Tyler Anne Snell - Manhunt

The detective glanced over before he sighed for the second time that day.

“It’s okay. Situations like these are stressful.” He hesitated before continuing. “We were late into the station because we were on a call about a woman named Amanda Alcaster who was reported missing. There’s also another woman, named Trixie Martin, who was reported missing within minutes of us arriving.”

Sophia sucked in a breath. She didn’t know what to process first.

“I wanted to tell you so when I bring it up to Vega, you don’t freak out,” he continued. “This all could just be a misunderstanding or some women who want to escape their lives for a little while. But on the off chance that it isn’t, I need to make sure I approach the only suspect we have with caution.”

“I’ll keep quiet, then,” she said after a moment. “But I still want to be in the room.”

“Deal.”

* * *

IF THE DETECTIVE hadn’t told Sophia that Richard was the wealthiest man in town, she would have known the moment she saw his house—if it could even be classified as something as typical as a house. It sat at the end of a small one-lane road and could only be accessed by being buzzed in at a gate just outside the large loop driveway. The more Sophia looked at the place, the more she wanted to classify it as a mansion. It was only two stories but it expanded wide on both sides, looking like an old plantation home. An expansive garage sat to the left of the main house and beautiful, meticulously groomed landscaping was placed in between as a testament to some gardener’s handsomely paid green thumb. Large white columns lined the front porch a few feet from the driveway while the double, red, arched front doors were held open by someone who looked suspiciously like a butler.

“Who’s that?” Sophia asked as Thatcher opened her door and helped her out. Normally, she wouldn’t have accepted his help but she didn’t want another awkward moment in front of such an impressive abode.

“I never remember his name, but that’s Vega’s assistant. He’s a mousy fella, but you can’t see Vega without getting through him.” Sophia let Thatcher lead the way to the well-dressed man. She wondered if his boss bought him the suit that he wore despite the humidity which played havoc with her hair.

“Detective Thatcher,” the man greeted, shaking his hand. He looked over his shoulder to Sophia. Recognition flared behind his mud-colored eyes. “Miss Hardwick, it’s nice to finally meet you.” On reflex she shook his hand.

“I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

The man laughed and shook his head. “No, but Lisa loves to show us pictures.” Sophia had to roll her eyes again. That certainly sounded like Lisa.

“Mr. Vega is finishing up a meeting with some vendors. He shouldn’t be long.” He led them through the front door and immediately to a large open room to the left. Sophia was almost disappointed she couldn’t take a tour of the house. Just from the front door she had seen a large, marble-white staircase with a banister worthy of being a makeshift slide. “Make yourselves at home. He’ll be in here shortly.” The assistant scurried off, shutting the door behind him.

They were obviously in what was used as a formal study. Built-ins lined the walls from floor to ceiling and were filled with matching sets of thick-spined books. A large, formidable desk faced the door, no doubt to keep an eye on those who might enter, while high windows were draped in translucent cloth. A rug the size of Sophia’s living room cushioned the noise of her heels on the hardwood. She walked around the room, wondering if Lisa spent any time in it reading.

“I knew Richard had money, but I didn’t realize how much,” she admitted to the detective. He kept still in the middle of the room, looking as out of place as she felt. His jeans and plain shirt were a few leagues below the apparent dress code that Vega’s staff employed on a regular basis.

“They say he works hard,” Thatcher replied.

“They?”

“Like I said, this town loves Richard Vega.” Sophia wanted to ask what his thoughts on the man were, when the door opened.

Richard Vega was all suit, hair product and posture. He walked into the room as if it had been his idea. As if he had been the one to invite Detective Thatcher into his home. Watching him make his way over, Sophia immediately understood why Lisa was so drawn to the man.

There was an undeniable overriding sense of confidence that rolled off of him in waves. Lisa had always been drawn to, not just strong, but powerful men. She had a track record of getting involved with the big dogs only to realize what they had in confidence they lacked in kindness. Lisa had assured Sophia that this man was different, that Richard Vega had a good heart, but now Sophia didn’t know if she bought that assessment.

Although he was handsome—tall, blond and tanned, angled facial features—Sophia found herself thinking that the detective had him beat. A thought that made the color rise in her cheeks. She glanced at Thatcher from the corner of her eye. He was straight-backed and concentrated on the approaching man. She doubted he was thinking about how she might be more attractive than Officer Whitfield or any of the other women in the station.

“Detective,” Richard said, extending his hand. Thatcher shook it, though there was a stiffness to it. “And you must be Sophia. Your pictures don’t do you justice.” They shook hands. “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

“Yes, let’s talk about those circumstances.”

“Of course, let’s sit.” Richard was at least smart enough to know that sitting behind his desk while the two of them sat in chairs on the other side was not the best move. If this had been a business meeting, he would have been the man in charge, but this was an investigation and Detective Thatcher was the one calling the shots. Richard instead situated himself on one of two leather love seats at the far side of the room.

Sophia and Thatcher took the one opposite, the small furniture making their legs touch. She made a point not to look at him as he leaned forward, slipping into detective mode. She also tried to ignore how her heart sped up at his closeness. At the station she had been at the man’s throat but now he was pulling at her concentration. She didn’t need distractions right now. Lisa couldn’t afford it.

“Let’s jump right into this,” Thatcher started. “You called Sophia Hardwick on Tuesday morning around six-thirty asking for the whereabouts of her sister, the woman you’ve been dating for over a year. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“When she told you she didn’t know, you told her you would take care of the situation. Again, is this correct?” Richard nodded. At each question his jawline tensed. “Sophia says that her sister never made it to see her. You found this out, so that puts Lisa Hardwick unaccounted for since Sunday morning. That’s four days, not even including today, that Lisa has been missing.” Slowly, Richard nodded. “So tell me, Mr. Vega, why the hell you didn’t call us or file a missing-persons report?” There was no mistaking the anger in Thatcher’s voice—nor the hidden accusation beneath his question. Having the whole situation recounted had a similar effect on Sophia. She wished she had as much experience as the detective at spotting a lie or pressing on a weak point to get the right information. Instead she kept her mouth shut and decided to follow whatever lead the man next to her would take.

Richard kept his face calm, not at all surprised at the question or its parallel series of thoughts. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked between them.

“I had a potential client come in Saturday night. It was a last-minute announcement but I wanted to show this person that I could be flexible and that I was very interested in taking on his business. If he agreed to work with me, then I could get him to participate in or donate to the Culpepper Fund-raiser this year.”