” Mick said. He tucked in his shirt, still trying to smooth out his hair. He needed a haircut. He needed a life makeover. He needed a purpose.

While he stared into the rain, another woman’s face filled his thoughts. Jenny Arlington’s. Why couldn’t he erase his mind as easily as Coach Rynde erased the blackboard after practice? A swipe of the eraser and the plays were gone. Now Aaron always appeared at Jenny’s side. Why couldn’t he just let go of her? Why must he battle his feelings? He saw Aaron’s and Jenny’s hands intertwined at the dinner table . . . that first night the family had tried to come together and behave as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. As if, not two months earlier, Mick had not sat at the same dinner table with her by his side.

“Taylor,” he said aloud. He hoped she would call.

Aaron drank his coffee as he drove against the Irving traffic. The mixed odor of jet fuel and bus exhaust caused him to turn the cruiser’s air to circulate.

“Okay, I’ve held my tongue long enough,” Jarrod said. “I’m dying to know. What’s up with your face?”

His young, hypercurious partner hardly ever let anything go. “Got in a fight with my brother.” Aaron shot him a look. “Don’t ask.”

“Okay . . . ,” Jarrod said, still blowing the steam off his coffee. After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So what’d he do?”

“What’d who do?”

“Mick. Driving drunk? Bar fight?”

“What makes you think he did something?”

“Isn’t he always doing something?”

“He didn’t do anything. We just had a disagreement.”

“It’s always like that, you know. Pastors’ kids go party. Firemen’s kids burn down the school. Principals’ kids flunk out. And then . . . well, you’re not his dad, but you get my point.”

Jarrod needed a good smack. “It’s not what you think.”

“What do you mean? Mick’s always in trouble.”

“He’s just . . . he’s . . . he’s . . .” When was he going to stop making excuses for Mick? Jarrod was right. Mick was always in trouble. It’d been like that since Aaron and Mick were kids. Early on, Aaron realized making the right choices would make his life better. Mick always liked to see what would happen if he made the wrong ones. And at twenty-eight, he still hadn’t stopped.

Aaron glanced at Jarrod, who was staring at him. He realized he hadn’t finished the sentence. “Mick’s going to come around. I pray for him every night.”

Jarrod gave a half laugh. “There it is,” he said, pointing to the apartment complex. He put his cup on the dashboard and said, “You got a mint?”

“A mint? What for?” Aaron pulled to the curb, trying to find his notepad.

“I’ve been drinking coffee. And we all know how attractive ticket agents can be. It’s practically a job requirement, you know.”

“First of all, you haven’t been drinking coffee. All you’ve been doing is blowing on it. Second, we’re on the clock. No flirting.” But it was hopeless. He’d once witnessed Jarrod flirt with a car-crash victim while waiting for the ambulance and fire trucks to arrive. The woman wasn’t seriously hurt, but she had been stuck in her car, and Jarrod had volunteered to hold her hand. It was shameless.

“Taylor,” Jarrod whispered as they walked up the stairs toward her apartment. “That’s such a great name. I mean, when have you ever met an unattractive chick named Taylor? Huh?”

Jarrod actually expected an answer back.

“This is it,” Aaron said, standing in front of apartment 345. He knocked three times. “Miss Franks? It’s the police. Are you okay?”

“Doesn’t sound like anyone’s home,” Jarrod said.

“Hello? Miss Franks?” Aaron tried the doorknob, and to his surprise, the door opened. He looked at Jarrod, who was equally surprised. “Let’s go in,” he said quietly. “Carefully.”

Jarrod nodded, his eyes widening. The men stepped inside. “Miss Franks? It’s the police. Are you okay?”

There was no answer. Jarrod moved toward the kitchen, and Aaron looked toward the living room. Near the corner was a window, the cut screen flapping in the wind. Aaron snapped his fingers to get Jarrod’s attention, then pointed at the window. Aaron indicated he was going down the hallway toward the bedroom. Both men’s hands settled on their guns.

“Miss Franks? It’s the police.” Aaron stepped in a few more paces and called out her name again. The air conditioner kicked on. “Hello?” Apprehension slugged at his heart.

He turned and walked down the hallway. “Miss Franks?” He called her name loudly, hoping to not startle her too badly if she was caught unaware. The bathroom faucet dripped steadily. The bedroom was a little messy, the bed unmade, laundry sitting out. But there was no sign of a struggle.

Nobody was home.

Aaron returned to the living room. “Go get the apartment manager,” he instructed Jarrod, then studied the window more closely. The screen was torn, probably cut. Apartment buildings in general were not known to have superior maintenance. A trained eye was going to have to check it out. He looked to the other buildings and saw half a dozen windows open. It was that season when people were often careless about open windows and unlocked doors.

“Is everything okay?”

Aaron turned to find a middle-aged man standing in the doorway, gazing around the room. “Taylor Franks. Do you know her?”

“Not well,” said the apartment manager. He held out his hand and introduced himself as Chuck. “But she’s been a great tenant. Always on time with her rent.”

Jarrod walked in behind Chuck. “Halloway and Martin are on their way.”

“What’s happened?” Chuck asked.

“We’re not sure. Coworker reported her missing this morning. Her apartment was unlocked and she’s not here. Do you know what kind of car she drives?”

“No. But I can look it up in our files. She has a designated parking space. I’ll be right back.”

Aaron squatted in front of the small table that was beside the open window, where two picture frames had fallen over.

Jarrod was behind him observing the room and the window. “This doesn’t look good.”

“It’s an odd scene,” Aaron said, standing. “No sign of a struggle, but signs that she left in an unusual manner. Look over there. Her purse is still on the chair.”

Sergeant Halloway and Detective Martin walked in the door. “What do we have?”

Aaron filled them in. Halloway was staring at the open window when Jarrod called, “Hey! Found something!”

The others turned. Jarrod was in the kitchen, pointing to the counter. As they walked over, Jarrod said, “It’s a phone number on a scrap piece of paper. Next to this glass.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Halloway said. “Let’s run this number, see who it belongs to.”

Aaron managed to say, “Don’t bother.”

Everyone turned to him. “What do you mean, don’t bother?” Halloway asked.

“I know who that number belongs to.”