Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (19 page)

“I wouldn’t have pegged Blaine for a Taco Bell man.”

At Moira’s comment, Cal jerked his attention from the bag of veggies back to the road. The doctor was turning into the parking lot of the fast-food eatery.

He wasn’t a Taco Bell man himself, but even refried beans sounded appealing about now.

Slowing, he approached the entrance at a crawl. Blaine passed up the parking spots near the door and continued toward the back, where he stopped.

“Grab the binoculars. Let’s see what he’s up to.” Cal killed his headlights and swung into the lot.

Moira fitted them against her eyes and aimed them at Blaine.

Cal stopped halfway down the lot and pulled into a parking spot that gave Moira a view out her side window to the back of the building.

Blaine got out of his car, looked around as if to verify no one was watching, then strode toward a dumpster.

“Can you see what he’s holding?” Cal leaned in closer to Moira’s shoulder.

“I think it’s his Panera bag from when he stopped there this afternoon. But why would he pitch it here? Why not wait till he got home?”

The man lifted the lid on the dumpster, tossed the bag inside, and returned to his car, still scanning the parking lot.

Moira lowered the binoculars as Blaine backed up and circled around the other side of the building, moving toward the exit. “What do you make of that?”

“Highly suspicious.” Cal tapped a finger on the wheel and furrowed his brow. “Okay. I want to check out the dumpster, but I also don’t want to lose Blaine in case he’s not going home yet. We’ll come back here as soon as we verify his destination. I doubt there’s a dumpster pickup on Sunday night, and a Panera bag will be easy to find at a Taco Bell.”

On the opposite side of the building, Blaine pulled back into traffic. Cal exited the way they’d entered and fell in behind him.

Six minutes later, after Blaine pulled into his driveway, Cal retraced their route to Taco Bell.

As he backed close to the industrial-sized dumpster, Moira gave it a skeptical perusal over her shoulder. “How are you going to get the bag out?”

“Oh, I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Cal set the brake, retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the glove compartment, and popped the trunk. “Want to watch?”

“Anything to stretch my legs.” She was out the door in two seconds.

He followed more slowly, hoping whatever was in that bag would give them the solid lead that had eluded them up until now.

Because he wanted this case solved—sooner rather than later.

Moira waited for him by the trunk, watching as he sorted through his equipment and pulled out some sort of reaching device and a flashlight.

“See?” He held up the gadget that had a claw at one end and a pistol grip at the other. “These aren’t just for senior citizens or people with disabilities.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Hang on to this and stick close while I take a quick look.”

He handed her the device, stepped up onto the car bumper, and swiveled toward the dumpster. After lifting the lid, he aimed the flashlight inside and clicked it on.

“Got it. Four feet down. Let’s switch.” He exchanged the flashlight for the reacher, leaned over, lifted out the bag, and dropped back to the pavement. The whole maneuver took less than a minute.

“Pretty ingenious.” Moira leaned against the side of the car as he stowed the equipment back in the trunk.

“PIs have to be.” He gestured to her door. “Let’s get back in before we check out what we have. Based on the weight, it’s not much.”

Once behind the wheel again, Cal uncrimped the top of the bag. As he looked inside, his expression went from curious to grim.

In silence, he tipped the bag toward her.

Bracing herself, she peeked in.

A syringe lay in the bottom.

Her stomach clenched as she met his gaze again. “I’m getting really bad vibes from this.”

“So am I. I don’t think whatever was in there was intended to make someone better.”

“Should we call the nursing home?”

He turned his head and frowned into the darkness. “Yeah. But we can’t accuse Blaine of anything or even hint at criminal intent until we know what was in the syringe and if there are any repercussions. My main concern is to have them check on the people he visited, make sure they’re okay.” He looked back at her. “Are you up for a little pretext?”

With a life possibly hanging in the balance, she was seeing the use of pretext in a whole different light.

“Yes.”

