Sure enough, the mother blubbered into tears, knees buckling. Right on cue, Andre caught her before she hit the floor and guided her to the sofa. She hugged his arm as sobs overwhelmed her, smearing his shoulder with snot.
Definitely not Morgan’s department. She sidled into the galley-style kitchen—it was narrow, barely enough room for her to pass between the appliances and counters lining each side. As she rummaged through the cabinets until she found a glass, she noticed a magnet advertising Galloway and Stone affixed to the fridge, holding a coupon for a family portrait at the March Madness celebration at the mall. She hadn’t realized Jenna had embarked on an advertising campaign—after their recent successes, they were turning away business. Typical Jenna, good was never good enough.
Morgan found a glass, filled it with water, grabbed a handful of napkins, and returned to set them on the glass and chrome coffee table in front of Andre and the woman. Newspapers from the last few days were scattered across the tabletop, including one folded to a story featuring Jenna and their last case. Guess it was obvious why Diane Radcliffe had thought to call them first when her son went missing.
While Morgan waited for the show of waterworks to end, she looked around. Family photos adorned the wall across from the large screen TV: a boy and girl, maybe eight to ten, both with their mother’s washed-out blond hair, ran laughing and playing. A few formal family portraits with a frowning man—the soldier from the wedding photo, now looking awkward in his civilian clothing—possessively circling his arms around the two kids and Diane; a third child, older, gangly with brown hair, standing outside the circle. That would be their subject, Gibson Radcliffe. Son of a previous relationship, saddled with the Radcliffe family name—although who the hell named their kid Gibson unless they had a death wish for the boy?—but never actually part of the Radcliffe family.
She counted nine framed photos: Gibson only appeared in the two formal portraits. Nowhere else. As if his parents—or his father, stepfather, whatever—wanted plausible deniability.
And now here they were. “Do you have a more recent photo?” she asked once the waterworks had subsided. Giving the parents something to do usually helped move things along.
Diane separated from Andre only far enough to reach first for the napkins to blow her nose and then for the envelope. She pushed it to Andre, even though it had been Morgan who requested the information. “It’s all in there. Everything Mrs. Galloway asked for when I spoke with her on the phone.”
Andre didn’t bother to correct Diane’s assumptions about Jenna’s marital status as he turned the envelope upside down to empty its contents on the tabletop. He frowned at the cashier’s check for the ten grand. Morgan knew he and “Mrs. Galloway” would be having a conversation about that, but personally, she approved of Jenna’s tactic. It separated the serious clients from the ones who’d seen the news about Galloway and Stone and wanted to work with the best but pay nothing.
A few photos wafted out: a baby still in his hospital bassinette; a faded photo of a young, exhausted, but happy Diane cradling her newborn son; the requisite elementary school photo with a shy, toothy grin missing two teeth; a sullen pre-teen, lock of hair covering half his face, gaze missing the camera by a mile; and finally the downright belligerent, dead-eyed stare of a sixteen-year-old boy with a severe crew cut.
The life of Gibson Radcliffe played out like a poker hand. Not a winning one, either.
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GIBSON MADE NOTE of the car’s make and license plate. He took pictures of the black man and white girl who got out of it. The man, big and tall and dark, looked like some kind of comic book villain with his scars and scowl. All that vanished when Gibson’s mom appeared, her face red from crying and worry. The big man treated her with tender regard, more sympathetic than the girl who came with him.
It was the girl he’d been waiting for.
She glanced over her shoulder, zeroing in almost exactly on Gibson’s hiding spot. Her expression matched what Gibson saw every morning when he looked into the mirror. Before he put on his mask, his game face. It was getting harder and harder to find the energy to care enough about what anyone else thought to make the effort.
Now, thanks to his father, he didn’t need to bother any more. He was free. Free to be himself. To do what he wanted, when he wanted.
Free. To claim his birthright. To have fun.
Chapter 6
MORGAN STOOD ASIDE and let Andre handle the mother. It was obvious Diane Radcliffe had lived through some kind of long-term abuse—at the very least emotional abuse—and just as clear that she responded better to Andre. Maybe because he was former military, like her husband. Or maybe just because he was a man.