Truly, Madly (14 page)

FIFTEEN

Déjà vu.

I was once again sitting outside the Hingham Bay Club in need of alcohol.

To say I was a nervous wreck was an understatement.

Not because, like last night, I was due to meet Butch, but because of the five o'clock newscast I'd seen.

Most of the coverage had to do with Max and the mysterious woman who'd found him. There had been a taped piece with Detective Lieutenant Holliday holding a composite sketch of me.

There were no two ways around it.

I was a wanted woman.

How long? How long did I have before someone pieced together the information? Before someone recognized my picture?

Could I bluff my way through an interview? I certainly couldn't explain the condition of my feet, if they asked. Did they need a warrant for that?

Suddenly joining my parents in St. Lucia sounded like a fabulous plan.

Ironically, there had been a small sound bite on the news about the body found in Great Esker, believed to be that of Rachel Yurio, who'd gone missing five years ago. Little did the newscasters know the two stories had one similarity—me.

Thankfully, the media hadn't mentioned I was the one who found Rachel Yurio. Not yet at least.

Someone tapped at my window, and I nearly peed myself.

''What are you doing out here?'' Marisol shouted.

I opened the car door. ''Waiting for you.''

''You could have waited inside,'' she said, kissing both my cheeks.

She looked incredibly beautiful, her short black bob shining in the moonlight. The scrap of skirt she wore showed her legs, but a high-necked top hid her ample cleavage. Stilettos finished the outfit.

Looked to me as though she was trying to impress someone.

Myself? I'd worn straight-legged black trousers, a black turtleneck, a thick silver chain Dovie had given me for Christmas, and black high-heeled boots that put me at just under six feet tall. And hid my feet, though the pain was just about intolerable.

''We should go in before you freeze,'' I suggested.

''Is that a comment on the size of my skirt?''

I laughed. ''Yes.''

''You're just jealous,'' she said.

''That must be it,'' I returned easily. ''I'm glad you could make it out here tonight.''

''You know I'm always willing to do a favor for my best friend.''

A favor for me. Right. It had nothing to do with Butch and his likeness to Matt Damon.

We sat at the bar and I filled her in on what was going on with Em.

''I never thought she was one for medicine.'' Marisol signaled for the bartender and we ordered. ''I'm surprised she lasted this long.''

''I thought she made a great doctor.'' The TV, I noticed, was tuned to ESPN. Good. I didn't want to see a sketch of my face flashed on the screen all night.

''She doesn't have the heart for it. Too compassionate. Too empathetic.''

''Aren't those good qualities to have for a doctor?''

She sipped her wine. ''In moderation. If you give and give and give, then there's nothing left. And no way to deal with the heartbreak of the job.''

''Em is staying with me for a while, to sort it all out.''

''Do her parents know?''

''No. And she wants to keep it that way.''

''Mrs. Baumbach isn't going to be happy.''

Gillian Baumbach was just about the most controlling person I'd ever met. Sweet on the outside, steel on the inside. She had a say in just about everything Em did, including donating money for a new wing of the hospital where Em worked, to secure her a job.

If Em quit . . . There were going to be fireworks.

''I know.''

''What was with your phone call today?'' Marisol asked. ''Detectives?''

''Long story,'' I said, wondering what on earth I was going to tell her.

''Let's get a table,'' Marisol said, hopping off her bar stool, eager to hear the details. It was all I could do to keep up with her as she followed the hostess.

''It was nice of Butch to think of me for this double date,'' Marisol said, skirting tables.

''Yes. Very selfless,'' I said, dryly.

She slid into a booth. ''What's that supposed to mean?''

I sat opposite her. ''He likes you. This whole night is a ruse so he can see you again.''

Her brown eyes went wide. ''No way.''

''Yes, way.''

''Do you really think so?''

''Why do I feel like I'm back in high school?''

''But he's a butcher!''

I shrugged. ''Stranger things have happened.'' Just look at Lola Fellows and her ''trashman.''

''Now about those detectives?'' Marisol asked.

''It'll have to wait. Here they come.''

''How do I look?''

''Stunning as usual.'' It was nice to see her flustered for a change. Usually she was so calm, cool, collected. I almost wished my father were here, just to see if there was a chance in hell for Marisol and Butch, or if it was all part of a cruel dating game.

I looked up at Butch, smiled, and reintroduced him to Marisol. From my angle, I couldn't see the man standing behind him until he stepped forward to slide into the booth.

''Aiden, this is Lucy Valentine and Marisol Valerius. Did I say that right?'' Butch asked her.

