“Yes, it’s out front on the counter.”
“And this Randal guy would’ve been able to find out the number easily enough?”
“Sure, it’s listed and it’s on our website. In fact, I’m sure Laurie said they swapped business cards at the fair so the shop number would’ve been on her card.”
“Where does Laurie keep all of her paperwork?” Jessica asked. “Things like sales transactions, invoices, client details.”
“Not here. Most likely the desk in her apartment.”
“Great. I’ll check it out.” Jessica got up from the sofa. The butt of her skinny jeans was sweat-damp from the crinkly old leather. She jotted down her own number on the cover of a sketchpad. “Thanks for your time, Elizabeth. If you think of anything, please give me a call.”
She followed the other woman back into the shop and paused in front of one of Laurie’s paintings. The brilliant white foam of a crashing wave contrasted beautifully with the intense turquoise, teal, and azure of the ocean. Jessica didn’t know the first thing about art but she thought Renee Simmonds was right—her daughter did have talent.
“It’s a stunning piece, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said from behind her. “Although, none of Laurie’s paintings are for sale until she comes back—you wouldn’t believe the number of rubberneckers I had in here after she made the local papers. Some of her older paintings were selling for more than double on Craigslist.”
“What do her paintings usually go for?”
“Anything from five hundred to five thousand. Although the bigger sales are quite rare.”
Jessica smiled. “A little out of my price range.” She picked up a mug from the counter display, one with the wave print on front. It was way nicer than Connor’s chipped Dodgers one. Jessica was a Yankees fan in any case. “How much for this?”
“No charge,” Elizabeth said. “Just find Laurie and bring her home to us.”
6
CONNOR
Connor spent the morning making calls and feeling mostly like he was hitting his head against a load of brick walls.
First, he’d tried the detective who’d worked the Mallory Wilcox case and discovered he was now retired. Then he’d left a message for the cop in charge of Amanda Meyers’ disappearance. He’d also gotten the machine for Amanda’s parents after finally tracking down an address and contact number for them in Bakersfield.
He’d then gone through all the usual checks for missing persons: local hospitals and homeless shelters, the “Inmate Locator” website, websites for the County Coroner and County Morgue. He’d tried Los Angeles, then San Bernardino, and then Riverside. Knew they would all have been checked already but also knew he had to give them another go in case a Jane Doe matching the descriptions of Mallory or Amanda had turned up recently. Had hoped, if that was the case, he’d find her in jail, rather than the morgue. No dice. Blanks all the way. Jessica had gone through the same list searching for anyone who might be Laurie Simmonds, before heading out to speak to Elizabeth Mann and having a look around Laurie’s apartment.
Jessica.
His brain had been fried since she’d shown up out of the blue at Larry’s the night before. He’d sent her a text a while back, one night when he’d been drinking, telling her he’d been thinking about her.
Yeah, real smooth, Connor.
When she hadn’t replied, he’d assumed he would never see her again. That thought had hit him a whole lot harder than he’d expected it to. He’d only spent a matter of days in Jessica’s company but she’d left her mark on him, that was for sure. He hadn’t been lying when he admitted in the text that he’d been thinking about her a lot. So, when she’d walked into the bar, casual as anything, he’d thought he must be seeing things. Wondered how strong the whiskey was he’d been drinking.
When she’d asked him for a job, he’d known straightaway he should say no. It was a bad idea. A terrible idea. He’d pissed her off once before and the voice inside his head was telling him it would all end badly again. He would buy her a drink, let her down gently, then walk away. No harm done. Maybe they’d even keep in touch this time. Then he’d looked into her eyes, seen the vulnerability under that tough exterior, and he’d heard himself saying yes.
Connor sighed now. He picked up the phone and punched in the number for Terence Wilcox, Mallory’s husband. It rang and rang at the other end and Connor was just about to hang up when the call finally connected.
“What?” barked a male voice impatiently.
“Can I speak to Terence Wilcox, please?”
“Which one?”
“Huh?”
“Which Terence Wilcox? There’s three of us.”
“Um, the one who’s married to Mallory Wilcox.”
“That’d be Terence Wilcox II. Just as well ’cos the other two ain’t available. Terence Wilcox I is six feet under in Riverside Cemetery and Terence Wilcox III is at school. Or at least, he damn well better be.”
Connor thought the guy might be drunk.
“Are you Terence Wilcox II?”
“Depends who’s asking. What’re you selling?”
“I’m not selling anything.”
“Reporter?”
“Nope.”
“But this is about Mal, right?”
“Right. My name is Matt Connor. I’m a private investigator.”
“I didn’t hire no private dick.”
“No, but someone else did.”
“Someone hired you to find my Mal?”
“Not exactly. I’m looking for another woman. Your wife’s disappearance may be connected. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions?”
“Is it gonna cost me?”
“No, sir.”
There was a long silence on the other end. Connor could hear the canned laughter from a daytime TV show in the background.
Eventually, Wilcox spoke again. “Stop by the house whenever you want. I’m home most days. You know my phone number, so I’m assuming you know where I live too.” The words were slurred. Definitely drunk. “Then you go find that bitch and bring her home to look after her goddamn kids.”
There was a click.
Wilcox had hung up.
Connor stared at the receiver, shook his head, and replaced it in the cradle.
He tapped his pen on his notepad and thought about what to do next. Decided Terence Wilcox II could wait. He pulled up a Google search page on the computer and looked up an address, jotted it down, and grabbed his car keys.
Amanda Meyers had worked in one of the most eye-catching buildings in Downtown LA’s Theater District.
The thirteen-story glossy turquoise, terracotta, and gold-trimmed Art Deco building stood out on the corner of Broadway and Ninth like a vintage jewel in a pawn shop window display. Crowned with a four-sided clock tower, even the surrounding zigzag and chevron-patterned terrazzo sidewalks were fancy. Once the headquarters of the Eastern Outfitting Company and the Columbia Outfitting Company furniture and clothing stores, it was now home to a mix of luxury condos, office suites and retail outlets.
Connor took the elevator to the floor occupied by the offices of Haywood, Dunne & Smith. The doors slid open soundlessly to reveal a stylish reception area with expensive-looking modern art on magnolia walls, a plush black leather couch, and carpet so thick his feet almost disappeared into the deep pile. The intimidating contemporary styling seemed at odds with the ’30s charm of the rest of the building.