Page 89 of Finding Amanda

Johnnie, his oldest, apparently bravest, employee found him amidst the rubble of the former bathroom and insisted he eat. Mark glared at him, but the man held out an Italian grinder and a tall Coke and didn't back down. Irritated, Mark grabbed both, realized his stomach was growling, and tore into the meal. One bite, two bites, the whole thing, followed by a long gulp of the soda. He'd reached for his sledgehammer again when his phone rang.

He saw Chris's number on the caller ID. He pressed talk and stomped out of the bathroom, through the house, and into the front yard. A cold blast of air hit him, stinging his bare, sweat-covered arms. "Hey."

"How're you holding up?"

"Not great. Did Amanda tell you?"

"She's not answering her phone."

Mark squeezed the phone. "I called you hours ago. She needs you guys. Please, have Jamie check on her."

In his calm-down, everything's-going-to-be-okay FBI voice, Chris said, "Jamie's going over there this afternoon. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Mark tried to steady his racing pulse with a deep breath, the cold air prickling his lungs. None of this was Chris's or Jamie's fault. The blame lay with him. "I don't want to talk about it. Is that why you called?"

"No. I know you're having a rough day. Maybe this'll cheer you up. I think I found the connection to Sheppard."

“Who is it?” It seemed insignificant inlight of what had happened that morning, but Mark needed some good news. "Tell me."

"I checked the names from the conference, as well as the employees at Sheppard's publisher. Those names turned up nothing, so I dug a little deeper. You know Roxanne Richardson?"

"Amanda's agent."

"She hired a guy about six weeks ago named Baxter McIlroy. I read his bio on the website, and get this: he graduated from the same university where Sheppard teaches."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So I did some checking, and it turns out, not only did McIlroy have Sheppard for a couple of classes, he was a teacher's assistant for him while he worked on his Master's."

“Hold on.” Mark ran to his truck and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. Leaning against the driver's seat and using the open door to block the wind, he wrote the nameBaxter McIlroyon the top of the page. "So you're saying?—"

"Just listen. I called the psychology department at the university and talked to a very chatty older woman. She remembered McIlroy, and when I told her I was with the FBI, she said, get this, 'Is he in trouble again? I thought that whole mess was just a big misunderstanding.' Well, of course I asked her what the 'whole mess' was. Turns out a fellow student accused him of date-rape. I did a little more checking, and the woman dropped the charges, but not until she'd filed a report and had the guy arrested. And guess who bailed him out of jail?"

"Not Sheppard?"

"One and the same."

"So you're saying . . . what? They're friends? Or maybe this guy McIlroy owes Sheppard?"

"No idea, but there's a connection. Since McIlroy has been working for Richardson, he could easily have gotten Amanda'sschedule from Roxie. And I bet he's the one who told Sheppard about the memoir."

"It makes sense. Roxie knew about it before anybody else. Amanda hasn't told that many people."

"Yeah. So I think you should call Amanda and have her call Rox?—"

"I'll call her myself."

"Don't you think you should tell Amanda?"

Mark stared at the bare, gray bark of the trees in the front yard. If only they could have a rational conversation about anything. "Let me find out what I can from Roxie. I'll call you back."

"But what about?—?"

"Thanks, Chris. I owe you one." Mark hung up the phone. He'd explain later.

Pacing in front of his truck, Mark dialed Amanda's agent, thankful he had her phone number. He'd programmed it in his phone years ago when they'd been negotiating her book deal. Amanda had trusted him then. Not that he'd deserved it.

A woman answered. "Richardson and Associates. How may I direct your call?"

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