“Star’s staying with her grandmother,” Maggie echoed. Which means…
“While I sharpen up my detective skills. They haven’t gotten much use lately.”
“If I can help…” If she had a mirror in her purse, she could show him a clue. Maybe that was what he was searching his pockets for.
“We could be in serious trouble,” he muttered as he gave up on his pants in favor of his shirt.
“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“No, I appreciate the offer.” He smiled as he unbut-toned the flap on his left pocket—the one without the badge. “I thought I’d lost my billfold. They could’ve had the sheriff washing dishes here.” He wagged a slim leather wallet. “Talk about crazy, huh?”
“Not me. Far be it for a smart-ass to talk about crazy.”
“If I ask for help, it’s the smart part I’ll be lookin’ for.” He winked at her, a surprise that gave her butterflies. “I knew exactly what you were thinking.”
Sam’s apartment on the second floor of the old county building was hot, and not in a good way. There was no controlling the heat, no matter what the season.
He was never far away from his job, but he didn’t mind. It was the way he’d lived most of his life. He’d grown up on the second floor of Allgood’s Emporium. He’d billeted in camps, bunked in barracks, surfed a few couches, and he had to admit the sheriff’s apartment wasn’t half-bad as cramped, hot, on-site quarters went. He could always find some work to do when he couldn’t sleep. He liked to keep close watch on any guests he was keeping in the four-cell county jail, which was right next door in the new courthouse building.
Some nights he’d drive around looking for trouble. Other times he’d dive into the never-ending stream of paperwork. On this night he went to the property cabinet and removed the Merilee Brown box.
He’d never known her to have much, but for a woman with a child, she had next to nothing. The personal possessions he’d removed from the motel room were remarkably scant. He had to believe she’d left home in a hurry, and he needed to find out why. An uncashed paycheck was his first clue. It was made out to Merilee with an unsigned endorsement to the order of Vic Randone. The check proved that Merilee was employed by the Gourmet Breakfast House in Long Beach until at least four weeks ago and that Randone was still taking money from her.
What the hell did she see in him?
Damn. Sam hadn’t asked himself that question in a long time, and he wasn’t going to let himself start in again. Back to the job at hand, he found a book about fairy-tale princesses and one about horses, a scrapbook full of baby pictures and growing girl pictures, drawings made with crayons, numbers and letters made by small hands and milestones described in a flowing hand. Sam knew Merilee’s writing. It reminded him of the rise and fall of the ocean on a calm day at the beach.
Their early days—the three of them together—had been like that. Calm and sunny. They’d all found jobs—Merilee waiting tables, Vic and Sam driving trucks—and they’d made plans. Merilee would start out modeling—she had some experience—which would lead to commercials, which would lead to bigger things. Vic would manage her—he had no experience—and Sam would keep the rent paid and the cupboards from going bare. Sam had done his part. His was the easy part, according to his roommates.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.