Stealing Taffy (Bigler, North Carolina #3) - Susan Donovan Page 0,19
to open the screen door before she whispered to Tater, “She’s still a little sensitive about that subject—probably because she’s not done with her stepping stones.”
“I see,” Tater said.
“I haven’t mentioned to her yet that Cheri and J.J. are on their honeymoon, so don’t let it slip.”
“All right, Miss Vivienne.”
Tanyalee heard the exchange, of course. Her feet felt as heavy as blocks of concrete as she trudged up the large central staircase of the old house, her palm sliding along the polished oak banister the way it had for nearly twenty-five years. Stepping stones, she thought. How true. The way her heart had cracked open at the thought of Cheri and J.J. on their honeymoon reminded her that she’d need to deal with things one day at a time, one step at a time, or one breath at a time.
Whatever it took.
* * *
Nothing. There was nothing.
Dante should have checked Pink Taffy’s ID while she’d taken one of her many bathroom breaks. It had been no excuse that each time she said, “I’ll be back in just a jiffy,” he was sprawled out on the hotel room bed too exhausted, limp, and oxygen deprived to move. He should have gotten his ass up and checked her wallet when he’d had the chance, the way any decent special agent would have done. What a stupid oversight that had been! The irony had not escaped him. Here he was at Quantico teaching DEA trainees basic investigative techniques and he’d let some woman slip away without an ID check. Now, weeks later, he couldn’t find her anywhere on the grid and all he was left with was the silver charm bracelet, memories he couldn’t shake, and a residual hard-on.
He twirled the bracelet around in his fingers, staring at the laptop screen. There were no Taffys in the Raleigh-Durham or Charlotte metro areas of her age range or description. A statewide check didn’t provide any leads, either. An analysis of national crime databases and news reports found nothing about flying-squirrel-related kidnappings, as if he really expected anything. Plus, the murdered parents, if, in fact, they’d been murdered, would be impossible to identify. He had no dates. No location. No details on how they might have died. No names.
One thing he knew with certainty—Pink Taffy was an accomplished liar, which meant there were more than a few plausible explanations for the lack of information. Maybe she wasn’t named Taffy at all, and had, in fact, stolen the bracelet from someone of that name. Or Taffy was a nickname for something like Tabitha or Tiffany or some other ridiculous Southern-girl name. Or it could be she wasn’t from North Carolina at all. Or she’d purchased the bracelet for a relative or friend—but if that were the case, why would she give it to him as a memento of a one-night stand?
Why would she leave him anything, for that matter? Why did she want him to remember the night they’d spent together?
Dante jumped from the desk chair. He paced in front of the window of his assigned temporary base housing unit, still twisting and twirling the jewelry in his fingers. There wasn’t even an indication of where the item was purchased, no serial number or item name.
Nothing.
A pounding on his door made him jump. “What?” he called out.
“It’s Hinman.”
“Yeah. Coming.” He’d forgotten all about his plans to catch an AA meeting and grab dinner with fellow instructor Westley Hinman, a buddy from his Basic Agent Trainee Academy days and one of many special agents dedicated to staying in recovery. As they often joked, a high incidence of alcoholism was one of the few perks of the job. Dante tossed the bracelet on the bed and flung open the door. “I’m ready.”
Hinman looked him up and down, an eyebrow cocked high on his forehead. “Uh, you sure about that, bruh? ’Cause no shirt, no shoes, no way am I being seen in public with your ass.”
Dante laughed—more at his own scattered frame of mind than at Hinman’s wit, though his buddy was plenty funny. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m ashamed to be seen with you when you’re fully dressed.” Dante grabbed a polo shirt out of the drawer and yanked it down over his head, raking his hair with his fingers.
“Pffft.” Hinman checked himself out in the full-length mirror, rubbed his military-style buzz cut, and flexed his pecs under his tight yellow T-shirt. “Everybody knows I’m the pretty one and you’re the fugly friend with the great personality.”