She blushed. ''Perfectly.''

I'd never known Marisol to blush. She must have it bad for Butch.

''Ladies, this is my roommate, Aiden Holliday.''

My stomach dropped to my toes as I met the gaze of
Detective Lieutenant
Holliday. His eyes met mine, lingering. Recognition sparked just as Butch sat next to me, trapping me in the booth.

''Well, now,'' Aiden said. ''If it isn't Cinderella.''

Oh shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

''Do you two know each other?'' Butch asked.

''Through work,'' I managed to say, my voice tight.

Marisol asked. ''What do you do, Aiden?''

''He's with the state police,'' Butch said.

Aiden stared at me. ''Working with the detective unit of the Plymouth County DA office.''

Marisol's eyes grew wide as she glanced at me. ''Is this the detective who might call me?''

I shook my head.

''There's more than one of us?'' Holliday asked. ''Interesting.''

Shit.

''And what do you do, Lucy?'' Butch asked. ''I couldn't get a straight answer from your grandmother.''

''I, ah—'' The least amount of information I gave out, the better. Though, shit, Butch knew where I lived.

I wasn't going to escape so easily this time.

''She's a matchmaker,'' Marisol said proudly. ''At Valentine, Inc.''

''You're related to
the
Oscar Valentine?'' Butch asked.

''Guilty,'' I said.

''Interesting choice of words,'' Holliday said.

Marisol leaned forward. ''Did you do something wrong, Lucy?''

''And what was that Cinderella crack?'' Butch asked.

I grabbed my purse and nudged Butch. ''If you'll excuse me, I've got to go to the restroom.''

Concerned eyebrows dipped. ''Are you okay?''

''Yeah. Great. Wonderful.''

''Do you want me to come with you?'' Marisol asked.

''No, no! Stay there. I'll be right back.''

I cringed at the pain in my feet and hobbled my way to the empty restroom. I wanted to pace, but there was no way. I leaned against the wall, wondering what to do.

I'd been caught, plain and simple. All that planning gone to waste. How was I to explain myself?

''This isn't funny!'' I said aloud to the Fates. Because who else but the Fates would have orchestrated this? That Detective Lieutenant Holliday was Butch's roommate?

Cruel, cruel fates.

Leaning against the tiled wall, I knew I couldn't stay in here forever. But I wasn't ready to leave. I pulled my phone from my bag and noticed that I had two missed calls from Sean. Maybe he had information about my parents' whereabouts. Perfect timing, too, because I needed to talk to my mother.

I listened to Sean's voice mails. Both asked me to call him back as soon as possible. I dialed.

He picked up on the first ring. ''You're a hard person to track down.''

''If only that were true.''

''What's that?''

''Nothing. Did you need me?''

Silence came over the line. Then I realized what I had said. Bad choice of words.

''I've been looking for you, yes. You're not home.''

''No kidding. Are you there?''

''I was.''

Hope bubbled up. ''Are you still in my area?''

''Headed north on Three A.''

Salvation! ''Could I ask a huge, humongous, enormous favor?''

''Something other than digging up dead bodies?''

I didn't have time to get into that. ''Yeah.''

''What?''

''Could you pick me up?''

''Where are you?''

''Hingham Bay Club, in the Hingham Shipyard.''

''I know of it,'' he said. ''I would, but I'm going the other way from your place. I can't be late.''

''Take me with you. I don't mind if you don't.''

''What's going on?''

''I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you.''

''You always know how to pique my interest. I'll be there in five minutes.''

''I'll be waiting outside.''

I clicked my phone closed and drew in a deep breath. I just needed to sneak out without anyone seeing me.

Namely, Aiden Holliday.

Unfortunately, as soon as I opened the restroom door, the man I didn't want to see was waiting for me.

''I was beginning to doubt you were in there.'' I tried to pull off a laugh. ''You'd think I'd run?''

''You've done it before.''

''True enough,'' I said.

A hint of softness entered his blue eyes. ''How're your feet?''

''They hurt like hell.''

''I can imagine. Tell me, how did the daughter of the world's most famous matchmaker find little Max O'Brien?''

I should have known Holliday wasn't one to beat around the bushes. ''It's complicated.''

''You're going to have to answer a few questions, Lucy.''

''You know I didn't have anything to do with Max's disappearance.''

''We'd like some answers. Only you can give them to us.''

Why wouldn't he let this be? Why couldn't I catch a break? Why had I agreed to go out with Butch tonight in the first place?

Why?

''You make a lousy date, you know that?'' I said.

