Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (12 page)

“She’d have ended up worrying more about me than herself, and she worried plenty already. She accepted my job, but the danger always freaked her out.” He shook his head, his stomach tightening into a familiar clench. “I thought I was doing her a favor by saving her that anxiety. Some favor.”

Moira touched his arm again, and the warmth of her fingers seeped into his skin as the evening air cooled around them.

“You did your best. You loved your wife and tried to protect her in every way you could—emotionally and physically—and you continued to pursue justice after the system failed you by striking out on your own to search for answers. There’s a lot to admire in that picture.”

He wanted to weave his fingers with hers, hold on tight, and believe he deserved her kind words.

Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and faced the truth. “I’m no hero, Moira.”

She lifted one shoulder. “Depends on how you define hero, I guess. In my book, a hero doesn’t have to be perfect. He just has to do his best.” She slid her hand down his arm to his ring finger, leaving a trail of warmth in her wake. “I know from this”—she touched his cross-etched wedding ring—“and from your familiarity with the Bible that you’re a man of faith. Have you tried giving this to God? Letting him forgive you for whatever culpability you think you have, even if you can’t forgive yourself?”

“I’m still working on that.”

“Then it’ll come in time.”

She removed her hand and settled back against the railing beside him. “You know, I’ve wondered about the name of your firm. Now I think I understand. It doesn’t have anything to do with the city of Phoenix, does it?”

“No.” He wasn’t surprised she’d figured that out.

“A mythological creature, consumed in flames and reborn from the ashes.” She spoke the words softly as she regarded
him. “Did you come up with the name, or did the three of you do it together?”

“Dev and I picked it. We both had our reasons for wanting to start over, away from the constraints of official law enforcement. So did Connor, when he joined us.” He left it at that. Dev and Connor trusted him with their secrets, just as he trusted them with his. The ones they’d revealed to each other, anyway. “We wanted to help people who fell between the cracks or were involved in cases law enforcement had dismissed.”

“Like mine.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m sorry for the reason you formed Phoenix, but I’m glad you were there when I needed help.” She checked her watch and straightened up. “Since you were up late last night collecting trash, I should let you get some sleep. Besides, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

No chance of that. But he left that unsaid as he picked up their empty cans.

“I’ll let you out through the front door this time.” He crossed to the slider, pulled it open, and followed her in. She snagged her purse off the counter and continued toward the front of the house as he deposited the cans beside the sink. “I’m going to check out a couple of those nursing homes tomorrow.”

She paused in the foyer while he unlatched the door. “And I’ll be at the Woman’s Exchange on Friday. Will you let me know if you learn anything interesting?”

“I’ll call you.” Either way. Even if the outing was a bust, he’d find some excuse to phone her just to hear her voice. “Thanks for helping sort the trash tonight—and for being such a good sport about it.”

She smiled. “All I can say is, you sure know how to impress a girl when you invite her over.”

He returned her smile. “That’s what Dev said. At least I’ll walk you to your car.” He was prepared for her to argue, but she didn’t.

Was it possible she was as reluctant as he was for the evening to end?

“For the record, I actually had a nice time, despite the agenda. I wonder what that says about me?” They walked down his driveway in silence for a moment, and when she spoke again, her tone had morphed from joking to serious. “I also want you to know I appreciate what you shared with me about what happened to your wife. Trying to get past a tragedy like that has to be a huge challenge.”

“It is. And I’m not there yet.”

She stopped beside the car and faced him, her eyes warm and caring. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

His throat constricted. It had been a long while since anyone had looked at him with such kindness and concern. “I appreciate that.” He leaned past her and opened the car door. “Maybe yours will get better results than mine have.”

She tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. “Could it be you’re praying for the wrong things?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

A dimple dented her cheek. “When I was a little girl, I used to ask God for very specific things. A new bike, an A on a test, a role in a school play. Sometimes I got what I wanted, sometimes I didn’t. It all seemed very haphazard to me. I asked my dad about the whole prayer thing, and he suggested I follow the advice of Socrates.”

Intrigued, Cal rested his hand on top of her door. “What did a pre-Christian Greek philosopher have to say on that subject?”

