Part 2 (1/2)
Mason stopped beside Michael on the wide wraparound porch and stared at Portland's skyline.
Stunning view.
What had it been like growing up in such wealth? Michael Brody came from some of the bluest blood in the state but didn't show it. The guy always needed a haircut and dressed like he spent his days at a beachside bar. Except for the watch. Mason knew s.h.i.+t about watches. All he cared about was if it worked, but Ray had once commented that Brody's watch probably cost a third of Mason's yearly salary. Gross salary.
Mason struggled to wrap his brain around that. His gaze went to the black Range Rover in the driveway. Oh yeah. And the vehicle. Another sign that Michael Brody wasn't the beach b.u.m he presented himself as. Not to mention the dual master's degrees in international studies and economics, the investigative articles Brody wrote about his year in a motorcycle gang, running with the d.a.m.ned bulls in Spain, and jumping out of anything that could fly.
”They aren't telling us everything,” the imposter beach b.u.m stated.
Mason nodded. Brody's green eyes were narrowed in deep thought. The brain behind those eyes was one of the sharpest Mason had ever met. Too bad the guy had a problem with following the rules. Or listening to authority. Oregon State Police could have used someone like Brody. Or the CIA. But Brody liked to do things his own way.
”I agree,” Mason said.
The men stood in silence until Mason glanced at his cheap watch. ”I need to go.” He moved down the steps, leaving Brody behind.
”Callahan.”
Mason turned.
”I'm going to find out what happened to Daniel.” Brody held his gaze.
Mason nodded, unsurprised. He believed Brody would do just that. Maybe even before he did.
Jamie hung her keys on the hook by her phone and, with a smile, dropped her purse on the counter. Summer rocked. It was nearly nine in the evening and it was still light out and toasty warm. As much as she liked seeing the kiddos crowding the halls at her elementary school, she especially liked the quiet and the half-days of work during the summer. The warm afternoons and evenings were hers. No meetings with parents, no lectures on not hitting other students, no complaining teachers. She placed her hands on the small of her back and stretched, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut gra.s.s from the fields across the street. Her favorite smell of summer. Right after barbequed steak.
Her mouth watered. Opening the fridge, she took out a Diet c.o.ke and frowned at the spa.r.s.e offerings on her shelves. Yogurt, cheese, and milk. Dairy group accounted for. Not much else. She snagged a lemon yogurt and kicked her flip-flops onto the mat by the door to the garage. Living alone was great, but sometimes she wished she had a reason to cook a big meal. Meat and pasta and crusty bread. Lots of it. Once a month she met with girlfriends for dinner and wine to catch up on each other's lives. The rest of the month she lived on protein bars, dry cereal, and fruit.
And yogurt, lots of yogurt.
She eyed the yellow, creamy substance. She needed a change. Work, eat, exercise, clean house, mow lawn. A solid and comforting schedule but rather boring. She glanced at the calendar. Next week she was off. She'd planned to paint two of her bedrooms, but maybe she should get out of town. Do something different, unplanned. Like...go to the beach and just read. Heather had been pestering her to visit her in Bend. Jamie could drive over the Cascades and sunbathe with Heather in the dry, baking heat of Central Oregon.
She rinsed out the empty yogurt container and placed it in the recycling. Her spoon went directly into the dishwasher. Who was she kidding? The numbers on the calendar taunted her. She would be painting next week. It needed to be done.
The doorbell jangled. Jamie strolled to the door and looked through the peephole. Male. Big. Don't know him. Her stomach stopped digesting her yogurt.
”May I help you?” She spoke through the door.
His left eyebrow rose, and he gave a half smile. Instantly charming. And hunky. Jamie felt a different sensation in her stomach.
”Michael Brody. I'm with the Oregonian.” A laminated ID suddenly blocked her view.
Jamie wasn't impressed. Anyone could make an official-looking ID, and this guy looked anything but official in his cargo shorts and snug T-s.h.i.+rt. But the name on the ID was familiar...
