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  Claudia gave a halfhearted laugh, knowing he was just trying to comfort her. “God, I hope you’re right.”

  She saw him out to the Jeep, watched him drive away, then went inside and poured herself a mug of high-test coffee, needing the caffeine kick. She sat at the kitchen table, struggling to stay calm and logical, trying to cheer herself. Maybe Paige had taken Annabelle on an impulse trip to Disneyland or something. With Paige, anything was possible. But what about Mikki . . . ?

  Claudia glanced at the phone and immediately rejected the idea of calling the school. If Brenda was there, which seemed doubtful, the switchboard would be clogged with reporters looking for a juicy story, parents wanting to know what was going on. The kind of publicity Paige so wants to avoid.

  She thought of the threatening letter from Diana. Paige had been adamant about not showing it to the police, but the situation had changed in a drastic way. When Jovanic called, she would tell him about it and ask what he recommended.

  She glanced over at the phone again, nearly startled out of her wits when it rang.

  Chapter 16

  Monica, voice pitched higher than usual, talking fast.

  “Aunty C., did you see the news? I was getting ready for my tennis lesson and Daddy had the TV on and . . . she’s going to be in a whole bunch of trouble, isn’t she?”

  “Whoa, kiddo, slow down. What do you mean?”

  “Annabelle! She did something bad, didn’t she? She’s such a dork!”

  “Monica, please slow down and tell me exactly what you’re talking about.”

  “She called me really late the other night, on Christmas Eve. She was majorly upset about that lady, the one who’s missing—her principal?”

  “Upset about her principal? Paige Sorensen?”

  “Yeah, Paige. Annabelle said she was a skanky slut and she said she was gonna get even with her.”

  Annabelle had used that word—slut—in the empty classroom last week, the day after her fight with the other girls. At the time, Claudia had thought she was talking about Britney, her roommate who had teased her into combat. Could she have actually been referring to Paige?

  “Get even with her about what? Did she tell you?”

  “Well . . .” Monica hesitated. “I promised not to tell.”

  “Monnie, I know you don’t want to snitch out a friend, but right now, nobody knows where she is, or where Paige is, or if something’s happened to them.”

  There was a silence and Claudia could tell that her niece was pained at having to break her new friend’s confidence. She said, “Sweetie, at this point, anything might help.”

  Monica gave a long, giving-up sigh. “She’s—well—she’s been telling me about this guy she thinks is totally cool. Remember that handwriting she brought to show you, but she didn’t want to say who he was? Aunty, he’s really old. He works at her school.”

  A guy in his thirties would seem ancient to Monica. But not Annabelle?

  She’s looking for a father substitute.

  “It was Christmas Eve when she called you?”

  “Uh-huh. She was s’posed to be in bed, but she snuck out and went to this guy’s house ’cause she had a Christmas present to give him. He lives on the school grounds, so it wasn’t like she had to go anywhere far. She knocked on the door, but it was unlocked and she went in. It was raining and she wanted to put the present inside and leave, but then she saw her principal was there, and the guy, and they were . . . well, they were—” Monica faltered.

  “They were what? Monica, you have to tell me.”

  “The bedroom door was open and Annabelle could see them. They . . . they didn’t have any clothes on and they were . . . in bed.”

  Oh, no!

  “Okay, I got it. What did she do?”

  “Paige was yelling and at first Annabelle she thought he was hurting her, but then she could tell she liked it, what he was doing. She ran back outside.”

  “Did Paige see Annabelle?”

  “No. She said there was loud music, so they didn’t hear her. Aunty C., she was really freaked. She kept saying the F word and she kept saying that she was gonna get that skanky slut, so when I saw the TV this morning—”

  Just as Annabelle had said she was going to get her father for the time she had found him groping her nanny. History repeating itself.

  Was it just talk by an emotionally wounded child? Or was Monica right, and Annabelle had “done something really bad?”

  After promising her niece that she would handle it, Claudia went upstairs to the file cabinet and pulled Annabelle’s file. If the girl was dangerous, there should be warning signs in her handwriting. Could Claudia have missed something?