“‘Our prayers should be for blessings in general, for God knows best what is good for us.’” Moira smiled as she quoted the ancient sage, then shrugged. “It made sense to me. After that, I started laying my problems and needs before God and asking for grace and guidance and whatever other virtues he thought I needed.”

“That’s an interesting approach to prayer.”

She smiled and slid into the car. “It’s worked for me.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought, then. Drive safe.” With that, he shut the door and backed away.

He waited by the curb, watching the taillights of her car recede down the street. Once they disappeared, he slowly returned to the house, pondering Moira’s comments.

Had he been praying for the wrong things?

For years he’d asked God to help him find the evidence to pin Lindsey’s death on Bernie Levine so he could make certain the man never enjoyed another moment of freedom. He’d wanted retribution. Justice.

That hadn’t happened.

And even though Levine was dead, Cal continued to harbor hate in his heart—maybe too much to allow room for forgiveness to enter.

He pushed through the screen door, set the locks behind him, and wandered back into the kitchen. The two empty cans stood beside each other on the counter. One intact. One smashed.

Frowning, he picked up the one he’d crushed in anger.

Was this what his soul looked liked? Mangled and distorted by anger?

It was possible.

It was also very possible he had, indeed, been praying for the wrong things.

Maybe it was time to ask for blessings in general, as the classical philosopher had advised, and trust that God would give him what he needed to start fresh in his personal life as he had in his professional life. God alone might know what those needs were. After all, he’d sent Moira into his life, hadn’t he?

Blessings didn’t come any finer than that.

He set the crushed can back on the counter and reread the
Family Circus
plaque. Yesterday
was
the past. No matter how much he grieved, no matter how much he ranted against his fate, Lindsey was gone. He needed to begin living in—and enjoying—today . . . as she had always done.

So as soon as this case wrapped up, he was going to do
a whole lot of thinking about how a certain blessing called Moira might fit into his future.

For now, though, he needed to focus on the case.

As he double-checked the locks, flipped off the inside lights, and headed down the hall to turn in, he reviewed their plans for the rest of the week. Tomorrow he’d visit the nursing homes. Friday, Moira would do her surveillance.

And if the evidence continued to align with his growing suspicions, they might be on track to solving the case of the vanishing woman.

Yet anxious as he was to put this one to bed, depending on what they uncovered, things could also get ugly—and dangerous. Fast.

Because desperate people did desperate things.

Meaning another woman he was coming to care for could suddenly find herself at risk.

A possibility that made his blood run cold.

K
en Blaine shrugged into his sport coat, grabbed his phone out of the locker, and exited the surgery unit, scrolling through messages as he maneuvered around gurneys and medical staff. He was an hour behind schedule already, and he had half a dozen hospitalized patients to see before his first office appointment at 1:00.

No lunch today.

No time to return calls, either, unless something significant caught his eye.

His finger stilled at the message with the “urgent” header, sent by Marge Lewis an hour ago. In many ways, she was a perfect secretary for Let the Children Come—handling the paperwork efficiently, maintaining the files, not asking a lot of questions—but she often got in a tizzy over nothing. This could probably wait.

Fifteen seconds later, he stopped again at another message from her, sent earlier in the morning. This one had an “emergency” header.

Maybe it couldn’t wait after all.

He opened the message and scanned the text.

Received a call from Dr. Gonzalez. Clinic has
been damaged in an earthquake. Funds and supplies urgently needed
. Please advise
.

Ken’s pulse leaped, and he ducked out of the flow of traffic, turning his back on the bustle in the hall as his mind raced.

He knew almost to the penny how much was in the organization’s account, and it was only enough to take care of day-to-day operating expenses until the next infusion of capital—not planned for several months. The small surplus they’d stockpiled for crises had been eaten up two months ago when the clinic’s primary X-ray machine breathed its last. There were no funds to cover the kind of emergency expenses an earthquake could entail.

But the children needed the clinic.

Desperately.

They had to find a way to keep the facility operational.

Fingers trembling, Ken scrolled up to Marge’s more recent message and opened it.

Can we have an emergency board meeting? I checked
our account. There isn’t much there. The clinic sustained
severe damage and they’ve had to evacuate. Dr. Gonzalez
has set up temporary quarters at the school and needs
immediate funds and supplies to treat the many injured. He
will email photos of the damage this afternoon
.

