Authors: Brandilyn Collins
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?
The unlisted number wasn’t necessarily a dead end. Skiptrace One provided a data source for such numbers. Unfortunately the data wasn’t always complete. Beyond that I could turn to the information broker in Los Angeles I used for finding hard-to-obtain data. Numerous times Jeff Cotton had uncovered information I simply couldn’t find. But I hoped not to turn to Jeff here. I didn’t want
anyone
else knowing I was searching for Melissa.
I ran 820 Willmott through the unlisted number search, asking God for a little help.
Bingo. A phone number. For a Melissa Harkoff.
I keyed the number into a different kind of search—to see if it was a landline or cell phone. Answer: cell.
Hmm. My Melissa? Sounded promising. These days younger people often used cell phones only, no landlines.
Cell phones were both good and bad news for skip tracers, since people tended to keep their numbers when they moved. If this number was attached to my Melissa, it was probably still accurate. On the other hand, she may no longer be at the address that had led me to the phone.
But I still had other tricks up my sleeve.
Using credit headers instead of directory assistance this time, I ran a reverse address check to see what names came up attached to 820 Willmott. Melissa Harkoff appeared second on the list. First and more recent—only two months ago—was a Tony Whistman. Either Melissa had moved out and Tony had moved in, or they lived together, and Tony had recently done something—bought a car, applied for a new credit card—to activate a report.
I noted my findings in my computer file, then took a little time hunting down information about Tony Whistman. It wasn’t hard to find. He was a realtor with RE/MAX in San Jose. He had his own website, which included his photo and a cell number. Tony looked to be in his mid-thirties, gray eyes, light brown hair. Beneath his may-I-help-you smile lay a hungry, intense expression, as if this young man sought to make millions and retire by age fifty. Make that forty-five.
Interesting. He’d be thirteen years older than my Melissa, but these days that meant little. Could they be living together?
I copied Tony’s information into my file. Printed out the color picture from his website.
Although I continued searching, I found nothing to definitively tie Tony to the Melissa Harkoff I sought. No blog or pages on his website with personal photos. Neither did I find anything to detract from that possibility, such as a newspaper article about his marriage to someone else.
Turning aside from Willmott and Tony, I ran the older San Jose addresses attached to a Melissa Harkoff through phone-number searches. Each came up with a listed number in someone else’s name. If my Melissa had once lived at those addresses, she didn’t anymore.
Willmott remained.
Using the Gilroy addresses I repeated the process. The older ones yielded numbers under different names. The most recent came up with a phone number for a Melissa Harkoff. My gal or the florist?
I’d bet on the florist. She had to have a home number somewhere. Likely it was in the same town as her flower shop. But hunches could be wrong. A phone call in the morning should tell me what I needed to know.
Morning.
I blinked at the computer clock. Four-fifty. In a few hours it would be light.
I pushed back from the computer, walked through the darkened hallway and into the bathroom. Exiting there a minute later, I found myself skulking through the house, checking locks again, peeking through a curtain to look outside. The rain had stopped. The world, what I could see of it, lay sullen and spent. Small branches and leaves littered Dineen’s front lawn and her neighbor’s yard across the street.
Where was Hooded Man now?
Who
was Hooded Man?
I returned to Dineen’s computer, wishing it were my own. I needed to search my photos for a picture of Melissa. I knew I had at least one of her and Linda together. I could picture them now on my back deck, Melissa looking proud and lovely in the new clothes Linda had bought her. She’d been living with the Jacksons less than a week, and I had just met her at church the previous Sunday. Melissa would speak little of her childhood, saying only that she was glad the horrible days following her mother’s death were behind her. She seemed so grateful to be living at the Jacksons’ home. To her it was a mansion, a new life.
The Café Latte Jelly Bellies were gone. I ate what remained of the Chocolate Puddings.
Rot my teeth with sugar, yeah right, Dineen.
It would never happen. She was just jealous of my hard choppers.
