The Complete Colony Series. Lisa Jackson
been, when the evidence had been so slim.
He’d just known something had happened. Known it in the marrow of his bones. Felt it. Lived it. But couldn’t prove it.
Maybe now…maybe…now…
And the case was his.
Finally.
The small pile in front of him contained bits of leaves, several cigarette butts, disintegrating candy wrappers, an indistinguishable piece of white plastic, and a small jackknife. The knife appeared to be the murder weapon, as there was a nick along one of the vic’s ribs, indicating she was stabbed at least once. They were not able to lift prints from the knife; it had been in the ground too long. The lab was working on DNA from the bone marrow, but unless they got a match from someone in their database, there was no way of identifying the remains by that method. If these bones were adoptee Jezebel Brentwood’s, that would mean they were looking for her biological parents, who could be anywhere, or a sibling or other relative, and that they would also have to be in the system. Mac had made contact with the Brentwoods, who had assured him they knew nothing about Jessie’s biological parents. They’d been less than thrilled to talk to him after his bullish investigative tactics years earlier, and so for now, he was leaving them alone.
But the baby’s bones—if they weren’t too degraded—now, that was another matter. If DNA could be extracted, or even a blood type discovered and one of those damned Preppy Pricks turned out to be the father…He smiled to himself. What was it they said? Something about revenge being best when served up cold. Hell, this case was twenty years cold. Damned well freezing. And yes, revenge was already tasting sweet.
Twenty fucking years of taking crap.
And now, he was about to be vindicated.
Eat that, Sandler, he thought, still hearing his latest partner’s taunts. He couldn’t wait to prove to her that he’d been right all along.
But there was something else that bothered him.
Mac picked up the note from the technician that stated there was an anomaly with the bone structure of both the adult and infant’s skeletons. A bone burr. “Anomaly,” he muttered for about the hundredth time. He’d called the tech, who’d been rushed and hard to pin down.
“Her bottom rib is extra, more like a partial rib, and it’s fused to the one above it. I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” the tech with a slight Mideastern accent had told him.
“Well, that might help us identify her if there’s an X-ray somewhere…?” Mac said somewhat hurriedly, sensing the tech was about to hang up. “Is it from an injury?”
“The baby’s, too?” The tech practically sneered. “More like the bottom rib is an extra. A spare.”
“So it’s genetic.”
“You’re a genius, you know that?”
Mac ignored the jibe. “Don’t women have extra ribs anyway? One more on either side than men?”
“Yes,” the tech said with extreme patience. “Call this an extra extra rib, then, and it’s only on one side. Some kind of birth defect.” Click!
Looking at the picture now, it was hard to tell. The dental impressions hadn’t helped, either, because Mac had learned from Jessie’s adoptive parents that Jessie was one of those lucky people who never had any problem with her teeth. The parents admitted they never took her to the dentist. Mac thought that could be considered child abuse, in some circles, but the lab techs said the victim’s teeth were “cavity-less.” Which, in a roundabout route, gave more weight to the fact that the remains could be Jessie’s.
There were no personal items left at the scene. No purse. No wallet. But then a lot of years had transpired in between, and this, too, was actually consistent with proving the bones belonged to Jessie. At the time of her disappearance, her parents said that she hadn’t taken her purse from the house, which she had every other time she’d run away. This had fueled Mac’s belief that she’d been harmed or killed, that she hadn’t left of her own volition.
Something had happened to Jezebel Brentwood, and he was even more certain now than ever that that something was murder.
“One of the Preppy Pricks stabbed her to death,” Mac said. “That’s what happened.”
…we’re caught in a trap…I can’t walk out…because I’m all about you maybe…
“Because I love you too much, baby. Jesus.” Mac scowled down the hallway. Was it too much to ask to get the words right? Was it?
Maybe he should just go home. There was nothing further to come up with tonight. He was tired and losing patience. The only reason he was staying was because there was nothing at home. His ex-wife had custody of their only son, Levi, and though Mac got the kid most weekends, now that he was at the preteen stage, he’d started making some of his own plans and even the weekends were iffy. In some ways that was fine, as Mac’s hours could be pretty unpredictable. But lately it had just left him with empty time he couldn’t fill outside of work. And the niggling feeling that he wasn’t doing as much as he could as a dad, that Levi might be headed down a wrong path, though none of his attempts at father-son talks had gotten anywhere. It was as if the kid were stonewalling him. Not a good sign. He’d brought it up to his ex, and Connie’s exact words had been: “So what d’ya expect, Super-Dad? It’s not as if you’ve been such a constant influence on him.” When Mac had started to argue, she’d cut him off with, “And don’t, I mean do not give me any BS about your job and long hours. Other cops have time for their kids and wives.”
This weekend already looked bad. Levi was waffling and had already mumbled about a sleepover at Zeno’s—was that a made-up name? Mac had never heard of the kid. But Connie had.
Lucky for him, he had a whole list of interviewees coming up. The Preppy Pricks and their girls.
Gathering up his things, he heard…come on let’s rock…everybody let’s rock…everybody in the whole cell block, was dancin’ to the jailhouse rock…
As he pushed through the door Mac tried to find fault with the lyrics, but they seemed all right. Maybe because the guy was cleaning out a police station, a jailhouse of his own. Maybe that was the key.
…Jimmy Jannie Jerry and the slide trombone, da da da da da da on the xylophone…
“Good God.” Mac headed into another rain-soaked night.
The day after she’d chased ghosts at St. Elizabeth’s and had a drink with Renee, Becca quit work in the early afternoon. She’d gotten a call from Elton Pfeiffer, one of the senior partners at the law firm and a very real reason Becca was glad to be working from home. Elton, in his late sixties, still considered himself a ladies’ man. Thrice divorced with a red Porsche, condo on the coast, and unlimited supply of Viagra if his secretary could be believed, he’d asked Becca out several times and even tried to kiss her once outside when she’d brought some papers into his office to sign.
It had been late, the glassed-in office on the twenty-second floor offering a panoramic view of the city lights and dark Willamette River rolling slowly under the Morrison Bridge when Pfeiffer, smelling of scotch, had come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her torso, and dragged her to him, his lips grazing the back of her neck. She’d promptly turned around, pushed hard, and threatened to knee him if he didn’t back off. He had, and rather than attempt to sue him for sexual harassment, Becca had turned in her resignation. It had just been so demeaning and damned predictable.
Pfeiffer, rebuffed, had offered to allow her to work from home and she’d leapt at the chance, telling herself it was temporary and a way to have a little freedom, create her own work schedule. The only time she’d been to the office in the past few weeks was to drop off the mermaid baby gift for her pregnant coworker.
Today, Elton Pfeiffer, all business, had needed a real estate contract for a strip mall retyped with some changes. “I’ve already e-mailed it. Check with Colleen,”