Deceit, page 6
She sucked her lower lip between her teeth and looked away. “You do, though,” she murmured. “You could just drop it. That man in the road can’t do anything to make you. And what courage does he have?” She made a tsss sound through her teeth. “Hiding behind a mask while you do the work.”
I made no reply. She had a point.
“If you do find Melissa, what then? She’s likely to deny knowing anything.”
When I find Melissa, not if.
A blaring realization hit me—one I should have thought of before. The idea lifted me off the couch, sent my veins swimming.
It didn’t make sense that Hooded Man would come to my house. Why would he? But what if it was someone else connected to this case? Someone who’d already found out what Hooded Man had said—and wanted to stop me?
I paced to the television and leaned over, pressing my palms on its top. My head dropped between my arms. “I don’t know how to convince her to talk.” My tone sounded off-key, distracted. “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”
I thought of Baxter Jackson, the long arms of the King of Vonita. He palled around with the mayor and city council members, the chief of police, judges, powerful businessmen. Could he have secretly forged ties with the underworld as well? With people soulless enough, money-hungry enough to kill some woman just because he wanted her dead?
A guttural moan escaped me. If Baxter Jackson had sent whoever broke into my house, how could I stay there at all, even in the daytime? Much less for a night. I didn’t even own a gun for protection.
“Joanne?” Dineen’s voice twisted with worry. “What?”
I was up against a wall. I couldn’t rest until this was done. Not until I found Melissa, and she led authorities to Linda’s body. Then it would be too late—and too obvious—for Baxter to come after me. But until Linda’s body was discovered I wasn’t safe at all. Maybe not even here at my sister’s house. If someone was after me, this would be the first place he’d look if they didn’t find me in my own home.
“Jo-anne. Talk to me!”
My eyes pressed shut. How to tell my single-parent sister I may have brought danger to her home—the safe haven she’d created to raise her son?
I pushed away from the TV and faced Dineen, a slow fire spreading beneath my skin. Fear had gripped me in its jaws long enough tonight. Truth was, it would clamp down again if I let it, like the rain outside, chewing the walls to get in.
Forget Strawberry Daiquiris and Orange Sherbets. I’d need a different supply of Jelly Bellies to keep me awake: Café Lattes and Chocolate Puddings. This would not be a night for sleep in my sister’s guest bedroom. Not a night for sleep at all.
“Dineen, I need to use your computer.”
FOURTEEN
JUNE 2004
Strange, how the sermon in that first church service seemed to be spoken straight to Melissa. She had to fight against squirming in her seat. The preacher, Pastor Steve, was tall and broad-shouldered. Reminded Melissa of a linebacker. He had a deep, penetrating voice, and he roamed the stage while he talked, a mic like singers used hooked to his ear. Pastor Steve spoke of trustworthiness deep inside a person, not on the surface. How God always saw straight to the heart. Linda made agreeing noises in her throat now and then, and Baxter nodded a lot.
Melissa felt herself shrinking.
She didn’t fit with these people who were so into God. She didn’t fit with Linda and Baxter, who were so picture perfect. Even the teenage girls in this church said how great they were. Give it a few days, maybe a few weeks, and the Jacksons would see right through Melissa. That she was bad to the core.
Maybe they’d taken her on because they already knew that. She was their social project. They were out to change her, raise her out of her miserable life. Sort of like adopting a beaten dog from the pound.
Were they in this because they really cared about her? Or did they just want to make themselves feel good?
Pastor Steve strode to the simple podium and flipped through a Bible. “Psalm 51:6 says about God, ‘Surely you desire truth in the inner parts; you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.’ This”—he thumped his chest with his forefinger—“is where it counts. Right here. You think you’re fooling everyone else? You’ll never fool God. And in the end, he’s the only one who matters.”
