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Rolling over, he lifted his laptop from the other side of the bed and sat up. It only took seconds to get on the secured connection he had that allowed him to access privileged databases and type in Haley Sanders’s name.
He looked at driver’s licenses in the states of Indiana and Ohio. At marriage licenses, home purchases, birth and death records, divorce records, criminal records and civil citations. He looked for work permits, but didn’t find an online database dating back more than twenty years.
He even searched bankruptcy files. Haley Sanders, if that had been her real name, was as much of an angel as Jack described. The woman didn’t appear to exist in flesh and blood.
And he had his first real clue that Jack Colton was guilty. The man had lied.
Unless Haley Sanders, who, according to Jack, had been
unforthcoming about her life, had lied to Jack about her name. Either was possible.
He had more questions than answers.
Setting his computer on the pillow next to him, Ramsey
lay down and went to sleep. L ucy woke up Monday morning determined to take back control of her life. Her mother’s rapist had been arrested. That was good news, not reason to fall apart.
Lionel would deal with the bone she’d found. He’d told her at the hospital on Saturday night that he’d assigned the case to Todd Davis, letting her know that Todd had been ordered not to question her until Monday.
It was a holiday week. And on Saturday morning she was heading to Comfort Cove for two days. She had work to do there—Frank Whittier to keep a firm eye on—and that was good.
Dressing in her favorite, formfitting black suit and white silk blouse, she caked the makeup on a little heavier than usual, slipped into pumps with an inch-and-a-half heel on them, rather than the flatter shoes she normally wore to work, and even stopped for a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice at the little diner in town before going into the station.
When she ordered, her words came out completely normal and that was good, too.
Wakerby’s meeting was at nine. Lucy was at her desk by seven. Todd had cleaned up as usual, leaving no evidence of the bone investigation lying around.
“Hey, Luce, I figured you’d be in early.” She turned and saw Todd, cup of coffee in hand, coming toward her. “I’m using Locken’s desk today,” he said, setting his coffee down on the desk across the aisle from Lucy. “She said to tell you she’s with the D.A. this morning. They’re on call, at some diner near the jail, waiting to speak with Wakerby’s attorney, and you’ll be the first to know as soon as she has something.”
“Thanks.” Lucy smiled. She was fine. Focused. Ready to call Lori Givens, her friend at the private DNA lab in Cincinnati, with another request. Emma was getting married Saturday and she needed a wedding present.
Todd sat down, unlocked the bottom drawer of Locken’s desk, dropped his loaded key ring on the desk and pulled out a file. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it over in front of Lucy.
“What’s this?” she asked. But she knew.
Opening the folder, she read the gist of the report. “You recovered enough to know it’s a skeleton.”
“An incomplete one.”
Although he was fifteen years older than her, Todd hadn’t been a detective much longer than she had. He hadn’t wanted to give up the streets to sit behind a desk. His gruff exterior, a result of all those years in uniform, made him hard to read.
“There’s no ID,” she said.
“Don’t have it yet.”
She looked at the report again.
“It’s a child.” Not a newborn, but less than two, according to bone development.
“Yes.”
“Male or female?”
“Don’t know that yet, either.” He was stoic. Impossible to read.
“Time of death?”
“At least fifteen years.”
