Cop by Her Side. Janice Kay Johnson

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      When had he lost his job? April. Since he was home daytimes anyway, and their budget had to be a little tighter, had they considered not putting their daughters in the summer day camp? Of course they’d talked about it, but both of them were sure Drew would be getting a job any day, and then it might be too late to find quality day care. Besides, Lissa had been sure the girls needed the socialization with other kids their age. How much did it cost? Clay winced at the answer. It was a major chunk of change, in his opinion.

      They went on and on, Drew’s answers terse while his eyes got wilder, until he suddenly jumped to his feet. “None of this has anything to do with where my daughter is! Why are you here instead of doing your job?”

      “Mr. Wilson, I understand it’s distressing having to answer these kinds of questions, but I am doing my job in asking them.” Clay kept his tone deliberately soothing. “Part of any investigation is making sure family members don’t play a part. We are looking hard for your daughter, I promise you. Finding Bree is the first priority of the entire sheriff’s department.”

      Drew stared sullenly at him. “Well, I’m done.” He pushed the chair away and walked out. By the time Clay followed, all he saw was Drew’s back as he disappeared through the double doors into ICU.

      Clay leaned a shoulder against the door frame and mulled over the conversation. None of the answers had been surprising in any way, but he still felt a tingle that told him there was something there. Drew Wilson knew or suspected more about his wife’s errand than he was letting on. And maybe he had deliberately pushed her to take their daughter because he thought having her along would mean Melissa indeed went to Rite Aid instead of wherever she’d intended.

      An affair?

      That could be interesting, Clay thought. But if so—why hadn’t Melissa changed her plans and done the routine errand instead? Maybe called her lover and said, “Sorry, can’t make it?”

      Clay didn’t know, but he was wondering. He was wondering about a lot of things.

      For instance, her job. She was a bookkeeper. Nothing fancy like an accountant. Nonetheless, bookkeepers up on QuickBooks and whatever other software they used nowadays were surely in demand enough that she could get another job easily. Drew, on the other hand, was a mechanical engineer. His skills had required considerably more training, and were more specialized. There wasn’t a lot of the kind of manufacturing that required mechanical engineers in these parts. He’d be bound to earn a hell of a lot more than his wife when he was working, too. How could they not move so that he could find a job in his profession?

      This time the tingle was tantalizing enough, it seemed to raise fine hairs on the back of Clay’s neck.

      Visiting Melissa Wilson’s workplace had just risen to the top of his list of priorities.

      * * *

      CLAY DIDN’T MUCH like James Stillwell, Melissa’s boss and the owner of Stillwell Trucking. Of course, there were a lot of people he didn’t like, yet who were nevertheless law-abiding citizens.

      Stillwell was a little older than he’d expected, at least if Melissa was sleeping with him. Fifty, maybe, although not bad looking for his age and if a woman liked the type. Five foot nine or so, he was lean and fit. Tanned as if he spent time out on a boat. Silver threaded his salon-cut hair and shone at his temples. His eyes were as blue as Clay’s, but projected sincerity in a way Clay didn’t trust.

      “Heartbreaking,” he declared, shaking his head. With a surprisingly resonant voice, he’d have made a hell of a disc jockey. “I’ve stopped by the hospital twice now, but they won’t let me in to see her.”

      That would be on Clay’s orders, even assuming Intensive Care staff would otherwise have been willing to allow people who weren’t family to troop through.

      “Sit, sit,” Stillwell said, waving expansively at the conversation area on one side of his sizable office.

      Could be it was the office he didn’t like, Clay reflected. A trucking company should be utilitarian, shouldn’t it? The exterior of the building was. A long row of loading bays dominated it. He shouldn’t have been surprised at how extensive the facility was, because the trucks, displaying a logo of a stylistic elk head circled by the name of the company, were a common sight on the highways in Oregon. It hadn’t really clicked, though, until he’d noticed the logo on the cab of a semi backed up to one of the bays.

      Once he’d stepped through a steel door, he’d found the reception area to be fancier than he’d expected. Ditto the receptionist, a twenty-something beautiful blonde who looked as slick as her boss.

      Other offices opened from the hall extending behind the receptionist’s desk. Stillwell’s was at the end, which put it on the corner of the building and allowed two large windows, in one of which Angel Butte, a small volcanic cinder cone, was framed. The deep blue carpet was so thick, his footsteps were silent on it. Clay wouldn’t have liked that. When he was absorbed working on his computer, he wanted to hear anyone approaching.

      Call it paranoia.

      The desk was a huge slab of wood from some ancient tree. He kind of thought ponderosa pines didn’t get that big. A sequoia? The chair behind the desk was scaled to make the man sitting in it look more imposing than he was.

      Clay let himself be directed to the set of four leather chairs surrounding a low table topped with a matching slab of wood.

      “Nice office,” he commented.

      Stillwell couldn’t hide his gratification, although he tried. “The appearance of success breeds success,” he murmured.

      Could be. In Clay’s world, success didn’t look quite like this. It was often the sweet click of handcuffs closing on a pair of wrists.

      “I’m getting the feeling Stillwell Trucking is a much bigger company than I’d imagined. Doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m here about, but I admit I’m curious. Are you entirely regional?”

      When he began the company, James Stillwell said, he’d had only a couple of trucks. Used ones, but with shiny new coats of paint and the logo that had now become well known. “Mostly we operated within the state,” he explained. “There were runs between Portland and Bend, The Dalles and Klamath Falls. Ten years ago, we expanded to encompass the Northwest. Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana. Now we cover the entire west coast.” He chuckled. “San Diego to Vancouver, B.C. We’ve kept the original business, of course. We have long-haul trucks and short-haul ones. There’s scarcely a business of any significance in the tri-county area that doesn’t turn to Stillwell Trucking for their transportation needs.”

      That was the brochure version, but Clay couldn’t really blame him.

      “So, Ms. Wilson. I gather she’s in your bookkeeping department?”

      Department, it developed, was a misnomer. There were only three people in Finance—Stillwell laid it on heavy when he corrected Clay—including, yes, a CPA as well as Ms. Wilson and a Betty Jean Bitterman. Betty Jean had been with the company the longest, but Stillwell implied that, as much as he valued her for her loyalty, she hadn’t caught on to new software well. He couldn’t imagine functioning without Melissa. He shook his head in dismay and repeated, “I just can’t imagine.”

      Clay asked a few polite questions. Did Mr. Stillwell have the СКАЧАТЬ