“Okay. My thought is a phone call from Ellen Blaine saying her husband may have left his cell phone there tonight and she’s trying to track it down for him. You could say he was called away on an emergency, so you aren’t sure who he visited, but wondered if someone there might know, and could they check those residents’ rooms while you wait? Sunday nights should be slow enough to make that feasible, and Blaine is well known enough to merit a little extra effort from the staff. Still with me?”

Her palms started to sweat. A lot hinged on how well she pulled this off—and she wasn’t used to lying. But she’d bluffed her way through some dicey situations in her investigative work. She could do this.

“Yes.” She fished her phone out of her purse.

“We might turn you into a PI yet.” He shot her a teasing look, took her phone, and keyed in several numbers. As he said the name of the nursing home for the automated directory assistance operator, he pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket. A few seconds later, he jotted on the pad, ended the call, and tapped in another series of numbers before handing her the BlackBerry. “I’ve coded it to block caller ID. Good luck.”

She took a deep breath, put the phone to her ear, and focused on the Taco Bell sign.

By the time she worked her way through the automated menu and got a live person, her pulse had slowed and she was ready to turn on the charm.

“Good evening. I’m so sorry to bother you with this, but my husband was in earlier tonight. You might know him. Dr. Ken Blaine? He comes regularly to visit members of his congregation and others who might need some companionship.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him here. How can I help you?”

The woman sounded cordial—and receptive. A positive sign.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble, I wondered if you could check the rooms he visited. He seems to have misplaced his cell
phone, which is also his pager. As you can imagine, that’s a disaster for a doctor. I’m afraid I don’t know who he stopped in to see tonight, and I can’t reach him to ask. An emergency came up.”

“I’ll be happy to ask around. Would you like to leave a number and I can call you back?”

“Actually, I don’t mind waiting. It’s very important that he find this ASAP.”

“It may be a few minutes.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m always looking for an excuse to do some reading.” She gave a little laugh.

“All right. I’m going to put you on hold.”

Recorded music came over the line.

Moira moved the phone away from her mouth and shifted toward Cal. “They’re checking.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “You did great. You almost had me believing you were a concerned wife.”

“What’s scary is that it was almost too easy.”

“Only because there’s a greater good at stake.”

“I hope that’s the reason. I’d hate to think I have a natural propensity toward lying.” She glanced into the backseat. “Since there’s a ladies room close at hand”—she nodded toward the Taco Bell building—“I think I’ll have the last bottle of water. Unless you want it.”

“Nope.” He reached between the seats, flipped open the cooler, and pulled out the solitary bottle. After twisting off the cap, he handed it over.

Moira took the bottle and guzzled half of it before stopping to catch her breath. “Better.”

With a half-hitch grin, he leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and withdrew a folded brown envelope and a small plastic bag. As she watched, he signed the envelope, dated it, and wrote a description. Still wearing his latex gloves, he carefully retrieved the syringe, deposited it in the plastic bag, then put both the plastic bag and the Panera bag into the envelope and sealed it.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“No matter what we find out from the nursing home, I want a fingerprint check on the syringe. There’s probably not enough trace liquid left to test, since it’s been plunged, but it’s worth a check. If everything’s quiet at the home, I’ll drop this at the lab in the morning.” He set the envelope on the backseat. “Do you mind if I check my voice mail and return a few calls while you’re on hold? My BlackBerry has vibrated a couple of times in the past twenty minutes.”

“No. Go ahead.”

As Moira waited, she couldn’t help overhearing Cal’s side of the conversation with one of his partners about their upcoming Mexico trip. He was tossing around terms like ambush, fake roadblock, gunmen, and drug traffickers. Then the discussion moved on to weaponry and vests. Bulletproof, she assumed.

So not all the cases Phoenix took involved safe, low-key activities like today’s surveillance. Some put them in the line of fire.

That was more than a little unsettling.

“Mrs. Blaine?”

As the woman from the nursing home came back on the line, she forced herself to refocus.

“Yes. I’m still here.”

Cal cast a look her direction, spoke softly, and ended his call.

