head of white hair manned the counter. His name tag read Sergeant Pepper. She did a double take. No, it was Sergeant Peppler. He gazed at her expectantly, a bored expression on his face.
“My name’s Maria DiMarco,” she announced. “Is there somebody I can talk to about a missing person?”
The sergeant perked up. “You can talk to me.”
Maria knew how the police worked. He wouldn’t hook her up with a detective unless he thought her story had merit. It wouldn’t hurt to get him on her side.
“I used to be on the force, too,” she said. “In Kentucky. The Fayette County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Oh, yeah?” He stroked a beard as white as his hair. With his coloring, he could probably get a second job masquerading as Santa. “What do you do now?”
It figured he would focus on the wrong part of her revelation. “I’m a private investigator.”
Sergeant Peppler snorted. In Maria’s experience, only about fifty percent of the cops she ran across had a full appreciation of the profession she’d chosen. The other half acted as though P.I.s existed to interfere with police investigations.
“So this missing person,” Peppler said, eyes narrowed, “it’s for a case you’re working?”
“Not exactly.” She reached into her purse, dug out a computer-generated age progression of her brother and set it on the counter. She’d gotten the image off a generic website that instantly aged people in uploaded photos. “I’m looking for my brother.”
The cop raised an eyebrow. “This is an age progression. How long has he been missing?”
She’d rather not tell him but couldn’t avoid his direct question. “Eleven years.” She fired the next questions. “Does he look familiar? Have you seen him?”
“No.” Peppler shoved the paper back at her. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”
“That’s it? You don’t want to know why I think my brother is in Key West?”
“Lady, I’m sure you’re aware of how police departments operate,” he said. “It’s the start of the high season for us. That means crowds and lots and lots of tourists. We don’t have the resources to devote to someone who’s been missing for eleven years.”
“Could you at least see if he’s in your database? I think he might have lived here for a while.” Maria had nothing concrete to back up that theory. It stood to reason, though, that Key West’s remote location made it a good place if you wanted to fly under the radar.
The tired look came back into Peppler’s eyes. His mouth was set, as though he was about to refuse. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “If it’ll get you out of here, sure. What’s his name?”
“Mike DiMarco.” She spelled out the last name and provided her brother’s date of birth and social security number. Even though she’d already run Mike’s particulars through some national databases, she couldn’t trust that the information was one hundred percent accurate. To be thorough, it didn’t hurt to check local channels.
The sergeant held up a finger, went to a nearby computer and typed in the information. While he was busy, a woman with a black eye came into the station and got in line behind Maria. A minute later, Peppler was back at the counter.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he told the woman. To Maria, he said, “Nope. Nothing on anybody named DiMarco.”
Just as she had suspected. She’d all but established that he’d have to be using an assumed identity. “He could be going by another name.”
“What name?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.” Peppler rested both forearms on the counter. “Why do you think your brother is in Key West under an alias?”
She knew better than to tell him everything. “Mike’s ex-girlfriend got an envelope of photos that appeared to be from him. It had a Key West postmark.”
“Appeared to be?” Peppler picked up on the operative words.
“I misspoke,” Maria said, annoyed at herself for planting the seed of doubt in Peppler’s mind. If Mike was in Key West, she’d never find him if she didn’t put a positive spin on things. “The photos were from Mike.”
The woman behind her made an interested noise, not bothering to hide the fact that she was eavesdropping.
A crease appeared between the sergeant’s white eyebrows. “Just because he mailed the photos from Key West doesn’t mean he’s in Key West.”
Maria couldn’t argue with that conclusion. She’d arrived at the same one a short time ago.
“I’m exploring the possibility,” she said. “Perhaps you could direct me to somebody local who knows everybody.”
“You’re looking at him,” he said. “I’ve lived in Key West all my life and been a cop for twenty-five years. You’ll be wasting your time talking to other locals.”
“I’m a native, too, and I’ve never seen him before.” The comment came from the lady behind Maria, who was peering over her shoulder.
“He could be a tourist.” The sergeant tapped the photo. “Problem is your brother might not look like this. He might have gained weight. He could have a beard. Or long hair. Hell, maybe he even shaved his head.”
Earlier in the year Maria had worked on a child abduction case in which an age progression played a key part. Thirty years after the kidnapping, the victim bore a remarkable resemblance to the aged image.
“Or maybe Mike looks just like this.” She didn’t see any point in prolonging her stay at the police station. Sergeant Peppler wasn’t going to provide any information that would help her. She got out a business card and set it on the counter next to the age progression. “Could you keep this and show it around to the other officers? If anyone recognizes him, I’d appreciate a call.”
“Don’t expect one,” the officer said. “People come and go in Key West. Even if that age progression is the spitting image of your brother, he might not look familiar to anybody.”
Maria left the police station, spotted a branch of the Key West post office and swung in. She didn’t have any better luck there. After checking into a slightly run-down hotel that had appeared a lot nicer on its website, she pounded the pavement in the tourist district, flashing a copy of the age progression at anyone who agreed to take a look. By the time she got back to her hotel at midnight, she was fighting frustration.
Unbidden, Logan’s voice filled her head.
“Mike’s dead, Maria. He died on 9/11. You’ve got to accept that.”
She’d accepted a lot of disappointment in her life, including Logan’s refusal to take a chance on her when they were both eighteen. She’d be damned if she’d accept this.
CHAPTER THREE
THE
