“Then let’s go.”
67
It took them a while, but they found it. The phone was along the back wall beneath the headboard. From the dust and cobwebs back there, hotel housekeeping hadn’t done that great of a job at keeping the place clean.
Miranda’s grandmother would have been incensed if any of the housekeeping staff—whether one of her granddaughters or the dozen or so they employed—were that slipshod in their duties.
“I guess hotels are going downhill these days,” Taggart quipped.
“Not the one my family owns. You should check it out sometime.” She sent him a wicked grin as she carefully grabbed the phone in a gloved hand. It would be bagged and tagged appropriately, of course. “Best hotel in Wyoming.”
“You take me there, and I’ll do just that.”
She hadn’t missed the appreciation in his eyes. Not at all.
Miranda would admit it—that boosted her confidence just a tiny bit.
He was a hot-looking man, after all. “Let’s just find Sturvin and rescue those little girls. Then…I’ll show you around St. Louis. Take you to Smokey’s. Best onion rings on the planet.”
He’d already volunteered to ride back to St. Louis with her after she’d delivered the special package to the director’s friend. He said he wanted to see this case through to the end, before going on vacation in two days, himself.
He was hers to do with whatever she wanted.
Oh, if she was a different kind of woman…
They ended up driving. There was more rain and thunderstorms threatening. She checked the St. Louis weather report and shrugged. It was a four-hour drive. Better than waiting around on a plane that may or may not take off.
Her companion was entertaining. And he drove well.
Miranda liked the guy. She didn’t know if there would be enough spark between them for something more to develop but she liked him.
Quite a bit.
“So…tell me,” he said about three-quarters of their way back to the city. “What happened to Knight exactly? I tried to keep up with him after he was injured, but to be honest, he cut off most of his friends right after. Even me and my foster brother. It’s been a year or so since I even tried.”
“Oh boy. Good thing we have a four-hour drive. There’s lots to tell you about our good pal Knight.” Knight’s face flashed into her mind.
Miranda shivered.
That was one man she’d probably never understand.
68
Max studied what was written on the whiteboard in a mix of Jac’s precise scrawl and Dani’s more flowery hand. Debbie’s body was currently in autopsy. They were all hoping something would have been left on her to either confirm her killer’s identity or tell them where the killer was most likely headed next. He knew the odds were against it, but the hope was there.
Miranda was on her way back from Indianapolis with Paul Sturvin’s phone. Indianapolis Metro police were combing the city for signs of where he might be, as well. Dozens of people were looking for that man now.
In three states.
From what had happened to Debbie, Max was almost ninety-five percent certain they were looking for Paul Sturvin as their number one suspect now.
Max had been trained on different types of homicides. At heart, most could be boiled down to a few simple motivations. Power, greed, anger, jealousy, financial instability, control, hiding other crimes—he didn’t quite know Sturvin’s motive yet, but he knew enough to form a picture of what they were looking for.
Someone came into the conference room. He knew without turning that it was Jac. He would always almost feel her presence. He was well beyond the process of accepting that fact.
He was more attuned to her than a super-magnet. He probably always would be.
“Shayna called; she and Dani have been doing some digging while waiting on test results.”
“And?” There was exhaustion on her face. Her skin was paler than usual. They had been getting closer to finding the girls. Only to be knocked back again. That would have sent her reeling, even if she wasn’t outwardly showing it.
“Paul Sturvin was adopted by a maternal aunt when he was four.”
“Is she still living?”
“She and her husband were killed fifteen years ago. Carbon monoxide poisoning one night while Paul was in college.” Jac put copies of death certificates on a clip attached to the board. “But it gets more complicated.”
“How so?”
“Paul’s paternal aunt adopted his twin brother, Philip, at the same time.”
“They split them up? Why?” Max asked.
“No clue yet. But his paternal aunt and uncle died—in a fire ten years ago.”
“And the twin brother?” Whit asked, having come in behind Jac. “What about him? Would Paul go to him if he was in trouble? Would he know where Paul would go?”
“Not possible. He was killed in an auto accident almost six years ago.” Jac put another photo on the wall next. One that looked identical to Paul Sturvin. She put the name Philip Sullivan beneath that photo.
“Tragic family,” Whit said. “That sucks. So is there anyone left alive who knows Sturvin well now?”
That’s when Max zeroed in on Jac’s face. Her eyes were trained on the final report in her hands. “Jac?”
She shook her head. “Philip Sullivan, Paul’s brother, lost his entire family a month before his own death. In a house fire. Suspected arson. Philip and his infant son, Bentley, were the only survivors. His wife and three other children were killed. Only the baby and Philip were found outside.”
Max swore. “What happened to the baby?”
“He went to live with a relative of Philip’s adoptive mother. But she died six months ago from cervical cancer.”
“I wonder why the Sturvins didn’t take him?” Whit asked. “He was Paul’s nephew. They were financially able, and the closest living relatives.”
“Where is the boy now?” Max asked.
“I’ll have Dani check. See why the Sturvins didn’t take custody.” Jac pulled out her phone. “It’s not much, but someone out there has to be able to help us narrow down where he’s taking the girls. Or where he might
