Stupid, wonderful song.
I took a shower, which helped wake me up. Had a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast, chased by strong coffee. I ate by rote, my thoughts churning. I needed to find Melissa today. Somehow convince her to talk to Chief Eddington. The thought of another long, unknowing night in my house—even with lights—made me shiver. After being awake for thirty-six hours by then, I’d need some serious sleep. But how could I close my eyes, knowing last night’s intruder might come back?
By 8:30 I was at my computer, copying my notes on the flash drive into the HM file. My fingers itched to call the Melissa Harkoff in Gilroy. She would either be the florist or my Melissa. If the former, I could hone in on the Melissa in San Jose.
It was a little early to call on a Sunday morning. I promised myself I’d wait until 9:00.
My mind flashed on Perry, his parting words to me. What did he know?
I drained another cup of coffee. My nerves had begun to twitch. Too much caffeine on too little sleep. I couldn’t even eat Jelly Bellies. The sugar would send me completely over the top. Nor could I listen to music. Sounds were too loud—the ticking of the kitchen clock, a car passing on Stillton. A buzz saw in the distance. Agitation rocked my stomach.
In the kitchen I sliced some cheese, drank a glass of milk for protein. Maybe as it digested I would feel better. At the moment it proved no help. I took a water bottle with me into the office, ducking to avoid setting off Billy Bass.
Back at the computer I ran my two SSNs for Melissa Harkoff through some public records databases on Skiptrace One. Most importantly I wanted to see if either the Gilroy or San Jose Melissa came up in criminal court proceedings or a marriage license. If Melissa had a new last name, I’d have to generate leads all over again. And if she were in jail I’d have a whole new situation on my hands.
Once when I’d just started skip tracing I spent days resulting in dead ends on a skip only to discover he had died. Wouldn’t hurt to check death certificates either.
The results came up empty—no court proceedings, marriage, no death.
I ran a few other searches until I was satisfied the two Melissas I was tracking remained the most promising.
Nine o’clock arrived. I ran two pretexts in my mind for the phone call to Melissa in Gilroy. Which scenario I used would depend on the sound of the answering voice. I picked up the phone to dial—and saw my hands shake.
Stupid. I’d done plenty of these calls in the past.
But my own safety had never before depended on finding a skip.
I replaced the phone, took a drink from the water bottle. Massaged my fingers. When I was sure my voice wouldn’t tremble, I dialed the number.
The third ring cut off in the middle. “Hello.” An older woman, certainly not in her younger twenties.
“Hi, my name is Mary Sawyer. I’m trying to find the florist Melissa Harkoff—who owns Bluefly Flowers and Gifts in Gilroy?”
“Yes, that’s me.” Her voice sounded pleasant, patient. It fit with the picture on her website. I felt myself relax a little.
“Oh, hi. Sorry to call you at home. I’m in the area and I need a bouquet for an event tomorrow morning. I saw from your website that you open at ten. If I came down then, would I be able to have something made up at your shop right away?”
“Sure. As long as you’re a little flexible and I can use things on hand.”
“No problem. Thanks so much, I appreciate your time. I’ll see you then.” I paused, then chuckled. “There’s another Melissa Harkoff in San Jose—do you know her? I almost called her first. Glad I didn’t.”
“Really? No, I don’t know her. No relation to me.”
Not surprising news. “Well, thanks again.”
I hung up and slumped back in my chair with a sigh. My heart beat too hard. But I’d done it. One lead eliminated.
On to the next.
A door slammed outside. I jerked toward the window. In my peripheral vision I caught movement in my driveway. I leaned forward, peering through the blinds.
Baxter Jackson headed toward my front door.
NINETEEN
JUNE 2004
Halfway down the Jacksons’ hardwood stairs, Melissa stopped to erase all suspicion and righteous indignation from her face.
From the kitchen wafted sounds of Linda. Making breakfast for her man.
Mouth firmed, Melissa continued on down.
Linda was fork-whipping eggs in a bowl. She stood at the counter by the refrigerator, her back to Melissa. Dressed in designer jeans and a satiny blue top.
Melissa padded up to the counter to stand on her right. “Good morning.”
“Oh!” Linda gasped, her fork halting midair. “Melissa. Hi.” She did not turn her head. “What are you doing up so early?”
Melissa examined her profile. Linda had already applied makeup for the day. Her one visible cheek looked normal. Melissa shrugged. “Just…couldn’t sleep, I guess. You want some help?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” Linda sidestepped to her left and placed the fork in the sink. She turned away from Melissa and busied herself at the cabinet beneath the cook-top island. Pans banged. She straightened, a small skillet in hand. With utmost concentration she placed it on a burner and turned on the gas. Reached for a spatula in the island’s top drawer and used the utensil to cut a slab of soft butter from a nearby dish. The butter went into the pan. She would not look at Melissa.
The San Jose Mercury newspaper had been laid on the kitchen table, front page up. Facing Baxter’s chair.
Melissa moved to the cabinet of plates and pulled one out. Selected a fork from the silverware drawer. “Here.” She set them on the counter beside the cook top.
Linda glanced her direction. Her eyes looked red. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” Melissa eased back to lean against the tile. Waiting. When the butter heated up, Linda would have to turn around for the whipped eggs.
Linda moved the butter around with the corner of the spatula. A hand-painted clock on the wall ticked in the silence. Melissa thought of her mother and all the heavy silences that had hung between them. Some angry, some despairing, some so full of Melissa’s will to not care that they practically dripped defensiveness on the floor. If you took all those moments and strung them end to end you’d have a lifetime. Melissa’s life.
“Hand me that bowl, would you?” Linda’s head moved slightly. She shuffled left as if to force Melissa to her right. But Melissa crossed behind to her other side. She set the bowl down, throwing a look at Linda’s cheek. Linda raised her hand, pretending to smooth hair away from that side of her face. But too late. Melissa saw reddened skin, in the shape of fingers.
She stepped away, then sauntered toward the table and sprawled into a chair. “So. What’re we going to do today?” She glanced at the newspaper, upside down to her.
Linda poured the whipped mixture into her pan. Sizzling arose, and the smell of eggs and butter. “I’m going to plan a dinner party for Saturday night.” Her voice lilted, ever so light. “Maybe you can help.”
“I thought we were going to see some play on Saturday.”
“Oh.” Linda raised a shoulder. “I asked some friends about it, and they didn’t have very good things to say. I just think you’d be bored.”
Melissa ran her tongue across her top lip. “How many people are coming? To your party, I mean.”
“I haven’t decided that yet.”
“Oh. Who are you thinking of inviting?”
“Haven’t decided that either. I’ll do that today.” Linda moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a container of orange juice.