Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (27 page)

W
riting suspense books involves huge amounts of research. But even though I spend hours on the net, I could never achieve optimal authenticity without the input of experts. I’m very grateful to my valued sources, whose generous assistance allows me to add the final, subtle touches of realism to my stories.

For their help with this book, my heartfelt thanks goes to:

Tim Flora, president of Mid-West Protective Service, Inc. (one of the most respected PI firms in the Midwest), who stood ready to assist me whenever I had a PI-related question. Like my hero, Cal, Tim had a long career in law enforcement before striking out on his own. He is a certified polygraph examiner and has also received training from the FBI, U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, U.S. Secret Service, and the ATF—making him the perfect PI source not only for this story but for my entire Private Justice series.

Lieutenant Tom Larkin, Commander of the St. Louis County Police Department’s Bureau of Crimes Against Persons, who graciously answered my questions on police procedure.

D.P. Lyle, MD, Edgar-nominated novelist, author of
Forensics for Dummies
and consultant for writers of many
popular TV shows—including
Law and Order
,
Cold Case
, and
House
—who reviewed the medical sections of this book.

Second Lieutenant Steve McCreary of the United States Army, who gave me a tutorial on weaponry and guided me through my very first visit to a shooting range.

Captain Ed Nestor from the Chesterfield, Missouri, Police Department, who continues to refer me to amazing sources.

The incredible team at Revell—editorial, marketing, sales, cover design, promotion. It’s a joy to work with you.

And finally, my deepest love and gratitude to my husband, Tom, and my parents, James and Dorothy Hannon, who add such joy to my life.

Irene Hannon
is a bestselling, award-winning author who took the publishing world by storm at the tender age of ten with a sparkling piece of fiction that received national attention.

Okay . . . maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But she
was
one of the honorees in a complete-the-story contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. And she likes to think of that as her “official” fiction-writing debut!

Since then, she has written more than forty contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. Irene has twice won the RITA award—the “Oscar” of romantic fiction—from Romance Writers of America, and her books have also been honored with a National Readers Choice award, a HOLT medallion, a Daphne du Maurier award, a Retailers Choice award, and two Reviewers’ Choice awards from
RT Book Reviews
magazine. In 2011,
Booklist
named
Deadly Pursuit
one of the Top 10 Inspirational Fiction titles of the year.

Irene, who holds a BA in psychology and an MA in journalism, juggled two careers for many years until she gave up her executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company to write full time. She is happy to say she has no regrets. As she points out, leaving behind the rush-hour commute, corporate politics, and a relentless BlackBerry that never slept was no sacrifice.

A trained vocalist, Irene has sung the leading role in numerous community theater productions and is also a soloist at her church.

When not otherwise occupied, she loves to cook, garden,
and take long walks. She and her husband also enjoy traveling, Saturday mornings at their favorite coffee shop, and spending time with family. They make their home in Missouri.

To learn more about Irene and her books, visit
www.
irenehannon
.com
.

T
he house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Laura Griffin paused inside the back door and frowned.

Where was the thudding bass that usually shook the walls as it reverberated from behind Darcy’s closed bedroom door?

Where was the soda can her half sister always left on the counter, despite repeated requests to rinse empties and put them in the recycle bin?

Where was the faint odor of burned bagel that had greeted her at the end of every workday since the teen’s arrival in St. Louis four months ago?

She crossed the room and dropped her purse and tote bag on the kitchen table, the thump of the heavy satchel echoing in the uncharacteristic stillness. “Darcy?”

No response.

As a tingle of unease slithered along her nerve endings, Laura shoved her fists in the pockets of her winter coat and forced herself to take a deep breath.

Chill,
okay?
This could just be a new strategy. She hasn
’t tried the silent treatment yet. Stay calm.

As if.

A grimace twisted her lips as she walked toward the living room. Her placid existence had evaporated the day Darcy stepped inside the house, 102 pounds of brashness, bravado, and attitude. It had taken mere hours for the girl to figure out her thirty-three-year-old half sibling had zero experience dealing with a sixteen-year-old—and Darcy had done her best to exploit that liability ever since.

Was it any wonder they clashed constantly?

Laura passed through the living room, giving it a quick scan. No gloves or hat thrown on the couch. No muffler trailing across the floor. No parka dumped in the wing chair.

Since it was doubtful Darcy had altered her typical behavior pattern and put her winter gear in the coat closet, the conclusion was obvious.

She’d once again broken the rule about coming straight home after school.