”What do you want?” She wasn't about to open the door.
”I'm looking for your brother Chris.” He lowered the ID and looked directly at the peephole.
Jamie froze. Not again. Every few years, reporters and cold case cops came out of the woodwork to hara.s.s her brother. Temper swirled in her chest.
”He doesn't live here.”
The man's eyebrow rose further. ”I know. Where can I find him?”
Jamie choked out a laugh. Did he think she was stupid?
His mouth twitched at her laugh. ”Are you Jamie Jacobs?”
Did he just bat his eyelashes? She swallowed another laugh. ”No.”
”Do I need to call the police because you're in her house?”
Jamie snorted.
The reporter's face turned serious. ”They found the bus,” he stated quietly.
Jamie pulled back from the door, heart in her throat. Oh s.h.i.+t. ”What about the kids?” she whispered.
He heard her. ”I'll tell you if you open the door. Do you know who I am now?”
His name echoed through her brain and hit its target. Brody. One of the other kids. She pressed her eye against the hole again. Michael Brody's face had lost all expression, and she instantly saw the resemblance to Oregon's Senator Brody.
This was the brother to the senator's missing son.
Jamie forced her lungs to pump air. She'd never really met Michael Brody. He'd been much older than her at the academy. She mainly knew his name as a byline in the newspaper. Her parents had pulled her out of school and then isolated her and Chris from all media coverage after her brother had returned.
With shaking fingers, she worked the two deadbolts and opened the door.
Michael exhaled as he heard the bolts start to slide. He'd wondered if she would talk to him. He'd dug up what he could on the woman. Her parents were dead, and all leads to her brother seemed to end at brick walls. She was Chris's only living relative. Jamie Jacobs had been nine when her brother vanished. Eleven when he returned. Now she was a princ.i.p.al at one of Portland's poorest elementary schools. Fair and sensible was the description he'd heard. Her students loved her and the teachers raved about her. Her yard was perfect. The hedges perfectly trimmed and the trees properly pruned. The gra.s.s was cut short and the flowers in a neat border. He eyed the border. Purple flower, yellow flower, purple, yellow. All the way around. Why hadn't she mixed it up a little? It looked...too perfect.
The door opened, and he turned back to face the woman.
Too perfect.
Eyes the color of pale green jade stared at him, fear and anxiety hovering behind them. Long black hair was caught back in a ponytail, with wavy sections escaping to frame her face. What a face. She reminded him of the old-time movie sirens. The ones who seized the screen with their n.o.ble aura the second they stepped on camera. The ones who played the roles of queens or empresses. Regal women. Like Sophia Loren...but with bright eyes. She was tall. Nearly as tall as he. He barely had to look down to meet her gaze, and he'd barely need to dip his head if he wanted...f.u.c.k. He blinked and watched wary s.h.i.+elds abruptly cover the anxiety in her eyes. Her black tank showed off toned arms that either spent a lot of time in the gym or working in her yard. She was buff, an interesting mix of athlete and contessa.
Every well-rehea.r.s.ed question in his brain evaporated.
Why hadn't his elementary school princ.i.p.al looked like this?
Her chin lifted the slightest bit, and he recognized a familiar stubbornness. Lacey looked just like that when she was about to chew him out.
”What about the kids?” she snapped. ”What did they find? Where was it? Did you-”
”Hang on.” He lifted his hands, unable to process the questions pouring from freaking gorgeous lips. ”Can I come in?”
She clamped her mouth shut and blatantly a.s.sessed him from head to toe, like she was sizing him up for a round or two in a boxing ring. Her right hand slipped to her pocket, wrapping around something, and he watched the muscles flex in her forearm. What'd she have in there?
He took a half step back.
”Let me see that ID again. And your driver's license.” Her voice was calmer but still held the punch of someone expecting to be obeyed. She must be a great princ.i.p.al.