Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (15 page)

Sometimes Ken thought the man held on to the place just for him, knowing what a haven it had once been when he’d needed an escape from the stresses of his life-and-death job. And you didn’t repay a friendship like that by saying no to an Opera Theatre fund-raiser—or blowing off a party.

Straightening his shoulders, Ken slipped between the arborvitae bushes that separated their properties.

The guests had gathered on the terrace on this balmy night, and the flickering candles, the muted laughter, the fragrance of the roses in their first, profuse bloom of the season should have created a calming ambiance.

But the soft strains of the familiar classical music in the background turned his stomach.

Vivaldi always had that effect on him.

On the other side of the lawn, Ted lifted his hand in greeting and crossed the expanse of lush grass between them.

“Glad you could make it, Ken. I know how busy you are.”

“Never too busy for old friends.” Ken returned his firm shake.

“I bet you haven’t had dinner yet.”

Ken lifted one shoulder and managed a smile. “Some days, eating takes second place.”

“Well, I’m afraid Rose ordered that namby-pamby finger food, as usual. But I did put my foot down and ask for some heartier fare for the gents.” He scanned the crowd, then signaled to one of the tray-bearing waiters who was passing out hors d’oeuvres. “This tidbit should help tide you over for at least a little while.”

The man approached them and proffered a tray. The scent of grilled meat from the tenderloin kabobs wafted his way, and though it set off a rumble in his empty stomach, it also made him nauseous.

He tried to tune out the Vivaldi.

“Put a few of those under your belt.” Ted handed Ken a napkin and piled several in his palm. “We’ve got some meatballs floating around somewhere too. I’ll round them up for you.”

“No!” The rejection was more adamant than he’d intended, and at the man’s surprised expression, Ken dredged up a smile to soften his refusal. “This is plenty for now. I’m more tired and thirsty than hungry.”

“I understand. I know you’ve had a long week. Ellen mentioned the earthquake and the problems at the clinic. I was sorry to hear about that. Doesn’t seem right, with all the effort you’ve put into that project. I’ll tell you what, you find yourself a seat on the terrace and I’ll round up a drink. What would you like?”

“You don’t have to wait on me.”

“Of course I do. I’m the host. Let’s see . . . bourbon and water?” The man shot him a mischievous look.

“You know me better than that.”

“Indeed I do. Can’t recall the last time I saw you drink hard liquor. How about a glass of cabernet? I do believe I’ve seen you indulge in that on occasion.”

“Sounds perfect. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

As the man took off for the bar, Ken wandered toward a patio table off to the side, away from the clusters of guests congregated closer to the food and drink. He’d force down some food. Sip half a glass of wine. And make his escape as soon as he could politely manage it.

Lowering himself into the chair, he surveyed the crowd. At the far end of the terrace, Ellen was engaged in conversation with the new neighbors across the street, a young couple with whom he’d exchanged no more than a few words since they’d moved in three or four months ago. Fellow was a lawyer, as he recalled. On the fast track, according to Ellen.

God help him.

That kind of commitment and drive could be all-consuming, as he well knew. Not that he harbored any regrets. The work had been worth it. But it was a lonely life. More than anyone could ever understand.

Except maybe his dad.

The Vivaldi once more wormed its way into his consciousness.

Though he met with some success as he tried to tune out the music, thoughts of his father remained.

Alan Blaine, too, had had a deep passion for his work, sometimes to the exclusion of his family. In his younger days, Ken hadn’t fully appreciated his father’s priorities. Had resented them at times, even. His mom had too, much as she’d loved his dad. He could recall a few occasions when she’d tried to mask her displeasure behind a strained smile after his father canceled out on some important family commitment.

In the end, though, he’d recognized that a gift like his father’s had to take precedence over everything. Light was not
meant to be hidden. The Bible said as much. It was a gift, and it had to be shared.

No matter the sacrifice.

“Doesn’t look like you’re making much headway on those kabob things.” Ted stopped beside him and handed over a glass of wine.

Ken glanced at the skewers in his hand. The grease was soaking through the napkin, and the meat no longer felt warm. He set them on the table beside him, swallowing past his revulsion.

“I was waiting for the wine.”

“Well, have at it.” Ted leaned closer. “I’d stay and chat, but Rose gave me firm instructions to mingle.”

“Trust me. After the week I’ve had, I’m more than content to sit and veg for a few minutes.”

The man smiled. “I hear you. But if you need anything else, let me know.”

