by AR Simmons
“No idea, but someone else seems interested in him, and it seems from the telephone conversation I just overheard that they lied about being from Family Services. Maybe there’s something there we should know about.”
“Don’t get carried away with that ‘we’ stuff,” said Adams softly.
He seemed deep in thought.
•••
The next day, Richard was called up from the grease pit to take a call. He wiped the oil from his hands as best he could before taking the cell phone.
“It’s the Police Department,” said his boss. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not that I know of,” Richard said before answering the phone.
“Carter.”It was Adams. “I got someone I want you to meet. Call it professional courtesy. Can you get down here by twelve-thirty?”
“No problem. What’s it about?”
“I already told you.”
The phone went dead.
•••
“Miss Rafferty and I have been having a nice chat about you, Carter,” said Adams as Richard entered his office.
The young blonde frowned at the words, stood, and extended a hand. “Sarah Rafferty,” she said, gripping his hand firmly and releasing it quickly.
She was a trim, athletic woman—not model-thin, more gym-sculpted, and she looked like she could take care of herself if she had to.
“Richard Carter,” he said, unconsciously putting his black-nailed hands in his coverall pockets before sitting down.
“Miss Rafferty is a real investigator, Carter,” said Adams.
She gave Richard a don’t-look-at-me-it’s-his-show shrug and a smile.
Sarah Rafferty was striking, with long hair and the sort of startlingly intelligent dark-brown eyes that made men stare, avert their glance, and look back again.
“This is your mystery woman,” said Adams.
“Mystery woman?”
“The lady who inquired about Doctor Wilson’s appointments list.”
“Why did you do that?” Richard asked her.
“It was for a case I’m working,” she said without pause.
“Malpractice?” asked Richard.
Adams roared. “I told you he had a theory for everything.”
“No,” she said. “Not malpractice. If Dr. Wilson was culpable for anything, you might call it ‘alienation of affection.’”
“You can sue for that?” asked Richard. “I thought that was nineteenth century stuff. Whose affection was he alienating?”
“My client’s wife.”
“I called you in because you need to understand the situation here,” said Adams, breaking in. “Miss Rafferty’s client is involved in a delicate legal situation. Your stumbling around could complicate it.”
Something wasn’t right.
“I’m trying to find a missing baby,” Richard said to Rafferty. “Why should I worry about stirring things up with some divorce suit?”
“Wilson had nothing to do with the kid,” said Adams angrily. “And this isn’t just some divorce proceeding. Her client is Rennie Peele.”
Like most blue-collar people, Richard instinctively disliked people who used their wealth to leverage special treatment. “Oh, I see. This is about money,” he said. “How much is Lyla in line for if you can’t prove infidelity?”
“You’re out of line, Carter,” warned Adams.
“I’m always out of line,” he snapped. “So Peele doesn’t want Lyla to know what he’s looking for. Is that because he’s afraid she’ll countersue. He’s got an affair of his own to hide, right?”
“Carter, the specifics of Mr. Peele’s divorce are none of your business,” said Adams.
Richard waved him off. “I already know they had a prenuptial agreement,” he said, still addressing Rafferty. “Evidently infidelity might alter the settlement. So how much money are we talking about?”
“Why in the hell do you need to know how much money is involved?” shouted Adams.
“Because I want to know how much Molly’s baby is worth! You’re telling me to quit before I screw up this money-grubbing legal contest. So tell me, Miss Rafferty, how much money does it take to supersede finding out about a missing child?”
“It’s a shame about the child, but frankly, Mr. Peele is not concerned with that one way or the other. I’m here because Mr. Peele specifically told me to talk to you.”
“To me? Why?”
“Because I reported to him that your investigation was crossing mine, and that being untrained you were not—shall we say, ‘discreet’ in your inquiries.”
“Damned bull in a china shop,” inserted Adams.
“So you don’t want Lyla to know that he’s looking for loopholes in the agreement.”
“We know that she violated the terms of the agreement. I’m looking for probative evidence.”
“So now she’s entitled to how much less?”
“That’s difficult to calculate and not really my concern, but unless I do my job right she gets half of everything that he’s made since they’ve been married.”
“I understand that he made most of his money before they were married.”
Rafferty cocked her head. Richard flattered himself with the idea that she was impressed.
“There’s a complication. A technicality. Since they’ve been married, he’s sold a lot of his real estate and reinvested. The lawyers say that can be interpreted as income under the terms of the agreement. It’s a lot of money.”
“Mr. Adams,” a secretary called from the doorway. “The captain wants you.”
The swivel chair squeaked and groaned in protest as the grumbling Adams levered himself from behind his desk. While he was leaving the room, Richard thought of a productive way to placate both Peele and the obviously nervous Adams.
“I’ll do what you want,” he told Rafferty. “If you go across the street to the diner with me.”
“You want to buy me lunch?”
“No,” he said. “I can’t afford it, and my wife wouldn’t approve. I just want you to talk to me a little longer.”
