Deceit: A Novel Part 3

I sat down before my office computer. The clock read 9:18 p.m. Outside, the rain clawed my windows like some monster come to beg.

A shudder kicked across my shoulders.

It could be a late night, depending on how long it took until I exhausted my online tricks. This wasn't exactly the time of day I could pick up the phone to verify information I unearthed. I'd need two things to get me through: Jelly Bellies and music.

In my bottom drawer, I consulted my Jelly Belly stash. All fifty flavors were there, each labeled in its own plastic zip bag. I pulled out Sizzling Cinnamon-my flavor for mad. Cappuccino for raw determination. Green Apple for sa.s.siness. The last one was a lie, but I needed all the encouragement I could get. I ate two of those green babies, one after the other.

From my iTunes I selected my huge playlist of cla.s.sic rock and clicked shuffle. Chicago flicked on-"Baby, What a Big Surprise."

Apropos.

Pumped up and ready, I opened a new file, then hesitated in naming it. If the worst happened and Baxter somehow discovered what I was doing, I didn't want Melissa's information easily found on my computer.

My fingers typed in "HM" for Hooded Man.

The familiar thrill skidded down my spine. The hunt had begun.

SEVEN.

JUNE 2004.

Melissa stumbles up the hall from her tiny bedroom, arms against the thin walls for balance. The smelly trailer lists to one side, as if it's about to fall over. Melissa's feet slide and drag, the hallway never-ending. She's heard a noise and needs to see what has happened. It's something terrible. Now it's so eerily quiet, not a peep from her mother. "Mom!" Melissa calls, but the only response is the echo of her own frightened voice. She tries to move faster, but her muscles feel like they're weighted with lead.

The trailer stretches, stretches, until it's as long as a football field. Chill b.u.mps pop out on Melissa's arms. Way at the end she can see the back of their ragged couch, the metal frame around the front door. Beyond the living area lies the tiny, crusted kitchen. No movement there. No stream of mumbled cussing. Where is her mother?

Cigarette smoke thickens the air. Melissa sucks the biting odor into her lungs with every panted breath. Fear and rage swirl in her head until she can't tell one from the other.

The trailer shifts. Suddenly she's in the living room. She focuses across the small area, over the stained carpet onto broken linoleum at the kitchen's edge.

Sticking out from behind a cabinet is a bare, yellow-toenailed foot.

A squeak pushes up Melissa's throat. She runs around the couch, cuts left toward the kitchen. She jumps past the cabinets-and sees the blood.

Her mother lies on the floor, face up, eyes open and glazed. A shocked expression wrenches her hardened face, as if she's just stared into h.e.l.l. A gash digs into her forehead, blood smeared down her temple, into her ratty fake red hair. One hand lies on her motionless chest, fingers spread. The other is fisted upon her hip. A foot away lies a bottle, half its contents spilled on the linoleum. The sharp-sweet smell of whiskey clogs Melissa's nose.

Whiskey-this early in the day?

A strangled cry dies on Melissa's tongue. Her feet cement to the floor. She stares at her dead mother, disgust and anger and panic squeezing her lungs. Thoughts. .h.i.t her so fast and hard she staggers beneath their blows. Her despicable mother is gone. Melissa is alone. What will she do now? Where will she go?

Melissa moans aloud and drops to her knees. This can't be. She wants her mother. She never hated the woman, not really. "Come back, Mom. Come back!" She buries her face in both hands and sobs. And the next thing she knows, her mother's blood has flowed across the floor, up her legs to her arms. She pulls her hands away and stares at them, at the red ooze in the lines of her palms.

Melissa's jaw unhinges. She tilts her head toward the ceiling and screams- A grating whir in her throat jerked Melissa awake. Her eyes popped open, sleepy gaze fixing upon a pale blue wall. She lay on her side, right hand scrunching the flowered coverlet on her queen-size bed. Morning sun filtered between drawn curtains at one of the large windows in her bedroom.

The Jacksons' house.

Warm relief flushed limpness through Melissa's body. The air smelled faintly of the vanilla-scented candle she'd lit on her dresser the previous night.

Her fourth day in paradise. Sort of. If she'd let it be. Everything still seemed amazing-the house, the way Linda and Baxter treated her. It's just that Melissa wasn't used to things being so right. When you'd lived your whole life with a drunk for a mother, who'd just as easily slap you as look at you, it was hard to relax. Melissa's muscles still quivered at sudden sounds-the phone ringing, a pot banging.

