“If I were you, I’d forget about Knightly and focus on finding the girl. If she exists.”
Hudson’s jaw dropped as Sanchez slid into the passenger seat. Did his own partner actually think he might have killed a man? Did she actually prefer working with that pompous ass?
Knightly had about a year’s seniority over Hudson. In fact, when Hudson had first made detective—assigned to juvie and missing persons—Knightly had shown him the ropes with a sort of big-brother attitude that was only slightly annoying. Hudson had assumed he was well-meaning.
But after a few months, Hudson had realized that Knightly relished his superior attitude. He had the state and local penal codes memorized word for word and wouldn’t hesitate to complain to the lieutenant if he thought any of his colleagues weren’t following the rules. He always wore a suit with razor-creased pants. He was always perfectly clean-shaven, his head freshly shaved every day to minimize the impact of his receding hairline.
When a position opened up on the Major Crimes squad, both Knightly and Hudson were considered. When Hudson got the nod, Knightly congratulated him and appeared to be a good sport, but Hudson always suspected Knightly felt cheated.
Hudson took a deep breath to steady himself. He couldn’t afford to let emotion cloud his thinking. This had gone way beyond salvaging his career. He was now a murder suspect.
His story about a woman with no last name who’d disappeared into the night with no trace did sound fishy. Hudson wouldn’t have bought it if some other suspect had told it to him during an investigation.
But she was real. He simply had to find her and get her to make a statement to the police. It might be embarrassing for her. But even as little as he knew about her, he believed she would do the right thing. She wouldn’t let him swing in the wind to save herself a little embarrassment. Or a lot of embarrassment if she turned out to be in a relationship. Which, he realized, he really hoped she wasn’t...and not just to make his alibi stronger.
Liz was a friend of Jillian’s. He didn’t have Jillian’s number, but Claudia would have it. Or someone at Project Justice, where she worked, would know how to get in touch with her. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Claudia, but only reached her voice mail, which meant she was probably in a session. He told her succinctly what he was looking for, confident his problems would soon be solved.
Thirty minutes later she returned his call. By then, he was sitting on his deck with a can of Mountain Dew in his hand, trying his best to let the view of the lake calm his nerves.
“I can give you Jillian’s number, but it won’t do you much good,” Claudia said. “She’s on her honeymoon.”
Crap. He could still try to call her. Maybe she would answer. It wasn’t cool to bother someone on their honeymoon, but getting Liz’s contact information would take only a couple of seconds.
Claudia already knew what he was thinking. “Even if you called her, it’s doubtful she’d pick up. They went to Patagonia.”
Double crap. “The only thing I really know about her is that she’s a social worker, and she works at a clinic of some kind. I guess I could call every clinic in the city and ask for her.” But if that was his only recourse—
“You should talk to Mitch.”
“Delacroix? The computer hacker at Project Justice?”
“We don’t call him that. He’s a computer data analyst. Tell him everything you know about Liz. Anything at all you remember. I bet he can find her for you in less than an hour. You’ve helped out Project Justice in the past. Now let them help you.”
* * *
IT TOOK LESS than an hour. In fact, it only took about seven minutes. With some prodding, Hudson had remembered that Liz had said free clinic. That narrowed down the possibilities considerably. With a little bit of fancy online footwork, Mitch had come up with three urban clinics in the Houston area with employees named Elizabeth.
Hudson decided to visit them in person, rather than try to get Liz on the phone. As skittish as she was—and as angry as she’d been with him when she’d fled his house—she might refuse his call or try to make him think she was the wrong Elizabeth. It would be easier to confront her in person and convince her she needed to come forward with her statement.
With addresses for the three clinics in hand, Hudson set out to find his alibi. It took a few minutes for him to realize that the tightness in his chest had little to do with his thorny predicament, and almost everything to do with the fact he couldn’t wait to see Liz again. He only wished his excuse for tracking her down wasn’t what it was.
Houston City Clinic was the first stop. It was a depressing storefront office crowded between a run-down bodega on one side and a pawn shop on the other. Hudson had a hard time picturing Liz spending every day at a place like this. It would say something about her character if she wanted to help people that badly.
He walked through the crowded waiting room, filled with snuffling adults, screaming toddlers and feverish babies and thanked God for the great health coverage he got through the sheriff’s department.
At least, for a while longer.
“Excuse me,” he asked the harried receptionist, “I’d like to see Elizabeth, please.”
“If you mean Dr. Eliza Eldridge, that’s you and everybody else in here.” She looked him up and down. He’d put on some decent-looking khaki pants and a polo shirt, wanting to appear his best when he encountered Liz again. He supposed he looked a little too well-heeled to be patronizing a free clinic, but people could fall into unfortunate circumstances anytime.
Or maybe the receptionist had simply pegged him as a cop. Some people had a sixth sense when it came to spotting law enforcement.
“Take a number,” the woman said.
“Maybe you can help me.”
“No cutting in line,” she said without looking up. “Take a number.”
“I just want to ask a question. Is Dr. Eldridge a tall brunette with dark blue eyes?”
“She’s five foot two with brown eyes and a ’fro.”
“Then I have the wrong Elizabeth. Thank you for your time.”
She didn’t look up.
One down, two to go.
The second clinic was in a better neighborhood. But it shared the same air of hopelessness as the first. “Elizabeth” was easy to find; she actually worked at the front desk, according to a nameplate. She wasn’t Liz, either.
“Can I help you?” she asked with a friendly smile.
“Are you Elizabeth?” he asked, just to be sure. Liz had said she was a social worker, not a receptionist, but he had to be thorough.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“No other Elizabeths work here?”
“No, just me,” the pretty Latina woman said, still smiling. “You aren’t a bill collector, are you? ’Cause I made my car payment yesterday.”
He smiled back. “No, nothing like that. Just trying to find an old friend.”
“Good luck.”
One to go. His heart lifted as he turned into the parking lot of the third clinic, Los Amigos Family Clinic. Despite the sadly depressed condition of the neighborhood overall, this clinic was clean and bright, and the entire block on which it sat was free from trash and graffiti. The small, freestanding building was painted in bright colors, and the windows were clean. A sign in the window advertised Free Flu Shots.
Inside was bright and fresh, too. There was still a crowd of people waiting for care, but they didn’t seem quite