As his host disappeared into the deepening dusk, Ken shoved the pile of meat away from him. He’d find somewhere to ditch it before he made his escape.

“Dr. Blaine?”

A sixtysomething woman holding a glass of white wine and a plate piled high with a variety of appetizers approached him. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

And he wasn’t in the mood for company.

“Yes?” He hoped his polite but cool tone would discourage her from conversation.

No such luck.

She stopped in front of him and smiled. “I thought that was you. Elizabeth Williams. We met at the Opera Theatre gala in April, though I’m not at all surprised you don’t remember me. We were at the same table, but we’d hardly said hello when you were called away. Such is the life of a doctor, I suppose.”

A vague recollection of the woman stirred in his mind. Very vague. He’d had too many other things to think about that night.

Be polite, Ken. She must
be a friend of Rose or Ted
.

“I do remember you. I’m sorry we didn’t have more of a chance to get acquainted.”

“Well, I suppose we can remedy that to some degree tonight. Do you mind if I join you? I love these skinny high heels, but I’m afraid my feet don’t. Despite my husband’s warning that this would be a stand-up-and-mingle party, I couldn’t resist wearing them.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, she settled into the chair beside him and dived into her plate of food.

Stifling a sigh, he eyed the hedge on the other side of the terrace. If he excused himself to top off his drink, he might be able to slip away into the shadows and . . .

“. . . ever get hold of you?”

He refocused on the woman beside him, catching only the tail end of her question. “Excuse me?”

She smiled, wagged a finger at him, and took a healthy sip of her wine. “You’re as distracted tonight as you were at the gala. But I suppose a doctor always has a lot of serious things on his mind.” She tapped the base of his wineglass with her finger. “Have some. It will help you relax. Anyway, I was asking if that nice man who called me about the MontBlanc pen ever got hold of you. I told him I thought it might be yours.”

At the non sequitur, he frowned. “What MontBlanc pen?”

“The one that was found near our table at the Opera Theatre benefit. The man who called was hoping to locate the owner.”

“I don’t have a MontBlanc pen.” What on earth was the woman going on about?

“Then I guess it wasn’t yours.” She giggled and took another sip of wine. “I do hope that nice man found the owner, though. He seemed so anxious to return it. Did he call you?”

“Not that I know of. Unless he left a message at my office.”

“Funny. I’m certain he intended to get in touch with you,
especially after I told him how you took a call and had to go deal with some emergency. I thought you might have used your pen to jot down a number.”

An alarm began to flash in his mind. “You told him I left?”

“Yes. And I praised your dedication. You missed a wonderful evening. The entertainment was—”

“When did this man call you?”

She blinked, apparently thrown by the interruption, a mini quiche suspended halfway to her mouth. “Well, now, let me see.” Pursing her lips, she furrowed her brow. “I believe it was last week. Yes . . . yes, it was. Friday. I remember because I was getting ready to meet my aunt. We’ve been having lunch once a month for years. She’s a wonderful woman. When my uncle was alive, they . . .”

Ken tuned her out.

Why had someone from Opera Theatre waited a month to try and track down the owner of a high-end pen?

Unless the man hadn’t been from Opera Theatre at all—and he was more interested in the whereabouts of a certain doctor that night.

Or was he being paranoid?

Maybe.

Yet he was getting unsettling vibes about this. Especially in light of his encounter with Moira Harrison only a few days before that.

Had she asked someone to check out the alibi he’d offered her?

But who could she enlist?

If she’d gone to the police, and if they’d listened—both long shots—that wasn’t how law enforcement operated. They would have been much more up-front with their questions.

Could she have come up with a ruse and had a friend make the call?

Possibly. She was a reporter, after all.

At this point, though, the whys and hows were irrelevant. The more important fact was that if she had somehow
orchestrated that call, she now knew his alibi had a great big hole—and he’d lost his gamble that she’d accept his explanation for that evening at face value.

On the other hand, he could be wrong. This could be as innocent as Elizabeth Williams seemed to think.

But if it wasn’t, he’d just been handed a new crisis to deal with.

He rose abruptly, and the woman shot him a startled glance, once again stopping mid-sentence.

“Sorry.” He groped for his cell phone and pulled it off his belt. “No rest for the weary.”

She sent him a sympathetic look. “My. I don’t envy you being on call at all hours. Are you ever able to enjoy a social event without interruption, or finish a meal?” She gestured to his untouched food and wine.