She rolled on her back and stared at the high, perfectly painted ceiling. The dream flashed in her head. Melissa closed her eyes. Wasn't the first time she'd had it-in some form. Details tended to change. Weird how dreams of a real event could mix truth and fiction. Like blood flowing from the floor up to her palms.

Five months ago when she'd called 911, back turned against the sight of her dead mother, she'd had no blood on her hands. But there was a lot of it on the floor.

Later, after the autopsy, the detective said her mother had been drunk. Yeah, Melissa thought, tell me something I don't know. Her mom probably blacked out, stumbled and fell, he said. She hit her head on the counter, split her forehead open. She was only thirty-eight years old, but her liver was "damaged beyond repair" by cirrhosis. That by itself would have killed her soon anyway.

One of life's little ironies.

A knock sounded on Melissa's door. She jumped, then rose up on her elbows. "Yeah?"

"It's Linda. Can I come in?"

Melissa had never heard that question in the trailer. Her mother had always just barreled into her tiny bedroom. "Sure."

The door opened and Linda stuck her head inside. She wore no makeup yet, but she was still pretty. "Time to get up for church. We leave in an hour."

Church. Melissa blinked at her. Was it Sunday already? "Oh."

Melissa hated church. Not that she'd ever been, but she'd heard about it plenty. Full of hypocritical people. They'd probably all look down their noses at her.

Linda smiled. "Don't look so forlorn. It won't be bad. Really. And it'll give you a chance to meet some girls your age."

Who probably wouldn't want a thing to do with her.

Melissa's mouth tightened. "What am I supposed to wear?"

"Any of the jeans and tops I bought you. The service is casual. You want some breakfast?"

"No. Thanks. I'll eat later."

Linda nodded, smiled again, and closed the door. She sure did smile a lot.

For some time Melissa lay in bed, arguing with herself. She didn't have to go to church. n.o.body could make her. She'd never liked being told what to do.

Yeah, and she could also get kicked out of this nice house in a hurry. That didn't fit into Melissa's plans. She'd already grown used to her large, beautiful bedroom.

She huffed at the ceiling. Life was full of compromises. An hour of church, even with stuck-up people, was worth a week of living here.

Melissa got out of bed.

She threw open the door to her walk-in closet and studied the five pairs of designer jeans and two dressier slacks hanging neatly in a row. Maybe she should wear the white slacks. But if all the girls were dressed in jeans she'd feel weird.

What did she care what they thought of her?

Melissa took another five minutes deciding. With an animated shrug she pulled on a pair of True Religions and a short-sleeve blue top. In the bathroom she carefully applied the new makeup Linda had bought her. Then she stood before the full-length mirror, turning back to front. She looked good. Designer jeans were amazing.

"Morning, Melissa." Baxter shot her a broad smile when she walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in a suit and tie, looking out at the backyard and drinking from a mug. The aroma of coffee filled the room. Linda wasn't around. "You look great."

Melissa eyed him warily. Four days here and she still hadn't figured this guy out. He acted so nice. And normal. But no man living in a house like this could be normal. Besides, males usually wanted something. Her stepdad sure had, and she'd only been eleven at the time. Melissa's mom hadn't been around to stop it. The men who lived with them after that had been no better.

Melissa looked at the floor. "Thanks."

Baxter walked to the sink and set his cup down with a faint click. "You want coffee?"

"No thanks."

He turned toward her. "Anything to eat?"

She shook her head.

Baxter regarded her for a moment, concern in his expression. Melissa forced herself to stare back. Where was Linda?

"Do you like living here, Melissa?" he asked.

"Yes."

His face softened. "Good. I want you to be comfortable. I hope in time you'll see you can trust us. You don't have to be on your guard here."

Melissa felt herself go numb. No response, not a single word would form on her tongue. How did he see her so clearly? And who talked like that anyway-just saying something right out? Words were meant to be shields. Words were meant to be dances.

She lifted a shoulder. "I'm just fine."

He opened his mouth as if to say more, then nodded.

Linda saved the moment by entering the kitchen. "Hey there, Melissa, you look terrific." She was rubbing lotion on her hands. Melissa smelled roses. Linda wore cream slacks and a green silk blouse. She looked perfect. Melissa's heart swelled. Why couldn't somebody like this woman have been her mother? Why had G.o.d given Linda no children and let Melissa be born to a ratty alcoholic?