Ken fought back his panic, his mind racing. In the short term, he could stave off a few of his own creditors for several weeks and float the organization a temporary personal loan. But he’d need to infuse the coffers of Let the Children Come with new contributions quickly so he could replenish his own funds. His annual fifty-thousand-dollar contribution more than maxed out his charitable resources.

“Everything okay, Ken?”

At the question behind him, he forced his stiff lips into a smile, pushed away from the wall with his shoulder, and turned toward the anesthesiologist who’d assisted him all morning. “Have you ever wanted to ditch one of these things?” He held up his phone, praying the man wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice.

“All the time. My wife calls it the electronic leash.”

“I’m with her.” Ken slipped it back on his belt and twisted his wrist on the pretense of checking the time. “I didn’t expect that last one to take so long. The necrosis was a lot more advanced than I expected from the imaging. Now I’ll have to shift into fast-forward.”

“I hear you.” The man lifted his hand and moved away. “Good luck playing catch-up.”

As the anesthesiologist walked down the hall, Ken pulled his phone off his belt again, reopened Marge’s email, and keyed in a response.

Let’s meet at 4:30
. I’ll cut my office hours short
.

Then he typed a note to his receptionist. He hated to inconvenience his patients and their parents, but there was no choice.

Emergency at G. clinic. Reschedule all appointments after 4:00
.

Slipping the phone back into its holster, Ken continued toward the elevator that would take him to the pediatric floor.

And tried to ignore the trembling in his fingers.

“Mr. Peterson? I’m Nancy Prescott.”

Cal rose as the patient-family liaison walked toward him in the lobby of Maryville Extended Care—his second nursing home visit this afternoon. So far, his pretext as a concerned grandson in search of an appropriate long-term care facility for his grandmother was working beautifully—and had generated new information.

He hoped this meeting would be as productive as the first had been.

As the fortysomething woman with short brown hair extended her hand and smiled, he gave her fingers a squeeze.

“Thanks for shoehorning me in on such short notice.”

“Responsiveness is a hallmark of our facility. Shall we chat in my office, or would you prefer to take a tour?”

“Why don’t we talk as we walk?”

“Excellent choice. I think you’ll be impressed with what you see.” She led the way toward a set of French doors at the far end of the lobby. “You said on the phone your grandmother may need more assistance than can be provided at home?”

“Yes. We’ve managed up until now, but at some point . . .” He lifted his shoulders in a what-can-you-do shrug. “Advanced COPD is difficult to deal with.”

“I understand. We have a number of residents with chronic lung disease. May I ask how you chose our facility to consider?”

“My grandmother had a friend who lived here. Clara Volk. They chatted on the phone occasionally, and Clara spoke highly of her experience here.”

Nancy gave him a surprised look. “I didn’t realize Clara had any friends left. She was ninety, you know. A very nice woman. It was such a shame she had no family.”

That was the same story he’d heard about Edward Mason—the other major Let the Children Come donor from last year—at the previous nursing home. He had a feeling the donors from prior years would fit that same pattern.

“I didn’t know she was so alone. I thought my grandmother mentioned once that a doctor used to visit her on occasion . . . as a friend, not a physician.” Cal flashed Nancy a smile as he added that clarification. “I recall Gram saying he sounded like the kind of man she’d like to meet.”

“That would be Dr. Blaine. He comes by to see members of his congregation, but he always makes it a point to ask about residents who don’t receive many visitors and then takes the time to stop in and chat with one or two. He’s the embodiment of Christian charity in action. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to add your grandmother to his list if she comes to live with us. Did you know he just won the state’s humanitarian of the year award?”

“Yes. I saw a clip about it on the news.”

She paused at the door to a dining room. “Our ambulatory
residents eat here. We have a wonderful cook, and we work hard to provide a varied menu.”

Cal feigned interest in the space. “Very nice. Gram would enjoy this.” He followed Nancy as she continued down the hall. “Was Clara able to eat in the dining room?”