“Sorry for the delay. We checked with Sarah Kincaid, the member of Dr. Blaine’s congregation who he visits regularly. She told us he’d also planned to stop in and see another resident before he left. I’m sorry to say when we went to check her room for your husband’s phone, we discovered she’d passed away. That’s why this took a bit longer than I expected.”

Shock rippled through Moira as her gaze connected with Cal’s. “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t unexpected. She’s been very ill for months. But
we didn’t have a chance to do a thorough search for your husband’s phone.”

“Of course. I understand. If you do come across it, would you call his exchange?”

“We’ll be happy to. If you could let him know about Verna Hafer’s passing, we’d appreciate it. He’s been visiting her for some time.”

“I’m sure he’ll want to know. Thank you for your help.”

As Moira ended the call, Cal spoke, his expression solemn. “The woman he visited died.”

“Yes.”

“We need to get an autopsy done.” He tapped the keypad of his phone. “Time to call in the big guns.”

M
oira stifled a yawn and blinked at her computer screen, trying to focus on the text in front of her.

No dice.

Between the hustle in the newsroom, fatigue from her late night, and the questions pinging around her brain about a certain humanitarian of the year, no way could an article on the controversy over a new wastewater facility hold her attention.

The trill of her cell phone gave her legitimate grounds to put the story aside for a moment, and she grabbed at the excuse. Especially when she checked caller ID and saw it was Cal.

“Good morning.” She swiveled away from her desk. “What time did you get home last night?”

“About 1:00.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Ouch.”

“I had a feeling it would run long. That’s why I asked if one of the patrol officers could run you home. Suffice it to say, St. Louis County PD was very interested in our theory.”

“Interested enough to act?” She hoped so. It had been clear in last night’s session with the police that Cal’s former colleagues respected him—enough to take the off-the-wall
story they’d listened to far more seriously than if it had come from most run-of-the-mill PIs.

“On Verna Hafer, anyway. The nursing home has been notified an autopsy is going to be performed by the medical examiner, and the body is being retrieved as we speak. County is also going to have the prosecuting attorney authorize lab analysis on the syringe. Plus, they’re planning to call her attorney today and see if Let the Children Come is mentioned in her will.”

“How long will all that take?”

“Too long, for the most part.” His voice was taut with frustration. “Typical red tape stuff and an overworked staff. The medical examiner’s report could take six weeks. The analysis of the syringe, about a week since they’re going to make it a priority. On the positive side, we might have an answer on the will a lot faster, depending on how cooperative Verna’s attorney is.”

“What happens with Blaine in the meantime?”

“Nothing. There aren’t sufficient grounds yet to bring any sort of formal charges. But there’s not much chance he’ll disappear. Prominent figures don’t vanish easily.”

“Only people like Olivia.” She sighed. “Isn’t it sad that someone could fall off the face of the earth and not even be missed, let alone have anyone who cared?”

“Yeah.” A beat of silence ticked by, followed by an answering sigh. “The best we can do for her at this point is get some answers, and I’m working on that. I have a meeting this morning, but I did get a full name from my crisscross directory to go with the neighbor’s cabin Ellen Blaine mentioned. Ted Lauer. I placed a call to St. Charles to see if I could sweet-talk the assessor’s office into checking property deeds in the area, and they promised to have something by tomorrow.”

“So it’s a waiting game.”

“Yes. But at least the pieces finally seem to be falling into place.”

“They’re not creating a pretty picture, though.” Moira
stared out the window on the far wall, where dark clouds were beginning to mass on the distant horizon. “The problem is, even if we get a DNA match between the tooth and toothbrush—and despite the fact my so-called Good Samaritan wore a Claddagh ring—we can’t directly connect Blaine to Olivia on that rainy night or prove any kind of foul play.”

“Yet. Key word. Trust me, I’ve seen much tougher cases solved. This is going to shake out sooner or later.”

“I hope so. I started this whole thing because a woman’s terrified eyes sucked me in and pleaded with me to help. No matter what else we find out about Blaine, I want answers for Olivia’s sake.”

