A Kate Page novel

After sending it, Kate looked at Grace’s face, the background image on her phone, and checked the time. She should be home with Nancy.

Kate pressed her number.

“Hi, Nancy, it’s Kate.”

“Hi, how’re things going up there? Did you have success?”

Nancy was aware of Kate’s tragedy and her lifelong search for answers.

“A bit, but it’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”

“Would you like to talk to Grace—she’s right here?”

“Yes, thanks. And, Nancy, thank you for doing this.”

“No need to thank me, here she is.”

“Hi, Mom!”

“Hi, sweetie, how did school go today?”

“It was fun. We learned about butterflies, it was so cool.”

Kate cut a lonely figure in the corner of the restaurant. Listening to her daughter tell her about her day was a balm, briefly pulling her mind from Rampart, the death scene and the questions that troubled her.

* * *

The flight to La Guardia was delayed.

Kate waited in pre-boarding, too tired to think or do much else but look at her phone and older photos of herself with Vanessa when they were children. There they were, sisters, hugging at Christmas. There was Vanessa on the sofa, looking so small and smiling so big. Her new angel necklace glinted in the flash. Kate blinked at the memories before closing the images.

Later, as the jet finally lifted off, Kate contended with the aftershocks of self-reproach for messing up. Then she considered Brennan and his reluctance to escort her to the scene.

Why wouldn’t he do it?

Seasoned detectives she’d known would’ve had no trouble with her request, which indicated to her that Brennan was either a rookie or being overly cautious, or that something more was going on.

Well, there’s no way I’m letting this go.

When the plane leveled she shut her eyes for a few tranquil minutes.

* * *

When Kate got home, Grace was asleep in Nancy’s guest room, which smelled of lavender and loneliness.

“You can let her spend the night, if you like.”

“Thank you, Nancy, but we’ve imposed all day.”

Kate caressed Grace’s cheek, kissed her softly. She stirred and groaned, “Hi, Mommy...love you,” as Kate hefted her into her arms.

“Oh, you’re getting so heavy.”

Nancy got the door, carrying Grace’s backpack, and followed Kate back to their apartment. After Kate put Grace into bed, she returned to her living room and put five crumpled twenties into Nancy’s hand.

“What’re you doing, Kate? I can’t take money from you.”

“You’re always helping. Take it. Please.”

“Now, listen to me.” Nancy put the money into Kate’s hand, closed it and held her hands firmly around it. “Ever since my Burt died, I lost my way. We have no children, no family, well—you know. You and Grace arrived in my life like an answered prayer. I’m here to help you whenever you need it. You mean more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Kate found a depth of warmth and love in Nancy’s kind face that came as close to a mother figure as she’d ever known. Kate hugged the older woman, holding on for a moment.

“Thank you. I’d be lost, too, without you.”

“Okay, good night. Now you get some rest and let me know if I can help with anything.”

Kate took a hot shower and made a cup of raspberry tea, glad that she’d have another day off to recover. Still, something was niggling at her.

I’m forgetting something.

Before going to bed, she went through her unopened emails. Most were routine and could wait. Then she came to one from Reeka, sent only minutes before.

Be in the office tomorrow for an important meeting at 10 a.m.

11

New York City

Newslead’s world headquarters took up an entire floor near the top of a fifty-story office tower on Manhattan’s far West Side.

Kate waited alone in a corner meeting room. It offered sweeping views of midtown, the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, but Kate only saw trouble in front of her. Being summoned as she was after what had happened upstate was not a good sign, especially on a day off.

At least she had gotten Grace to school before coming in.

The large room was cold. Kate used her phone for a quick check for updates out of Rampart. Nothing. She listened to traffic on the streets below and the hum of the ventilation system until the door clicked open.

Three people filed in.

First, Chuck. His tie was already loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair mussed. He dropped a folder on the table and sat without looking at Kate.

Next was Morris Chambers, from Human Resources. He was the antithesis to Chuck. He wore a suit, button-down shirt and bow tie. He opened a leather-bound executive notebook and clicked his pen.

