Page 29 of 2nd Strike
He sighs, laying his forehead against mine. He wants to argue, but he knows I'm right.
To my disappointment, he kisses me gently, picks up his jacket, and slips out the back door without another word.
14
Meg
I’m sitting in our conference room, ignoring Fred, the reconstruction I’m behind on, when a knock sounds. I glance up from the files scattered in front of me. Matt is in the doorway looking fresh as a spring morning in dress slacks and a dress shirt with creases so sharp they could slice cement. Then there’s me in my Bob Seger concert T-shirt and clay-stained jeans.
I stare at him for a second, bringing my bleary eyes into focus. I’ve been sitting here since seven this morning, so distracted by the list of family members given to us by Ethan’s cousin that I didn’t even hear the door chime announce his arrival.
He holds up a manila envelope. “I think I’ve got something.”
This perks me up. I feel like I’m failing miserably with my study of potential suspects so this announcement sends a little tingle down my arms. “What is it?”
I work at keeping my voice even, at not letting hope take me to a place I have no right going. Not this early in the investigation. Charlie constantly warns me against getting emotional and for once, I’m trying damned hard to stay level.
“Ramona Caldren,” he says. “She’s Jerry’s cousin. Their fathers are brothers.”
“Okay. What about her?”
“After we left here last night, I made some calls.”
I always love when Matt does that. Most of the time, when he’s not forthcoming about who they were to, it means he’s called in favors that may or may not be legal.
At this point, I don’t really care how far outside the lines he plays.
I wave him into the room. “Tell me.”
“I was trying to shortcut going through the list. It could take us weeks to find all of them.”
“Believe me. I know.” I gesture to the files. “I’ve been at it for hours, figuring out who lives where so we can maximize our time.”
“Yeah. Forget that. I have a friend at the Virginia Department of Education.”
Oh, this should be good. What they can do for us, I haven’t a clue, but I’m a sculptor. What do I know? “And?”
“And, I got to thinking. We’re looking for a fifteen-year-old kid. One who, hopefully, is in school somewhere. So I call my friend at VDOE and ask what the chances are he could tell me if any of the folks on our list have a son that meets our criteria.”
Matt Stephens. How I love him. “Isn’t that illegal?”
He tilts his head and gives me a blank stare. The one that tells me I shouldn’t ask too many questions. “Never mind. Did you get a match? Please tell me you did.”
“Pack your shit and we’ll go see Ramona, who happens to have a fifteen-year-old son with light brown hair—according to his student ID.”
He got a photo! “You got aphoto?”
“Sure did.”
“Does he—”
“Look like Carl?” Matt shrugs. “Hard to tell. Maybe. The hair is too light.”
“Let me see.”
The artist in me can’t resist an opportunity to study the angles of the face, the shape of the eyes and nose. Anything, outside of Ethan, that might connect Carl’s missing biological son and the Caldrens'.
He holds up the envelope. “It’s in here. You can look at it in the car. Let’s go.”
