Act of Betrayal Read Online Free Page B

the Palmetto Expressway. Owned by a company that cleans septic tanks, it had dumped a full load across four lanes. I winced. A sticky situation on one of the summers steamiest days.
    As I took notes and asked questions, barely aware of my visitor, he sat patiently, hopeful eyes roving the vast newsroom, its big bayfront windows, and the wide sweep of sky and Miami Beach skyline beyond.
    Finally I finished and turned back to him. “So, you have an old unsolved murder in your family?”
    â€œI pray to God not.” He hesitated, as though contemplating the possibility. One of the plastic earpieces on his eyeglasses was broken and held together by tape. “My son,” he said, “is missing.”
    â€œHow old is he?”
    â€œFifteen.”
    Every reporter hears this story a hundred times. “Did you file a police report?”
    â€œYes.”
    The misery in his eyes made me glad to be single and childless. How can kids break their parents’ hearts like this? “What did they say?”
    â€œThey keep calling him a runaway. We know he isn’t.” His jaw tightened. “He had no reason, he isn’t like that. He’d never…”
    â€œHow long has he been gone?” I asked, checking my watch, attention wandering back to the story on my computer screen.
    â€œTwo and a half years, the sixth of this month.”
    â€œWhat?” Startled, I refocused on his lace. Did I hear right?
    â€œTwo and a half years,” he repeated, his gaze steady. “Charles disappeared on February sixth, two years ago. It was a Saturday.”
    â€œHave you heard anything in all this time?” I swiveled my chair to face him.
    â€œNot a word. Not a call or a Christmas card. This from a boy who never walked out the door without kissing his mother good-bye.”
    Punching some keys on my terminal, I saved my notes and opened an existing file. It’s slugged MISSING . In it I keep the basics on the usual cases—wandering Alzheimer’s patients, the diet doctor who disappeared after faking his own death at sea, the middle-aged couple who left a church supper eight years ago and had yet to arrive home. Miami’s missing persons, all mysteries minus the last page. I don’t know what preys on the minds of other people on hot, sleepless nights. I do know what haunts me.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked. “A family fight? Trouble at school? Did a girlfriend dump him? Were any of his friends with him? Where was he last seen?”
    Something came alive in my visitor’s eyes as he began to answer. Maybe it was hope.
    Charles C. Randolph was an only child, a good and industrious boy, his father said. Tall and mature for his age, Charles had delivered newspapers, washed cars, and mowed lawns since sixth grade. He scored excellent grades and counted on college. His father whisked open his folder to display report cards dominated by A-pluses and glowing comments from teachers. A budding environmentalist, Charles loved reading books about sharks, aviation, and sports. Most prized was his modest baseball card collection and his best friend, Duke, a mixed-breed dog the boy had found injured and nursed back to health.
    â€œDid he take Duke with him?”
    The father shook his head. “That dog still sits by the front door at the same time every day, waiting for Charles to get off the school bus.”
    â€œHow much money did your son have with him when he disappeared?”
    â€œNo more than twelve dollars, tops. He left some money at home and he had a small bank account. He worked cleaning boats, mostly scraping barnacles, for people in some of the big waterfront houses over on Fairway Island. It was something new he had started, his own idea.”
    I smiled. “Sounds like an entrepreneur.”
    He looked past me, out the window without seeing beyond his own thoughts. “I always wanted to go into business for myself. Always told him that was the way