Reeka followed, dressed to kill in a dark power blazer that would’ve worked for a funeral. Her face was in her phone, thumbs pausing when she shut the door and started the inquisition.

“Kate, this meeting is a result of what happened yesterday.”

Kate threw a questioning look to each of them. She thought this had been resolved, that Reeka had updated Chuck upon his return.

“I admit that what I did was stupid, but I was not charged.”

“This goes to your breach of Newslead policy.”

“But I worked it out with Rampart PD—this was a personal matter.”

“Yes, Chuck informed us of your sister’s tragedy. It’s heartbreaking. Still, it doesn’t excuse the violation, Kate.”

Reeka turned to Morris, cuing him to step in.

“Yes...” Morris cleared his throat. “The policy forbids Newslead staff from using their position for any form of personal gain.”

“But I didn’t gain anything.”

“You went to Rampart on a personal, private matter,” Morris read from his notebook. “But you represented yourself as a Newslead reporter on assignment, to New York trooper Len Reddick in an attempt to gain access to a crime scene. After you were refused access, you trespassed.”

“That led to possible charges.” Reeka stared at her.

Sensing a noose being tightened, Kate turned to Chuck, who was just sitting there. She couldn’t believe it. She and Chuck had been through hell together. He’d begged her to come to New York and work for him at Newslead. He knew about her sister and had been supportive. He was the most powerful manager in the room and, she thought, her friend. But there he was staring at the skyline. Leaving Kate alone.

“Quite frankly, Kate,” Reeka said, examining her own glossed nails. “I fail to comprehend why you went up there and did what you did.”

“What?”

“My read on this is that it’s a regional story, a rural domestic, a murder-suicide. Didn’t you lose your sister in western Canada?”

“What the hell do you—”

“Kate,” Chuck intervened.

“I was called by Rampart police,” Kate said. “They requested my help and I cooperated. There are strong indications my sister, who’s been feared dead for twenty years, was a victim!”

“Kate, take it down,” Chuck cautioned.

“But identities in Rampart have not been confirmed, have they?” Reeka lifted her eyebrows to punctuate her point.

“What? Reeka, how can you sit there and—”

“Kate, hold off,” Chuck said. “This is a difficult, complicated situation. It’s put you under stress and strained your judgment. The best action here is for you to take two weeks off, Kate, starting now.”

“Are you suspending me?”

“No, you’re taking time off with pay. I’ve approved it.”

Chuck signaled an end to the meeting.

“We have counseling services available, if you need it.” Morris clicked his pen and closed his notebook.

“I suggest you look into that, Kate. It’s for the best,” Reeka said.

They walked out of the room, leaving Kate alone with Chuck.

Several beats after the door had closed she turned to him.

“What happened?”

“You lost control in Rampart, Kate. The organization will not tolerate that. I cautioned you before you went there to avoid any conflict. You were on your own and could not represent yourself as a Newslead reporter.”

“Yes, but the indication my sister had been there was so strong.”

“You’ve followed similar leads over the years and unfortunately each one has dead-ended. Didn’t you tell me that yourself, Kate?”

“I know, Chuck, but this time it’s different.”

“I appreciate what you’re going through. Take time off, for your own peace of mind. See how your Rampart lead plays out, but if you pursue this, for God’s sake, do it on your own. Is that understood?”

Kate nodded.

“Listen,” Chuck added, “the rumors of more layoffs looming may come true. We’re not breaking big stories. We’re losing subscribers. Everyone’s on edge.” He ran a hand over his face. “Kate, you’re a good reporter, an asset to the company.”

“Thank you.”

“Morris had your termination papers in his notebook. Reeka wanted you fired. I put a stop to that.”

12

New York City

Kate was still reeling when she returned to her empty apartment.

She splashed warm water on her face, then buried it into a towel as a million thoughts swirled through her mind.

I was that close to being fired.

She shut her eyes tight, then opened them.