I drank the last of my water and looked over the information in the computer file. Somewhere along the way I’d eased up on my handwritten notes. Not good. Even though I’d ask Dineen for a flash drive to copy the file and take it back to my computer, I still wanted the written backup, just in case.
I stopped to write the notes on the yellow pad.
Finished with that, I sat back, data chugging through my tired brain. I would run other searches while waiting for dawn. Meanwhile the Willmott address held real promise.
A page I had seen on Tony Whistman’s website suddenly registered. I blinked. Returned to the site. I found the page…and in my soggy head a plan began to form.
JUNE 2004
The sounds wafted into Melissa’s subconscious, chilling hands pulling her from another terrible dream of her mother dead on the kitchen floor.
Melissa’s eyes blinked open to focus blearily on the open door of her walk-in closet. She was in the Jacksons’ house, not her old trailer. Her new bright and shiny life.
Relief washed through Melissa, aching and cold. She shifted in her grand bed. Cracks of light shone through her closed curtains, promising another sunny day.
In her mind’s eye she could still see the broken linoleum of the trailer kitchen. Her mom’s bare feet, her body spread on the floor. The whiskey bottle and the blood—
The sounds came again—whatever had awakened Melissa. Now they clarified. Muffled voices in argument. A man’s rapid words, pulsing with anger. A woman’s retort.
Baxter and Linda.
Melissa raised up on one elbow, head tilted, listening. The voices sounded like they were coming from somewhere on the right side of her bedroom.
How could that be?
She threw back her covers and slipped from bed. Stood still, barely breathing, eyes roaming the room as if ghosts of the Jacksons morphed along the walls.
Maybe she’d imagined the sounds. The Jacksons didn’t argue.
“Stop it, Baxter!”
Linda’s words filtered sort of thick and tinny, as if from some distance. Melissa’s focus jerked toward the ceiling across her room.
The heating vent.
She trotted over to her desk, picked up the chair in front of it, and set it down beneath the vent. Then climbed up on the chair, cocking her ear toward the ceiling.
“How
dare
you talk to me like that in my own home?” Baxter’s voice was rough, seething.
“It’s
my
home too.” Linda’s words caught, as if she was about to cry.
“I had this home before you came here, and if you took off tomorrow, I’d still have it. You just happen to live in it.”
“I take care of it. I take care of
you
.”
Hard footsteps thumped. “
I
take care of me. Not to mention the entire town.”
Melissa’s muscles tensed. She drew her arms around herself.
“Now you listen to me, Linda. You’re going to have that dinner party
this
Saturday. I don’t care what else you were planning. You’ll invite who I tell you to invite, and they’ll sit where I want them to sit. And before you start whining, remember you live in this house because
I
pay for it.”
“This isn’t about being thankful! I just wanted to do it next weekend so I could take Mel—”
Melissa heard a muffled
smack
. “My clients are more important than that girl.”
Melissa’s fingers curled into her pajama top. No way. He’d
hit
her.
That girl.
Silence.
“I’m sorry.” Linda’s voice shook.
“Go make me breakfast. You’re making me late for work.”
The voices stopped. Melissa craned her neck to one side, concentrating on hearing more.
Nothing.
Shaking, she climbed down from the chair. She slumped into it and leaned forward, staring at her bare feet digging into thick carpet. Wishing like anything she could erase the last sixty seconds.
Baxter had slapped Linda. As much as Melissa didn’t want to believe that, she knew the sound. She’d heard it enough against her own cheek.
Maybe it was just a one-time thing. After all, she’d never heard their voices through the vent before. Besides, nice church-going men like Baxter didn’t hit their wives. Trailer trash did that, like the kind who’d lived near her and her mom. Melissa could count off ten neighbor men in a heartbeat who’d shoved their wives around.
Yeah, and men who hit their wives didn’t do it just once. They lived it.
