Oshiro’s stance was relaxed as he crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Standing in front of the door. Jenna ran through her repertoire of glares without luck. “You’re not going to let me leave alone.”
“I have no right to stop you. But doesn’t mean you’ll be going anywhere alone, no ma’am.”
Jenna grabbed her gear and the map. Might not be a bad idea, having a few massively armed men at her beck and call. “Fine, then. But if we find anything, Galloway and Stone get the credit.” She flounced past him as he held the door open for her, then looked back over her shoulder. “And the reward.”
Chapter 5
THE RADCLIFFE HOUSE surprised Morgan. When Andre drove them east on the Parkway out to Route 22, she’d been expecting to end up in one of the nouveau riche mini-mansions speckling the countryside beyond the Pittsburgh city limits. Instead, they’d arrived at a modest 1970’s split-level in Monroeville.
No wonder Jenna hadn’t wanted to come. Chasing after Clinton Caine promised fame and fortune—the return on investment in searching for a missing working class teenager could not compare. That’s how Jenna measured everything: did it help her get what she wanted? As long as you remained on the positive side of that equation, you remained in her life.
Sometimes Morgan could almost see the calculations spin through the air around Jenna when she was faced with a choice. It gave Morgan a clear advantage because it told her exactly how to manipulate Jenna, but lately she’d been surprised by how much Jenna’s cold heart angered her. Not because she cared at all about Jenna, but because of Andre. He might be a tough, battle-scarred Marine, but his heart was as fragile as spun glass—and just as easily shattered.
Morgan knew that someday she might need to decide if Andre was better off without Jenna in his life. But for now, Jenna made Andre happy, so she let it rest.
“Thank goodness you came.” A woman in her late thirties appeared at the front door, holding it open against the brisk March breeze. “Thank you,” she said, nodding her head and bowing her shoulders to Andre as he passed by her into the house. She wore jeans and a cable knit sweater that was almost the same shade as her hair. Corn silk, the luke-cold color was probably named.
“Thank you,” she repeated to Morgan, again with the strangely submissive head drop.
“Mrs. Radcliffe?” Andre asked as they crowded her slate-floored foyer that was maybe six feet square. Two sets of stairs led away from the tiny entryway: one headed up to an open floor plan with living room/dining room combo, kitchen, and hall presumably leading to bedrooms. The other led down to the garage and basement level. “I’m Andre Stone. From Galloway and Stone.”
“Diane, call me Diane,” their hostess said, her words pressured by nerves.
Andre and Morgan hung up their coats on the pegs she gestured to, alongside a crowded array of colorful knit hats and scarves and children’s snow jackets. Diane touched Andre’s arm as if reassuring herself that he was actually there and pointed the way to the living room, following him up the steps.
“This is my associate, Morgan Ames,” Andre made introductions once they’d all reached the landing at the top, another cramped area, this time carpeted. He side-stepped the entrance to the tiny galley kitchen to enter the living room, which featured a sectional sofa, its beige microsuede stained by a cocktail of fruit flavored colors, evidence of young children. A recliner took the place of honor in front of the bay window, directly across from a large flat screen TV and a wedding photo of Diane and a man wearing an Army dress uniform, his posture ramrod straight, his gaze bayonet sharp.
“Please, sit, sit,” Diane Radcliffe said as she took a seat on the sofa then bounced back up again. “Oh wait, wait, I have it here, ready for you.”
She bustled into the dining room, rummaged in a drawer of the faux-oak china cabinet, and returned holding a thick envelope. Still ignoring Morgan, she presented it to Andre and stepped back, dropping her head once again.
“I had to take a loan from my 401K,” she said, directing her words to the carpet, “but I was able to get the ten thousand she asked for.”
Finally she dared to look up, craning her neck to make eye contact with Andre, who towered over her. “It’s all I have. But please, please, it has to be enough. Please find him. Find my boy and bring him home.”
Morgan stepped back, leaving Andre and the mother in the center of the room. She knew what came next, and it wasn’t her department.