  When she couldn’t settle down to getting any work done, she drove over to Bel Air.

  The police were gone, but the media was camped out across the street from the school. The private security guard posted at the closed gates of the Sorensen Academy couldn’t have been less interested in hearing why Claudia might want to enter the property.

  His brown uniform and shaved head gave him the look of a Nazi storm trooper and attitude to boot. He leaned down and rested his elbow on the car door so that his face was level with hers. Judging from his pastrami and sauerkraut breath, Claudia guessed lunch at Canter’s Deli in nearby Westwood. The Reuben was one of their specialties.

  “No one gets inside unless their name’s on my list,” the rent-a-cop said. “No one—get it? That’s my orders.”

  Claudia kept her tone pleasant. “If you’d just call Mr. Falkenberg, he’ll vouch for me.”

  “He’s not in charge.”

  “Well, who is?”

  “Listen, lady, all you hafta know is, your name ain’t on the list. If you got something to say about the missing person thing, go see the cops. Nobody inside gives a shit about anything else today. Now, you just back up your Jag-u-ar and hit the road.”

  “But—”

  Rent-a-cop straightened and folded his arms across his chest to let her know that the conversation was over. His attitude didn’t impress Claudia, but the nine-millimeter Beretta on his hip did, and when he casually moved his hand to the butt of his gun, she shifted into reverse. Getting into a pissing contest with some testosterone-driven asshole was not on today’s agenda.

  She flicked a look in the rearview mirror before backing up. A late-model black Corvette shot up the driveway behind her and slammed to a halt, blocking her exit.

  Cruz Montenegro jumped out and ran up to the Jag, waving the guard away. “Claudia, thank God you’re here. I gotta talk to you.” His eyes were bloodshot, the skin below them mottled and saggy.

  “Fine with me, but this jerk won’t let me in.”

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  Claudia watched Cruz stride over to the disgruntled rent-a-cop, shoulders squared, chin jutting. Macho.

  The conversation lasted all of thirty seconds. She couldn’t hear what was said, but whatever it was, Cruz convinced the guard to move aside.

  Michelle Gillette, the reporter Claudia had seen on the news, chose that moment to run across the street and start up the hill to the gate, calling out, asking for an interview.

  Cruz spun on her and faced her down. “Get the fuck away from me,” he snarled.

  Gillette recoiled, looking scared. Without another word, she turned tail and hurried back to the safety of her news van.

  Cruz jumped into the ’Vette and burned rubber backing up. He drove alongside the Jag and touched a remote control on the visor. The gates swung open and he drove in, beckoning Claudia to follow.

  Her first time inside the guesthouse. It was a nobrainer to figure out that Cruz’ hand hadn’t decorated the place. Too froufrou for Paige. Who, then? The first Mrs. Sorensen? Diana Sorensen, perhaps? Judging from her clothing, Diana’s taste was too severe to have selected the old-fashioned pink-toned chintz upholstery and drapes and the carpet with its cabbage roses. Chrome and leather seemed more her style.

  The place was not just neat
, it was immaculate. Spit shined. Windows spotless even after all the rain, the furniture polished to a gloss you could see your face in. Not so much as a TV Guide on the coffee table. The house could have passed a Marine DI inspection.

  “Brewski? Coke? Water?” Cruz asked.

  “I’ll take a beer, thanks.” Claudia followed him into a kitchen as spick-and-span as the front part of the cottage and smelling of pine cleaner.

  Too much pine cleaner.

  Could all this cleaning be an attempt to hide something incriminating?

  Claudia scoffed at herself. Too many episodes of Forensic Files. “You’re a better housekeeper than I am,” she said to Cruz.

  He glanced around as if seeing the place for the first time. “Leftover from the Corps.” He grabbed two bottles of Dos Equis from the apartment-size refrigerator and opened both, handing one to Claudia.

  They moved back to the living area and Cruz plunked down in one of the overstuffed easy chairs, gesturing Claudia to the other.

  She regarded the shadows under his eyes and said, “You look like shit.”

