Too Close to Home (7 page)

Jenna looked at the screen.

Bradley or 2COOL?

She clicked off and grabbed up her brush. “Okay, come get me. I guess this other stuff can wait. I’ll meet you around the corner. My grandparents are already upstairs in bed, so see you in a few.”

“And this makes seven.” Connor hitched a deep breath and approached the ranch-style brick house. Samantha accompanied him and he welcomed her presence. After all, she’d be the one to look at the computer.

Because he was sure there was a computer.

Normally, he wouldn’t be notified of a simple possible runaway, but he’d requested all young girl disappearances be put straight to him. He’d be relieved if it turned out to be nothing more than teen angst or a temper tantrum taken too far. Unfortunately, his gut told him not to hold his breath. Andrew pulled up to the curb and hopped out of his vintage Corvette to join them.

A sharp rap on the white-painted door summoned a haggard mother and worried father. The woman gushed, “Oh, thank God you’re here. The sooner you start looking for her, the sooner she’ll be home.”

Hating to squelch the hope, Connor didn’t bother to comment. As always, the thought of what he would be feeling if it were Jenna who were missing filled him . . . and compassion for the couple before him set in. “Hello, Mrs. Abrams, Mr. Abrams. I’m Connor Wolfe, my partner, Andrew West, and Special Agent Samantha Cash, our computer expert.”

Mr. Abrams widened the door and gestured the trio inside. “Go on into the living room. We can talk in there. I’m Dennis and this is Maggie.”

Connor motioned for Sam to precede him into the tastefully decorated formal area. Mrs. Adams twisted a much-used tissue between shaky fingers as she seated herself on the pristine white leather couch. Samantha and Connor took the matching love seat and Andrew helped himself to the wing-backed chair near the window while Dennis shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the fireplace mantel.

Connor pulled out a pad and pen. He looked at Mrs. Abrams. “All right, can you tell us when you last saw Miranda?”

“She was talking to her best friend, Alyssa Mabry, on the phone. They were trying to figure out how to get that thing called a webcam operating.” She waved a hand as though she didn’t understand the technology young people used these days.

Sam perked up. “After we finish getting the information from you, do you mind if I take a look at her computer?”

“Of course, if you think it’ll help.”

Connor made a notation on his pad, then looked back up.

Andrew stepped in to ask, “Do you have a picture of Miranda we could take with us?”

Dennis strode over to the piano tucked in the corner of the large room and pulled the five-by-seven photo from the top. He stood for a moment staring down at it, took a deep breath, and walked back over to Andrew and gave it to him. “That’s her soccer picture. She loves sports and is well on her way to a soccer scholarship. Very athletic.”

Connor had seen the picture when he entered but took another look when Andrew held it out to him. “Pretty too.” Bright red hair pulled up into a ponytail with tendrils framing a heart-shaped face with full lips. Green eyes laughed at the camera, a smattering of freckles dotted her nose. One foot balanced on the soccer ball, hands on her hips, she had a carefree innocence about her that gripped Connor’s heart with dread. Even if he found her, he was afraid that innocence would be stripped forever.

“Yes, but she didn’t really care much about her looks until lately. Just recently she’s gotten interested in modeling. Up until a few months ago, she was more interested in sports, school, and her friends . . .” The man couldn’t continue as his voice cracked.

Andrew asked, “Did she seem troubled lately? Upset with anyone?”

Mrs. Abrams shook her head, fresh tears glinting at her husband’s distress. “No, in fact, just the opposite. She seemed excited, energized.” A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. “She doesn’t get down often, doesn’t really fight with her friends or us.” A sigh slipped out. “Don’t get me wrong. She isn’t perfect, but I’m not aware of any serious problems or issues she might be having. She was just so excited about getting that soccer scholarship—” Silent sobs finally choked off the woman’s words and her husband moved to stand behind her, hands resting on her shoulders in a gesture of comfort.

Connor looked at Sam. She averted her gaze, but not before he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. Softhearted, compassionate. His own heart clenched in sympathy.

Clearing his throat, he forced himself to focus. “Do you mind if we search her room?”

Miranda’s father shook his head. “No, anything. Just find her.”