“Amen,” some man across the church said. Melissa’s eyes cut in his direction. He looked about fifty, with graying hair and a tanned face, a deep groove down the side of his cheek. He sat close to a woman with shoulder-length brown hair. Her chin tipped up toward the preacher, a slight smile on her lips. Something about these two people pulled at Melissa. They looked like normal folk. Not powerful and engaging like the Jacksons, as if they could take over a room just by entering. But these people seemed…warm. Real. Like people you’d want to hug, and they’d hug you right back, harder.
Real. Melissa turned away, uneasiness brushing the back of her neck. She focused again on the preacher. Why had she thought that word? As if Baxter and Linda weren’t? She’d seen them together for four days now. Watched the way they gazed at each other, heard the way they talked. Of course they were real. More important, they were her family now. They had to be real.
The picture of Melissa’s mother, dead and bleeding on the dirty kitchen floor, flashed into her mind. Melissa pushed the memory into a dark corner.
She tried hard to block out the rest of the sermon. Focusing above the pastor’s head, she stared at the wooden cross hanging on the wall. Now and then some of his words slipped through. “A stained life made clean and whole…a weight off your shoulders…the burden of dishonesty and sin gone…” The words made her feel small and cold.
Coming here every Sunday wouldn’t be easy. Harder yet—pretending to like it.
After the service everyone gathered their purses and Bibles, then stood around talking. Melissa folded her arms, gaze cruising the room. Her eyes met Nicole’s, and the bubbly girl flashed her a smile. Melissa smiled back.
Call you this week. Nicole mouthed the words with animation, miming holding a phone, then pointing to Melissa.
Okay. Melissa nodded.
“Well, here she is.” A woman’s voice sounded on Melissa’s right. “What a beautiful girl you are.”
Melissa turned and found herself face-to-face with the woman and man she’d seen across the church.
“Melissa,” Linda slipped an arm around her shoulder, “I want you to meet my dearest friend, Joanne Weeks. And this is her husband, Tom.”
Dearest friend? Had to be at least ten years between them.
“So glad to meet you, Melissa.” Tom Weeks nodded at her, his mouth curving. His nod, the way he looked at her—even his smile seemed so matter-of-fact. As if Melissa Harkoff had every reason to be standing right here in this church. As if she belonged here.
Melissa allowed her face to soften. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.” Joanne patted her arm. Up close, Melissa could see gold flecks in her brown eyes. “Linda’s really been looking forward to you coming.” Joanne blinked, as if catching her slip of the tongue. “So has Baxter.”
Melissa bit the inside of her cheek. “Thanks.”
Her focus trailed past the Weekses to land on Baxter, shaking hands with the pastor some ten feet away. Joanne turned her head, as if following Melissa’s gaze. They both looked at Baxter, then at each other. In Joanne’s eyes the truth flickered. She didn’t care much for Baxter Jackson.
How about that. Not everybody liked the man after all.
Melissa gave her a shy smile and allowed her focus to drift to the floor. Baxter had managed to sidle off when the Weekses approached. Maybe he didn’t like Joanne either.
What was that about?
An awkward silence pulsed.
“Your clothes look great on you,” Joanne said. “Linda said she was going to take you shopping. She’s quite the fashionista.”
“Yeah.” Melissa looked down at herself. “She helped me choose everything. She was great.”
“Well, I don’t know much about fashion, but I bet you’d look good in anything. Overalls, even.” Tom gave her a grandfatherly wink.
His kindness pierced Melissa. She’d never known her grandparents. Her mother had lived in an alcoholic bubble, floating far and wide from relatives. According to Melissa’s mother, her own mother “wasn’t worth spittin’ on,” and her father died young from liver disease—another alcoholic. Standing in the church with Linda and the Weekses, Melissa felt sure they could see the big, black hole of her heart.
Know what—the pastor’s sermon was a lie. God didn’t matter. He wasn’t the one who’d put a mansion’s roof over her head, bought her new clothes. The Baxters mattered. Tom and Joanne Weeks mattered, being Linda’s good friends.
Melissa turned a winning smile on Tom Weeks. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll wear overalls next Sunday.”
They all laughed.
Linda removed her arm from Melissa’s shoulders and leaned conspiratorially toward Joanne. “Hey, did you catch your guy?”