  Cruz took a coaster from the coffee table and tossed it to her. “How would you look if you were grilled all night by the cops?”

  “Probably like shit.” Putting the coaster on the side table beside her chair, Claudia stood her bottle on it and leaned forward. “Cruz, what’s really going on?”

  He released a loud, unhappy breath. “Damned if I know, Claudia, but I got this really bad feeling the cops think I do.” He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. It looked oily, like it was overdue for a shampoo.

  Raising the bottle to his lips he took a long swallow, then squeezed the Dos Equis bottle between his knees and stared at it. Picked it up and drank some more, set it on the coffee table. He seemed antsy and Claudia waited in silence, giving him the space he seemed to need.

  “They kept hammering at me. Same questions, over and over, a hundred different ways. Man . . .I would never do anything to hurt Paige.”

  Claudia drank some beer and set the bottle back on the coaster. “What makes you think she’s hurt?”

  He shot her a derisive look. “What do you think? She just left with Annabelle and forgot to say anything? Where would they go? And don’t forget the dog. Like she’d leave that freakin’ Mikki with no food?”

  Claudia shook her head. “Cruz, don’t you have any idea where they might have gone?”

  “Hey, like I told the cops—I got nothing to hide. If I knew where they were, I’d be the first one to drag their asses back here and make them explain themselves.”

  His eyes went to the windows, where the branch of a windblown tree was scratching at the pane. “Paige was with me on Christmas Eve. She sent Annabelle to bed and she came over about eleven. We had a few drinks, a few laughs, ended up in bed. I fell asleep. That’s pretty much all there was to it. The cops wanted to know what time she left here. How the hell would I know? I wake up at seven the next morning, she’s gone. I sure as hell don’t know anything about the kid. I just thought Paige went home early.”

  Claudia looked at him and saw a mixture of emotions on his face, the strongest of which seemed to be fear. That gave her pause. She said, “Here’s a little surprise for you, Cruz: ‘The kid’ didn’t go to bed. She was right here and she saw you and Paige going at it.”

  The languid blue eyes popped wide. “The fuck you talking about?”

  “Somebody forgot to lock the front door. She dropped by with a Christmas gift for you, not knowing Paige was here, and she came inside. Whatever she saw, it was enough to upset her, big-time.”

  “Aw, fuck.” Cruz smacked his palms against his forehead. “Fuck . . . Fuck! She called you?”

  “No, she called my niece. They’re friends.”

  “Goddamn it! Paige and I—dammit—the kid—” Cruz leaned forward, elbows on knees, the nearly empty Dos Equis bottle dangling from his hand. He shook his head. “Ahh, man, that’s fucked up.”

  Claudia’s gaze shifted, caught on the neatly made bed, visible through the open bedroom door. Annabelle would have had a clear view of what was going on in there from almost any vantage point in this small room. She drank some beer and wondered why Cruz had been so keen to talk to her.

  Annabelle had called Monica after she’d seen them in bed, which was some time after eleven p.m. What had she done after that? Impulse control was not her strong point. After the fight with her classmates, then finding Paige in a sexual encounter with Cruz, what might Annabelle have felt driven to do?

  Cruz interrupted her thoughts. “There’s something I have to show you.” He drained his bottle and got up, returned to the kitchen and got seconds.

  While he was out there Claudia heard him open a drawer. He returned and handed her a yellow Post-it note on which a few words were written in red ink.

  Cruz, Later—AnnaB—trouble

  xxx

  It was Paige’s handwriting, yet not her normal handwriting. The words were scrawled and lacked the motor control of her usual pretty style, which put an emphasis on the appearance of the writing.

  “Where did you get this?” Claudia asked.

  “I found it on my nightstand after I got up Sunday morning,” Cruz said. “Annabelle must have phoned after I was asleep.”

  Claudia dug in her purse for the small magnifying glass she carried with her in a tool kit. Holding it close to the paper, she checked the edges of the strokes and found them fuzzy. From the state of the handwriting she knew Cruz had grossly underestimated the amount of alcohol Paige had ingested. “How much was she drinking?”