“We can talk here,” she pointed out.
“No. Mr. Adams is upset. I don’t want to upset him further.”
•••
The waitress gave them the small-town fish eye when she brought water and took their order.
“So let me guess,” said Rafferty. “You want me to give you the list you went to Wilson’s nurse for.”
“Exactly.”
When the waitress came with their coffee, Richard asked for separate checks. She rolled her eyes and walked away.
“What makes you think that I’ve got the list?”
“Because you’re good.”
“How do you know that?”
“Peele hires only the best. Someone once told me that he’s a good judge of talent, if not wives.”
“Do you know why I’m even here with you, much less considering what you’re asking for?”
“Not professional courtesy. You want to be rid of me.”
“It’s partly out of professional courtesy.”
“Don’t tell me that you actually consider me a real detective, Rafferty. You don’t consider me your peer because I’m not.”
“I was talking about our former profession,” she said. “I was in the Marine’s too.”
Richard wondered why she was trying so hard to make a connection.
“If I had the list, just why should I give it to you?” she asked.
“Because I’ll keep blundering around in your way unless you do,” he said with a smile.
She stared into her coffee, and then looked into his eyes speculatively. “I need to make a call,” she said, getting up.
Richard sipped his coffee and watched her disappear into the restroom. Ten minutes later she emerged, walking purposefully toward him. She stopped at the table but didn’t sit.
“I’ll mail you a copy,” she said as she picked up her ticket. “Just stay away from Foxwood Pointe and stop followi
ng Lyla.”
“I’m not following her. Foxwood Pointe is where she lives, I take it?”
“Give me your word.”
He nodded his agreement.
“And what about Bobby McComb?” he asked.
“What about him?”
“He was her manager when she was trying to become a singer. Was she having an affair with him too?”
She gave him a look that could have meant anything or nothing before turning to leave. Then she turned back. “Jerry Chandler has a big mouth,” she said. “Remember that when you talk to him again.”
Then she was gone.
A big mouth? I wonder if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Chapter 9
November 10
A bad day in the grease pit came to a merciful end. Missing tools, muddy undercarriages, a crabby boss, and an incipient head cold (made worse by the dank work bay) left Richard both tired and glum. The unstamped manila envelope waiting for him in the mailbox when he got home made up for it. Ripping it open for a quick look, he confirmed that Rafferty had come through on her promise. He took it inside, his anticipation growing like that of a child getting a long-expected present. He reluctantly set it aside and went to the kitchen to put on coffee so that it would be ready for Jill when she got home.
Knowing that she would get little of his attention once he immersed himself in the logs, he decided to do up the unwashed breakfast dishes as well. His calculated measures to forestall her displeasure accomplished, he finally settled down on the couch to examine Wilson’s appointment logs. Something about them made him vaguely uneasy, but he brushed it away. He quickly became engrossed, so much so that he failed to hear Jill come in.
“What do you have there?” she asked, startling him.
“Wilson’s appointments log,” he said, looking up only briefly. “I never knew doctors saw so many patients. I mean I know you have to wait forever when you have an appointment, but there are over three hundred names for just one week. Do you have any idea how much money that is?”
She looked sourly at the multipage document. “I thought you were going to work today.”
“I did. Rennie Peele’s investigator got this for me. It was in the mailbox when I got home.”
“Why?” she asked, setting down her books.
“Why what?”
“Why would he do that for you?”
“Peele wants me out of the way as soon as possible,” he said softly without looking up. “What do you think about entering all this in a database?”
“I think it’s a lot of work at the keyboard.”
“Yeah, but then I can try different sorts … maybe find a pattern or something. It’s like this whole thing. I’ve got a bunch of pieces, but have no idea how they fit, or even if they fit. I need something to start snapping together. It’s frustrating.”
“Molly’s pressuring you,” she said edgily.
“What? No, not really. I mean no more than I could expect, being a ‘godsend’ and all.”
Jill came behind the couch and massaged his shoulders. “You can’t demand success anymore than she can. You both must accept the possibility that you may never find out what happened. It may be impossible for her to accept that, but not for you.”
“Too bad Rafferty didn’t move in next door to her,” he said as he reached up to cover one of her hands on his shoulder.
“Who?”
“Peele’s investigator. Sarah knows what she’s doing.”
“A woman?”
“Yeah. I think she’s pretty good. She even knew that I spoke with Jerry Chandler. I can’t imagine how she found that out.”
“She impressed you?”
“She’d impress anybody. She’s got it all: looks, poise, intimidating intelligence—kind of like you, only not so bookish.”
“Bookish?”
“Poor choice of words. I mean she’s not an academic. She’s …”
“One of the guys, only with jugs?” she suggested.
He turned in surprise, his mouth open. Jill’s serious expression gave way to an amused smile. “Well, I actually got my husband’s attention for a moment?”
Richard slipped the pages of the log back into the envelope and pitched it onto the coffee table. “I made coffee. What say we have a cup in the kitchen before I help you get supper up?”