Joanne firmed her mouth in a satisfied expression. “Yup.”
“All right!” Linda grinned. “You always—”
“Linda.” Baxter called over. “Time to get going.”
She waved her hand, as if erasing her thought. “Coming!”
Linda hugged Joanne. “I’ll bring Melissa over this week—maybe late some afternoon, when you’re done working?”
“You bet; let’s do it.”
Melissa said good-bye and trailed after Baxter as he headed for the door. Linda followed.
Not until they were nearly home did the question pop from Melissa’s mouth. “What did you mean with Joanne—catch your guy?”
Linda half-turned in the front passenger seat. “Oh, I was talking about Joanne’s work. She’s a skip tracer.”
Melissa screwed up her face. “What’s a skip tracer?”
“She finds people who are missing. Tracks them down using all sorts of special ways on her computer.”
“Oh.” Melissa pondered her lap.
“Keep that in mind, Melissa.” Baxter flashed her a smile in the rearview mirror. “You don’t want to go running off from here—ol’ Joanne will hunt you down.”
Linda gave him a playful punch in the arm. “She’s not ‘ol’ Joanne.’”
Melissa shook her head. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”
They’d have to chase her out of town before she’d leave this place.
FIFTEEN
FEBRUARY 2010
By 2:20 a.m. I was perched at my sister’s unfamiliar computer in her small guest room. My bag of sundry toiletries and a pair of pajamas sat untouched on the quilt-covered bed. The storm had lessened, giving me hope that by dawn it would wear out completely. Dineen had returned to her room to sleep.
In a bowl on my left lay a stash of Café Latte and Chocolate Pudding Jelly Bellies. I’d filled a large glass with water and brought it in as well. A yellow pad of paper and a pen sat on my right. I’d be taking some notes by hand, as well as logging them into a new file.
Before setting to work I’d checked every lock in the house. I’d even crept into Jimmy’s room, hearing the soft whoosh of boy-sleep as I tested his windows. Dineen was leaning against the wall in the hallway, arms folded, when I gently closed his door.
“You think you’re being followed or something?” She’d rubbed one eye, as if too tired to entertain fright any longer.
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Her computer was taking forever to boot up. I shoved a succession of Chocolate Puddings into my mouth, urging it to come on under my breath.
I’d left the bedroom door open. If someone came into this house, I wanted him finding me before Jimmy or Dineen. I’d be the one he was looking for anyway.
Such bravado. Where had it been when I’d been in my house, alone in the dark?
Finally the computer sat ready. I brought up the Internet.
In my mind I’d reconstructed what I could of my search. I’d found two Melissa Harkoffs of the right age. One in San Jose—although that address had been listed four years ago—and a second in Gilroy, with an address listing only six months ago. I didn’t have my case file, but I could start over, again finding the two birth dates and their Social Security numbers. And I could log into my commercial data services and software from here.
But first I would start with Google—where I’d been when my electricity cut off. If I could find a picture of my Melissa, I could avoid numerous rabbit trails.
I typed in “Melissa Harkoff” + San Jose. Sixteen hits popped up, most of them apparently connected to a church. I clicked on the first and discovered the newsletter for San Jose Evangelical Fellowship, edited by Melissa Harkoff. Scrolled through it, looking for a photo or anything that might indicate this person’s age. No such information. I followed the second hit…the third and fourth. Different issues of the same newsletter.
The rest of the hits also failed to yield a photo or descriptive information. But the newsletter articles sounded quite dull for a twenty-two-year-old. Would someone that age be interested in writing about such things as a church picnic, volunteer committees, and the need for substitute Sunday School teachers? The photos that I did see contained not one young person.
On my pad of paper I jotted down the church’s name and phone number. I also placed it in my new note file. Unless I found my Melissa elsewhere, I may need to conduct a pretext call. A church office should be easy to bluff. I could pose as an attorney, looking for heirs to an estate of a deceased client. The receptionist wouldn’t likely give me a telephone number, but she’d pass mine on. That’s where my trapline came in. When Melissa called back it would trap her number. From there I could trace the address.
