“I’ll fill you in,” he promised, though he’d only tell her what he could, once he found out what was going on. No reason to worry her unnecessarily. Though Naomi and Nikki weren’t really close, she would still be concerned, and before he said anything to anyone, he’d hear what Jamison had to say.
“Wait a minute.”
“I’ll call. Promise,” he said, as she threw back the covers, causing Arlo to lift his head from his dog bed under the window, then clamber to his feet.
Pierce was already out the door, unwilling to lie any further or get into it with her. They’d had an uneasy truce for the last couple of days, ever since they’d argued in his office about how much he would divulge to her.
He backed the Jeep past his Cadillac and the rental Nikki had procured two days ago, a white Nissan Rogue, and nearly hit Lily’s Toyota, as she’d parked a little too close in the driveway.
Swearing beneath his breath, he drove out of the city limits. Naomi just hadn’t come home when expected. That wasn’t cause for extreme alarm. She could have gotten hung up somewhere, and maybe her cell phone wasn’t charged.
Maybe.
Except that Jamison wasn’t one to overreact.
Pierce only hoped there was an easy explanation for Naomi not showing up. Better yet, he thought, if she’d already returned after Jamison had called.
Dawn was just streaking the sky as he turned into the Kittles’ long lane. Shades of magenta and lavender streaked across the fields and forests of the Kittle acreage. Jamison, the oldest of the five brothers, was considered the patriarch of a family that had been at the forefront of Georgia politics for generations. Like his father and grandfather, Jamison had his eye on a judgeship and then, potentially, running for governor, though, as a matter of record, he’d never admitted as much to the press.
It was just common knowledge.
And now his wife, a beauty queen, once-upon-a-time runner-up for Miss Georgia, and daughter of another grand old Georgia family, was missing.
Maybe.
Pierce still wasn’t convinced as he drove over a slight rise to view the Kittle complex, dominated by a two-storied home, painted white, black shutters framing tall windows and French doors that opened to a wide, wraparound porch. The white siding reflected the colors of the sky as the sun peaked over the eastern ridge.
He’d been here often, of course, usually either at the Kittles’ annual Fourth-of-July barbecue or Christmas Open House, where Naomi insisted everyone wear “holiday attire.” She, if nothing else, was the consummate Southern hospitality hostess.
And now she was missing.
He drove around the house to the parking area in front of a six-bay garage and cut the engine. Before he got out, the garage side door swung open, and Jamison called, “Come on in this way,” waving him in to a spotless kitchen where a bouquet of cut flowers dominated the island and a coffeepot was gurgling on a side counter.
The house was quiet. Not a sound other than the final hiss from the coffeemaker and the soft hum of the refrigerator. It seemed odd, out of sync, but then Pierce realized he’d never been here when the home hadn’t been swarming with activity.
“Coffee?” Jamison asked, already pouring Pierce a cup.
“Sure.”
Jamison looked like hell, something else that was out of the ordinary. His hair was uncombed, he hadn’t yet shaved, and he was wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. Noticing Pierce surveying him, he admitted, “I haven’t slept all night. I’ve been up, waiting. Calling. Not just her phone, but all of her friends.” He handed Pierce the mug. Dark circles were visible under eyes that weren’t as clear as usual.
“Are the girls still in bed?”
Jamison shook his head. “They’re with Roxanne, Naomi’s sister. They’re staying with her for the weekend. Thank God. I’d hate for them to come bouncing down the stairs and ask about her.” He glanced toward the staircase, visible through an archway. “Come on,” he suggested after filling his own cup with coffee. “Let’s go into the den.”
He was already through a broad archway and down the two steps to the expansive game room with its high ceilings, oversize television, and huge leather sectional. The pool table was to one side of the room, a poker table in the corner. The last time Pierce had been here, the room had been filled with teenagers for Lara’s sweet-sixteen party, a few weeks earlier. Hip-hop music had blasted from the speakers, barely audible over the din of kids talking and laughing and pool balls clicking.
Now it was quiet as a tomb.
Two pool cues lay crossed on the green felt, the balls racked on the table.
The poker table was polished, a carousel of chips at its center, each sleeve-like compartment holding a separate color of poker chips.
Covering two walls, the weaponry stood in place, polished and locked behind spotless glass doors in lighted display cases. Neat racks of hunting rifles, bows and arrows, and shotguns shined from their racks, while the heads of trophy kills were mounted high overhead.
Everything was neat, including the perfect stacks of coasters on the end tables.
Tidy.