Part 25 (1/2)
”Emma. How the h.e.l.l would I know?”
”It's something, anyway.”
He reached out, rubbed his thumb over the smudge on her nose, once and then once more, until it was gone. ”Yes,” he said. ”It is certainly something.”
”I think we should give Lorraine Smith a call.”
”So do I.” He got his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, then realized he'd need an area code, after all, since his phone had a California number. ”Do you remember the area code here?”
She did, and she told him. He punched it up, followed by the number in the old address book.
After three rings a woman answered.
”h.e.l.lo.”
Jonas. .h.i.t her with the name. ” Lorraine ?”
”I'm sorry,” said the woman. ”There's no one here by that name.”
”Is this the Smith residence?”
”No, we are the Bradleys.”
He reeled off Lorraine Smith's address, asked the woman if hers was the same.
”No, it is not.” Impatience now threaded her voice. ”Is there anything else?”
”Yes. I wonder. How long have you had had this number?”
”I don't know. A couple of years. Who is this?””Sorry to bother you.” He disconnected the call, dropped the phone on the desk. ”Looks like Lorraine Smith doesn't have this number anymore.”
”Who was it? What did they say?”
He repeated the information the woman had given him.
”Did you believe her?”
”She seemed straightforward enough. I don't know. She could have been lying, I guess.
No way to tell.”
Emma was staring at him. A look that said she had plans.
He muttered suspiciously, ”What?”
”Let's go to Oklahoma City . Let's see what we find at Lorraine Smith's address.”
”There's more we could do here. Now that we have a possible address and a last name, we could-”
”We can do it later.” She gestured at the bleak room around them. ”None of this is going anywhere. And I am sick of all this brown. It's enough to suck all the enthusiasm right out of a person. I need a little change of scenery.”
”Emma...”
She grabbed his arm, yanked on it playfully. ”Come on. Let's get out of here. Let's see what's happenin' at Lorraine 's house.” ”Emma, if the woman doesn't have the same phone number, it's doubtful that she even lives there anymore.”
”You don't know that yet. But you will. As soon as we go there.”
”I don't think-”
She put a finger against his lips. ”You said it. Don't think. Act. Do what I say. And do it now.” She yanked on his arm again.
”Wait. Let me check for an Internet connection.”
”Why?”
”We can look up the address on Maphunt.” He punched the right commands. But no luck. No doubt the phone and the service were both disconnected by now.
”Jonas, will you shut that thing down and let's go?”
He did as she ordered, then let her pull him from the chair.
They stopped at a convenience store for a map. As it turned out, Lorraine Smith lived, or had lived, or might live in an area called Mesta Park , near the heart of Oklahoma City , not far from the state capitol. It took them thirty-five minutes to get there from Blake's house.
The neighborhood was an old one, with houses of all sizes, many of them in prairie-cottage style. Jonas guessed that the majority of the houses would have been built in the first two decades of the twentieth century. Some cried out for care, others had either been kept up or lovingly restored. Mature trees, mostly sweet gums and oaks, lined the streets and grew in front of the houses, providing generous patches of cool shade, their leaves just beginning to show the first hints of autumn's gold.
Lorraine Smith's address was four doors in from the corner, a small one-story cottage, green clapboard with white trim and a red-s.h.i.+ngle roof. Jonas pulled in at the curb and turned off the engine.
”Looks friendly,” Emma said.
And it did. Plants hung in pots from the porch eaves. Lace curtains decked the windows. There was a swing painted a whimsical shade of pink. A cheery fall wreath of bright-colored leaves decorated with small orange and yellow gourds hung on the front door, which had gla.s.s panels in the center of it and more gla.s.s flanking it on either side.
Emma was watching him.
”Say it,” he recommended grimly. ”Well, now. It doesn't look the home of a kidnapper, does it?”
”And what, exactly, does the home of a kidnapper look like, Emma?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. ”Always so logical.” She leaned on her door. ”Ready?”
He wasn't. He would never be. So he didn't bother to answer, just opened his own door and got out of the car.
They went up the walk to the front porch side by side. Jonas rang the bell. In less than a minute, a woman was peeking out at them through the lace curtains on the inside of the door. She smiled pleasantly, opened the door and then pushed the gla.s.s storm door wide as well.
”Yes?” She looked like anyone's favorite grandmother, with a strong, stocky body, friendly wrinkles that fanned out from her eyes and gray hair pulled back into a nice, tidy bun.
Jonas quelled the urge to introduce himself. If this woman was his brother's kidnapper, uttering the name Bravo would be sure to put her on her guard.
He manufactured a smile. ”h.e.l.lo, Lorraine .” The wrinkles in the woman's forehead deepened as she frowned. ”I'm afraid my name is Dotty.” Her face relaxed again. ”Oh, I know. You must be looking for Mrs. Smith.”