“She could be in a hospital in a coma, couldn’t she?” The woman’s lips trembled. “I see that on the stories sometimes. People get in comas and their kin can’t find ’em.”
“I doubt that,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. Mrs. Freed had been making excuses for her daughter’s disappearance for months. She didn’t need more false hope.
Nor, however, was Stacey cruel enough to be blunt. Telling the woman her daughter had probably skipped town with some dealer, not giving a damn about her mother’s feelings, would be beyond mean. So she skirted as best she could, making the efforts Winnie asked her to, holding out no hope that they’d lead to anything. Lisa would come back when she was good and ready, probably when she was broke and desperate.
“But it’s possible, right? She could be hurt somewhere, not knowin’ who she is.”
“Any hospital with a Jane Doe would be looking at missing persons cases.”
Lisa’s mother let out a long, slow sigh, almost visibly deflating, even though she’d gone through this before. It wouldn’t have been the first time the young woman had run away and stayed out of contact. No, it had never gone on for this long, and she’d always at least left a note, but it was still the most likely story.
“Do you think if I could come up with a few hundred dollars for a reward…?”
“No, Winnie. I don’t think so.”
Some said Lisa had been wild from the cradle. Stacey didn’t remember her like that. In fact, she’d found her shy and affectionate on those summer days they’d spent together. Lisa had been so smart, inquisitive, bubbly.
Then, when Lisa was twelve, her father had died. Her mother had remarried and Lisa had changed. She’d met the wrong guy with the wrong needle, and the smart girl with the big dreams had turned into a bleary-eyed waif with track marks up her arms.
“Here you go, honey,” Connie said as she entered the room. She placed a foam cup on the edge of the desk and handed Mrs. Freed a napkin-wrapped doughnut.
Winnie took the coffee and slipped the doughnut into her large handbag, squirreling it away as if wanting to hide it. Just like she hid these trips to the sheriff’s office.
Stan Freed’s feelings toward his stepdaughter weren’t as charitable as Winnie’s. The hard-eyed man had written Lisa off for good. Which was why Winnie came in on Wednesdays: the one day of the week when she was off work and her repairman husband was not.
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Winnie slowly stood. “I appreciate your not giving up.”
Stacey stood and extended her hand across the desk, feeling the frailty of the other woman’s fingers. “You’re welcome.”
The woman lurched out, carrying the weight of the world on her bony back.
Sad. Most people had given up on Lisa long ago. Her mother never would. And, out of loyalty and because she was good at her job, neither would Stacey.
That thought was on her mind throughout the day. It was a quiet one, no calls, not even any speeders racing through downtown. She mostly stayed in her office doing paperwork and keeping her promise to Mrs. Freed.
Ignoring the futility of it, she once again checked online, updating Lisa’s missing persons listing. She checked NCIC’s latest crime reports, scanning for anything involving unidentified women of Lisa’s description, particularly drug arrests. As usual, she found nothing. But at least a week from today, she’d be able to say she’d tried.
Late in the day she realized there was one more effort she could make on Winnie’s behalf. Lisa’s missing persons flyer had been on the board for a long time, and it showed. Printing off a new one seemed so minor, yet it was one small thing she could do to help.
Opening the electronic file, she glanced over the pertinent details, again feeling the single flash of confusion she’d had since Lisa had disappeared. Lisa had been driving her stepfather’s company car that night, without permission. It had been found outside of Dick’s Tavern. But why had she left without the fifty dollars that had been lying right on the console?
Stacey could guess why she hadn’t brought the cash into Dick’s. “You were saving it for a score,” she told the woman whose haggard face appeared on the monitor. “You feared if you brought it inside, you’d get drunk and spend it.”
But why leave town without it? For someone like Lisa, the money should have been the first thing she’d go for. Hell, given some of the characters she’d hooked up with over the years, and Lisa’s well-known dislike of Stan Freed, it was a surprise she hadn’t stolen her stepfather’s car and sold it for whatever she could get.
Then again, the young woman wasn’t stupid. The car was pretty damned distinctive, with that silly talking-laptop logo on the side of it. Still, leaving that fifty dollars didn’t seem like something Lisa would do.
“Strange that you’d forget it,” Stacey murmured, still staring at Lisa’s photograph, trying to find the pretty girl in the strung-out woman before her.
Hearing a beep, she sent the document to the printer, then answered the intercom. “Yes, Connie?”
“Sheriff, there’s a call for you on the private line.”
The private line wasn’t exactly private. It was merely the phone number they used in-house, and for the rest of the law enforcement world. They kept it from locals, who’d tie it up with complaints about the trash man being too late, or too early. “Who is it?”
“He says he’s from the FBI! Special Agent Taggert.”
An FBI special agent. Not exactly an alert-the-media moment, but it was something different. “Put him through.”
While she waited for the call to ring in, she grabbed the single white sheet coming off the printer. It was in her hand when the phone trilled twice.
“Sheriff Rhodes.”
After a split second’s hesitation he introduced himself, adding, “I’m calling about a missing person you reported.”
Stacey stiffened, glancing at the flyer still in her hand. The FBI was calling about Lisa Zimmerman. What kind of trouble had the young woman gotten herself into this time? “Do you have information about her?”
“You know who I’m calling about?” Surprise brought his deep voice up a notch.
“I’ve only filed one missing persons report in the two years I’ve held this job,” she replied, her tone dry.
“I see.” Some papers ruffled in the background, as if he were consulting his notes. “This young woman, Lisa Zimmerman, went missing in March of last year?”
“Yes, she did.”
“And nobody’s heard a word from her since?” Stacey’s breath slowed. Something in his tone, low and serious, tugged her thoughts in a different, darker direction. Everyone in this town was so used to Lisa causing trouble and victimizing others that it had almost never even occurred to Stacey to think of Lisa as a victim herself.
Oh, God, please, no. That little-girl face, the sweet smile, the soft blond hair flashed through her mind. So did the image of sad Winnie Freed trudging out of the office, already anticipating the day, one week hence, when she’d hear good news.
“Sheriff? Nobody’s heard from her?”
“Not a word.” Her throat tight with dread, she asked,
“Do you know where Lisa Zimmerman is, Special Agent Taggert?”
“No, I don’t know where she is.” There was another hesitation. “But I might be able to tell you what happened to her.”
3
Arriving in Hope Valley was like entering a 1950s TV show. Dean had heard of places like this; he just didn’t know they still existed. He’d been raised on the mean streets of Baltimore and now lived in D.C. He had never experienced towns with ice-cream parlors, free on-street parking, and community centers complete with signs for dances and bake sales.
The main streets through downtown were lined with green trees that overhung the neatly swept sidewalks. Rather than antique shops and galleries designed to lure tourists on day-in-the-country outings, this place had normal businesses serving the people who lived here. A small grocery store was tucked between a bank and a pharmacy. A diner offered blue-plate lunch specials. Outside a barbershop stood an antique spinning pole that actually worked.