“On occasion. But not tonight. Excuse me.” He jabbed the talk button, put the phone to his ear, and strode toward the hedge as he pretended to carry on a conversation.

Once safely on the other side, the voices and laughter and music muted by the shrubs, he slowly slipped the phone back on his belt and took a deep breath.

It didn’t stop the tremble in his fingers.

He balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets as he started toward the house, his mind racing.

It was important not to overreact. People made mistakes when they did that. And he didn’t make mistakes. He couldn’t afford to. The clinic depended on him, and he refused to put that operation at risk by taking chances. Olivia had been an anomaly, a problem caused by timing, not mistakes. But he’d fixed that problem.

And he didn’t intend to let it resurface.

Ken entered the house, deactivated the security system, and headed for his study. The brandy had helped calm him the day Moira Harrison had shown up in his office. Another drink couldn’t hurt.

At the bar, he poured himself a scotch. Good thing Ted
couldn’t see him now. But he’d never display such atypical behavior in public. That would be a mistake.

The kind he didn’t make.

As Ken settled into his chair with his drink and slowly sipped the fiery liquid, he began to distill two clear thoughts from the muddle in his brain.

He had to follow through on his plans for Verna Hafer on Sunday. The situation in Guatemala was getting more urgent by the day, and the clinic required funds ASAP.

But in the meantime, he needed to get a handle on the activities of a certain reporter who was too nosy for her own good.

And if he discovered anything to suggest she was trying to thwart his plans, he’d figure out a way to make certain she didn’t succeed.

S
teering wheel clasped in her left hand, Moira twisted her wrist to check her watch as she turned onto the Kirkwood street Phoenix Inc. called home. At the same time, she stuffed the last of her fast-food burger into her mouth with her other hand.

It was already 7:30—far later than she’d planned.

What a day.

She whipped into a parking spot across the street from Cal’s office and set the brake. If she’d had any idea her last interview was going to run so long, she’d never have accepted his invitation to meet after work to discuss their separate reconnaissance missions. She didn’t expect the man to give up his Friday night for a nonpaying client.

Yet he hadn’t backed out when she’d called to give him an update on her timing and offered to reschedule. Nor had she pushed him to. A Friday night in Cal’s company was far better than one spent surfing the net, zoning out in front of the television, or even reading the latest bestseller she’d picked up at the bookstore last weekend.

She fished her lipstick out of her purse. Too bad he hadn’t suggested they meet at his house again instead of at the office. Or offered to host another pizza party instead of so
readily agreeing to her proposal that they deal with dinner on their own.

With a quick swipe, she outlined her lips, recapped the tube, and dropped it back in her purse. Oh, well. She wasn’t going to let that minor disappointment ruin her evening.

After stuffing the wrappers from her dinner back into the bag, she wadded it into a ball and slid out of the car.

As she crossed the street toward the Phoenix office, the door opened and Cal smiled at her.

“I saw you pull up.” He flicked a glance at the crumpled bag bearing the familiar golden arches logo. “Nikki would disapprove.”

She slipped past him. “She’s not into fast food?”

“If it’s not organic, it’s on her cease and desist list.” He closed the door behind her and set the locks. “I’ll get rid of the evidence for you.”

She passed it over when he extended his hand. “Are we meeting in the conference room again?”

“Yes.” He held his access card over the panel beside the door to the private offices, then pushed it open and stepped aside to let her pass. “I’ll grab my notes and join you in a minute.”

Moira continued down the hall as he turned left into his office, chose a seat on the long end of the rectangular table, and pulled her own notes from her lunch at the Woman’s Exchange out of her purse.

He rejoined her sixty seconds later, carrying two cardboard cups.

“You got ice cream?” She smiled as he set one of them in front of her.

“I picked it up when I ran out for dinner.”

She pried the lid off hers. Mint chocolate chip. He’d remembered.

Some of her disappointment evaporated.

“Thank you.”

“Hey, it gave me an excuse to indulge too. So from what
you said on the phone, it sounds like you had an interesting lunch.”

“Very.”

She dug into her ice cream, flipped open her notebook, and filled him in while he jotted a few notes.

When she finished, he leaned back in his seat. “An interesting picture is emerging that doesn’t quite jibe with the good doctor’s paragon-of-virtue public image. He’s short-tempered and distracted at home, estranged from his wife, and has been plagued with recurring nightmares in recent weeks. Plus, we have regular—almost predictable—infusions of capital to Let the Children Come from recently deceased residents of nursing homes he’s visited. That’s a bit too coincidental for my taste.”