Thank God, Chuck had my back.

And the rumors of layoffs were true.

If I’d lost my job... Calm down.

She had a nest egg, built from the freelance pieces she’d done, like the big one for Vanity Fair on the Dallas story. And, because of her sublet deal and having gotten rid of her car, she’d saved more money.

Grace and I have been through hard times before—we’ll make it.

Eclipsing everything was the reality that Kate had never been this close to finding out what had happened to her sister. She had to use these next two weeks to go full throttle in her search for the truth.

I’m forgetting something. What am I forgetting?

Her phone started ringing. She went to her bedroom and answered it.

“Kate, Ed Brennan in Rampart.”

Her anger rose before she could think.

“I want my necklace back, Ed. And when you’re done with my sister’s necklace I want it, too.”

“Hold on there—everything’s still under investigation. I’m calling to update you because you should be among the first to know.”

“First to know what?”

“We’ve confirmed the identity of the deceased female.”

Kate’s stomach tensed and she gripped the phone tighter.

“Is it Vanessa?”

“No. I’m sorry. The victim’s name is Bethany Ann Wynn from Hartford, Connecticut. Identification was confirmed through dental records. She’d been missing for three years. Her age at death was twenty-two.”

Vanessa would’ve been twenty-six.

For a long moment Kate didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry for Bethany Wynn’s family. Do they know?”

“They’ve been informed and we’ve just posted a news release.”

“What does this mean for the situation with my sister?”

“I can’t answer that at this time.”

“But how did Bethany come to be at that barn, Ed?”

“I’m not going to answer that or speculate.”

“And how did my sister’s necklace get to the scene?”

“We still haven’t confirmed if the necklace belonged to your sister.”

“Come on.”

“It’s being processed. Look, we still have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, who’s Carl Nelson?”

“We still haven’t confirmed the identity of the deceased male.”

“What do you think went on at that barn?”

“Kate.”

“What about the cause of the fire? Was it intentional?”

“Kate, I’m not getting into any of this. I’ve told you, respectfully, to back off and let us do our job. Because you’ve helped us, I’ll update you on a need-to-know basis, that’s it. I have to go.”

Kate sat on the corner of her bed.

Her eyes went around her room as she processed the development. She was saddened by the news, heartbroken for the victim’s family, but what had happened only raised more questions.

Who was Bethany Ann Wynn and how did she get from Hartford, Connecticut, to Upstate New York? Moreover, who was Carl Nelson?

The best thing she could do now was get to work.

Kate switched on her tablet, went to the Rampart PD site for the press release. It was brief and she latched on to the key facts about Bethany.

At the age of nineteen, she was reported missing from the Tumbling Hills Mall in the Hartford suburb of Upper North Meadows, after completing her evening shift as a part-time manager at The New England Cookie Emporium. At the time of her disappearance she was last seen leaving the mall to take a bus home.

Kate collected those facts, then, like a prospector, she mined the internet for more information on Bethany’s background.

Scrutinizing older news stories and anniversary features, Bethany Ann’s short life emerged. She was the daughter of James and Rachel Wynn. James was the owner of a tow-truck company. Rachel was a school nurse. Bethany was a junior at Albert River College, studying veterinarian medicine. She had a younger sister, Polly, and at the time of her disappearance, a German shepherd named Tex.

Bethany had had a happy, stable life with a loving family. No indication of depression, drug use, bullying, boyfriend trouble, or any other reason to run off. No mention of Carl Nelson or a connection to Rampart. There was speculation of abduction, although security cameras at the stop Bethany took were not working and no witnesses had stepped forward.

Photos of Bethany showed a pretty girl with a bright smile and hope in her eyes. Kate scrutinized each picture for any jewelry she wore but found nothing resembling the angel necklace.

Kate thought for a moment, then found a home telephone number for the Wynn family.

