| |
My gray-walled cubicle felt stuffy and cramped as I itched to get up and walk around. Even the kitschy black velvet and neon unicorn poster I’d picked up at a yard sale and tacked to my wall couldn’t cheer me up. I’d been in a funk ever since the schism between Tina and me widened.
Life was lonely without my best friend. No number of boyfriend kisses or breakfasts in bed or Tristan’s handpicked bouquets of wildflowers could mend the ache I felt after my fight with Tina. The best way to make up would be to bring back her daughter ... but I was nowhere close to finding her yet.
I’d spent the afternoon doing busywork, and my legs were growing restless. Even my brain refused to cooperate as it wandered off into worrisome thoughts about Giana, George Battan, my dad. Maybe a coffee would help, since caffeine had an uncanny calming effect on me. Heading to the coffee station—which was essentially a Mr. Coffee coffee pot half filled with day-old brew next to a carton of powdered creamer—I passed Tristan’s desk, where he was on the phone. I decided to pop by for a quick hi. Yes, I was that bored that I resorted to pestering my boyfriend at work, despite the warnings about “office romance.”
One thing I appreciated most about Tristan was that he didn’t act the part. No tucked-in collared shirt or red power tie. No coffee stains or donut crumbs. He was tattoos and eccentricities, cast from an original mold, with rock star hair and chains clasped to his belt loops. Brooding but funny. Unselfconsciously cool. Even in my worst moods he could draw a laugh out of me. Invigorating like spring water. Just what a thirsty, restless girl like me needed.
Waiting for him to hang up, my eyes wandered over the paperwork scattered across the faux wooden surface of his desk. Notes about the serial killer he was tracking were scrawled on a yellow notepad, gory pictures of crime scenes and evidence fanned out in a collage of torn flesh and tools of death, and I couldn’t pull my stare away.
“Find anything interesting?”
I jumped at the question, not realizing Tristan had been watching me. The graphic photos showcased the depths of depravity that lurked in the hidden places and loitered in front of our very homes. Nowhere was safe anymore. Not the workplaces or the schools or the stores or even my own support group. Evil lived everywhere. Even in my own family. I shivered at the thought of a father whose arms held me in a comforting hug then strangled a child to death hours later. Sickening, that’s what it was.
“Just browsing.”
It was an unspoken rule that I wasn’t supposed to nose my way into his cases. Then again, I’d always been a rule-breaker. After I had told him about my little visit to see Battan, I only reinforced this side of me. Luckily Tristan’s understanding ran deep, though I wondered how much he’d put up with from me before that well ran dry.
“Browsing crime scene photos? That’s not weird at all,” Tristan added with a chuckle.
“Shut up.”
“How’s it going over yonder?”
“Boring. My brain is going numb from all the filing. I figured you could entertain me. Dance for me.” I stuck my tongue out.
“You’re so mature.”
“I know. So, what’cha doing?”
“Wondering what you need.”
I winked. “Take one guess. It has to do with you and that apron you look so damn hot in.”
He laughed and shook his head. I wanted to kiss the splotches spreading across his neck like raspberry jelly on toast. “You’re such a tease.”
I lifted one shoulder in a girly pout. “I know. But seriously, I need to pick your brain for a minute.”
“Ah, are we gonna exchange the latest serial-killer gossip?”
He knew me so well. “Not this time. It’s about Tina—and my dad.” I figured maybe he had some advice on how to deal with Tina’s little one-woman act, considering he was a cop and all. “I’m sure you saw her media stunt trying to draw attention to the connection between George and Marla ... and then throwing my dad in for good measure.”
“I sure did. I thought she didn’t want to come forward. Not until she got info on Giana.”
“I thought so too. Apparently she changed her mind without telling anyone. I don’t know what to do. George won’t give me any leads on finding Giana, and the only thing I know is that my father was there—maybe. Can I really trust Tina’s memory?”
“She seems pretty certain it was him.”
“But a vague memory from three years ago is not enough proof. And I guarantee Dad’ll play ignorant if I ask him about it. What other options do I have to find Giana, oh wise one?”
Tristan’s lips tightened in a line as he shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. If we knew the date of birth, we could search public records, but God knows what information was fudged during the paperwork, if there is any. Based on Tina’s recounting of her labor, I doubt they ever officially filed for a certificate of live birth with the county. They most likely didn’t keep the name Giana, possibly changed the birth date, maybe even crossed international borders. It’s been three years—a lot can happen in that amount of time.”
“What about Battan? Can you intimidate him into giving details on what he did with Giana?”
“I wish I could, but all we have on Battan is child trafficking charges, which he’s trying to get out of. He’s got a damn good attorney, and God only knows who he’s paid off. Right now I have nothing new to threaten him with. Linking him to Marla’s murder was our best bet, but right now it’s only hearsay. No evidence, just one girl’s word against his.”
“So you can’t go all Jack Bauer on him and cut off a couple of his fingers or stick a plastic bag over his head to scare the truth out of him?”
“Whoa, I’m a badass, but not nearly as badass as Jack Bauer.” He chuckled. “I would love nothing more than to torture him, Ari, but you know I can’t. Have you even tried to talk to you father? If you put the heat on your dad, maybe he’ll talk. Tell him you know about Marla—see if that gets his lips moving.”
I hadn’t considered using Marla to get to Giana before. It could actually work if I played it right.
“I guess anything is worth a shot.”
I was running out of options fast, but if my dad cared at all about staying out of jail and keeping George as far away as possible, he’d have to start talking. If only I hadn’t inherited my stubborn gene from Burt Wilburn, because my dad made a mule look cooperative. But there were ways to get the most mulish of men to talk.