As his implications registered, Moira swallowed her mouthful of ice cream and exhaled. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

He lifted one shoulder. “We also have a reference to a neighbor’s cabin, which the neighbor rarely uses.”

“I wonder if it happens to be near Defiance?”

“I’ve already made a note to check into that on Monday. The assessor’s office in St. Charles is closed until then. But I’m glad they mentioned the man’s name. That makes things easier.”

“Okay.” She swiped at a drip of ice cream on the table with a paper napkin and furrowed her brow. “Here’s what I’m not getting. There are easier ways to solicit donations than targeting older people. Plus, none of those deaths apparently raised any red flags.”

“No reason they should. The most recent two had chronic, deteriorating conditions. There would have been no autopsy if they died peacefully. And there are ways to make that happen.”

The shiver that caused Moira’s fingers to tremble had nothing to do with the coldness of the ice cream.

“Now we have an emergency situation at the clinic and
an acute need for funds.” Cal tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. “That could trigger recurring nightmares for a lot of reasons—including the necessity of accelerating the timetable for a new infusion of dollars. The last donor only died in March.”

Moira caught her breath. “You mean . . . someone might be in his sights right now? Assuming the ominous scenario we’re constructing is valid?”

“That would be a logical deduction.”

“Man, this is getting heavy.” She tapped the plastic spoon against the edge of the cardboard cup. “It’s also getting complicated. I mean . . . what does all this have to do with my vanishing young woman?”

“I don’t know yet. I do, however, have a strong suspicion that Olivia Lange is missing. Let me tell you what I learned today.”

As Cal recounted his visit to the aide’s duplex, Moira let the last couple of bites of her ice cream melt into a sticky pool in the bottom of her cup.

“So it’s probable that Blaine and Olivia did know each other.” Moira set her spoon back in the cardboard container as Cal finished.

“Well enough for Blaine to give her advice, it seems—if he’s the doctor the neighbor referenced. From what she said, they were on friendly terms.”

“But the neighbor hasn’t seen her for a month, and the landlord is looking for her. Plus she quit her job for no reason.” Moira moistened her lips, not liking where this was going. “Do you think she might be the woman I saw on the road?”

“That possibility occurred to me. But we have to consider the abusive boyfriend angle too. Maybe she did go back to him. I plan to check that out this weekend. In the meantime, though, I spoke with her landlord. He’s going back to Olivia’s place tomorrow to make another attempt to collect his rent. If no one answers the door this time, he plans to go in.
I convinced him to let Dev meet him and do a walk-through. I’d do it myself, but the neighbor whose faucet I fixed would recognize me.”

“What pretext did you use to get the landlord to cooperate?”

“None. I told him we were PIs investigating a missing person case. He was happy to assist. I think he figures if we locate her, he might get his back rent.”

“What are you hoping your partner finds on this walk-through?”

“A toothbrush, preferably.”

Moira frowned. “Why?”

“Because I have a tooth. And I have a feeling the DNA might match.”

She wrinkled her brow. “You lost me. You have a tooth?”

“I never mentioned it, because I didn’t think it would lead to anything. After you came to the office the first time, Dev and I took a drive out to the accident site and gave it a thorough going-over. I found a tooth. As Dev pointed out, it could have been from a kid who fell off his bike, or an animal. It still might be, but I think it’s worth checking to see if we have a DNA match between it and a personal item of Olivia’s—assuming we can’t locate her in the next twenty-four hours.”

She chewed at her lower lip. “This whole thing has gotten a lot more involved than I expected when I first came to you for help—and it’s taking you away from your billable clients.”

“It’s also an intriguing case.”

His reassurance was kind, but Moira knew the work he and his colleagues were doing for her was costing the firm money. Maybe she could pitch in, as she’d done today with the doctor’s wife.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He regarded her in silence as he mulled over her offer. “I might do a little informal surveillance on the doctor this weekend. Probably on Sunday. If you don’t have anything else going on, I wouldn’t mind some company.”

He wanted to spend more time with her.

That was unexpected.

Moira’s spirits took a decided uptick.

“Just church in the morning, but I can be flexible on that. I think the Lord would forgive my absence, given we’re working to bring about justice.” The pleasure of his company was a bonus.

Or so she told herself, even if God saw through that excuse.

“Why don’t I give you a call once I get a better handle on my schedule?”

“Sounds good.”

“If you’re ready to call it a night, I’ll walk you out.”