Baxter crossed to his wife and drew a finger down her cheek. "And so do you."

Linda swiped her hand through the air. "Oh, you say that to all your wives." She turned and grinned at Melissa. "Okay, let's go!"

On the way to church Linda babbled about the girls Melissa would meet. Heather and Christy and Belle and Nicole. Other names Melissa couldn't begin to remember. "They're really looking forward to meeting you."

Melissa stiffened. "They know I'm coming?"

Baxter glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Sure they do. Last Sunday we told everyone we'd be picking you up in a few days. Linda was too excited to keep quiet."

Only Linda was excited?

The thought plucked at her. Melissa pushed it away.

Terrific, she told herself. A whole church just waiting to see what she looked like. Probably been talking about her all week.

By the time she, Linda, and Baxter slid out of the Mercedes, Melissa had checked the wall around her heart for loose bricks. She'd be polite to the adults and grimace later. As for girls her age, she didn't need them. Friends wanted to know things about you. Friends could hurt you.

No one who knew the real Melissa Harkoff, who knew the slummy life she'd come from and the things she'd done, would ever want to be her friend.

EIGHT.

FEBRUARY 2010.

Fifteen years ago I'd forged my way into skip tracing while working in a private investigator's office in San Jose. The work is exciting. But unlike the portrayal on trumped-up TV shows, most skip tracing is done online. I could stay warm and dry in my house while I chased Melissa through the teeming, winding halls of cybers.p.a.ce. Sitting at a computer may not translate well into television, but I find it as exhilarating as a street car chase. It is all about the hunt. The rush of stalking down pieces of the puzzle, the adrenaline surge of closing in on the skip. Mere fingers on keys, hunched shoulders, and eyes glued to the screen can't begin to portray the real-life drama that hinges on the outcome of a search. A skip located can completely change lives. It means a criminal apprehended, a child reunited with birth parents, the recipient of a surprise inheritance, money for the impoverished children of a deadbeat dad. It forges justice, dredges tears, spews anger, builds hope.

My first task in finding Melissa: list the few pieces of information I knew about her. Name: Melissa Harkoff. I didn't know her middle name. Age: twenty-two. That was it. No Social Security number. No last known phone number or address. I didn't even know if she was still in California.

Social Security numbers are important to garner the most reliable information. More than one person might be named Melissa Harkoff. I needed to hunt for her SSN by running her through credit headers-information from credit reports that includes name, past and perhaps current addresses, SSN, and date of birth. The actual credit information is not included. Credit headers are my most important source of data, and they aren't openly available online. Skip tracers and others who qualify can buy restrictedaccess commercial data services, which are the source of these credit headers. I subscribed to two such services.

I opened Skiptrace One and typed in Melissa's name and a.s.sumed state-California. Hit enter.

My window rattled. I jumped and jerked my head toward the sound.

A second rattle.

Just the wind.

I took a hard breath, willed my nerves to settle. Ate a Sizzling Cinnamon Jelly Belly, followed by a Cappuccino.

When I looked again at my monitor, fourteen results filled the screen.

Three different Melissa Harkoffs. One date of birth was too long ago. Surprisingly, the other two were 01/27/1988 and 09/13/1987. I leaned back in my chair, trying to remember if Melissa's birthday had already occurred in June of 2004. No way to know. Either birth date might be hers.

This complicated things. I'd have to run down both birth dates, and even when I established a current address and phone for each, I wouldn't know which was the right Melissa. If I got lucky I might find the two women's photos online through a simple Google search. Or I may have to watch the residences and see for myself who lived there.

For all I knew neither date of birth was my Melissa because she'd married two years ago and now had a new last name.

I cut and pasted the fourteen address results in my HM file, lining through the four listings for the birth date I'd thrown out.

In skip tracing I'm like a hungry cat.

You've seen the stomach-to-the-ground pursuit of a feline with a bird in its sights. It plays out each cunning move, now creeping forward, now poising to pounce. If the prey flutters to safety the cat returns to where it started, hiding in the gra.s.s, seeking the next victim.

But my usual logical pattern wouldn't work tonight. I'd have to hunt both Melissas at once.

My HM file would keep track of every step so I wouldn't lose my place. I would rely on my memory for nothing. You never know when an unexpected event will pull you away from the computer, erasing the next intended move from your brain.