  He was noncommittal. “Couple glasses of wine. We both got pretty faded.”

  “So when you say a couple, what do you really mean? Three? Four? Ten?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. I think . . .” His eyes went up as he searched his brain. “We probably went through two bottles, maybe three.”

  “How about drugs?” Claudia caught his calculating expression and suspected he was trying to think up a lie. “You’d better tell me the truth, Cruz. This is some serious shit.”

  “Okay, we smoked a little weed, did a little E.” He stopped, looking abashed. “See . . . Paige wants it rough, but she needs help loosening up.”

  Too much information, Claudia thought with distaste. But it was important, so she pressed him. “How rough, Cruz?”

  “Hey, I don’t hurt her, you know?” The protest was too quick. She stared him down until he glanced away, shifting in his seat. “It’s just, she likes to be tied up. She likes that necktie thing.”

  “Necktie?” Claudia thought for a moment. “Are you talking about autoerotic asphyxiation?”

  Oh shit, did Annabelle see that?

  “Is that what it’s called? Huh. Well, this isn’t ‘auto,’ you know? It’s freakin’ dangerous if you do it by yourself. Even with a partner, you gotta be careful—time it just right—cut off the oxygen at just the right moment, then let up before . . . it makes a really intense climax. God, when she comes like that . . .” His face had become flushed, his eyes bright. He was getting turned on just talking about it.

  “That’s what you were doing on Christmas Eve?” Claudia interrupted, dashing cold water on his fantasy. “I’d think the police would find that interesting.”

  Cruz was out of his chair like a rocket. He loomed over her, his big, strong-looking hands gripping the arms of her chair. His eyes were impenetrable, but the anger in them made Claudia’s breath catch in her throat.

  Chapter 17

  “Our sex life has nothin’ to do with her going missing, you got that? I dunno why I told you that. What the fuck is the matter with me?”

  “Take it easy, Cruz. I—”

  “Dammit, I wish I could remember what happened. I never even heard the phone ring.” Cruz flung himself back in his armchair and pointed to the Post-it in Claudia’s hand. “That note says trouble and Annabelle. That’s a bad combination. The kid . . .”

  “I know she’s had her problems,” Cla
udia said, trying to get her heart rate back to normal. “But I just don’t see Annabelle seriously hurting anyone, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He’d felt so threatening standing over her and she hadn’t been sure of what he was going to do. With that anger flashing in his eyes, he’d looked capable of just about anything.

  “Well, I wouldn’t hurt Paige, either,” he snapped.

  Claudia waved the Post-it at him like a tiny yellow flag. “Why are you showing this to me, instead of the police?”

  “If I show it to the cops, they’re gonna think I wrote it to give myself an alibi. You’re an expert. I figure you tell ’em it’s her handwriting, not mine, they’ll believe you.”

  “An alibi for what?”

  “For whatever. Paige is gone, the kid’s gone—they’re looking at me! Christ, it’s a goddamn nightmare! I need them to believe it’s her handwriting so they’ll know she was okay when she left here.”

  “Don’t you think the police are going to call this withholding evidence?” Claudia put the Post-it in her purse without waiting for his response. “I don’t see her driving anywhere without getting pulled over in the condition she was in when she wrote this, especially on Christmas Eve. You know the cops are all over the place, looking for drunk drivers.”

  “Then someone else drove her car.”

  “Who?”

  “Who the hell knows?” Cruz’ brows came together. He covered his eyes with his hands, wearily shaking his head. “I hate to think it, but Annabelle might have set Paige up. If she was as upset as you say she was, maybe her old gangster buddies . . .”

  Claudia stared at him in disbelief. “Come on, Cruz, you can’t be serious.”

  He blew out a breath, shook his head. “I don’t like it, believe me. You got any other ideas?”

  “No, but I don’t believe that one for a minute. She’s the type to blow off steam by yelling, not planning to set someone up. When she jumped Diana Sorensen it was spur of the moment, an impulse.

  “Now, look, about this note—if you want me to be able to identify Paige as the writer and rule you out, I’ll need some of your handwriting for comparison.”