Tony opted not to mention the roommate’s statement about seeing Tif with the dark-haired man on Friday. He needed to know more before he gave Ang something else to worry about. So he shrugged. “Until I find him, I can’t say, but if the two were involved he may have seen her or know where she planned to go for the weekend.”
The truth was he couldn’t say the guy was involved. Until Tony looked him in the eyes and questioned him, it would be best to keep his thoughts to himself. At this point he felt confident that Tiffany was taken by someone she knew. Her disappearance was far too clean to think otherwise. Generally, with an abduction by a stranger there were signs of a struggle or something left undone. The victim’s car might be left in an unexpected place. The vic’s home or room would be left unlocked or show signs of breaking and entering. Some little something would be off. A neighbor would have heard a noise. There was always some unexpected element, small though it might be.
But this was clean. This was planned. And Tiffany cooperated without realizing she was doing so.
“Did you share this information with the police?”
“I called Chief Phelps on my way back here. He’ll pass the information along to the task force. Tomorrow morning I’m hoping to catch Vickie Parton’s roommate or one of her friends to see if I can connect this Miles Conway to her. Beyond that, I’ll continue trying to find him.”
Angie swiped at her eyes again. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you.”
Tony reached across the table and took his sister’s hand. “I won’t let you down, Ang.” He looked away a moment. “I know I screwed up with the Bureau. I let down my wife and myself. But I won’t let you or Tiffany down.”
She squeezed his hand. “Giselle’s a bitch. She didn’t deserve you.”
Tony laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe I made her that way.”
They shared a good laugh before Angie hugged him hard and hurried back to the inn.
Tony dropped back into the chair. He didn’t know how the hell he would keep the promise he’d made his sister, but he would die trying.
9
11:20 p.m.
Angie Durand hugged her husband closer. As hard as she tried she could not go to sleep. How could her beautiful daughter get involved with an older man? She knew better. Angie had taught her better. Tif was so much more mature and responsible than most girls her age.
Anger and hurt twisted inside Angie. She closed her eyes tight to hold back the tears. Dear God, how could she feel anger right now? Her baby was missing. She could be hurt badly or, oh God, dying. Please, please, just let me find my baby alive.
Didn’t matter how old Tif was, she would always be her baby.
Tif had her entire future ahead of her. Angie closed her eyes and prayed. Please, God, don’t let my sweet girl be taken from me.
Maybe Tif did make a terrible mistake, but she was only human and so very young.
“I’m so scared.”
Steve turned onto his side, facing her. He stroked her hair gently. “I know. I am, too. But we have to trust Tony and the police. They will find her. I refuse to believe otherwise.”
“I don’t know about Tony.” More of that ridiculous anger fired inside her. “He’d been drinking tonight.” Tears choked her for a moment. “Maybe...” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat, fought back the tears. “Maybe he can’t help. I know he wants to, but maybe he just can’t. Between the divorce and all the drinking and now his career is tanked.” She pressed her hand to her mouth for a moment. “Maybe he just can’t help the way he wants to...the way we need him to.”
Steve pulled her close against his chest. “Please don’t cry. We have to be strong right now. For Tiffany and for Tony. We have to believe.”
Angie nodded, unable to speak for fear of breaking down completely.
She believed. She believed. Tiffany was coming home. Tony would find her.
Angie believed this with all her heart.
10
Cowboy Bill’s
11:50 p.m.
Jo sipped her beer slowly. She’d been nursing this same one for two hours. Keeping her head clear was far too important to risk a second one. Tonight’s objective required her to play her part perfectly. He would see through anything less and this one step could make all the difference.
The prelude was the hardest part. Blend in. Be cool. Pay close attention. Don’t say too much or too little. Listen carefully. Be the part.
“To tell you the truth,” Wes Cline, an up-and-coming assistant producer at CNN, said as he leaned closer, “I don’t trust anyone at the FBI or the GBI, for that matter.”
Jo rested her elbows on the table and put her forehead closer to his. “I’m with you. I’m not certain we can be confident that anyone will give us the down and dirty on a hot case like this one—not until they’re ready to anyway.”
“You said it.” He knocked back his third shot of tequila, then leaned forward again, placing his forearms on the table as she had. “I was a newly hired intern six months ago when that serial killer psychiatrist, Randolph Weller, was on the loose. I followed our top investigative journalist, Chase Whitt, all over Savannah. Turned out the FBI was not only keeping secrets; they were deeply involved in Weller’s escape. One of the former top dogs at Quantico is still under investigation. My guess is he’s going up the river.”
That was the thing about young men. They always needed to prove themselves. Wes, twenty-three and barely a year postgrad from Georgia Southern University, was kissing every available ass on this assignment in hopes of scoring brownie points. Jo singled him out in a flash. The first time she caught him alone, she introduced herself. He’d spent the initial couple minutes of that conversation immersed in a study of her cleavage. After she mentioned she was close to the Durand family, he’d stuck to her like glue.
“I’m with you on that one.” She sipped her beer. “You’re going places, Wes. I can feel it.”
He grinned before waving at the server to bring him another. “You ready for a fresh beer?”
She shook her head. “I’m good. A girl’s gotta watch those carbs.”
“I know all kinds of ways to burn off extra carbs.”
She bet he did.
Cowboy Bill’s was a nice place. The corrugated metal walls and wood floors provided that country-chic atmosphere. A big bar and plenty of pool tables kept those not interested in the dance floor occupied. The crowd was rowdy but in a happy way. Servers were efficient and the drinks were a decent price. She didn’t remember the place from before, but then she’d done all in her power to block that year from her memory banks. Not that she’d ever really been the party girl type.
Maybe that was where she’d gone wrong. If she’d learned the ins and outs of partying before she found herself immersed in the college culture she might have handled things better.
Too late for what-ifs now. She’d made the decisions she made. So had Ellen.
Now it was time to make the people responsible pay.
“Berman is convinced we won’t be finding these two girls alive.” Wes shook his head somberly.
“Why’s he so sure?” Jo ordered her heart to slow. David Berman was one of CNN’s hotshot journalists. Evidently good old Wes knew how to get assignments with the top guns.
“He ran some statistics,” Wes explained. “Based on the number of women who’ve gone missing over the past two decades and the percentage of those found alive, we’re due a couple murders.”
“Wow.” She sipped her beer. “That’s depressing. I’m guessing his headline won’t read that way.”
Wes chuckled. “Certainly not.”
Jo glanced toward the bar. Special Agent Anthony LeDoux had been seated on a stool there for the past forty minutes. The bourbon on the rocks the bartender set in front of him was his third. Apparently he was no lightweight since he hadn’t slid off that stool yet. Still, he should be feeling plenty relaxed.
“Well.” Jo reached for her purse. “I see an old friend I need to catch up with before calling it a night.” She reached across the table and squeezed Wes’s hand. “You have my number. We should do this again. Soon.”
He grinned, clearly enamored with the idea of getting into an older woman’s pants. “Count on it.”