But my phones wouldn’t work until my electricity came back on.
I leaned back in my sister’s chair, blinking gritty eyes. If only I knew this was my Melissa. I could watch the church entrance tomorrow, stop her on her way out of the service. Then the trick would be to convince her to talk. Would the news of the death of Baxter Jackson’s second wife be enough to sway her conscience?
My mouth twisted. If this church-active Melissa was the right one, how could her conscience have allowed her to stand by a lie for six years, knowing Linda’s murderer walked the streets? Where was her sense of justice? What kind of Christian was that?
A false one, that’s what. Like Baxter, head elder at Vonita True Life Church. Perhaps he had taught our Melissa all too well.
I drank some water, scarfed down some Café Lattes, and googled my second possibility—the one in Gilroy. A few hits blipped on the screen—for Bluefly Flowers & Gifts. I clicked on the link and landed on a basic-looking website for the shop. Owner Melissa Harkoff smiled at me, a bouquet of flowers in her hands. She was gray-haired and at least in her mid-fifties.
Not my gal. Not the right age to match the birth date that had led me to a Gilroy address in the first place. Apparently this was the third Melissa Harkoff I’d originally found, the one with a birth date too long ago. But two Melissa Harkoffs in such a small town? Surprising. I hadn’t considered the name to be all that common.
Could this woman be a relative I hadn’t known about? Someone who’d know where my Melissa was? I copied and pasted the number and address of the shop in my computer file and wrote it on my yellow pad. Even so, I doubted it would lead anywhere. Linda Jackson had told me Melissa had no relatives, which is why she’d ended up in foster care.
My mind was growing sluggish. As hard as I typically worked, I wasn’t used to staying up all night. I needed some decent music along with my Jelly Bellies to keep me going.
Diminishing the screen, I opened Dineen’s iTunes and perused her playlists. Ack. All jazz and pop. I knew my sister had poor taste in music, but this was downright embarrassing. How did a person exist without classic rock?
So much for music. I closed the program.
I stretched my neck right, left. Rubbed a hand across my forehead. Outside the wind had finally ceased its uproar. Fine drops plinked at the window, mere shadows of the night’s deluge. By morning, perhaps, all would be quiet.
I listened for telltale sounds in the house. Nothing.
Maybe I had been wrong. Maybe I’d left my rear garage door unlatched. That was much easier to believe now that I sat in Dineen’s home, enveloped by light. I wanted to believe it. Especially as the bed across the room looked more and more inviting…
I sat up straighter and pulled in five deep breaths, hoping the oxygen would clear my head.
The computer clock read 3:10 a.m.
My right hand reached for the mouse, my brain ticking through what I had so far. I’d eliminated an older Melissa in Gilroy, but I still hadn’t found the one in that town who could match the birth date in ’87 or ’88. And the San Jose birth date still needed to be run down as well. If only I could remember those exact dates. I could do no more now without finding them again, then rematching them to Social Security numbers. There were still a lot of techniques I could employ once I had those SSNs.
Opening Skiptrace One, I went back to the beginning, typing in Melissa’s name and the State of California. Up came the fourteen addresses I’d found, with the two possible birthdates: 01/27/1988 and 09/13/1987. I ran those dates and snagged their Social Security numbers. From there I traced the addresses on each SSN.
Next, phone records.
Using the search-by-address screen, I ran the most recent San Jose address—820 Willmott, a single family residence—through the system’s real-time directory assistance. Real-time directories are up-to-date, unlike the stored data on free Internet directory sites, which could be six months old. Regular folks use those sites. Not an experienced skip tracer—except when old data are needed.
The Willmott address yielded no listed number. Melissa might well be there and choosing to guard her anonymity.
If I were Melissa, weighted by a dark secret, I’d certainly have an unlisted number. Once you’d lived through something like that, had seen a man you believed in and respected warp into a monster, whom could you ever trust?
