Darlene Gardner - Wish Upon a Christmas Star

“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 LOUISVILLE INTERNATIONAL Airport buzzed with activity. Travelers walked quickly along the moving walkway that connected the two concourses, some arriving, others departing, all of them in a hurry. It seemed as if Christmas was hours instead of six days away. A tinny voice over the loudspeaker issued a periodic reminder not to leave bags unattended.

Logan and his parents had gone through the security checkpoint together, since he’d thought to book early morning flights that departed within thirty minutes of each other. The planes didn’t leave from the same concourse, though. When the walkway ended, Logan moved off to the side to get out of the way of other passengers. His parents did the same.

“This is where we part,” Logan said. “I hope you both have a fantastic time on the cruise.”

His mother sniffed, her eyes dewy with unshed tears. In her red coat, black pants and black shoe boots, she was dressed for winter in Lexington instead of in the tropics. “I still wish you were coming with us.”

“Boy’s gotta work, Celeste.” His father slung an arm around her and kissed the side of her head. He was gruff with most people but treated his wife like gold. “Guy I work with, his thirty-five-year-old son lives in the basement.”

“Logan’s only thirty-three,” his mother countered. “And I never said I wanted him to live in our basement.”

“Basements aren’t for me, anyway,” Logan said, attempting to lighten the mood. “We New York types prefer lofts.”

“But you’re not a New York type,” his mother protested. “Not really. You love Kentucky. You’ve always loved it. Don’t you think it’s past time you moved home?”

“Celeste, I thought you weren’t going to bring this up,” his father said.

“I can’t help it,” she answered. “You tell me not to make waves about it when Logan’s home because he’s here for such a short time. But it’s not the kind of thing to discuss over the phone.”

“Whoa,” Logan said. “Where’s this coming from? I’m happy in New York.”

“You wouldn’t have moved there in the first place if Maria DiMarco hadn’t married someone else,” his mother said.

Logan sucked in a breath that felt jagged going down. His mother was right. When he was in college, he’d fully expected he and Maria would get back together again someday. Finding out she’d gotten married had come as a vicious blow. In that instant, he’d decided to look for a job outside Kentucky.

His father removed his arm from his mother’s shoulder and gazed at her with rare disapproval. “Celeste, what are you doing?”

“Saying what I should have said a long time ago.” She took Logan’s elbow. “I think it’s time you and Maria put the past behind you.”

“You’re way off base about this, Mom,” Logan said. “My living in New York has nothing to do with her.”

It had nothing to do with Maria now, a voice in his head clarified. When he’d graduated from college, the state hadn’t been big enough for him to risk running into her and her new husband.

“If you’d seen her when you were home, you could have wiped the slate clean,” his mother said. “You’d either have feelings for her or you wouldn’t.”

Last night Logan had told his parents he was meeting friends for a drink. Now he was glad he hadn’t mentioned Maria by name. He wasn’t up for a postmortem session discussing his feelings.

“Maria and I were over a long time ago, Mom,” Logan insisted.

Then why did he feel as if he was abandoning her? It was ridiculous, considering that in the past Maria had been the one who’d failed to wait for him.

“But—”

“Wish our son a merry Christmas, Celeste,” his father interrupted. “You don’t want him to stop visiting us, do you?”