He cracked a smile. ''So you knew Butch wanted to be with Marisol all along?''

''He was a little obvious. She likes him. I just hope he has a chance with her.''

''Okay, I'll bite. If she likes him, what's the problem?''

''He's a butcher. She's a die-hard vegetarian.''

He laughed.

''What?''

''His family owns the market. Butch manages it and all their other stores. He likes to work in each department to keep a hand in the running of the place—he's not a butcher at all. I don't know if that will make a difference to Marisol.''

It might. It might not. One never knew with Marisol.

I shifted my weight, wincing at the pain in my feet. ''I think we've avoided the subject long enough, don't you?''

''I'm all out of small talk.''

''I'm trying to figure out if I need a lawyer.''

''You're not under arrest,'' he said.

''Said like a detective luring a suspect to the police station. Barracks. Headquarters. Whatever.''

He smiled. It did wonders to his face, softening all the hard angles. ''You seem like a nice person, Lucy. We just need to straighten all this out. We can do it the easy way. Or the hard way.''

Marisol came around the corner. ''Lucy? Are you okay?'' She eyed Holliday.

''I'm fine. Hungry.''

''The server is waiting to take our orders,'' she said.

We started walking back to the table. I stopped at the bar while Holliday and Marisol continued on. ''I'm going to get something a little stronger than wine. I'll be right there.''

I ordered a bourbon straight and slid a twenty across the bar. I waited until the good detective looked at his menu before I bolted for the door, my feet screaming in pain the whole way.

Sean was waiting. Thoreau, too. ''What happened to being outside?''

I slunk down in my seat and the Yorkie bounded over, licking my face. ''Can we talk about this later?''

As soon as we reached the main road, I sat up, buckled my seat belt, and took off my boots. I didn't dare peel off my trouser socks to see what further damage I'd inflicted. Sean might ask questions.

We slowed at a red light. ''What are you running from, Lucy?'' Sean asked.

I let out a breath. ''Everything.''

SIXTEEN

''I don't suppose you want to elaborate?'' Sean asked.

''No. Did you find where my parents are staying?''

''Not yet. I've got a contact on the island tracking them down. I should know by morning.''

I couldn't believe I'd run.

Like father, like daughter, I supposed.

Talking to the police was inevitable. But what would I tell them? Certainly not the truth. I needed time to concoct a story. A good one.

The car was comfortably warm. I snuggled into my seat, breathed deep. Sean's alluring scent hung in the air. A mix of something spicy, cinnamon maybe, and clean—Irish Spring, I guessed. He wore jeans, brown casual shoes, and a blazer over a blue button-down.

His hair was mussed, as if he'd been raking his fingers through it, his cheeks freshly shaven.

He looked good enough to eat.

Thoreau settled in my lap just as my phone rang.

''I still can't get over the Christmas song this time of year,'' Sean said.

I silenced ''Jingle Bells'' and sent a quick text to Marisol saying I was okay and would call her tomorrow with all the details.

Then I turned my phone off.

''Have you watched the news?'' he asked as we crossed the Fore River Bridge.

''Yes.''

''They've pegged Michael Lafferty as a person of interest.''

''I knew they would. I told Michael to get a lawyer. Stall for time. We've got to clear his name. Did you have a chance to do any work on the case?''

''Some. You never did say how you found Rachel's body.''

''No, I didn't say.''

He passed a slow-moving T bus headed toward Quincy Center. ''You're not going to tell me anything more?''

''No.''

''Look, after all I've done, you owe me some answers. If the police think I'm somehow involved in this murder, all my work toward getting my own PI license is at risk, and so is Sam's, since I've been working off his license. I've gone above and beyond for you, Lucy.''

''Yes, you have. And I'll make sure you're paid well for it. I should never have brought you into this mess. If I'd known . . .''

But I had known. And I'd asked him anyway. All my life I fought for independence, trying to prove I was capable. One little skeleton comes along and I go running for help.

I am woman—look at me run.

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. ''I don't want your money. I want answers.''

Thoreau's head jerked up. I rubbed between his ears to settle him back down.

My heart twisted. I hated not being able to tell Sean. ''I'm sorry.''

''Not as much as I am.''

''You can drop me at the Quincy Center T station. I'll take a bus home.''

''I'm not going to let you do that this time of night.''

''Then I'll take a taxi.''

''Don't.''

''Don't what?''

''Don't go,'' he said softly. ''Why not?''

He clenched the steering wheel. ''I like your company.''

I laughed. ''I can tell.''

Sheepishly, he glanced at me. ''Please. Stay.''