“Not in her last six months. She also suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. A terrible disease. It was almost a blessing when she passed. Of course, we all did our best to keep her spirits up, and Dr. Blaine stepped up his visits with her to twice a week during her last couple of months. One of our aides also took a special liking to her. Clara always seemed perkier after Dr. Blaine visited or when Olivia was on duty.”

At the mention of the name Olivia, Cal’s antennas went up.

He’d seen or heard that name at the previous nursing home too.

As Nancy showed him a vacant private room and rattled off some statistics about caregiver/resident ratios, social programs, and state ratings, he tried without success to put the name in context. It had been a fleeting impression, nothing more. The name had caught his attention because it was a bit out of the ordinary, not because it had any bearing on this case.

“Would you like to see the physical therapy center? It’s on the way to my office.”

Nancy’s question pulled him back to the present.

“Yes. Thanks.”

As they wound through the maze of generic institutional corridors, Cal maneuvered around wheelchairs and walkers and did his best to ignore the ubiquitous odor that had permeated every nursing home he’d ever visited, only half listening to Nancy’s subtle sales pitch as she sang the praises of the facility and showed him the therapy area.

Even though he couldn’t place the context of the name, the recurrence bothered him. What were the odds two people who shared the same fairly unusual name would be working at the nursing homes Blaine visited?

Miniscule.

Assuming it was the same woman, could there be a link to Blaine—especially since he was also a common denominator at the two homes?

“Let me get you an information packet to take with you.” Nancy led him behind the reception desk in the lobby and down a short corridor.

As he prepared to follow her into her office at the far end, he glanced across the hall at what appeared to be a staff break room, complete with a couple of tables, sink, refrigerator, and bulletin board.

Bulletin board
.

That’s where he’d seen Olivia’s name at the previous place.

She’d been an employee-of-the-month last fall. September, perhaps.

Cal joined Nancy in her office as she retrieved a glossy folder from the bookshelf behind her desk.

Fishing time.

“I’ll have to mention to my grandmother that Dr. Blaine is still visiting residents here. She’d enjoy meeting him—and the aide you mentioned, as well. Olivia, I think you said.”

The woman handed over the folder. “I’m sure Dr. Blaine would be delighted to call on your grandmother, but I’m afraid Olivia is no longer with us. Such a shame. She was very sweet and caring and reliable, and the residents loved her. Then one day a few weeks ago, she just walked out with no warning. What can you do? The younger generation seems to operate by different rules. In general, though, our staff turnover is very low.”

As Nancy went on to reassure him of that by quoting more statistics, Cal mulled over his next move. He needed to find out if the two Olivias were the same. But he’d use a different pretext to ferret out that information. Asking Nancy any more questions about an AWOL aide he’d never met could raise suspicions.

“Do you know when you might be making a decision?”

Cal smiled at the woman and tucked the folder under his arm. “Soon. I’d like to wrap this up in the next couple of weeks.”

“Excellent. Please call if you have any questions.”

“I’ll do that.” He shook her hand and headed out through the lobby.

But he didn’t intend to contact the woman again. Because while he had plenty of questions, Nancy Prescott wouldn’t have the answers.

He was, however, going to get one of those answers right now.

BlackBerry in hand, he opened his car door, slid behind the wheel, and tapped in the number for the nursing home he’d visited earlier.

The clinic was a wreck.

Numb with shock, Ken stared at the image on the computer screen in the church office conference room.

The 6.9 earthquake had virtually destroyed the adobe structure. The roof was half caved in, one wall had been reduced to rubble, and the main door was hanging by one hinge.

Interior photos showed similar devastation.

“Dear Lord.” Reverend Anderson leaned forward, intent on the screen, his hushed words a fervent supplication. “Was anyone killed?”

“No. There were injuries, but none of them life-threatening. Dr. Gonzalez says it was a miracle.” Marge pulled up the next photo, which showed a makeshift medical facility. “He’s set up temporary quarters in the village school. It fared far better than the clinic. But he’s in dire need of supplies, and rebuilding will require significant funds. I emailed him about our meeting, and he said he’d do his best to call in while we were all gathered.”

As she finished speaking, the extension in the conference room began to ring.

All of them looked toward the number on the LED display.

“It’s him.” Marge started to reach for the phone.

Ken beat her to it. He snatched the handset out of its cradle and put it to his ear. “Carlos?”