While Connor and Andrew stood at the foot of the steps discussing the possible need to give Sheriff Chesterfield a call, Samantha made her way up the stairs to Miranda’s room. She’d volunteered to take the pictures of the room. Since no crime had been committed here, they hadn’t called in a forensics team, but Samantha still wanted to preserve the scene as it was.

Photographs dotted the ascending wall. Miranda as a newborn. Miranda about three years old, holding a baby in a blue blanket. Miranda graduating from kindergarten in her white cap and gown. And on they went, so that by the time Samantha reached the top of the steps, she had a pretty good outline of the teen’s life—at least up until the age of sixteen.

Her phone buzzed. Stopping at the top of the stairs, she pulled it from the clip on her hip and looked at the number. Tom.

“Hello?”

“Hey there, where are you? Thought we were going over to Jamie’s to grab a pizza?”

“Oh, Tom, sorry, I asked Jamie to call you. I guess she hasn’t gotten around to it yet. I’m still working this case.”

“The missing teens case?” He grunted his displeasure. “I have a bad feeling about that one. You be careful, okay? Have you found anything helpful?”

“I’m being careful. As for finding anything helpful, we’ll see. Even if they used their phones for texting, it’s kind of weird that the computers are as clean as they are.” She didn’t want to say too much since he wasn’t an official on the case. “I’m sure I’ll find what I need in due time.” Worry niggled at her on a different front. “Do me a favor, will you? Check on Jamie for me. She was acting . . . weird.”

“Weird? Weirder than . . . what?”

He had a point. But he didn’t know the reason behind her sister’s odd behavior. A borderline agoraphobic, Jamie rarely left her small house when she had company, but definitely never went out alone.

“She said she was going up the street to the café to get a sandwich . . . by herself.”

“Wow. That is weird. Want me to keep her company?”

Sam paused. “No, just go . . . spy on her a bit. Make sure she’s okay, then call and let me know. Do you mind?”

“Nope, you and Jamie were my plans for the evening anyway.”

“We’ll do the original plan another time.” Sam stepped into Miranda’s room and looked around. “Gotta run, Tom. Thanks.”

Classically elegant, it didn’t fit the soccer player in the picture she’d seen downstairs. Apparently, Miranda had another side to her personality. Cool blues and lace graced the window. A matching bedspread and pillow shams gave the room a completed look. White wicker furniture, a memory board. A corner computer workstation sat to the left of the bed. Samantha pulled out her digital camera and snapped several pictures of the room.

Honing in on the board, she saw pictures of friends, reminders of specific dates, things to do, places to go, people to see. The life of a teen. Miranda had a math quiz tomorrow.

“Hey, Samantha.”

She turned at Connor’s voice . . . and gulped. He sure filled the doorway nicely. Clearing her throat, she nodded to the memory board. “This might tell us something.”

“Sure doesn’t look like a teenager’s room to me,” she heard him mutter.

Chuckling a little under her breath, she said, “
Your
teenager, maybe. But it looks a lot like my room when I was growing up. I was a neat freak.”

A tanned hand plucked a picture from the board. “Was?”

“Yeah, not so much now. I’m never home anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Looks like this girl in the picture with Miranda might be the place to start.”

“That’s probably Alyssa, her best friend.”

Shoving her camera under her arm, Sam snapped on a pair of latex-free gloves and opened the closet door. Then she pulled the camera from where she’d wedged it against her side and took note of the contents of the closet as she snapped picture after picture. You never knew what you would spot in a photo that you didn’t see during an initial sweep.

About twenty pairs of flip-flops neatly lined the back wall. Two pairs of black dress shoes, boots. Samantha flipped through the clothes. Typical teen stuff. Jeans, shirts she would consider too small but were all the rage now. Dresses. Nice ones. A dress still in a hanging bag with a receipt attached.

Click went the camera, the flash lighting up the interior for a brief moment.

She pulled the bag out and unzipped it. “Hey, Connor, look at this.” A black slinky dress spilled over her fingers. “Sexy. Expensive.” She looked at the receipt from an upscale local boutique. “Six hundred dollars. Wow.”

He let out a low whistle. “Where do you suppose she got the money for that?”

“Modeling?”

Connor raised a brow. “Paid for with cash?”

“Yep.”

“Rats.”