Melissa raised her head and focused across the room, feeling sick. She’d had such plans for living here. Suddenly they were crumbling. What kind of home had she gotten herself into?
People were no good. No matter where you went, they were all just liars.
Melissa ran a hand across her forehead. She should just go back to sleep. Forget she heard anything. Whatever had happened, it was over. It didn’t pose her any threat, none at all.
She pushed to her feet, headed for bed, then found herself veering for the closet. Even as she headed for the walk-in she told herself not to do it.
Just pull a pillow over your head and sleep, Melissa. Just tell yourself everything’s going to be okay.
Melissa crossed the threshold of the closet, trying to think nothing, nothing at all. She pulled a silky summer robe from a hanger and thrust her arms into it. Tied it around her waist. She stepped out of the closet and gazed at her bed, bottom lip sucked between her teeth. This was her last chance to turn away from this.
Her eyes closed in disgust. What a wimp she was. After all she’d handled in her past? After her own mother’s death?
Head up, determination pulling back her shoulders, Melissa strode toward her bedroom door.
FEBRUARY 2010
At 7:00 a.m. on Sunday I sat at Dineen’s kitchen table, sipping coffee and feeling like the walking dead. A thick lump of tiredness sat in my chest, blood sluggish through my veins. Worse, my brain felt like mush. I had to wake up. Today of all days I needed my wits about me.
No sign of Dineen. I hoped she was sleeping soundly. I’d rummaged in her computer desk drawer and found a flash drive, copied my file onto it. My pages of handwritten notes were in my purse. One more cup of coffee and I was out of here, back to my house. I needed to shower, prepare for the tasks that lay ahead.
I needed electricity.
Wandering into the den, I flipped on Dineen’s TV to low volume and searched out local news. The meteorologist was the man of the hour, prognosticating that although the storm of the decade had run its course, more rain could hit as early as this afternoon. A reporter stood in a Vonita neighborhood, indicating downed small trees, a broken mailbox. “A tree on a power line cut electricity to over a hundred homes last night. Repairmen worked into the early hours of the morning to fix the problem. Those Vonita citizens will surely be happy to wake up to restored power this morning.”
Thank you, God.
The news sent a spark of energy through me. I drained my coffee and returned to the kitchen. I cleaned up after myself and left a note for Dineen:
Thanks so much. Looks like energy is back on at my house. Will call you later.
As I pulled away from Dineen’s, a dull ache thrummed in my head. Another full-blown headache was on its way. I detoured to stop at the convenience store for some high-powered aspirin.
The sky hung swollen and bruised. Runoff funneled down the side of the curb, the drains unable to keep up. In some places the water swirled into the street. My tires hit the puddles, sending hissing sprays at the gloomy sky. People were in their yards, picking up branches and other debris. A few glanced my way. No one waved. Before the newspaper article, that wouldn’t have been the case.
Maybe they hadn’t noticed who I was. Maybe I was just being paranoid.
I thought of all my friends at Vonita True Life Church, attending services in a few hours. Would they breathe a sigh of relief when I didn’t show up? How many would offer their condolences to Baxter for my harshness?
My headache was quickly growing worse. I pulled into Perry’s Corner Store and lugged myself inside.
“Hey, Joanne,” Perry Bracowski called from the cash register area. He put the paperback he was reading facedown on the counter and shot me a smile. Perry was never without a detective novel. They filled the long hours at work, he’d once told me. After his wife died a year ago—following a protracted battle with cancer—he admitted to reading all the more. The books didn’t fill the empty spaces at home, he said, but at least they were something.
Other than the two of us the store was empty. “What’re you doing here on a Sunday morning?” I asked. Hired help usually opened the store. Perry worked the later shift and closed. Plus I knew he typically attended the Baptist church in town.
“Ah.” He waved a hand in the air. “Lost my employee. Again. Doggone kids, think they have to go to college.”
We smiled at each other.
“Nice night we had, huh?” He raised his bushy eyebrows.