I was such a sucker. ''Okay.'' We drove in silence.

He pulled into an empty bank lot near Milton Hospital and let the car idle, lights off. It was close to eight o'clock. A bright sliver of moon peeked through the clouds. The snow I thought would fall never had.

''What are we doing?''

''Surveillance.''

''What are we surveilling?''

Smiling, he pointed across the street.

''Dominico's? I could go for some Italian.''

''We're looking for John Roddrick Dominico. J-Rod to his friends. I call him John Roddrick Dominico.''

I laughed. It felt good. ''What's he done?''

''He's a construction worker who claims to have been injured on the job.''

''What did he hurt?''

''Back. He's been collecting workers' comp from his insurance company for over a year now.''

''But?''

''His insurance company hired SD Investigations to make sure he really is injured. There,'' Sean said, ''right on schedule.''

I watched as a bulky young man came out of the restaurant carrying a pizza box in one hand, a two-liter in the other.

''Dinner break,'' Sean said. ''Comes here every night for free food.''

J-Rod got into an older-model Dodge and peeled out of the parking lot.

After a minute, Sean flipped on his lights and followed.

J-Rod cut through Quincy Center and picked up Route 3 near the Quincy Adams T station. We followed at a distance.

Soon we were exiting the highway somewhere in Norwood, winding through back roads.

''How long have you been watching him?''

''Going on three days.''

''And you haven't gotten the goods on him yet?''

He smiled. ''The goods?''

''Too
Law and Order?
''

''I think you're insulting the show.''

Laughing, I said, ''Okay, well, you know what I meant.''

''I've got the goods,'' he said.

''Then why are you still following him?''

''Nail in the coffin.''

''Coffin'' reminded me of Rachel Yurio. I shuddered.

J-Rod pulled into the driveway of a two-story colonial in a small neighborhood. A large Dumpster sat at the curb, debris nearly spilling over its side. We sidled up to the curb in front of a neighbor's house about three doors down. As soon as J-Rod walked in the front door, Sean drove past the house, turned around, and parked diagonally from the house and turned off the car.

The moon's glimmer provided little light, just enough to see his features—which were tight and focused. He took out his camera, adjusted a lens, and took several pictures of the house, the car.

He dropped the camera in his lap and twisted his body to reach in the backseat, pulling forward several manila files. Moonlight shimmered in his gray eyes. ''I apologize for earlier. I tried to strong-arm you into telling me what I wanted to hear. If my job is at risk, it's because I willingly put it there. Not because you did.''

''That's not true.''

''It is. I knew what I was getting myself into.''

''Why
did
you agree to help me?'' I wanted to know what had been in it for him.

''Honest?''

''Of course.''

''I miss the adrenaline of being a firefighter. The excitement. I've been pushing papers for six months now. And doing routine surveillance. Sam won't let me do much else.''

''That doesn't sound like Sam.''

''He has some absurd notion that he's protecting me.''

''From what?''

He ignored me. ''I wanted the excitement, Lucy. A body in the woods . . . I'm a danger junkie, Lucy. Plus, you're gorgeous. Who wouldn't want to spend time with you? I'd have been an idiot to turn you down.''

I wasn't sure where he was going with all this. ''You've lost me.''

''I don't want you thinking you're alone in all this. I'm not going anywhere. I want to see this case all the way through.'' He handed me the files.

''What are these?'' I asked.

He aimed a pair of fancy binoculars at the house. ''Everything I could find out about Rachel Yurio at the time of her disappearance, a file on Elena Hart, and one on Jennifer Thompson.''

I flipped through the pages of Rachel's file, reading by moonlight. Rachel Yurio had been twenty-three when she disappeared. She'd been working as a waitress at a Quincy IHOP and living with Elena Hart in an East Weymouth apartment. Rachel had been fired from her job shortly before she disappeared.

Rachel had been raised by her grandmother and grandfather. He had passed away more than a decade ago, and Rachel's grandmother now resided in a retirement home in South Weymouth. There were no other living relatives.

Rachel had a police record—shoplifting (twice), writing bad checks, assault after a bar fight. There was a picture paper-clipped to the file.

''It's the best I could find. Her senior year at Weymouth High.''

Sean had blown up the color yearbook photo of the young woman into a five-by-seven. It was grainy, the pixels stretched, but still easy to see Rachel had been beautiful—even beneath the heavy eyeliner and spiked black hair.

''What happened to her parents?'' I asked.

''Don't know.''

''Her eyes . . .''

''I know.''