She gathered up her purse and notebook and stood. “You know, one of these days I’ll have to meet these partners of yours so I can thank them for all their work on this case too.”

“I’ll thank them for you.” He motioned her out the door, then flipped off the light behind them as they exited into the hall.

“You don’t want me to meet them?” She tossed the question over her shoulder as they walked toward the lobby.

“Nope. Especially Dev.” He leaned past her to open the door to the reception area. Giving her another whiff of that toe-tingling aftershave he always wore.

“Why not?”

The security door clicked shut behind them as he followed her toward the entrance.

“He thinks you’re hot.”

She cast a startled look at him as she reached the entry, uncertain how to respond.

Cal grinned at her and opened the front door. “And for the record, I saw you first.”

Was that a backhanded way of letting her know he was interested in more than a business relationship? That as much as he’d loved his wife, he was ready to move on? Or was he just engaging in some lighthearted flirting, the way a lot of guys did?

As he watched her, Cal’s lips flattened. “Sorry. That remark came out of nowhere—and it wasn’t very professional. I don’t usually slip like that. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He thought she was offended?

She needed to clear that up. Fast.

“I’m not offended in the least. I’m flattered—and hopeful.” If he could be honest, she could too. “The fact is, I’ve enjoyed our interaction. If that leads to a more . . . personal . . . relationship after this case is finished, I’d be very open to that.”

For a long moment he studied her, faint furrows etching his brow as he gripped the edge of the open door. Then he reached up, rubbed the back of his neck, and shifted his gaze to a large, mounted photo of a stunning sunset on the far wall.

“Did I ever tell you my wife was a photographer?”

Moira scanned the landscapes and still lifes she’d noticed on her first visit. They were similar in style to the ones in Cal’s office and his home and all were imbued with a distinct personality. She could almost feel the presence of the woman he’d loved as she examined them.

He obviously felt the same way.

She fought down a flutter of disappointment.

“No. I assume these are hers?”

“Yes. She was very talented—in many ways.” He looked back at her. “It’s been hard letting her go.”

“I can understand that.”

“But she also believed in enjoying today and leaving yesterday in the past. I want you to know that since I met you, I’ve been working on adopting that philosophy. I’m not there yet . . . but I’m finally moving in the right direction.”

The warmth and sincerity in his eyes tempered her sudden melancholy—and restored her hope.

“For the record”—she smiled as she borrowed his earlier phrase—“I’m a very patient person. As some sage once said, good things are worth waiting for.”

“Now I’m the one who’s flattered.”

A breeze from the open door behind him wafted that
appealing scent her direction again as he looked down at her, and it was all she could do not to reach up and brush her lips over his.

Judging by the sudden darkening of his irises, and the abrupt step he took away from her, the same thought had crossed his mind.

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

She swallowed and held on tight to the strap of her purse. “Okay. Thanks for staying late tonight to meet with me.”

“Not a problem.” He touched her arm as she turned away, and she swiveled back toward him. “I think we’re making progress . . . on a lot of fronts.”

Her pulse accelerated as his fingers warmed her skin. “Me too.” The words came out in a slight squeak, and she cleared her throat. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

Feeling like a schoolgirl with her first crush, Moira tried to get herself back under control as she crossed the street. She was a grown woman. Thirty-three years old. Way past the infatuation stage. This kind of reaction was ridiculous.

Yet when she paused beside her car and looked back, her heart wasn’t listening. In defiance, it did the oddest little skip as Cal raised his hand in farewell and sent her a slow, appreciative smile.

Man, did she have it bad.

With a quick wave of her own, she slipped into the car, shoved the key in the ignition, and started the engine.

At least her feelings weren’t one-sided.

She cast one final glance in the rearview mirror before she turned the corner. Cal remained standing by the door, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms folded over his chest. Watching her.

Perhaps wishing the evening hadn’t ended quite so early, as she was?

Still, he’d opened the door to tomorrow. That was a plus—and one more incentive to wrap up the case of the vanishing woman with the terrified eyes as soon as possible.

They were close too. She could feel it. Pieces of the puzzle were starting to turn up. Some were fitting together, and despite the gaps, a shocking picture was beginning to emerge. One that sent an icy ripple through her. If their reasoning was sound . . . if Blaine was involved in some sinister, macabre game . . . this could get messy very fast. Maybe even dangerous.

That was scary.

But Cal and his colleagues were up to the challenge. She had no doubt of that. And once they’d compiled sufficient evidence, they’d hand it off to law enforcement for the cleanup.