Chapter 5

Vera chugged down the last of his rather stale morning coffee, wadded up the plastic cup and tossed it into the wastebasket with distaste. One hour into a perfectly good new day and already they were up to their necks—Scotty and Lilly having just departed to pay the real Erica Bailey's husband a little social call, and Stillman on the phone, negotiating bodily fluids and DNA fingerprinting with the two delightful suspect families. He and Jeffries, on the other hand, had been granted the exhilarating mission of going through the Feldmans' neighborhood with a fine-tooth comb… and alas they should return without something useful.

It had the makings of one hell of a great day, all right—a real picnic on the beach. Just the expression on Lilly's face on being told she'd been partnered up with Valens again was enough to make him want to throw a party. Vera knew he didn't have a reputation for being the most sensitive guy in the world, but he did have a way of picking up vibes. And Lily's were definitely not good ones. He'd had a feeling in his gut—from the minute he caught Scotty slobbering over the barmaid—there would be trouble. He might not have a Master's Degree in psychology or the last scoop on Lil's biography, but even he saw she was territorial… and that her darling sister was hardly of good stock. Little miss Train Wreck breaking into her turf, sleeping with her clueless partner, couldn't possibly have a good effect on her. He'd done his best to warn Scotty, for his own sake—but the runt had chosen not to listen. Sex, ever the basic human need, had got in the way. And now, having excited the Great Wrath of Lilly, he was paying for it.

Problem was, he wasn't the only one. Hell, if only Valens were getting chewed up for screwing the wrong chick, it wouldn't be so bad. But it had upset the dynamics of the whole group.

Not to mention what it had done to Lilly. Call him a sissy, but he really hated seeing her shook up like that. Made him want to pound someone. The details were lost on him, but he knew she hadn't had the easiest time growing up—and you had to be an idiot not to notice all these boundaries she had created around herself to give her some sense of control. Boundaries Valens had hopped over like they were nothing. And just to get into the barmaid's pants.

And what the hell was Stillman was up to—forcing them together like this? He couldn't for the life of him figure it. Was it supposed to be some sort of shock therapy, keeping them together till they somehow fell into each other or blew up? Sure, they were acting like kids, but couldn't he give the rest of them a break and just split them up for a while? Ease up the atmosphere a little?

Not the liveliest of morning moods. And now to top it off, here was Jeffries staring off into space, a woe-begone look on his face.

"What's up?" he chirped, trying to be cheerful. Someone had to be cheerful around here for God's sake.

"Got to thinking about what Scotty said. About Jane Doe coming in with a sister—blonde girl, about college age. Remember?"

"Yeah, sure I remember. So?"

"So the Bryants have a blonde daughter, who would've been about college age three years ago. Her last visit was December 2002. And she didn't go on that Aruba trip with her parents."

Hope glimmered in Vera's brain. A lead. Not much—more like downright skimpy—but still better than nothing. And it sure beat having to drag the Feldmans' neighborhood for inexistent clues. Grabbing his coat and car keys, he was halfway out the door before remembering to call back over his shoulder, "Well, watcha waiting for? Let's go!"

Well, it's about damn time, Lilly thought belligerently, as the door finally swung open.

She and Valens had been standing around this guy's freezing front porch for what seemed ages, waiting for him to answer his doorbell. They'd almost begun to think he wasn't home—or would have, if it hadn't been for the TV blaring in the background.

First thing that struck her about him were his eyes—deep, shadowy and sorrowful, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. The rest wasn't really worth describing: medium height, medium build, with scrappy-looking hair and a beard. Might have been the intellectual type if he hadn't looked quite so worn out and defeated. Hard to believe he must be about the same age as Robert Feldman and that insufferable but well-preserved Swanson jerk. He seemed a hundred.

The second thing that struck her was his being so patently home—in the middle of a workday.

Before she could get a word in edgewise, Scotty, evidently of the same mind, had already gone into his speech. "Aaron Bailey? Philadelphia police. Man… don't you work?"

The 'none of your goddamn business' glare he received was hardly undeserved, as the supposed suspect crossed his arms across his chest wearily. "So what'd he do now?"

"He?" Scotty looked every bit as blank as she felt.