“You do not have to cater to me, Richard. Do what you wish.”
“I am,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her onto his lap. “I want to be with this woman who has it all: looks, poise, and intimidating intelligence.”
“What else do your investigator friend and I have in common?” she asked, holding back.
“Great jugs,” he said with a laugh as he pulled her to him. “But seriously—she’s not a friend. Not my type. Too manly.”
“Manly? So she is just ‘one of the guys?’”
“You are not jealous.”
“You admire her. That’s plain to see.”
“I admire her competence—especially compared to my bungling. I’m not physically attracted to her.”
She avoided his eyes.
“Hey. You’re putting me on, aren’t you? You’re not serious.”
“You don’t seem too physically attracted to me either,” she said, looking at him challengingly. “Do you know—”
“Almost three weeks,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m well aware of my … shortcomings.”
“Is it me, Richard? Am I doing something that …”
“You!” he said with a bitter laugh. “Is it you?”
For a moment, the only sound was that of a car going by outside. Richard was angry, not with Jill, but with himself and with fate, or whatever it was, that made things turn out the way they had.
“What have I done to you, Jill? I’m too old and damaged for you. If I had left you alone, then you could—”
“Be dead,” she interrupted impatiently. “We both know that.”
“You didn’t have to marry me though.”
“I did! I love you, Richard. I’m not sorry—I’ve never been sorry for that, but it’s …”
She pushed up and stood with her back to him.
“Whatever it is just go ahead and say it, Jill.”
“Damn it! It wasn’t gratitude. I didn’t rescue you. I fell in love with this strong man. That’s who I married, and that’s who I want.”
“Okay. But just how long can you put up with this strong man who can’t even give you a normal sex life?”
“As long as it takes. Don’t you dare quit on me. That you do owe me.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said miserably.
“What’s wrong is that you can’t accept what happened as just chance—but it was, Richard. It was. You insist on taking responsibility for something that was not your fault, and as much as I hate that, I don’t think I could love you so much if you could just let it go. What happened does matter, and we will never be free of it. It isn’t fair, but we’ve got to find a way to live with it.”
“But what does it have to do with my … being a man?”
“The doctor thinks—”
“I know what the doctor thinks,” he interrupted impatiently. “My subconscious connects the violence with sex. That’s bull!”
“It makes sense. Your subconscious is shutting down your libido because of guilt. The linkage is unnatural, so you reject it.”
“She told you all that too? That’s crap. She’s not in my head. They just make up stuff like that for a living. I don’t enjoy thinking about the stuff I saw, and it never enters my mind when I’m … in bed with you. I think of you Jill, nothing else. My problem has to be physical, maybe something to do with circulation because I never had it before Mic sliced up my back.”
“I just wish you would resume the sessions.”
“We can’t afford the sessions. I’ll be all right. I know it’s been a long time, but I did all right not that long ago. When we get more settled and I can stop wor
rying about financial stuff, start getting more rest and stuff, things will get back to normal.”
Jill realized that his denial was intransigent. Further argument would only anger him and frustrate her.
“We get things back to normal by doing normal things,” she said. “Let’s both stop brooding.”
“You’ll tell me if we’re in trouble, won’t you?” he asked softly.
“In trouble? What do you mean?”
“Like if … you … want out.”
“I won’t want out, Richard. Don’t make me say that again. And don’t doubt me. I’ve never doubted you. I trusted you when things were much harder for me than they are for you now. Remember?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Good,” she said. “Now, let’s have our coffee.”
“Right.”
“And that little matter of helping with dinner.”
“A promise is a promise, I guess,” he said, affecting a light mood.
“Yes. And we keep promises around here.”
•••
Sleep came early for once, but Richard awoke at three with a stiff back and a restless mind that refused to either shut down or remain focused. It flitted from one inconsequential to another, settling at last on a line from a song he had disliked since adolescence. He gave up at four, stealthily gathered clothes, and then went to the kitchen to dress and put on coffee. It was becoming a ritual.
He took his cup to the living room, settled at the computer, and he began entering Wilson’s patient log into a database. The donkeywork had him yawning until he found a two-hour skip in a Wednesday’s appointments on the first week of January. He dismissed it, figuring that doctors had personal business to take care of like everyone else. The first week of February had another two-hour gap on Wednesday. A quick scan revealed monthly gaps, always from one to three in the afternoon.
Not enough time for a round of golf, he thought.
Then he realized what it was about the logs that had made him uneasy.
Typed?
The logs had been word processed, not handwritten, meaning that they could have easily been amended. Lacking a way to verify authenticity, however, he decided to take the document at face value for the time being because broadening a possible conspiracy to include both Peele and Rafferty approached the ridiculous. However, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that the gaps were deletions, not personal business appointments. Perhaps Wilson’s nurse used a computer. If they were computerized, they could be archived on CD or simply kept on the hard drive. Either way, however, it would still have been simple for Rafferty to delete a particular monthly appointment before running him off a copy.