It was hard to tell what color they were. Maybe a dark blue. Or brown. But it wasn't the color that captured my attention. It was the sadness in their depths. A deep, dark sadness.

''I contacted the school and spoke to her old guidance counselor. She described Rachel as intelligent and well-spoken but sensitive, with poor self-esteem and no friends except Elena Hart. To say the counselor didn't have fond memories of Elena is an understatement. Elena cut class, used foul language, never did any work. She brought Rachel down to her level, and there was nothing the counselor could do about it. Rachel was so desperate to have a friend, she didn't care that the friend was getting her into trouble. Nothing could be done.''

''What about Rachel's grandmother?''

Across the street, a light came on in the living room. The window was bare—no blinds or curtains. J-Rod was carrying a ladder.

Sean snapped a few pictures. ''When I asked the counselor, she wouldn't say, but I got the impression that something's going on there.''

''We need to talk to Rachel's grandmother, coworkers, any friends she may have had,'' I said.

Sean smiled. ''We?''

''I mean, well, yeah.''

He laughed. ''Okay.''

''There's no telling exactly when Rachel went missing,'' Sean said. ''The police traced her last known movements to her working a shift at a Quincy IHOP at the end of October, a few months before she was officially reported missing. Her grandmother was finally the one who filed a missing persons report.''

''Did Rachel have a landlord?''

''Yeah, but rent was automatically withdrawn from her bank account. It wasn't until she was reported missing that they found the apartment vacant.''

''Vacant? What about Elena?'' Where was her best friend? Why hadn't she filed a missing persons report?

''She's now Elena Delancey.'' Sean motioned to the file on my lap. I opened it.

Elena Hart had grown up in Weymouth, barely graduated. Her arrest record was an arm's length long. Fraud, trespassing, theft, assault, destruction of property. The list went on. She'd also worked at the same IHOP as Rachel and had been fired on the same day.

''She left Massachusetts about the time Rachel went missing,'' Sean said.

I arched an eyebrow. ''Running?''

''Maybe so,'' he said. ''Here's the good part. She moved to Rhode Island, went to college. Got a job as a social worker with a nonprofit kids' group, got married, and now has kids of her own.''

''You're kidding.''

''No. Completely turned her life around. Not so much as a speeding ticket.''

''What caused such a drastic change?'' I asked. Thoreau stirred. I petted him and he yawned, stretched, licked my hand, and went back to sleep.

''My best guess? Guilty conscience.''

''Penance? For what? Killing Rachel?''

''Makes sense, doesn't it?''

It did. But could we prove it in order to clear Michael's name? That was the question. Well, that and why Rachel was wearing Michael's ring. I still couldn't figure out that one.

I absently flipped through Jennifer Thompson's report. There wasn't much in it I didn't already know, other than that she'd once had a restraining order against Elena Hart. Jennifer had essentially fallen off the map after graduation from Boston University. Gone. Poof. And her parents and sister weren't talking.

This didn't bode well for Michael's future with her.

Sean twisted again and pulled another file from his backseat. His eyes locked on mine. In the moonlight, they seemed grayer than normal. Bright and alluring. ''How's your toe?'' he asked, dropping the file on my lap.

Actually, my feet stung and ached, but I didn't want to complain. I opened the file and my breath caught as I looked at the composite sketch of myself that had been broadcast all over the Bay State.

My head dropped.

Sean reached over and nudged my chin so I'd look at him.

Breaking through my panic was the wonderful feel of his hand on my skin as his palm cupped my cheek. I leaned into it. There were no images when he touched my face, just delicious sensations I didn't want to end.

From beneath lowered lashes, I looked at him. It was powerful, the connection we had. An inexplicable pull dragged us together.

I leaned in. He met me halfway. Just as our lips were about to touch, the porch light of the house we were watching snapped on.

My heart pounded with disappointment. Sean fumbled for his camera.

J-Rod came out the front door, a roll of carpet slung across his shoulder. Sean snapped away as the man lifted the carpet and tossed it into the Dumpster. He wiped his hands on his jeans and headed back into the house.

''John Roddrick Dominico has been renovating houses for over eight months,'' Sean said.

''While still collecting workers' comp?''

''Yeah.'' He held up his camera. ''I think I have enough proof to take to my client. You ready to go home?''

''Not really.'' Because I didn't know if the state police would be there waiting for me.

''No?'' he asked, his eyes questioning.

I bit my lip as I looked at the sketch in my lap. If I wanted Sean's help, he needed to know the truth. It was time to take the leap.

I just hoped he wouldn't let me fall.