Aaron Bailey's rolling eyes said it all: either you two got the wrong house or you're hopeless morons. "My son," he explained, with resigned patience. "Jason Bailey—local thug?"

"We're not here to talk about your son, Mr. Bailey," put in Lilly, smoothly. "There is a question or two we'd like to ask about your wife, Erica Bailey, though."

"Ex-wife."

This comment, leaden with resentment, rang odd to Lilly's ears, and she glanced back to see if Scotty had caught it. She was surprised to see him quickly divert his eyes, as if he'd been staring at her.

"Mind if we come inside?" he prodded, waving the warrant in Bailey's face.

"Sure, come in, sit down, make yourselves at home," grumbled Aaron Bailey, his heavy sarcasm not lost on anyone. "Yes, Erica was my wife. Poor excuse of one, too. I've been ten years trying to forget her. Me and my kids have remade our lives. Why are you bringing her up again?"

Interesting mood. Sounded like he was blaming her.

For a minute Lilly tried to picture him as he must have been 10 years ago—more athletic, minus the stoop and with a heavier head of hair. Happier. Less resentful, maybe? Resentful of what?

"Ten years ago you filed a missing person's report on her and you've never heard from her since—don't you want to know what happened?"

"I know what happened. She left me for another man. Big deal."

"You got any proof of this, pal?"

His great, sad eyes carried more anger than she had first realized—if looks could kill she and Scotty would've dropped dead right then and there. "It so happens I do… pal. Got a letter from her, two months after she disappeared. So I called off the investigation."

"A letter?"

"Yeah. Not for me, really. For the kids. How she loved them and didn't want to leave them, but she had no choice—all that shit. Poor kids. Never saw it coming. They were devastated when their mommy left, took me the whole two months to get them out of the house and back to their normal routine. And then that letter came—set everything right back to the beginning. And the sad bitch never wrote again."

"Had she promised to keep on writing?"

Lilly knew what Scotty was getting at. Something was off. She was unfortunately all too acquainted with most aspects of incompetent motherhood—but even she found it strange one of these lost souls would bother writing her kids, two months after deserting them, promising the world and pleading forgiveness, never to write again.

"You got this letter?" she asked.

"Yeah. Should've burned it, but I never did. Guess I did love that fucking whore after all. People are sure right when they say love and hate ain't too much apart."

Disappearing into his room, he somehow managed to produce an old piece of stationery, handing it over with obvious reluctance.

As she read it, Lilly had to shake her head in agreement—the letter was heartbreaking. The woman had to be a real cold-hearted bitch to write something like that and disappear forever—if she'd done it on her own accord. The first half was all about asking her kids to forgive her, defending her reasons for leaving with another man, promising she'd always be their mommy no matter what. The second half just said she was far away, so they probably wouldn't be able to see each other. But she'd always be with them in their hearts.

She had to read the letter three times through before picking up on what was bothering her. It was subtle—but it was there. "Mr. Bailey, this look like Erica's writing to you?"

"Yeah, she always liked those flowery, round letters," he groused. "Why?"

"The a's are different," Lilly pointed out. Not for the first time, she blessed those endless years working as handwriting expert, boring though it was. "In this whole last paragraph. So are the e's…"

"So?"

"So this letter was written by two different people. One, we must assume was Erica Bailey. Who was the other?"

"Erica Bailey's husband called off the investigation of his wife's disappearance in 1995, after receiving a letter in which she admitted running off with another man," Lilly filled Stillman in, a few hours later in his office.

"Only the letter wasn't genuine," added Scotty. "Part of it, at least. We compared it to some documents written by Erica that her husband had kept. The top two paragraphs where she talks to her children are hers. But the last one—written by a male."

"CSU's handwriting analyzer backs me up on this, boss."

"A male?" echoed Stillman. "This man she ran off with?"

"It seems the most likely choice. But—I don't know, boss. We've got this missing person whose husband says she was always the model wife, staying home, never another man around, dedicated to the kids. Never suspected she could be cheating on him. And then one day she takes off—and two months later this letter turns up, half-written by someone else. Makes me think her leaving wasn't exactly voluntary. "

"How about the kids?"

