“No.”
Floundering, he careened from one difficult topic to the next. “Are you still seeing James?”
Her sleek brows drew together. “Yes. Why?”
“He seems kind of volatile.”
“You attacked
He sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. “I guess that was uncalled for.”
“You think?” She drummed her fingertips against the sleeve of her sweatshirt, glancing out at the media vans with trepidation.
The movement drew his attention to a ring on her finger. “Where’d you get that?” he asked, catching her hand to study the antique silver band.
“James gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Yesterday,” she said, pulling her hand away quickly. “It’s nothing.”
Ben’s vision narrowed. He knew damned well she hadn’t been wearing that ring on her finger last night. “Have you been sneaking out again?”
“No, I-”
“Don’t you know what happens to girls who wander around by themselves at night?” he interrupted, stress coursing through him. “They get raped and murdered! You, of all people, should know that!”
She recoiled. “Do you think that’s what happened to Lisette?”
His throat went dry. Lisette was probably up to no good, on drugs or in trouble, but dead? “No,” he said softly, praying it was true.
Getting past the reporters unnoticed wasn’t as hard as he’d thought. There were dozens of teenagers milling about, and the crowd was focused on Tom and Sheila Bruebaker, who were poised to make a statement.
Feeling a little ridiculous, Ben removed his hood but kept on his sunglasses. As he stood next to Carly, near the front entrance of the house, there was only one person who appeared to recognize him: Tom Bruebaker.
He was standing beside his wife, his hand at the small of her back. In a pin-striped shirt and dark slacks, a diamond-encrusted watch at his thick wrist, and the morning sun glinting off his silver hair, Tom cut a striking figure. His jaw clenched when their eyes met, and the older man looked away. At Tom’s side, Sheila appeared fragile and elegant in a Chanel suit. She was holding on to his shoulder, as if she wasn’t quite steady on her feet. Her fingers sparkled with jewelry and her eyes glittered with unshed tears.
The press conference lasted only a short time. Tom did most of the talking, asking for anyone with information about his daughter to come forward, and offering a considerable reward. Too overwhelmed to speak, Sheila wept prettily into a lace handkerchief.
Ben had known the Bruebakers for ages. He used to be able to call Tom a friend. Now the man was the closest thing to an enemy Ben had.
After the Bruebakers spoke with the press, everyone was ushered inside by a female officer who was in charge of organizing the search. Watching her reminded Ben that Summer worked with law enforcement. The way she’d looked at him this morning, her blue eyes cold as ice, was disturbing on many different levels.
Torturing himself, he replayed their conversation in his mind. He had to admit that by allowing his daughter to lie to the police, he’d given her reason to be suspicious. And when Summer had confronted him about sleeping with Lisette, he’d been too proud to deny it.
Then he’d insulted her by suggesting she meant nothing to him, and wasn’t worthy of speaking his wife’s name.
Ben stifled a groan, rubbing a hand over his face. How ironic that he’d gotten himself tangled up with a woman who challenged him at least as much as Olivia had.
Sonny adjusted the fit of the Harbor Police uniform before she stepped out of the women’s locker room. The black polyester pants were too snug and the white shirt molded over her breasts, so it was perfect. A navy cap and dark sunglasses completed the disguise. She didn’t want to call too much attention to her face.
Lamont Rousseau, a real member of the Coast Guard, and her counterpart for the afternoon, was ready and waiting for her at America’s Cup Harbor.
They worked the docks for more than an hour, trolling for sailors known to frequent the restricted waters of the La Jolla Underwater Park and Ecological Reserve, where Lisette’s body had allegedly been sighted. Most of San Diego’s small vessel fishermen were second- or third-generation Portuguese or Italian, with salt water flowing through their veins and flippers for feet. They were a tight-lipped crew, protective of their own, but one name in particular kept cropping up, a man with no family ties in the area. Unpopular with sellers and buyers alike, he was rumored to employ several questionable tactics, including using nonregulation nets, scouting the reserve, and weighting his catch with filler.
His name was Arlen Matthews.
Sonny didn’t recognize the name, having never heard it from James, so she was surprised to see Carly’s boyfriend aboard a beat-up old boat named
Sonny put a hand on Lamont’s arm. “I know him. The youngest.”
“Do you want me to go alone?”
She hesitated, considering. It was too important. And too much of a coincidence. “No. Just follow my lead.”
Sonny approached the boat. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said with a smile, modulating the pitch of her voice. “Sloppy weather, isn’t it?”
The fisherman’s lingo she’d picked up didn’t seem to put the Matthews men at ease.
“Sloppier than a TJ whore,” Arlen Matthews agreed, pulling his hat low on his forehead. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, and he had a cigarette clenched between his teeth. Like his sons, he had the lean, whipcord build of a lifelong sailor. While James and his brother had thick brown hair, Mr. Matthews’ was all tarnished gold. The two older men were scruffier than James, less clean-cut, but they were all handsome. And wary.
Sonny wasn’t amused by Arlen’s off-color remark. “Good catch?”
“Fair,” he grunted. “What can I do for you?”
“A couple of kayakers claim they saw the body of a drowned woman on the south side of the reserve. You all been out that way?”
Stephen and James made a busy show of swabbing the deck, their eyes downcast.
Arlen took a deep drag on his smoke. “Can’t drop a net there. It’s protected.”
Sonny didn’t say anything.
Arlen did a slow perusal of her body, insultingly obvious even though his eyes were covered. When he smiled, her blood ran cold. “Only dead bodies I’ve seen are these two,” he said, jerking his thumb at his sons. “Get lazier every year.”
Sonny glanced at James, wondering if he recognized her. She noted that his trembling hands were chafed and his arms sinewy with muscle. Both boys looked half-starved, but strong. She took a picture of Lisette out of her pocket and handed it to Arlen. “This is the girl we think may be out there. Do you know her?”
Arlen took the photo. “Nope,” he said, barely glancing at it. He tried to hand it back, but she wouldn’t take it.
“Maybe your sons do. She’s more their age.”
Arlen shrugged, but when he attempted to pass over the picture, it slipped from his hand and fluttered to the water. “Sorry,” he said, making no move to retrieve it. In fact, he threw his cigarette butt right at it.
Lamont’s nostrils flared with anger, but he maintained his silence.
“That’s a filthy habit,” she said, meaning smoking, littering,
“Ain’t it just?” he replied with a smirk.
Wishing Arlen would remove his sunglasses, so she could see his eyes, she took a card from her pocket, fresh and hastily made, with a Harbor Police phone number and her assumed name. “If you boys see or hear anything, give me a call.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Arlen said, brushing his tobacco-stained fingers over hers. “We sure will.”
