her.
Married twice, with a string of lovers, she didn’t seem particularly stable in her love life, but then, who could blame her? Men would’ve been salivating, their tongues dragging out of their mouths, if she so much as gave them a wink or a smile. Her first husband was a cowboy—a loner who had a temper that had put one man in the hospital. That was years ago, of course, when Thane Walker was barely sixteen, but Henderson believed that a man didn’t change. Once a hothead, always one. In years past, it seemed, Walker was forever just one step in front of the law.
Then there was the second man to make the mistake of marrying Marquise—an older guy who liked his women young and flashy, but had trouble keeping this one under his thumb. Mary Theresa had become the third Mrs. Syd Gillette for a period of less than a year. He’d moved on, been married and divorced since. It was a wonder the guy still had any money.
Her last boyfriend was ten years younger than she, a model with long, curly hair and a brooding, dark look that women seemed to find sexy. As far as Henderson was concerned, Wade Pomeranian was a spoiled pain in the butt.
So what had happened to her? The question rattled around in his head like rocks in a hubcap—irritating and damned hard to dislodge. Was she dead? Murdered? Had she committed suicide? Had she just taken off on a lark? Or was this all just a publicity stunt, the actions of a desperate woman whose star, albeit not in the caliber of a Hollywood celebrity, had once flared bright but now had begun to fade?
“Hell if I know,” he admitted, leaning back in his desk chair until it groaned in protest. He fingered his old baseball, the one that had been signed by Sandy Koufax when Henderson was just a kid, then gave it a toss. It arced perfectly one inch below the fluorescent lights before dropping into his open, waiting fingers.
What the hell had happened to Marquise? The press was all over the case. As she was the cohost of Denver AM and hadn’t shown up on the set, the producer of the show had gotten nervous, checked around, and eventually called someone she knew on the force.
In the intervening days Henderson had talked to most of the people associated with Ms. Gillette. He didn’t much like any one of them. Including her surly first husband. That guy was hiding something. Henderson could feel it in his bones. He intended to find out what it was; he just needed a little more time.
He’d put out a nationwide APB on Marquise, with her description as well as that of her Jeep Wrangler and the license plate of the vehicle. He’d also filed a missing-person report through the National Crime Information Center via the FBI. Sooner or later, she’d show up—dead or alive, he couldn’t begin to guess. An enigma, that one. But people didn’t usually fall off the face of the earth.
Then again, years ago, when he was still at the academy, he’d made a bet that Jimmy Hoffa would eventually turn up. That five bucks was history; he’d be damned if the same thing happened anywhere near his jurisdiction.
The door to his office swung open and Hannah Wilkins poked her head inside. Though it was the weekend, she, too, was working. “No news on the whereabouts of Thane Walker?” she asked, eyeing him with disapproval as he flipped the baseball toward the ceiling again. He knew she objected to his lack of reverence when it came to things of value. Hell, everyone did. But he didn’t believe in gilded cages, and, because of it, he supposed, he’d lost Karen and the kids.
“Nope. Walker seems to have taken a hike. Along with his ex-wife.” He caught the ball, careful to avoid his fingers’ touching Sandy’s signature, which was still intact, then gave it another toss toward the ceiling. “You talk to anyone at his ranch in Wyoming?”
“Nope. No one answered.” She slid into the room and leaned against the doorframe. Folding her arms over her chest, stretching the blue wool of her jacket,
Married twice, with a string of lovers, she didn’t seem particularly stable in her love life, but then, who could blame her? Men would’ve been salivating, their tongues dragging out of their mouths, if she so much as gave them a wink or a smile. Her first husband was a cowboy—a loner who had a temper that had put one man in the hospital. That was years ago, of course, when Thane Walker was barely sixteen, but Henderson believed that a man didn’t change. Once a hothead, always one. In years past, it seemed, Walker was forever just one step in front of the law.
Then there was the second man to make the mistake of marrying Marquise—an older guy who liked his women young and flashy, but had trouble keeping this one under his thumb. Mary Theresa had become the third Mrs. Syd Gillette for a period of less than a year. He’d moved on, been married and divorced since. It was a wonder the guy still had any money.
Her last boyfriend was ten years younger than she, a model with long, curly hair and a brooding, dark look that women seemed to find sexy. As far as Henderson was concerned, Wade Pomeranian was a spoiled pain in the butt.
So what had happened to her? The question rattled around in his head like rocks in a hubcap—irritating and damned hard to dislodge. Was she dead? Murdered? Had she committed suicide? Had she just taken off on a lark? Or was this all just a publicity stunt, the actions of a desperate woman whose star, albeit not in the caliber of a Hollywood celebrity, had once flared bright but now had begun to fade?
“Hell if I know,” he admitted, leaning back in his desk chair until it groaned in protest. He fingered his old baseball, the one that had been signed by Sandy Koufax when Henderson was just a kid, then gave it a toss. It arced perfectly one inch below the fluorescent lights before dropping into his open, waiting fingers.
What the hell had happened to Marquise? The press was all over the case. As she was the cohost of Denver AM and hadn’t shown up on the set, the producer of the show had gotten nervous, checked around, and eventually called someone she knew on the force.
In the intervening days Henderson had talked to most of the people associated with Ms. Gillette. He didn’t much like any one of them. Including her surly first husband. That guy was hiding something. Henderson could feel it in his bones. He intended to find out what it was; he just needed a little more time.
He’d put out a nationwide APB on Marquise, with her description as well as that of her Jeep Wrangler and the license plate of the vehicle. He’d also filed a missing-person report through the National Crime Information Center via the FBI. Sooner or later, she’d show up—dead or alive, he couldn’t begin to guess. An enigma, that one. But people didn’t usually fall off the face of the earth.
Then again, years ago, when he was still at the academy, he’d made a bet that Jimmy Hoffa would eventually turn up. That five bucks was history; he’d be damned if the same thing happened anywhere near his jurisdiction.
The door to his office swung open and Hannah Wilkins poked her head inside. Though it was the weekend, she, too, was working. “No news on the whereabouts of Thane Walker?” she asked, eyeing him with disapproval as he flipped the baseball toward the ceiling again. He knew she objected to his lack of reverence when it came to things of value. Hell, everyone did. But he didn’t believe in gilded cages, and, because of it, he supposed, he’d lost Karen and the kids.
“Nope. Walker seems to have taken a hike. Along with his ex-wife.” He caught the ball, careful to avoid his fingers’ touching Sandy’s signature, which was still intact, then gave it another toss toward the ceiling. “You talk to anyone at his ranch in Wyoming?”
“Nope. No one answered.” She slid into the room and leaned against the doorframe. Folding her arms over her chest, stretching the blue wool of her jacket,
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