With a sigh, Laura walked down the hall toward Darcy’s room. Not much chance she’d find the teen poring over her homework on a Friday afternoon, but it couldn’t hurt to check. Hope sprang eternal and all that—even if she was already psyching herself up for the battle of wills sure to come later in the evening.

As usual, Darcy’s door was closed. Laura knocked. Called her name. Waited a few beats. Twisted the knob.

Once again, apprehension skittered through her, along with a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the frigid early-January weather outside or the icy wind whistling around the corner of the house. Darcy’s bed was made, the desktop swept clean of clutter, the carpet pristine rather than littered with discarded pieces of clothing from the teen’s ritual morning search for the perfect outfit.

But it was the folded sheet of paper on the pillow that caused her heart to stutter.

Rubbing her damp palms on her slacks, she forced herself to move toward the bed. Hesitated. Then, pulse pounding, she picked up the note and flipped it open.

It took her only a few seconds to read the brief message.

A few more to quiet her chaotic thoughts.

A full half minute to formulate a plan of action.

Then she strode back to the kitchen, reached for her phone . . . and started to pray.

T
HREE
D
AYS
L
ATER

Stifling a yawn, James “Dev” Devlin pushed through the back door of Phoenix Inc., buffeted by a blast of frigid air. Man, was he beat. His late date Saturday night had taken a
toll, as had the Sunday double-shift surveillance gig for the insurance fraud case. At least those long hours of boredom in the cold van had paid off, though. He’d nailed the perp with that final batch of photos.

Dev detoured into the small kitchen, rubbing his hands together to restore circulation as he made a beeline for the coffeepot. Too bad he wouldn’t be there to see the look on the claimant’s face when he got a load of the incriminating shots. If you were alleging debilitating back damage from a slip on a wet floor at work, it wasn’t too smart to play a lively game of Twister in front of a picture window where there was no reasonable expectation of privacy . . . and where any PI worth his salt could snap away in full compliance with the law.

The guy was not only a cheat, he was an idiot.

“About time you got here.”

At the reproving comment behind him, Dev stifled a groan. So much for sneaking in an hour late.

He poured his coffee, took a long swallow, and braced himself as he turned.

With a pointed glance at her watch, Nikki folded her arms across her chest, raised an eyebrow, and waited.

“The streets are a sheet of ice.” Why he felt the need to justify his behavior to the Phoenix receptionist/office manager escaped—and annoyed—him.

“I got here on time.”

Touché.

He took another fortifying sip of java. “I had a busy weekend.”

“I’ll bet. Who was it this Saturday, the blonde rocket scientist you brought to the company picnic who forgot to refrigerate the potato salad she contributed and made us all sick, or the nuclear physicist from last year’s Christmas party who thought computer forensics was a new video game?”

He did
not
need a razzing first thing on a Monday morning.

“For the record, I worked all day yesterday. And I mean all day. I put in a freezing double shift on the worker’s comp case
while you lazed around in your warm house and changed the color of the stripe in your hair.” He squinted at the hot pink streak in her short platinum blonde spikes. “What happened to the purple?”

“I was in a pink mood. And don’t try that best-defense-is-a-good-offense baloney on me. We have a new client in the waiting room, who braved the ice storm to get here. She’s been twiddling her thumbs for half an hour, which has not helped calm her down.”

He stifled a groan. The last thing he wanted to do this morning was deal with a hysterical woman who probably suspected her husband was cheating on her and wanted Phoenix to gather incriminating evidence so she could sock him with a huge settlement.

Not the kind of case they handled, anyway.

As if reading his mind, Nikki spoke. “It’s not a marriage-on-the-rocks issue.”

He narrowed his eyes. What was she, psychic? Or was he that transparent? Had to be the latter—but how had he survived as an undercover ATF agent if he was that easy to read?

Then again, he almost hadn’t.

Pushing that thought aside, he snagged a packet of sugar to cut the bitterness of the coffee, wishing he could cut the bitterness of his memories as easily.

Nikki gave him another disapproving look. “I bet you ate a bowl of sugar-coated cereal this morning too.”

Without responding, he ripped the top off the packet and dumped the whole thing in. An act of defiance more than prudence.

“That’s what I figured.” She leaned a shoulder against the door frame, expression smug.

He grabbed a plastic stir stick, fighting down another surge of irritation. “Just because your new husband caved under your health-food crusade doesn’t mean we all have to sign on to the cause.”

