corroborating witnesses, and no child had been reported missing that day.
That evening, of course, Jen Fletcher would report her fifteen-year-old daughter missing.
There were no leads in the case. Nothing at all. Missing child posters went up statewide. The press got involved. Claire’s abduction was featured on all the local news channels. Nothing. Not a single legitimate lead. It was as if Claire and her abductor had driven off into a black hole. There was no composite of the abductor because Strakowski never saw his face. She wasn’t even certain of the make or model of the vehicle.
Then almost three years later, twenty-two-year-old Rudy Teplitz showed up at 1201 Archer Street and asked for Claire Fletcher.
Teplitz claimed to have met her at a bar the previous night, gone with her to a motel room and slept with her. He claimed she left the address while he was asleep. Teplitz was interrogated, investigated, and cleared as a suspect by Farrell. Whether the woman Teplitz met was really Claire Fletcher or not, she disappeared as if she had never existed.
Connor flipped through the pages of the file, checking the dates on each report. The trail picked up every two to three years. Always with a man arriving at 1201 Archer Street, expecting a romantic interlude with a woman he’d just spent the night with. Instead, like Connor, he found himself an unwitting participant in the Fletcher family tragedy.
The second man, Martin Speer, was older than Teplitz. Speer was forty-six, unmarried and marginally employed. He was looked at much more closely by Farrell as a suspect in Claire’s disappearance. Eventually, he was cleared. The third guy was a twenty-six-year-old auto mechanic named Jim Randall. He was also cleared as a suspect.
All three men had gone with Claire to a motel for the night, and on all three occasions, Claire slipped out while they slept, leaving only her address. Prints were never taken because of the highly trafficked nature of the motel rooms.
Connor sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He slipped back into the kitchen for a drink. He sighed with relief as he saw the two scotch glasses next to his sink. He hadn’t taken care to wash them.
Gripping Claire’s glass carefully by the rim, he slipped it into a large Ziploc bag he pulled from the cabinet over the sink. Before he got any deeper into this case, he had to be certain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I banged on the door because I knew she hated it. Tiffany took her time answering, although I was certain she heard me approaching.
“What do you want?” she asked when she opened the door.
“What’s going on?” I said without preamble.
We stared at each other, the raw hatred between us palpable. She twirled a thin strand of hair around one finger and looked through me. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“You know damn well what I mean. Something is going on, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”
She smiled wickedly and met my gaze. She thrust her tiny breasts my way. “You’ve been banished, little Lynnie. What goes on in this house no longer concerns you,” she said.
I placed a palm on the door. “What goes on in this house concerns me when that psycho deviant bangs down my door at six a.m. What are you up to?”
She sucked her teeth. “Wouldn’t you like to know. You haven’t been a very good girl, lately, have you?”
His words dripped from her phony pubescent mouth. I wanted to punch her in the face. “Don’t play games with me, you little twit. It’s getting old and so are you. If you think making trouble for me is going to keep you on his good side, you’re wrong. You’re already past your expiration date.”
I said it because I wanted to hurt her, although it was true. I was cast from the fold like garbage at nineteen, never more grateful to him. For Tiffany however, that was her greatest fear.
“He’s always loved me more than you,” she spat. “Now go away.”
“Tell me what’s going on. I
That evening, of course, Jen Fletcher would report her fifteen-year-old daughter missing.
There were no leads in the case. Nothing at all. Missing child posters went up statewide. The press got involved. Claire’s abduction was featured on all the local news channels. Nothing. Not a single legitimate lead. It was as if Claire and her abductor had driven off into a black hole. There was no composite of the abductor because Strakowski never saw his face. She wasn’t even certain of the make or model of the vehicle.
Then almost three years later, twenty-two-year-old Rudy Teplitz showed up at 1201 Archer Street and asked for Claire Fletcher.
Teplitz claimed to have met her at a bar the previous night, gone with her to a motel room and slept with her. He claimed she left the address while he was asleep. Teplitz was interrogated, investigated, and cleared as a suspect by Farrell. Whether the woman Teplitz met was really Claire Fletcher or not, she disappeared as if she had never existed.
Connor flipped through the pages of the file, checking the dates on each report. The trail picked up every two to three years. Always with a man arriving at 1201 Archer Street, expecting a romantic interlude with a woman he’d just spent the night with. Instead, like Connor, he found himself an unwitting participant in the Fletcher family tragedy.
The second man, Martin Speer, was older than Teplitz. Speer was forty-six, unmarried and marginally employed. He was looked at much more closely by Farrell as a suspect in Claire’s disappearance. Eventually, he was cleared. The third guy was a twenty-six-year-old auto mechanic named Jim Randall. He was also cleared as a suspect.
All three men had gone with Claire to a motel for the night, and on all three occasions, Claire slipped out while they slept, leaving only her address. Prints were never taken because of the highly trafficked nature of the motel rooms.
Connor sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He slipped back into the kitchen for a drink. He sighed with relief as he saw the two scotch glasses next to his sink. He hadn’t taken care to wash them.
Gripping Claire’s glass carefully by the rim, he slipped it into a large Ziploc bag he pulled from the cabinet over the sink. Before he got any deeper into this case, he had to be certain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I banged on the door because I knew she hated it. Tiffany took her time answering, although I was certain she heard me approaching.
“What do you want?” she asked when she opened the door.
“What’s going on?” I said without preamble.
We stared at each other, the raw hatred between us palpable. She twirled a thin strand of hair around one finger and looked through me. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“You know damn well what I mean. Something is going on, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”
She smiled wickedly and met my gaze. She thrust her tiny breasts my way. “You’ve been banished, little Lynnie. What goes on in this house no longer concerns you,” she said.
I placed a palm on the door. “What goes on in this house concerns me when that psycho deviant bangs down my door at six a.m. What are you up to?”
She sucked her teeth. “Wouldn’t you like to know. You haven’t been a very good girl, lately, have you?”
His words dripped from her phony pubescent mouth. I wanted to punch her in the face. “Don’t play games with me, you little twit. It’s getting old and so are you. If you think making trouble for me is going to keep you on his good side, you’re wrong. You’re already past your expiration date.”
I said it because I wanted to hurt her, although it was true. I was cast from the fold like garbage at nineteen, never more grateful to him. For Tiffany however, that was her greatest fear.
“He’s always loved me more than you,” she spat. “Now go away.”
“Tell me what’s going on. I
Similar Books