“That’s still a top priority for me too.”

She heard an indistinguishable voice in the background, then Cal spoke again.

“I’ve got to run. I’ll let you know what I find out about the neighbor’s property before I leave on Wednesday for Mexico. If you need me while we’re gone, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll have my BlackBerry with me at all times.”

“Thanks.” She fiddled with a paper clip on her desk. How much could she ask about the trip without breaching client confidentiality issues? “Listen . . . I don’t want to pry, but I couldn’t help overhearing your side of the phone conversation last night while I was on hold with the nursing home. This Mexico job sounds dangerous.”

There was a brief pause, as if he was debating how much to tell her.

When he responded, his words were measured. “It’s a situation that has more potential for danger than most, but all three of us are going and we’ll be watching each other’s backs. Plus, we’ll be fully equipped and well briefed.”

“I didn’t think most PIs carried guns.”

“Most don’t. But we’re all ex–law enforcement, so carrying is part of our DNA.”

“Even in Mexico? Isn’t that illegal there?”

Another pause. “It is. But because of Dev and Connor’s
backgrounds, we have . . . connections. Most of the heavy firepower will be handled by the local guys we subcontract, though—all of whom are experts. We’ll be fine. Listen, gotta run. I’ll give you a call before I leave.”

The line went dead, and she pushed the end button, set the phone on her desk, and turned back to the computer.

But despite the encroaching deadline, her focus wasn’t on the words about raw sewage that were running across the screen.

She wasn’t buying Cal’s reassurance about the Mexico trip, but what could she say? This was his job, and she had to trust the Phoenix crew had crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s. Nothing she’d observed so far led her to believe they wouldn’t be thorough and buttoned-up. It was a professional operation, and Cal and his colleagues had plenty of experience.

Nevertheless, she knew that for the next few days, she was going to worry.

A lot.

And say far more prayers than usual.

The medical examiner was doing an autopsy on Verna Hafer.

As the bottom fell out of Ken’s stomach, he angled away from his colleagues and let Sarah Kincaid’s voice mail wind down.

There could be only one reason for an autopsy, considering Verna’s age and health problems.

The police suspected foul play.

Why?

Pulse pounding, Ken replayed the message that had come in on his cell while he was in his regular Tuesday morning surgery. The older woman from his congregation was always talkative during his visits, but he tuned out most of her gossip. A few nods and uh-huhs seemed to satisfy her.

This, however, was big news.

“Dr. Blaine, I do apologize for calling on your personal line, even though you so thoughtfully gave me the number. But my goodness, we’ve had some excitement here! Since you and Verna Hafer were acquainted, I thought you’d want to know she passed away Sunday night. Now here’s the odd thing—the police took her body. They’re going to do an
autopsy
. Can you imagine? As if the poor woman hasn’t suffered enough these past few months.” Her tut-tut came over the line. “Anyway, I did think you’d appreciate being informed. I’ll look forward to your next visit, as always.”

Ken jabbed the end button, shoved the phone back onto his belt, and ducked into the surgical unit’s men’s room before any of his colleagues could initiate a conversation.

Once inside the stall, he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and forced himself to keep breathing.

Don’t panic. Think this
through logically. What could they know?

He ran through the events of Sunday evening in his mind. There had been no slipups. No witnesses. No evidence left behind. There was nothing to tie him to Verna except his weekly visits.

Was there?

Had he, by chance, missed something?

Beads of sweat broke out on his brow, and he grabbed some tissue off the roll. Swiped at his forehead.

Even if he’d made some minor mistake, though, he’d disposed of the syringe. And no one had seen him administer the morphine.

But the medical examiner would find it in Verna’s body.

Still, they couldn’t link him to it. Besides . . . why would they try?

Unless that reporter had somehow pieced things together.

He crumpled the tissue in his fist, his stomach clenching. Perhaps he’d underestimated her. She’d been nominated for a Pulitzer prize for investigative reporting, after all, according
to the info he’d uncovered on his Google search. Meaning she was dogged and determined and fearless.