"The girl was two, she wouldn't remember. And the older one's a real reliable type—runaway, multiple drug addictions, busted at 14 for holding up a local pharmacy. Juvie file like a Bible. Pops don't even know where he's staying at these days."

"Sounds like a real messed-up kid," Stillman pronounced. "Maybe he saw something. Dig him up."

"Think she's dead, boss?" Lilly couldn't help asking, uneasily.

"She disappeared 10 years ago with no explanation, someone sent a forged letter to keep her husband off the scent. There are third persons involved, and foul play's as good a reason as any. Keep the letter in CSU for prints, compare the handwriting to every male in the surrounding area—including her husband and son."

Lilly's attention, fully occupied with this new turn of events, failed to pick up the footsteps behind her as she sped down the hall. She was eager to start tracing Jason Bailey's whereabouts before the day was done and she really wanted to know if anything new had come up regarding the twins. Scotty was the furthest thing from her mind, and the hand that came down on her shoulder caught her really unawares.

"Scotty!" she exclaimed. "What…?"

There he was giving her that strange intense regard again. What was with him today? This was like the fifth time she'd caught him stealing glances at her.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Scotty began, sounding both determined and uncertain--if such a thing was possible.

Oh, sure, now you want advice. Fine, be my guest. Talk. "Well, what is it?"

"Lil, we can't go on like this. Everyone's noticed we're hardly talking to each other. That's no way for a couple of Homicide cops to act—we're partners. We gotta be professional."

Professional? Like banging your partner's sister is real professional.

"Listen, Scotty. We work together, we don't have to be friends. And right now I don't feel like being friends, okay? So just drop it."

She began to walk on.

"Lil, Lil, come on—listen to me. This ain't worth fighting over. I'm sorry if being involved with Christina hurt you—I never thought you'd take it so hard."

Something about the way he pronounced those words struck a chord. She spun around, facing him head on for the first time, trying to read between the lines, figure out what he was really saying. "I don't care what you do with Christina," she declared at long last. "It's your loss, not mine."

"Come on, you don't have to get like that." His voice was strange, gentle… sympathetic, almost. "It's a relationship like any other—I got feelings for her, I really do. I'm not just messing around, and neither is she." Taking a deep breath, "I'm sorry if I ever gave you the wrong idea about us, Lil."

"What?"

"I'm sorry if I ever led you on."

"You? Lead me on?" Lilly repeated incredulously.

The idea was so mind-boggling it actually took a few seconds to register. A furious blush spread across her cheeks when it did. So that was it. No wonder he'd been gawking at her all day. He thought she was smitten with him—and jealous of Christina!

A harsh, bitter laugh erupted from her lips—one so harsh it grated her ears.

"Get over yourself, Valens. And spare me your little talks, will you? It won't do you any good. I couldn't care less about you and your little girlfriend. Just consider yourself warned."

Leaving Scotty open-mouthed, she whirled around to run smack into Robert Feldman.

"Umm, hi," he said awkwardly, anxiety plain on his face as his eyes searched theirs for recognition. "Just came to give blood and thought I'd see how the investigation's coming along. Kylie's not doing too well. She wants to give up the house—move away. Thought it might help if you had some news."

As Scotty watched Lilly through the glass partition, talking to Robert Feldman, his head still pounded with fury and mortification. How that pasty-faced partner of his could manage to come across so human to them—victims, witnesses—and be so goddamn ruthless to everyone else was really beyond him. Christina had got one hell of a rotten deal. And so had he.

A great venomous rage simmered inside him. Rage at being laughed at for trying to make things right. Rage at himself for being idiotic enough to believe that spiteful bitch of a partner could actually have any feelings. Rage at ever having considered her a friend, given her the benefit of the doubt.

The more he thought about it, the more his anger grew, building up till he couldn't take it anymore. Grabbing a stapler by his side, he smashed it against the floor with all his might, taking a grim satisfaction in watching it disintegrate, springs and screws flying around and scattering to the furthest corners of the room.

He'd never in his life wanted to hit a woman before. But now—God forgive him—his hands itched to do the unflinching Lilly Rush some physical harm. Bring her down off that high-horse. Who the fuck was she to humiliate him?