“Hey.” She lifted her hands, palms toward him, and shrugged. “It’s your body—but I don’t want to hear any complaints when it starts to fall apart. So can I show this woman to your office? With Cal on his honeymoon and Connor tied up with that protection gig, you’re it.”

Lucky him.

“How come Connor gets all the glamorous assignments? I wouldn’t mind protecting a Hollywood star for a week while she films a movie in town.”

“If you were a former Secret Service agent, you might get a few of those plum jobs too. As it is, you get a distraught woman by the name of Laura Griffin. It’s a runaway case, by the way. I’ll stall her for three more minutes. Drink up.”

She swiveled in her high-heeled leather boots and exited into the hall with a swish of her short skirt.

Dev took another sip of his coffee as he watched her disappear. Grimacing, he dumped the rest down the drain. Too sweet—unlike their saucy office manager. But she was good at what she did. They’d be hard-pressed to find someone else who was not only a good administrator but also happened to have a gift for bookkeeping and computer forensics. Not to mention a heart of gold—though he’d never admit that to anyone.

Especially her.

After refilling his cup and leaving it black, he followed in her wake. When she said three minutes, she meant it—ready or not . . . unless she took pity on him and decided to give him a few extra minutes to get his act together.

But he wasn’t going to count on her generosity.

“He’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

Laura turned as the receptionist reentered the waiting area through the door behind her desk. “Thanks.”

Clasping her hands in her lap, she switched her focus to one
of the larger-than-life nature-themed photos that decorated the walls. The office was nicer than she’d expected. Based on what she’d read about real-life private investigators, most PIs bore little resemblance to the glorified Hollywood version of the profession. A lot of them sounded like sleazy, work-out-of-the-car-and-at-the-fringes-of-the-law types.

This setting, however, didn’t fit that image. The nubby Berber carpet, the neutral, patterned fabric of the three chairs, the glass-topped coffee table—classy. And the prominent rectangular wooden plaque with the Justice First brass lettering was comforting.

The receptionist, on the other hand, was more than a bit off-putting.

Laura stole a look at the woman. Her streak of hot-pink hair, miniskirt, boots, clunky metal jewelry, and heavy-handed makeup were a disconnect with the low-key, discreet setting. But Darcy would no doubt approve of her splashy look.

Just one more example of the 180-degree difference in their viewpoints.

On the other hand, if she hadn’t called the receptionist’s teenaged brother last night after stumbling across his name and number scribbled on a slip of paper in Darcy’s room, she’d have been on her own with the daunting task of finding a reputable PI firm. Instead, the boy had passed the phone to this woman, who’d sounded businesslike and capable. The Phoenix website had also been impressive, as had the law-enforcement backgrounds of the three PIs. So here she was.

For better or worse.

She hoped it was the former. Because so far, she hadn’t been impressed by official law-enforcement reaction to her sister’s disappearance. She needed expert help—and she needed it fast.

“I can show you back now.”

As the receptionist spoke again, she rose and joined her at the door behind her desk. The woman pushed through, then led the way down a carpeted hall to the first office on
the right, where she paused and gave a discreet knock on the half-closed door.

“Your client is here.” She stepped aside and gestured for Laura to enter.

“Thanks.” As Laura murmured the word, she slipped past the receptionist, crossed the threshold . . . and did a double take.

While glitzy Hollywood-type PIs might be more fabrication than reality, the athletic-looking man who rose to greet her did fit that stereotype. In spades. As he circled the desk to shake her hand, she did a quick assessment. He was tall, topping her five-and-a-half-foot frame by a good six inches, and definitely handsome, his herringbone jacket emphasizing his broad shoulders. But he missed the mark on the dark attribute. Instead, he had striking, deep auburn hair and eyes the color of polished jade.

“Ms. Griffin, I’m James Devlin.” He took her hand, his firm grip warm and somehow reassuring.

As their gazes locked, Laura’s throat tightened. All weekend, she’d borne her worry and stress alone. Yet as his fingers squeezed hers, some of that burden lifted. The PI seemed strong, confident, and capable. The kind of man who could take on any challenge and succeed.

Her relief was palpable—and she hoped not premature.

“Thanks for seeing me on short notice.” She hoped he didn’t pick up on the slight quiver beneath her words.

A dimple dented one cheek as he smiled and released her hand. “Short notice is par for the course in the PI world. Please, have a seat.” He indicated a small round table off to one side of his office.

As she walked over and slid onto a chair, he picked up a pad of lined paper and a pen from his desk. “Did Nikki offer you a beverage?”