Plus, she’d noticed the stupid ring.

It wouldn’t cause any more trouble, though. He’d left it in the top drawer of his dresser after he’d removed it on Saturday, before tailing her, as a safety precaution. That’s where it would stay too. It made him sick to look at it.

But the damage had been done.

He tossed the wadded-up tissue in the toilet and flushed it away. Wishing he could do the same with whatever evidence Moira Harrison had stumbled across that had been powerful enough to convince the police to demand an autopsy on Verna.

The question was, how much did she know?

Had she also, somehow, identified Olivia?

If so, could she have figured out his destination on that rainy night?

A surge of panic froze his lungs.

No. Not possible. If she had, the police would be searching Ted’s place with cadaver dogs by now.

They soon might be, though—unless he could come up with some way to stop this thing before it went any further.

His hands started to shake as he tried to think through his options. There weren’t many. Anything he did could raise suspicion.

So what
could
he do?

Make sure there
’s nothing to find
.

As the obvious solution echoed in his mind, he swallowed past the bile that rose in this throat at the prospect of that grim task.

Yet it had to be done. Tonight, if possible. Because if they found Olivia, they might find other incriminating evidence. A stray hair on her body, perhaps, despite the hood he’d worn. Or the stud from his tux shirt that had gone missing.

He should have gone with the river alternative he’d considered originally, instead of opting for land disposal.

But it was too late for second thoughts.

Twisting his wrist, he checked the time. He was done with surgery for the day, but he had a full schedule of appointments that would keep him at the office until late afternoon.

That was okay, though. He couldn’t risk going out to the cabin in broad daylight, anyway. He needed the cover of darkness. Besides, he had preparations to make. Things to buy. Nylon rope and concrete blocks and . . .

His cell phone began to vibrate, and he yanked it off his belt to check caller ID. Marge. As he put it to his ear, someone else walked into the men’s room.

Pushing through the stall door, he acknowledged his anesthesiologist.

“No rest for the weary.” The man mouthed the words.

Somehow Ken managed the ghost of a smile as he nodded to the man and continued toward the door.

“What’s up, Marge?” He exited and moved toward his locker.

“Sorry to bother you during surgery hours, but Dr. Gonzalez called again with a request for additional funds. We’re operating on fumes right now, but I wanted to talk to you before I gave him the bad news.”

Ken yanked his jacket out of his locker. After all the work he’d put into establishing the clinic, after all he’d done to keep it alive and growing, he was not going to let his dream crumble.

“Wire him everything that’s left except for five hundred dollars. Tell him I’ll supplement with some additional personal funds.” He could manage another short-term loan. That should hold them until Verna’s bequest came through. She’d told him her assets were in a trust, meaning no probate delays.

“All right. We’ve been getting some donations as a result of the follow-up media coverage of the earthquake too. They’re only trickling in, but I’m praying God will provide.”

“I’m confident he will. Tell Carlos I’ll touch base with him later today or tomorrow. I have to run.”

He ended the call, shoved the phone back onto his belt, and slammed the locker shut.

Those children needed Verna’s money, and he was going to make sure they got it. No one—
no one
—was going to derail his operation. He clenched his fists at his sides, restraining the urge to kick the locker.

Turning, he found that his colleague had emerged from the men’s room and was watching him with a surprised expression.

Not good.

Kenneth Blaine was always calm, cool, and in control. In public, anyway. He couldn’t afford to let that image slip. That, too, would raise questions—and he was dealing with enough of those already.

“Problems with the clinic?” The man walked over to his own locker.

“The fund-raising is slow going.” He kept his tone conversational, shading it with a touch of frustration, and relaxed his fingers. “And the need is great.”

“Those kids down there are lucky to have you. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

But as Ken walked away, his mouth settled into a grim line. Luck was overrated. As far as he was concerned, people created their own luck through planning, perseverance, and hard work. By taking on the hard jobs and doing what had to be done. No matter the cost.