“Maybe they weren’t as good at financial planning as you are. Or maybe they paid off things you know nothing about,” Constance responded. “Maybe they helped a family member who was about to lose his house. You weren’t still married to Emily, Sebastian. Malcolm was her husband. For all you know, they invested it and lost everything.”
He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “There would’ve been proof of any investments.”
“You want to talk proof?” she nearly shouted. “The police have DNA evidence! Do you know what DNA evidence means? It’s irrefutable. It means the body found in that car was Malcolm Turner’s!”
Clenching his jaw, Sebastian struggled to control the urge to lash out. These days she always seemed to get under his skin. “It wasn’t much of a body. It was mostly ashes. And he wouldn’t kill himself, Connie.”
“He would if prison was his only other alternative. You know what they do to cops in prison.”
Sebastian pictured the man he’d been chasing for a year. The buzzed red hair; the freckles that covered his face and arms; the blue eyes and long, effeminate gold eyelashes; the stubborn jaw; the short but stocky-bordering-on-overweight build. “He was too arrogant to give up that easily.”
“Arrogant,” she repeated in disgust. “That’s what has you turning over every rock between here and the Pacific? Sebastian, we’ve been through this dozens of times. It’s no secret that Emily and Malcolm were having problems. Emily told several people she wanted a divorce. She probably tried to act on it and, being the control freak he was, Malcolm snapped and killed her and Colton. Then he realized what he’d done and killed himself.”
“Maybe that scenario would be easier to accept if it was your son and not mine,” he said.
She didn’t have any children, but it was still a cheap shot. The pain he felt at Colton ’s loss ate at him like acid, made him act in ways he’d never guessed he would. Some of that was because he felt partially responsible for Emily’s helplessness. She’d had no family to rely on. He should’ve done more to help her.
“Screw you,” she said. “I’m tired of being sensitive. I’ve done all I can to support you. And now-”
“And now that I’m really finding something, you’re giving up. Malcolm’s in Sacramento. He tracked down his high-school girlfriend and moved here to be close to her. And he’s living on the money he stole from Emily.”
“Or you’re more involved with his ex-girlfriend than you want to admit,” she said.
He rolled his eyes. There’d never been anything between him and the woman who’d placed the call that had brought him to the west coast. They’d only met face-to-face twice, and that was in a coffee shop. “We’re friends, Constance. I’m here because Malcolm’s here. You’ve seen the transcripts of their chats. I’ve faxed them to you.”
“Who’s Your Daddy could be anyone! He claims to be someone named Wesley Boss who lives in L.A., and for all we know that’s true.”
“It’s Turner, Connie. Mary should know. She dated him for two years.”
“Why’d she have to call you?” she muttered.
Because he’d tracked her down first, her and anyone else Malcolm had ever known, and asked them to call if they ever heard from him. He’d also told them why. “Are you kidding? She was an angel to do it. Judging by some of the things this Wesley Boss has said, he’s far more familiar with Northern California than Southern California. I don’t believe he’s in L.A. I believe he’s right here in Sacramento.”
“That’s it,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore. I now realize I’ve been hanging on to a dream, to the memory of a man who no longer exists.”
Closing his eyes, Sebastian let his head fall back. She’d just accused him of being interested in someone else, but it was probably the other way around. “What’s his name?” he asked.
No answer.
“ Constance?”
“Stop it. This isn’t about another man. This is about me being unable to cope with the person you’ve become. It’s over between us,” she snapped and hung up.
Panic, caused by the finality in her voice, tempted Sebastian to call her back. But he didn’t. They’d never agree. Besides, she was better off without him. All he could think about was finding answers to the questions that’d been burning inside him since that hot summer day last year. That was when Emily’s neighbor had gone over to see why Emily hadn’t shown up to carpool for basketball practice and stumbled upon two bodies. They’d been murdered the night before.
Opening his eyes, he focused on the transcripts in the seat next to him. Whoever sent those instant messages and e-mails to Mary claimed to be someone she’d met in the past, someone named Wesley Boss as Constance said, but Mary didn’t remember a Wesley Boss. Their first contact had come through a Web site she used to sell jewelry she made as a hobby, so it could’ve been anyone. After several months of “talking” to this person online, she’d come to the conclusion that it had to be her high-school sweetheart-Malcolm Turner. He knew too much about her to be anyone else.
Sebastian had flown to Sacramento, hoping that the alias Malcolm was using would be enough to find him, but it hadn’t been so far. He’d managed to track down only four men in California named Wesley Boss, three in L.A. and one in Bakersfield. One was an old priest who didn’t even have a computer, one was happily married with five kids, one was a ten-year-old, and the other, the one from Bakersfield, was dying of cancer. Mary had been trying to get Sebastian an address almost from the moment she’d figured out who she was really dealing with, but Malcolm was too cautious. A man with his background knew how risky it was to contact someone from his former life. That made him traceable, if anyone was bothering to look. And Sebastian was doing more than looking-he was scrutinizing every possibility. He’d even hired a private investigator to see if he could trace through whatever means-legal or not-where the e-mails were coming from. But Malcolm was using a remote server. He’d thought of everything.
Popping the transmission into reverse, he backed out of the parking space. Regardless of the cost, he couldn’t give up. Mary was his conduit to the bastard who’d killed Emily and Colton and, right or wrong, he’d keep the promise he made while bearing their coffins to the grave.
Jane had decided to interview Luther on her way home from work, the first task on her list of actions in the missing-girls case. But Oak Park was the most dangerous neighborhood in Sacramento, and Jane was fully aware of it.
The metal of her gun pressed into her waist as she crossed the weed-infested postage stamp of dirt that comprised Luther’s front yard. In the early months after Oliver’s funeral, she’d learned how to shoot-Skye had seen to that-but this was nothing like a visit to the range. She’d never carried her Glock to someone’s house, never approached anyone with the thought that she might have to use it. Until now. Although she was currently undergoing the months-long application process, she didn’t yet have a license to carry a concealed weapon. She was breaking the law. But she hadn’t been able to reach David, and for the sake of the missing girls she couldn’t wait. She was far less afraid of the police than she was of Luther. She had a daughter at home, a twelve-year-old who’d lost enough already. No way would Jane orphan Kate altogether.
Taking a breath to calm the butterflies swirling in her belly, she raised a hand to knock on a door that looked as if the hounds of hell had attempted to scratch it open. It was barely five o’clock, but darkness seemed to creep up on this part of the city much more quickly than the Watt Avenue area, where she worked.
Expecting to hear dogs the size of horses, she wasn’t surprised by the cacophony of barking that rose to her ears as she stood at the very edge of the concrete stoop.