The Notorious Mrs. Wright. Fay Robinson
to locate a missing witness in a case he’s prosecuting. His in-house staff hasn’t come up with anything. He left his private number and wants a call back as soon as possible.”
“Hand him off to Cordell in the West Coast office, and let him handle it.”
“I tried. I told him you were out of town, but he still wants you to call him. He’s insistent. Apparently he’s prosecuting the murder of a cop, and he’s afraid his star witness might not turn up to testify. He needs a little hand-holding from the boss.”
“Too bad he didn’t call last week when I was out there working on this case.” Whit checked the time. Just after five o’clock in California. “Okay, give me the number. But in the morning, fill in Cordell so he can take over. And ask Deborah to run the usual checks on Morrow to make sure he is who he says he is.”
“Will do. When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. I’m following up on a few things and they may or may not pan out.”
“Are you still on the same case?”
“Afraid so.”
“Pro bono, right?”
“Right. The client’s a friend of Wes Campbell’s at the Pittsburgh PD. As a favor to Wes, I said I’d dig around and see what I could turn up on the guy’s runaway sister, never dreaming I’d still be doing legwork two months later.”
“Must be a bugger to keep you tied up so long.”
“It’s a cold case.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Twenty-three years.”
“Jeez, Whit, that’s not cold, that’s frozen.”
“Yeah, the time gap’s not making it any easier to find her, that’s for sure. The case is fascinating, though. I can’t remember when I’ve worked on one that frustrated or excited me as much. I’m having to resort to some old-fashioned investigative techniques to get what I need. The computer’s been pretty helpful, but it hasn’t helped me as much as the face-to-face interviews.”
“What do you have so far?”
“I’ve traced her whereabouts in the early 1980s to Los Angeles and Hollywood, where she was living on the streets for a few years and calling herself by various names, but then her trail suddenly ended again. I’ve found no public record anywhere of her after that under her real name or any alias she’s used. No social security activity, no driver’s license, nothing.”
“Sounds like she’s dead. Could be she ended up an unidentified Jane Doe.”
“That’s what I figured at first, but I’ve come to believe she’s just good at covering her tracks. Maybe as good as anyone I’ve come across.”
“She must be good if you can’t find her.” He chuckled. “So somebody’s finally outfoxed the master, huh? If you ever do find her, maybe you need to give her a job training our investigators in the Witness Location division.”
“Don’t laugh. That’s not a bad idea. She’s already taught me a few things. Every time I think I’m close to figuring out what she’s done to hide, I have to do a one-eighty and backtrack.”
“But you think now you’ve got a good lead on her?”
“More like a hunch. I think I know what she did. My gut tells me I may even have found her, but I don’t have proof, just some scraps of information that are adding up.”
“Your hunches are usually solid.”
“Yeah, and I believe I’m solid this time, but I’m a long way from where I need to be to take it to the client. I think she’s calling herself Susan Roberts Wright, the widow of William Wright. Someone’s been moving from state to state under that identity for the past several years, but I can’t find any marriage certificate or death certificate for the supposedly deceased husband, and the widow’s age and description change as often as her hairstyle.”
“Can the client ID?”
“That’s what I’m hoping. I’ve been checking local records the past few days and trying to work myself into a position to get photos I can show him.”
“Have you set up surveillance?”
“Yeah, but the lady apparently doesn’t have any more of a social life than you and me. I haven’t been able to catch her outside of the restaurant she owns. She hasn’t even used her car in three days.”
“What about her home?”
“She lives above the business and has a separate entrance in the rear. I’ve backed off from watching that. I can’t do it without being pegged as a prowler.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Playing tourist. I decided I might have better luck getting close to her if I walked in the front door and ordered dinner like everyone else.”
“Sounds as if you’ve got a handle on it.”
Whit snorted. “I sat two feet from this woman tonight and we carried on a conversation, yet I still can’t tell you exactly what she looks like.”
“Huh? I don’t understand?”
“Long story. I’ll explain when I get back.”
“Okay, buddy. Let me know if you need help. I’m available.”
“Thanks, Cliff.”
He hung up and called Allen Morrow in California, talking briefly to the man about his criminal case and reassuring him that the San Pedro office of Lewis Investigations could locate his witness.
After a shower, he unlocked his laptop computer and opened his file on Emma Webster. The blasted woman had begun to occupy his thoughts day and night, and he didn’t like it. He had other cases he was working on, cases that could benefit from the time and attention he was giving Emma, but they didn’t interest him at all.
She had aroused his curiosity. And tonight—if the woman he’d talked to was indeed Emma—she had aroused much more. He’d gotten worked up over a body made of foam rubber. Damn, that galled him.
Well, it served him right. He knew better than to let his emotions cloud his perspective, especially over a woman with her background.
She’d been a criminal and maybe still was, and Whit didn’t like criminals. He’d spent most of his life catching them, or at least locating them. He’d been a special agent with the FBI for ten years before opening his own national firm seven years ago.
He had offices in four states and a hundred and fifty top-notch investigators, all experts in a particular field: corporate security, encryption, terrorism, insurance fraud, witness location. His personal specialty was finding people. And he was very good at it. Usually.
This case baffled him. He could understand why Emma had run away as a child, but most runaways didn’t bother to stay hidden after adulthood. Many actually attempted to reconcile with their estranged parents and find their siblings.
Emma had been close to her brother. She had to expect that one day he would seek her out. So why was she still running? And from whom?
He clicked on the photo he’d scanned of her, and brought it up on the screen. The quality of this shot was poor, and in it she was only twelve, but there weren’t any others, not even from school. She had dark hair and sad, dark eyes. The facial resemblance to her brother had been strong back then, and still should be.
When he’d started this investigation, Whit had used a software program developed for the bureau to age Emma’s features by twenty-six years, to see what she might look like now at thirty-eight. He brought up that altered photo.
Beside it, he opened the most recent driver’s license photo of the woman calling herself Susan Wright, maiden name Susan