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Authors: Chris Patchell
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Jackson reached him. Novel, notebook, pens, and a small purse were in the main compartment. The wallet contained some cash and a student ID. Natalie Watson’s face smiled up at them.
“Damn it,” Alex swore softly as he handed the ID to Jackson and searched the other compartments of the backpack.
Alex stopped, and he sat back on his heels as he rooted through the bag. “No cell phone,” he said. Jackson crouched down beside him.
“Do you think she still has it on her?”
“Phone records show no outgoing calls since Saturday afternoon. We couldn’t ping it.”
Standing up, he took another look around, his eyes slowly combing the area. Reflected sunlight winked at him from between the stairs. Stepping closer, Alex saw a discarded pop can.
“Shit,” he said and was about to turn when he saw something else. Pushing the can aside, he pulled out a cell phone. The outside casing was cracked, and it was dead.
“Damn,” Jackson muttered.
Turning it over, Alex checked to see if the battery was intact. It was missing. Had Knucklehead removed it? It was a Samsung Galaxy. Same model as his. With any luck, it would still run. He popped the battery out of his phone and placed it in the one he’d found. A quick push of the power button and the splintered screen display came to life. The two detectives smiled. “Let’s hear it for hardware.”
There was no access code on the phone, and Alex quickly scanned the list of recent numbers that had been called. He recognized Natalie’s home number right away, alongside a few that he did not. He would cross-reference them against the phone records once he got back to the station.
On a hunch, he took a look through the directory of photographs. The most recent photo was taken on Saturday, a partial shot of a man’s face framed by shoulder-length dirty-blond hair. Well, well, who did we have here?
“Hello, Knucklehead,” Alex said.
CHAPTER TEN
J ill perched on a stool in the restaurant bar and glanced at her watch. She was right on time, and Jamie, as usual, was running late.
The bartender deposited a vodka martini, straight up with two olives, on the napkin in front of her. She nodded her thanks with a practiced smile that, while playful, was not too inviting. Looking down at the drink, she could feel his eyes linger on her bare shoulders. The black halter-style dress she was wearing exposed her back to the cool evening air.
Scanning the crowded restaurant, she noted that it was busy for a Thursday night. The place oozed with the kind of old-boys’-club charm that appealed to the clusters of businessmen who lined the booths. The supercharged atmosphere may have explained why it was one of Jamie’s favorite places. The scent of power and affluence blended perfectly with the smell of prime steaks on the grill, awakening Jill’s appetite. She picked at the bowl of nuts on the bar to tide herself over as she waited.
Two businessmen entered, settling onto stools beside her. Their conversation centered on Monday night’s 49ers game and the team’s chances of securing a spot in the playoffs. Alex was a big football fan, and sports talk was the spit that greased the wheels of the business world. She could play that game, too.
“Their chances would be better if they had a broader offensive strategy than giving the ball to their running back. What’s his name? Frank Gore?” Jill said, snapping her fingers as his name rolled off her lips.
The two businessmen looked over at her, obvious surprise written clearly on their faces. The younger of the two men’s lips twitched into a smile. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, with an athletic build and dark eyes. Engaging. Nice suit.
He’s trouble
, she thought.
“You may have a point there, but we’ve got a killer defense this year.”
“A great defense doesn’t win championships. But hey, what do I know?” she asked, taking a sip of her martini.
“And you are …?” the older man asked. A smile creased the corners of his
“Damn it,” Alex swore softly as he handed the ID to Jackson and searched the other compartments of the backpack.
Alex stopped, and he sat back on his heels as he rooted through the bag. “No cell phone,” he said. Jackson crouched down beside him.
“Do you think she still has it on her?”
“Phone records show no outgoing calls since Saturday afternoon. We couldn’t ping it.”
Standing up, he took another look around, his eyes slowly combing the area. Reflected sunlight winked at him from between the stairs. Stepping closer, Alex saw a discarded pop can.
“Shit,” he said and was about to turn when he saw something else. Pushing the can aside, he pulled out a cell phone. The outside casing was cracked, and it was dead.
“Damn,” Jackson muttered.
Turning it over, Alex checked to see if the battery was intact. It was missing. Had Knucklehead removed it? It was a Samsung Galaxy. Same model as his. With any luck, it would still run. He popped the battery out of his phone and placed it in the one he’d found. A quick push of the power button and the splintered screen display came to life. The two detectives smiled. “Let’s hear it for hardware.”
There was no access code on the phone, and Alex quickly scanned the list of recent numbers that had been called. He recognized Natalie’s home number right away, alongside a few that he did not. He would cross-reference them against the phone records once he got back to the station.
On a hunch, he took a look through the directory of photographs. The most recent photo was taken on Saturday, a partial shot of a man’s face framed by shoulder-length dirty-blond hair. Well, well, who did we have here?
“Hello, Knucklehead,” Alex said.
CHAPTER TEN
J ill perched on a stool in the restaurant bar and glanced at her watch. She was right on time, and Jamie, as usual, was running late.
The bartender deposited a vodka martini, straight up with two olives, on the napkin in front of her. She nodded her thanks with a practiced smile that, while playful, was not too inviting. Looking down at the drink, she could feel his eyes linger on her bare shoulders. The black halter-style dress she was wearing exposed her back to the cool evening air.
Scanning the crowded restaurant, she noted that it was busy for a Thursday night. The place oozed with the kind of old-boys’-club charm that appealed to the clusters of businessmen who lined the booths. The supercharged atmosphere may have explained why it was one of Jamie’s favorite places. The scent of power and affluence blended perfectly with the smell of prime steaks on the grill, awakening Jill’s appetite. She picked at the bowl of nuts on the bar to tide herself over as she waited.
Two businessmen entered, settling onto stools beside her. Their conversation centered on Monday night’s 49ers game and the team’s chances of securing a spot in the playoffs. Alex was a big football fan, and sports talk was the spit that greased the wheels of the business world. She could play that game, too.
“Their chances would be better if they had a broader offensive strategy than giving the ball to their running back. What’s his name? Frank Gore?” Jill said, snapping her fingers as his name rolled off her lips.
The two businessmen looked over at her, obvious surprise written clearly on their faces. The younger of the two men’s lips twitched into a smile. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, with an athletic build and dark eyes. Engaging. Nice suit.
He’s trouble
, she thought.
“You may have a point there, but we’ve got a killer defense this year.”
“A great defense doesn’t win championships. But hey, what do I know?” she asked, taking a sip of her martini.
“And you are …?” the older man asked. A smile creased the corners of his
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