Sam nodded. “Of course. There’s nothing about this guy that says he’s stupid, just evil.” Connor wrote the information down in his notebook. Samantha sighed. “You know, I was just thinking about something. That IM said to ‘bring a friend.’ Did any of the friends you talked to say anything about accompanying the missing girls to a meeting of any kind?”

“No, and we didn’t specifically ask because we didn’t have that information to ask about until today. I mean, we questioned friends and acquaintances, but none of them could really give us much. You can bet this will open up a whole new round of interviews. Bag that receipt and dress for evidence. We’ll ask, but I’m willing to bet Mrs. Abrams didn’t buy that dress. I’m calling in a buddy of mine who also works with the FBI. You might know him. Dakota Richards. I’m going to talk to the sheriff about getting that task force set up.”

Samantha knew Connor didn’t need the sheriff’s permission to set it up. He was simply extending the man some professional courtesy. One more thing to like about Connor Wolfe.

Connor arrived home late, the case still heavy on his mind.

He’d been right. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Abrams had known how Miranda would have been able to purchase a dress that expensive. Or why she would have wanted one. The only thing they could come up with was that it had something to do with a modeling gig.

But no one knew what the gig was, where it was, or when it was.

So, now they had more questions and no more answers. Great, just what the governor wanted to hear. He looked at his phone. The man had called twice. Connor called him back, explained where they were in the case—refrained from venting his frustrations—and promised to keep the man posted.

Exhaustion pulled at him, but he knew he had to talk to Jenna. To apologize for having to leave the dinner table again.

And for not giving her fair warning about Samantha looking so much like Jenna’s mom. He definitely should have called. The thing was, once he got over the initial jolt, the resemblance ended with some physical similarities.

His wife, Julia, had been demanding, sometimes downright nasty in the way she dealt with situations, with life—with him.

Opening the door, he spied his mother asleep in the recliner, the television still on, the Bible open in her lap. Picking up the remote, he clicked the power button. The television went black. His mother stirred, her blue eyes fluttering open.

Connor moved the Bible to the end table. “I guess Jenna’s pretty ticked with me, huh?”

“So what else is new, Connor?” Awareness pushed aside any leftover fuzziness caused by her sleep. “She went to bed about an hour ago. You have to spend some time with her if you want to have a future with your daughter.” Her hand reached out to touch the Bible. “And you need to get Jenna into church.”

“Church is your thing, Mom, not mine.”

“What happened, Connor? You used to go when you could, and Jenna loved the youth group.”

“Julia happened. Every time we came home, she’d start in. She’d complain about what was wrong with people in the congregation or roll her eyes over the boring sermon. I rarely heard her say anything complimentary about anyone in the church other than the group she hung out with.” He shrugged. “I got tired of listening to it.”

“So you used work as an excuse to quit going.”

“Yeah.”

“Jenna needs you, son. You can’t use work as an excuse not to spend time with her.”

“I know, Mom. But I’m a cop. A good one. It’s what I do, it’s my job.”

“It’s your
life
.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “So what do I do? Quit?”

His mother sighed, rose from the recliner, and hugged him. “I don’t have the answer. But I do know that unless something changes, you’re going to lose that girl.”

Connor hung his head. Nodded. “I know you’re right.” He sighed, too tired to delve into the subject any deeper. “I’m going to bed.”

“See you in the morning.”

She headed for the stairs and Connor spied the Bible his mother had been reading. Picking it up, he clutched it, flipped through it without reading a word. He looked at the ceiling and wondered if there was Someone else he needed to have a talk with.

Setting the book back on the end table, he turned to make his way up the stairs. Jenna’s room was the first door on the right. Shut, of course.

He turned the knob, nudging it open, moving a pile of clothing with his efforts. A soft light, compliments of the moon, drifted across Jenna’s face. His daughter lay on her stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow, the blanket crunched around her waist. Her dark curls spread haphazardly across the sheets, and he could detect a gentle snore.

Visions of her as a newborn flashed in his mind—red and wrinkled, the most precious bundle he’d ever held. Then she’d been a fearless toddler; an inquisitive six-year-old; a ten-year-old daddy’s girl, laughing, squealing, carefree, running to jump in his arms so he could swing her around and around until they both collapsed to the ground, her giggles the sweetest music ever composed.