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At ease, he leaned on her counter. “I could make a crude sexual innuendo about bouncing.”
“But again, in my observation, you’re not. Crude. Maybe when it’s just the guys, sure. I work with men, add cops. I know crude. So.”
She joined him at the tiny square table.
“On the day before Thanksgiving, a woman goes missing from Deep Creek Lake. Middle twenties, white, middle-class. Married just over a year—together since college. By all accounts happily. They’d saved up, bought their first home, were talking about starting a family. They were hosting their families for Thanksgiving, for the first time.”
Picking up her wine, Sloan frowned into it. “She’s excited, nervous, took the Wednesday off from work to prep. Checked with her mom on a recipe, made a pretty, seasonal centerpiece for the table. Then, evidence indicates, she realized she needed something from the store. She drove to her local grocery. And that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“Gone. Her car was found in the lot. Her phone was disabled or destroyed. She had nothing but her purse with her.”
Now Sloan drank.
“No ransom demands, no crazed exes, no addictions, no affairs, no witnesses or signs of struggle on the scene. And no trace of her since.”
“Don’t you guys always look at the husband, or wife depending, first? I read,” he added. “Watch the occasional cop movie.”
“Yes, and he’s clear. The investigators believe, with solid reasons, she was abducted. And at this point, she’s either forcibly imprisoned, was sold, or, most likely, dead.”
“Did you know her?”
“No. Though the department assisted in the search, I wasn’t involved at that time. Medical leave.” Her eyes lifted to his, held evenly. “You’d have heard about that.”
“Yeah, I heard about it.”
When he left it at that, she found herself surprised, and grateful. Rising, she got out plates.
“For reasons, her case stuck with me. Since I had a lot of time on my hands until recently, I followed the investigation, then I started a search. Missing persons, like crimes, narrowed it to Western Maryland, West Virginia, Pennsylvania.”
“Kept your hand in.”
“You could say that.”
She got napkins, a jar of red pepper flakes, the pizza cutter.
“I had a file going. In it, I had a male, middle fifties, a dentist with a solid practice in Cumberland.”
She gave him those details as she checked on the pizza, stepped back to top off his wine and hers.
“The connections. A car left in a parking lot, gone with no trace, and leaving a life behind. At the same time, you’ve got a pretty young woman in a happy marriage, and a middle-aged man having a weekly round with a woman about half his age in various motels. So it’s in the file, but it doesn’t stick out.”
“Until?”
When she took out the pizza, Tic got up, sniffed the air.
“This isn’t yours,” Sloan said, but got out a bully stick. “This is for good dogs. Are you a good dog?”
She pointed, he sat.
“Yes, you’re a very good boy.”
Thrilled, Tic plopped down to gnaw.
“Until,” Nash prompted again. “You’ve got my attention.”
“Uniontown.”