Maybe Rampart or the local police had told the Wynns something about the case? Maybe they knew something about Carl Nelson, the necklace, her sister? Kate reached for her phone. She was in full-bore reporter mode as she dialed the number, reasoning that since the press release was public, the family would surely be getting calls from reporters. As the line rang, Kate envisioned TV trucks rolling up to the Wynns’ suburban home.

She hated calling. It was part of her job she loathed, intruding on people at the worst times of their lives. Over the years people had cursed her, hung up or slammed doors on her. Still, the majority struggled to talk about their loss. In most cases, through choking sobs, they would pay tribute to the father, mother, daughter, son, husband, wife, sister, brother or friend. Or they’d send Kate a heart-wrenching email, or pass her a tearstained note. If she went to their home, they showed her the rooms of the dead and the last things they’d touched.

It tore her up each time and she hated it.

But it was part of the job.

She never took their reactions personally. In that situation people had every right to lash out. Kate strove to be the most professional, respectful, compassionate person she could be in each case.

The families deserved no less.

As the line clicked, Kate steeled herself.

A man answered. His voice was deep, but soft.

“Hello.”

“Is this the home of James and Rachel Wynn, Bethany’s parents?”

“Yes.”

“My apologies for calling at this time and my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“Sir, my name’s Kate Page and I’m a—” Kate stopped herself cold. She was on the brink of identifying herself as a reporter from Newslead, a reflexive act that was now a firing offense. She was not on the job right now. “I’m sorry. My name’s Kate Page and I’m calling with respect to the press release that Rampart police in New York just posted online about Bethany Ann Wynn’s case?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering if I could speak to her mother or father. Are you her father?”

“No, Beth’s dad passed away last year. Cancer. I’m her uncle—Rachel’s my sister-in-law. She’s out right now, at the funeral home making arrangements. I’m here receiving people at the house until she gets back.”

“Oh, I see.”

“What did you need to talk about?”

Kate considered the propriety and her own anguish. The uncle seemed steady, receptive and kind, so she seized the opportunity.

“My little sister, Vanessa Page, has been missing for a long time and I’ve got reason to believe her case is somehow connected to Bethany’s. Is that name familiar to the family?”

“Vanessa Page? No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”

“Did Bethany ever own a necklace with a guardian angel charm?”

“Goodness, I wouldn’t know. Her mother would know that.”

“Sorry to ask so many questions.”

“It’s all right.”

“I was just wondering if Bethany’s family knew much more about what happened in Rampart.”

“All we’d heard from police here was that this Carl Nelson was some kind of computer expert and a reclusive nut and that he left a note...that maybe it was a murder-suicide. We figured he must’ve been the one who took Beth three years ago, kept her prisoner before he—”

“Did the police tell you much more?”

“No, I’m sorry. It all happened pretty fast. I think it was the other day, a detective here told Rachel the police in New York were checking Beth’s dental records. It gave us hope that maybe they found her and—” His voice broke. “And that somehow maybe she was alive. But, deep down, we knew. I’m sorry. I’m not thinking too clearly. It’s been real hard on all of us. God, I remember holding her when she was a baby. I’m her godfather. This family’s seen a lot of pain these past few years, a lot of pain.”

“Sir, I’m so sorry to intrude. I’ll let you take care of things.”

“Wait, there’s something. I do remember Rachel saying that one of our detectives here who’d been working on Beth’s case said the guys in Rampart were fearful there may be other victims.”

“Other victims?”

“Yes, and that maybe they just hadn’t found them all yet.”

13

New York City

Kate stood in her kitchen feeling horrible for having intruded on Bethany’s grieving family.

But she’d had to make that call. So much was at stake.

As tendrils of steam rose from her kettle she searched them for answers. Bethany’s uncle—Lord, I never got his name—had been kind to her and she weighed what he’d revealed about the case.

There may be other victims...they just hadn’t found them all yet.

Other victims.

It changed everything.

Kate had thought there was only one female victim. This helped explain why Brennan was so guarded. His case was more than a murder-suicide.

What really happened at that barn by the cemetery? Who was Carl Nelson?

