Read Online Never Coming Home by Evonne Wareham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Evonne Wareham
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– who did you see in Italy?’
Devlin scowled at the laptop, re-reading his partner’s e-mail. So far Hoag hadn’t found any answers, only more questions. Loose ends. Loose ends that Devlin didn’t like. He shoved his hand into his hair. Nothing was quite –
The mobile phone next to the computer began to vibrate, threatening to hop off the end of the table. He grabbed it and pressed the switch.
‘Devlin?’ Her voice was high, excited. Drunk? There was a sound in the background like traffic.
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I had to come outside, in the street, so no one would hear. I’m at dinner, old friends. They’ve just come back from Italy. Devlin –’ Her voice shook, then steadied. ‘They saw Jeff, in Florence. Three days ago!’
Chapter Five
Bobby Hoag stepped sideways to avoid the hunk of rusting metal that might once have been part of an SUV. Maybe. Just beyond it a dog was going crazy, barking and snapping. Bobby sent up a silent prayer for the links on the choke chain that was stopping it from ripping out his throat. He gave the fangs a wide berth and kept going.
As trailer parks went, he’d seen worse, but not often. He’d travelled quite a way along the highway from Atlanta to Nashville, and down a few side roads, to find this one. Not a place he’d want to raise a kid.
Luanne Cheska was sitting on the steps of a run-down trailer, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. A good healthy breakfast. Couldn’t be beat. Guaranteed to set you up for the day.
Bobby assessed her swiftly, looking for any resemblance to a dead child. It was there, if you looked. The blonde hair was natural, the mouth full-lipped and lush, the hands wrapped around the neck of the bottle delicate. Under the smudged layer of last night’s make-up, the bone structure was good. The claim to beauty and the match to her daughter ended there. The bloodshot eyes and overblown figure, in spray-on T-shirt and jeans, didn’t exactly bring up the word maternal.
‘Hi, handsome, you lookin’ for me?’ She raised the bottle in salute as she gave him a slow once over. Bobby felt sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He planted his feet solidly on the ground and returned the stare. He had a nasty gut feeling –
‘Mrs Cheska? It’s about your daughter –’
Luanne’s feet slapped down on the dirt as she rocked back. Her face had flipped from lazy welcome to beyond ice. Bobby sighed. On a scale of friendliness and co-operation, it looked like the dog was going to score higher.
‘What d’you want to know about Sally Ann? You sure as hell ain’t the police.’
‘Your daughter is missing –’
‘That bitch from Lynchburg, she sent you here, didn’t she?’ Luanne stabbed the bottle at him, waving it like a weapon. ‘You try and raise a kid on your own, no one wants to know. Soon as the little slut runs off someplace, the whole world comes sniffing around. I’ll tell you same as I told the cops, when she sent them here. I don’t know where that girl is. She wants to run off, nothing I can do to stop her. Now get the hell out of my face.’
Twenty minutes later Bobby slid behind the wheel of his car. His head was ringing. Luanne Cheska’s mouth would shame a trucker, but she’d liked his money. He had the name and number of the bitch from Lynchburg.
Mrs Laura Kettle, denizen of Lynchburg, Tennessee, had faded blonde hair, good jewellery and a dress splattered with tiny pink flowers. Bobby found himself looking into a pair of shrewd grey eyes. She served him tea, in a bone-china cup.
‘Tell me, Mr Hoag, just what is your interest in my granddaughter?’
‘Overlapping investigation, ma’am,’ Bobby responded promptly. ‘I’m looking into the disappearance of another young girl. Been employed by the family. Need to see if there’s maybe a pattern.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably not, but I have to check it out. You were the one who reported Sally Ann missing. Not your
Devlin scowled at the laptop, re-reading his partner’s e-mail. So far Hoag hadn’t found any answers, only more questions. Loose ends. Loose ends that Devlin didn’t like. He shoved his hand into his hair. Nothing was quite –
The mobile phone next to the computer began to vibrate, threatening to hop off the end of the table. He grabbed it and pressed the switch.
‘Devlin?’ Her voice was high, excited. Drunk? There was a sound in the background like traffic.
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I had to come outside, in the street, so no one would hear. I’m at dinner, old friends. They’ve just come back from Italy. Devlin –’ Her voice shook, then steadied. ‘They saw Jeff, in Florence. Three days ago!’
Chapter Five
Bobby Hoag stepped sideways to avoid the hunk of rusting metal that might once have been part of an SUV. Maybe. Just beyond it a dog was going crazy, barking and snapping. Bobby sent up a silent prayer for the links on the choke chain that was stopping it from ripping out his throat. He gave the fangs a wide berth and kept going.
As trailer parks went, he’d seen worse, but not often. He’d travelled quite a way along the highway from Atlanta to Nashville, and down a few side roads, to find this one. Not a place he’d want to raise a kid.
Luanne Cheska was sitting on the steps of a run-down trailer, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. A good healthy breakfast. Couldn’t be beat. Guaranteed to set you up for the day.
Bobby assessed her swiftly, looking for any resemblance to a dead child. It was there, if you looked. The blonde hair was natural, the mouth full-lipped and lush, the hands wrapped around the neck of the bottle delicate. Under the smudged layer of last night’s make-up, the bone structure was good. The claim to beauty and the match to her daughter ended there. The bloodshot eyes and overblown figure, in spray-on T-shirt and jeans, didn’t exactly bring up the word maternal.
‘Hi, handsome, you lookin’ for me?’ She raised the bottle in salute as she gave him a slow once over. Bobby felt sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He planted his feet solidly on the ground and returned the stare. He had a nasty gut feeling –
‘Mrs Cheska? It’s about your daughter –’
Luanne’s feet slapped down on the dirt as she rocked back. Her face had flipped from lazy welcome to beyond ice. Bobby sighed. On a scale of friendliness and co-operation, it looked like the dog was going to score higher.
‘What d’you want to know about Sally Ann? You sure as hell ain’t the police.’
‘Your daughter is missing –’
‘That bitch from Lynchburg, she sent you here, didn’t she?’ Luanne stabbed the bottle at him, waving it like a weapon. ‘You try and raise a kid on your own, no one wants to know. Soon as the little slut runs off someplace, the whole world comes sniffing around. I’ll tell you same as I told the cops, when she sent them here. I don’t know where that girl is. She wants to run off, nothing I can do to stop her. Now get the hell out of my face.’
Twenty minutes later Bobby slid behind the wheel of his car. His head was ringing. Luanne Cheska’s mouth would shame a trucker, but she’d liked his money. He had the name and number of the bitch from Lynchburg.
Mrs Laura Kettle, denizen of Lynchburg, Tennessee, had faded blonde hair, good jewellery and a dress splattered with tiny pink flowers. Bobby found himself looking into a pair of shrewd grey eyes. She served him tea, in a bone-china cup.
‘Tell me, Mr Hoag, just what is your interest in my granddaughter?’
‘Overlapping investigation, ma’am,’ Bobby responded promptly. ‘I’m looking into the disappearance of another young girl. Been employed by the family. Need to see if there’s maybe a pattern.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably not, but I have to check it out. You were the one who reported Sally Ann missing. Not your
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