Spring Break. Charlotte DouglasЧитать онлайн книгу.
think I’ll marry you.”
“I’m counting on it.” He unloaded the bags and was transferring food into dishes from the cupboards. “Want to eat on the patio?”
I nodded and picked up a couple of plates and some silverware to carry outside. “Too bad I don’t have any wine.”
“I thought of that, too.” He pulled a bottle of Chianti from one of the bags. “Can’t have Italian food without a good red wine.”
“You sure you don’t have an ulterior motive?” I asked.
“Of course I do. I drove back from Sarasota because I don’t want to sleep alone.”
I grinned. “The food alone would have worked. The wine is overkill.”
“Better to have it and not need it—”
“Than to need it and not have it.” I finished one of his favorite sayings for him.
Later, sated with linguine and too much wine, I leaned back in my chair and watched the sun drop toward the horizon. I told Bill about our newest case, Jolene Jernigan and the missing Roger.
“Frank Lattimore’s not answering his cell phone,” I said, “so, at this point, I’m stumped.”
Bill swirled the last of the wine in his glass. “It doesn’t make sense that Frank, who doesn’t like dogs, would agree to take Roger on a cross-country trip.”
“Maybe they dropped off the dog to be boarded,” I said. “I’ll start calling kennels and vets in the morning.”
We watched the sun disappear before Bill spoke again. “Have you talked with your mother lately?”
“You sure know how to throw cold water on a perfect evening.”
“I take it that’s a no?”
“You take it right.”
My eighty-two-year-old mother, with whom I’d never been close, had ostracized me from the family circle before Christmas last year when I’d arrested the daughter of her best friend during a murder investigation. Although I’d eventually managed to clear the woman and find the real killer, Mother was still miffed. She hadn’t even thanked me for her Christmas present, a gaffe that my socially correct parent would commit only under the direst of circumstances.
“You have to make the first move,” Bill said.
“I’ve been moving. I sent her a Christmas gift, and I’ve called several times. But Estelle—” Mother’s housekeeper “—always says that Mother is out or asleep or unavailable.”
“Priscilla’s not getting any younger. You’d better mend your fences while you can.”
“I would if I knew how. Mother’s never liked me, and I haven’t a clue why.” The shrinks would have a field day with me, pushing fifty and still at odds with my mother. “She never approved of my career in law enforcement, but her dislike started long before that. Even as a child, I relied on Daddy to run interference between us. I wish Daddy were alive now.”
“Try sending flowers.”
I considered his suggestion. “A few dozen roses and crawling from here to her place on my bare knees might do the trick.”
“Just don’t wait too long,” Bill warned.
He spoke from experience. His only surviving parent, his father, resided in an Alzheimer’s facility in Tampa, and hadn’t recognized Bill for the past few months.
“Can we talk about something cheerful?” I asked.
“How about dessert?”
“Great. Tiramisu always makes me smile.”
Bill gathered dishes to carry inside. “I’ll have to hit the sack soon. I want to get up early to beat rush-hour traffic when I return to Sarasota.”
My tiramisu smile widened. Good food, great wine, my favorite dessert and early to bed with the man I loved. It didn’t get any better than that.
CHAPTER 2
With both the dog and my dognapping suspect in the wind, I was back at the office early Tuesday morning, calling boarding kennels and polishing off a double vanilla latte and a fresh cruller from the bookstore coffee shop downstairs, when Dave Adler sauntered in.
Adler had been my partner before the Pelican Bay Police Department went belly-up, and I’d developed a maternal attachment to the bright young guy. I considered him the son I’d never had and also held a special affection for his wife Sharon and daughter Jessica, an adorable toddler fast approaching the terrible twos. Ironically, I felt closer to the Adlers than to my own family.
“What happened?” I asked. “The Clearwater PD finally give you a day off?”
This was his first visit to our new office, and he was glancing with interest around the spacious, high-ceilinged room with its tall windows that overlooked downtown with its quaint shops, the marina and the waters of Pelican Bay. “Nice digs, Maggie. How’s the P.I. business?”
I shrugged. “Bill and I are staying busy. He’s working background checks in Sarasota this week. He’ll be sorry he missed you. How’s the job treating you?”
His confident, cocky attitude faded, and his handsome face sobered. “I need your help.”
“You got it.”
“We found a DOA at Crest Lake Park before dawn this morning, shot sometime last night with a small-caliber gun.”
The mere mention of murder made my skin itch. “You’ve worked your share of homicides. Why do you need me?”
He pulled at his earlobe, barely visible beneath his shaggy sandy hair, and scowled. “There were only two items found in her purse besides her driver’s license and wallet. The first was a slip of paper with your name and address on it.”
My skin irritation increased as I wondered whether I’d known his victim. Probably just a prospective client, I assured myself, not someone I actually knew. “What was her name?”
“Deirdre Fisk.”
“My God.” I sank back in my chair and struggled to catch my breath. “I haven’t heard that name in sixteen years.”
Memories assaulted me, images of pale, bloated bodies on the medical examiner’s table, young girls not yet in their teens, who’d been sexually abused, strangled and dumped into Tampa Bay.
“How did you know her?” Adler folded his tall frame into the chair across from my desk and waited.
I took a sip of coffee. “Deirdre Fisk was the lucky one.”
“Not last night.”
“Remember the cases I told you about, the child murders Bill and I worked more than sixteen years ago when we were partners on the Tampa PD?”
Adler nodded.
“Deirdre Fisk was only nine years old then. She was abducted by the man we assumed was our killer and taken to a mangrove on the Tampa causeway. She probably would have been murdered like the other three victims, except a couple of guys fishing a few yards offshore heard her screams. They started the motor on their boat and headed for the beach. At their approach, her abductor shoved her out of his vehicle and took off.”
“Did she ID him?”
I shook my head. “You know how kids are. She described him as an old man, which could have meant anybody over twenty. And driving a big white car. She didn’t know the make or model. The fishermen saw only taillights as the man made his escape.”
“So the guy was never caught?”
“The close call either scared him off—unlikely, since sexual predators can’t control