The kettle’s whistle pierced the air like a scream.

Kate made raspberry tea, returned to her desk and her online digging, intent on finding more on Nelson. She regretted that she’d missed the chance to talk to people in Rampart about him and considered going back.

Maybe she’d do some phone work?

First she’d check Rampart news sites for any updates. The Rampart Examiner’s latest item was short, naming Bethany Ann Wynn as the female victim but offering no confirmation of the deceased male. The investigation was continuing. The region’s TV news and radio stations were reporting the same, as were news sites in Hartford.

Kate then checked her email.

She’d set up an alert for anything posted online on the case to be sent to her. She’d received more stories from Rampart and Hartford, but they contained nothing she didn’t already know.

I’m forgetting something—what is it? Wait—it’s the pictures!

Suddenly she’d remembered how she’d slid the tiny memory card with photos from the Rampart crime scene into her sock. Kate rushed to the hamper in the bathroom, rifled through the clothes, finding the socks she’d worn, shaking them until the little square fell to the floor.

How did I forget this?

Kate returned to the kitchen, inserted the card in her camera then connected the cable to her computer, downloaded the images and opened them. They showed the jumble of charred lumber, an array of protruding trestles and beams. On sections that were not burned she noticed markings, like messages cut into the wood.

Kate enlarged the image but the area was blurred. She opened another photo, one that was crisper. As she zoomed in, carved words swam into focus and she read “I am Tara Dawn Mae. My name used to be—”

It ended there.

What is that?

After studying the words for several moments, she wrote them down in her notebook. Had they been scratched in the wood earlier, prior to the deaths by somebody joking around, like some sort of graffiti? But it was not the usual obscenity or put-down.

Was it evidence?

It had been tagged for processing by the forensic cops.

I am Tara Dawn Mae. My name used to be—

Was this an unfinished message from one of the victims?

Kate immediately searched the name online.

In seconds, the results matching her query appeared, offering pages of headlines and excerpts that stunned her:

Canada’s Cold Case files...

Tara Dawn Mae was last seen at a truck stop...never seen again...

Royal Canadian Mounted Police—MISSING...

Tara Dawn Mae was 10 years old when she vanished from...

Brooks Prairie Journal—Mystery Disappearance Haunts...

It has been twelve years since the disappearance of Tara Dawn Mae, and neighbors in the tiny farming community try to remember...

FIND THE MISSING KIDS

Tara Dawn Mae. Age at time of disappearance: 10. Eyes: Brown...

Kate continued searching, finding a police summary of the case.

Tara Dawn MAE Cold Case Files

Location: Brooks, Alberta, Canada

On July 7, 2000, Tara Dawn MAE was ten years of age and living with her parents, Barton Mae and Fiona Mae, on their farm near Brooks, Alberta. After shopping for groceries in Brooks, the family stopped at the Grand Horizon Plaza, a large and busy truck stop along the Trans-Canada Highway.

While Barton purchased gas for the family pickup truck, Fiona and Tara entered the facility to use the restroom. While browsing the food court and gift shop, Tara got separated from her mother and was never seen again.

An exhaustive investigation has failed to yield any leads as to Tara Dawn MAE’s location or details as to her disappearance.

Kate then found a webpage showing several photographs of Tara. There she was smiling in a full-face shot. Next, a formal head-and-shoulders school portrait, and then Tara with a puppy and laughing.

Tara looks so much like Vanessa.

Deep in a corner of Kate’s heart, something cracked, a thin ray of hope emerged and she blinked back her tears. She needed to know more about this case and how it was connected to Rampart.

Kate reached for her phone and called Anne Kelly, with the New York office of the Children’s Searchlight Network. Anne alerted Fred Byfield, one of the group’s investigators.

“I’ll get in touch with our sister networks in Canada,” Fred said after listening to Kate. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Kate continued researching. Again and again she came back to the pictures, haunted by the little girl’s sweet, shy smile, her dark eyes, shining like falling stars.

Could this be Vanessa?