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Not home.
Not to a friend’s house.
To the campus.
Where she probably died.
Shit.
The guy, Calvin Gilbert, it had turned out, spent a lot of time at a local watering hole and he’d been drunk more often than not, picked up for a DUI twice since that report. He hadn’t been specific about the date he’d found Jessie in the mountains with her thumb out. Had it been the day of her disappearance? Three days prior? Mac had tried to piece together the last days of Jessie’s known existence at the time, but Gilbert’s call had been almost considered a crank. A guy getting his jollies by acting as if he knew something.
But maybe he’d been straight with them.
Maybe Calvin Gilbert had been the last person known to see her alive.
Rolling the small bit of oyster shell between his thumb and forefinger, Mac considered Jessie Brentwood. She was secretive, had run away from home several times before her final disappearance, was somewhat psychic, by all accounts, and there was something about the beach that seemed to run like a thread through the fabric of her life. Why he thought that, he couldn’t quite say. It was more than just this bit of oyster shell, more than the fact that she was found halfway from the coast to Laurelton. But if she was hitchhiking-well, more accurately, just walking, apparently-along the highway that led straight west to the coast, where had she been? What or who had she seen? What was she looking for?
Hudson had said she felt trouble was after her. What kind of trouble? Did it have anything to do with her pregnancy? Hudson didn’t seem to know about that, or else he was a consummate actor worthy of an Oscar as he hadn’t even lifted a hair when Gretchen asked if he thought she was pregnant.
And Rebecca…Mac wished he could have talked to her more. She struck him as another person with secrets, though he couldn’t begin to guess what they were at this point.
He sat at his desk and thought, stretching minutes to hours. The department went into night mode, with only a skeleton crew at the station. He sat and thought, and thought and sat, and when he finally surfaced it was after midnight and all he’d learned from his ruminations was that this cold case-which had warmed right up with the discovery of the remains at St. Elizabeth’s-was cooling off again. Even when he got the DNA evidence, what did he have to compare it with? Just twenty-year-old hair with, he hoped, enough of the root attached to pull the DNA. But if not, how would he prove the body was Jessie’s?
“And it might not be,” he said aloud, accepting that fact for the first time, listening to his own voice finally entertain the possibility. As he left the station he heard the janitor warming up on “Blue Hawaii.”
Glenn Stafford was dead drunk. Drunken. Drunked…
He eyed the liquid at the bottom of the bottle and could not believe-simply-could-not-believe-that it was gone except for a swallow or two. He’d done that? Drank down the whole dang thing?
Vaguely he remembered the cooks going home and the wait staff closing up. Several people had stuck their heads inside his office and given him updates on the ending of the evening, but they were gone now, the restaurant closed. Scott had cruised through again and given Glenn the old evil eye.
Screw you, buddy. I’ll get goddamn good and wasted if I want. It’s my booze, too!
Now he staggered to the door, steadying himself on the jamb. The place was quiet. Unearthly quiet, he thought. Unearthly. Kind of like he felt. He could see his feet moving one in front of the other as he navigated his way toward the front entrance. Outside, the parking lot lights made little bluish moons on the pavement. Inside, the ambient lighting around the floor sent a diffused yellow glow to sections of carpet.
Glenn turned back toward the kitchen and bar area. What the hell? He deserved another bottle. He thought of Gia. Man, would she be pissed. Probably lying naked on the bed waiting, hoping he’d come in and screw her just to make a damned baby. Talk about taking the fun out of things. She’d called twice-or had it been three times?-but he’d told the hostess to tell his wife he was busy, and he’d let his cell phone go straight to voicemail.
Now he squinted at the rows of bottles of booze and caught sight of himself in the mirrored wall behind the hedge of liqueurs and spirits. Damn, Stafford. You’re…too…stocky.
“Stocky,” he said aloud, then grinned at his reflection like an idiot. Fuck ’em. It was time for another drink.
He rooted around and found an unopened bottle of Bushmills.
Clink.
He cocked his head toward the sound, his hand hovering over a bottle. He was alone, right? Hadn’t Luis said, “Good night, I’ll lock up, Mr. Stafford,” a little while ago?
The noise had come from the kitchen.
Or had it?
Maybe he’d tipped one bottle into another himself as he was checking labels. He was a little wasted. He could have thought he’d heard something from the kitchen. Yeah, that was probably it. He strained to listen, but could hear nothing but that irritating smooth jazz that Luis hadn’t turned off. Still…
“Hey,” he called, swaying on his feet, his fingers around the neck of his next bottle. Geez, maybe he didn’t need another drink.
He sniffed and froze. Wait a minute. Was that smoke? Was someone in the kitchen smoking?
“Goddammit,” he muttered. Holding the bottle by its neck, he weaved his way into the kitchen. Under-cabinet fluorescents showed him the gleaming stainless steel surfaces and he felt a moment of pure pride. Why wasn’t the restaurant making it? Why…
