They both started as a sudden ear-splitting bang ripped through the calmness of the evening. It sounded like gunfire and panic flashed across Simmonds’ features. Then the dark night sky outside the window exploded into a riot of color, followed by whistles and more bangs.
“Fireworks.” Simmonds shook his head and returned to the sofa with the topped-off drink. “Renee hired a guy to put on a display in the back yard.”
“Yeah, she mentioned something about fireworks earlier, didn’t she.”
“It’s Renee’s answer to everything.” Simmonds laughed bitterly. “Something needing done? Hire a guy to do it. And usually a young, good-looking one. Pool guy, lawn guy, fireworks guy. Missing daughter? Hire a guy to find her.” He smiled at Jessica. “Or woman. Sorry.”
She returned the smile. “Renee actually hired my boss, Matt Connor. We’re both working the investigation.”
Simmonds opened his mouth to speak. Closed it again. Paused a beat. Then he said, “Can I be straight with you, Miss Shaw?”
“Sure. Please do.”
“Hiring a private eye—or two private eyes—to look for Laurie was Renee’s idea. And it’s not one I agree with. I don’t like the idea of complete strangers rooting around in my daughter’s business and personal life. But Renee insisted so I signed off on the check. It doesn’t mean I like it, though. Like I said before, I believe Laurie will come home when she’s good and ready.”
Jessica wasn’t offended, or even surprised, by Simmonds’ reticence. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered family members who disagreed over hiring professional investigators to look for their loved ones.
She did have more questions though.
“What about the other missing women?”
A shadow crossed Simmonds’ face. “Laurie doesn’t have anything to do with those women,” he said. “The cops don’t think so either.”
“No? You don’t think it’s strange they all vanished from the same place?”
“The circumstances are very different. The only thing they have in common is that damn highway.”
“You don’t think it’s worth exploring?”
“Honestly? No. This is all just Renee obsessing. Trying to whip folks, like yourself, into a frenzy over a conspiracy that doesn’t exist. My wife literally spends hours online every single day scouring the internet for anything to do with Twentynine Palms Highway. It’s how she found out about those other two women. But it’s a long stretch of road and dozens of things have happened out there over the years, mostly a lot of road traffic accidents. It doesn’t mean any of it is connected to Laurie.”
“What about Randal?” Jessica asked. “Do you think he has anything to do with Laurie’s disappearance?”
“Who?” Simmonds shot Jessica a look. “I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”
Jessica told him what she knew about the art gallery guy—his interest in Laurie’s paintings, the appointment at the shop he never showed for, how he now appeared to be a ghost who couldn’t be traced in any way.
Simmonds nodded slowly. “I do remember Laurie being quite excited about some potential big sales, possibly an exhibition, but she didn’t go into details. Didn’t mention anyone by the name of Randal. I don’t know . . . Perhaps their business relationship turned into something more and they both took off together for a while?”
“What about the disconnected cell phone number?” Jessica asked. “The website that no longer exists? The wrong address in New York?”
Worry was etched all across Simmonds’ face as he considered her questions. Then he shook his head, as though dismissing Jessica’s concerns.
“Maybe this Randal guy wanted to disappear from his own life for a while too?” he said. “Maybe the pizza place took over the gallery premises after he left?”
Jessica was doubtful, thought Simmonds was desperately grasping at straws, but she didn’t say anything.
He went on, “What you have to remember is Laurie made the decision to leave—the missing luggage and personal effects, the texts to say she wouldn’t be at work. My daughter will be home soon, when she wants to come back. I’m sure of it.”
“What if you’re wrong, Mr. Simmonds?”
He fixed Jessica with a hard stare. “I have to believe I’m right,” he said. “Because the alternative simply doesn’t bear thinking about.”
12
JESSICA
Jessica didn’t have a home and that was exactly the way she liked it.
She didn’t think of herself as homeless or transient or down on her luck. The lack of a permanent address was a lifestyle choice, rather than falling on hard times. After the death of her dad, Tony, from a heart attack almost three years ago, she’d taken to the road and vowed never to return to New York and its painful memories.
Now, after six months living in a tin can trailer out in the desert, Jessica was glad to be back where she was happiest—in low-rent motels. The Venice Motor Inn suited her just fine. She could’ve opted for one of the tourist hotels closer to the beach—the sale of the house she’d shared with Tony in Blissville and his small life insurance policy meant she had more than enough cash in the bank—but proper hotels just weren’t her thing.
The forced politeness every time she passed the front desk, muzak in the elevators and lobby, the temptation to empty the over-priced mini-bar every night. No thanks. She much preferred to come and go as she pleased, with a door leading directly to her own room, no one to judge or question the hours she kept, a decent full-size bottle of Scotch compensating for the lack of expensive miniatures.
She’d paid two nights in advance when she’d first landed in Venice, unsure whether Connor would agree to giving her the job. Now he had, she’d book an extended stay. Didn’t want a rental someplace, didn’t want to think too far ahead about the future.
Jessica picked up her cell phone and found the photos she’d snapped yesterday of the iconic Venice sign strung across the intersection at Pacific and Windward, selected her favorite one, and texted it to Jason Pryce and his daughter, Dionne. The caption on both texts read: Home Sweet Home.
Pryce, an LAPD detective, had been childhood friends with her father and knew stuff about Tony and Jessica no one else knew. Without her even realizing it, he had been in her life since she was a kid, but it was only in the last year she’d grown close to Pryce and his family. He was a connection to the past, as well as providing hope for a future where she didn’t have to be on her own.
Jessica threw back the bedsheet, got up and showered, towel-dried her hair and applied some eye makeup. She pulled on yesterday’s jeans and selected a gray t-shirt from her suitcase. She always traveled with two cases: one for warm weather, one for winter. Also stored in the truck’s covered flatbed was a carton holding the rest of her personal belongings. Not a lot to show for almost thirty years in the world but Jessica figured her heart held what really mattered: her memories. Watching old ’80s movies and drinking beer with Tony, game nights at Yankee Stadium, discussing cases with her old boss Larry Lutz over breakfast at the Clinton Diner—you couldn’t just box up stuff that precious.