The screen saver came back on with my picture. That was how Jones saw me, and someday I wished that could be me. "I've got my priorities in order. Come on—food first, then we're going to catch a killer."
* * *
Catching a killer wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. Not that I'd really expected it to be all cut and dried, but Rochelle's documents made no sense to me.
"This all sounds the same to me." I blinked as I looked away from the laptop to where Jones was studying some of the pictures he'd printed out. "How am I supposed to know what's important? Half the time she doesn't even use names. Just says the client or the suspect."
"Look for buzzwords." Jones was frowning down at a color shot of people on a busy street.
I came to stand beside him. "Buzzwords?"
He nodded. "Missing persons, suspicious activity, fraud. Child custody cases. Things that would drive people to kill. Or would kill to protect."
I thought about it for a beat. "So not necessarily someone from Beaverton then. What are you looking for there?"
Jones was still frowning at the same photograph. "This man." He tapped the picture. "Does he look familiar to you?"
I blinked and stared down at him. "Maybe. I'm not sure. He might just have one of those faces."
"Perhaps. Are his eyes green or blue?" Jones was color-blind and had a hard time with blues and greens. Which to me made his skill with photography even more impressive.
"It's kinda hard to tell from the angle. Is he in another shot?"
Jones shuffled through the photos, then handed me one. "Here."
I didn't see the man at first, but I recognized the location. "Hey, that's the coffee shop I used to hit every morning when I lived in Atlanta. It's about a block from my old apartment. That might explain why the man's familiar."
"His eyes, Andrea." Jones took my spot at the computer and opened up a new window. He did some quick typing and then turned back to me.
I studied the photo. The new shot had the man getting out of a car, looking slightly away. "Blue, definitely blue. And you're right—he seems very familiar. Is it possible we both know him?"
"If that's the case, where do you think we know him from?" Jones took the photo and continued to type.
In Atlanta, there could only be one connection that both Jones and I would recognize. "You interviewed several of the audience members after the debut, right? Do you think he was in the audience, maybe someone you questioned?"
"I think it's likely, though I'll have to dig through the case notes to be sure." Jones punched a few more keys and then sucked in a sharp breath.
"What, what is it?"
"I input his license plate number at the DMV database. Look at the registration."
I looked and was filled with excitement. "Jacob Griffin. That's him. That's the man who hired Rochelle."
Jones shut down the laptop and collected the scattered photographs. "I'm going to Atlanta."
"Now?" I gaped at him. "It's like two AM."
"I'm not tired." Jones was a man on a mission, one headed for the stairs at a dead run.
"I'm coming with you." I followed him up to the first floor.
Jones stopped and set the laptop bag down on the kitchen counter. "You can't."
My chin went up in classic defiant Buckland style. "Watch me."
He looked pained. "Andrea, from what we know, this is the man who hired Rochelle. He lives in Atlanta and might have been in the audience and might have a serious grudge against you. Enough of a grudge to kill Rochelle and set you up for murder. What do you think will happen if you show up on his doorstep?"
I folded my arms across my chest. "Then we should turn it over to Detective Brown. If you try to leave without me, I'll go right to him and tell him what we found, and he'll have the Atlanta cops at Griffin's door before you hit the county line."
Jones set his jaw. "You're being exceedingly stubborn about this."
"I believe in playing to my strengths. Either we both go, or neither of us go. You decide."
Jones huffed out a breath. "Famous last words. All right, you can come. But I'm driving. You had too much wine."
"Fair enough." I knew a win when I heard one. After slinging on my coat, I rushed for Jones's SUV, lamenting that there wasn't enough time to make a thermos of coffee.
The drive between Beaverton and Atlanta took about six hours. For the first two, I was too pumped to sleep and peppered Jones with nonstop questions about what he planned to do when we found Griffin. His standard answer of "We'll have to see" got old real fast.
When the sun finally came up, I started texting my friends back home. First was to Donna, to let her know I hadn't been abducted. Then to Mimi, asking her to call Aunt Cecily and Pops at a decent hour and let them know I was seeing to some out-of-town business. Let them read into that what they would.
I thought about it for a beat and then asked Jones, "Do you want me to let Lizzy know where we're going?"
Jones shook his head. "I don't want to get her hopes up until we know more."
I nodded and then shot Lizzy a Talk to you soon text.
She didn't respond, not that I'd expected her to, though I had hoped.
"Thank you for trying with my sister," Jones said quietly.
"It's the least I can do for you," I said, meaning it. "Although if you told me a year ago that Lizzy and I would be chumming around together, I wouldn't have believed it."
"I think she and Kyle are going to, what's that American phrase, call it quits?"
I'd been drinking from a bottle of water and choked when he said that. "You mean break up? Why?"
Jones shrugged. "She wouldn't tell me."
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. No way was I actually feeling guilt over my role in their relationship's demise. "Well, Kyle has been doing some pretty idiotic stuff lately. But I know he loves her to the point of insanity. Can you talk her out of it?"
Jones made a half-strangled noise, as if I'd ask him to tear one of his arms out of the socket. "You're not serious."
"I feel bad for them."
"Andrea, Kyle despises me. He tried to have me arrested for bigamy. Why would I want to do him any favors?"
"Because it's the right thing to do. Look, if it was the other way around, I'd talk to Kyle for you."
"The difference being, I would never ask you to meddle in someone else's relationship." His tone was acerbic.
"You are such a guy. Fine, I'll fix them myself."
"Some things can't be resolved," Jones cautioned me. "Please think before you meddle."
"I always think first," I told him. "Just sometimes, I think better of it later."
Jones shook his head. "Let's agree to disagree on this one and change the subject. Anyway, we'll be there soon."
"What's our plan of attack?" I asked. "We could be dealing with a murderer here."
"I'm planning to stick to the truth as closely as possible and let him infer the rest. I'll call Griffin first and have him meet me somewhere public."
It sounded easier said than done. "How will you finagle that?"
"I'll tell him I'm her business partner and that I haven't heard from her in a few days and that I know she was working for him. Remember, Rochelle never met Griffin in person. If he didn't kill her, he might not know she's dead. If he did, he'll want to find out what I know about him. Either way, I'm gambling that he'll be curious enough about how I found him to take the meeting."
I just shook my head. "You're playing a very dangerous game here, Malcolm. If Griffin did kill Rochelle over my case, he's going to want you gone."
"Open the glove compartment," he instructed me.
I did and withdrew the small zippered bag within. After unzipping it, I peered in at the contents. "What's all this?"
"Listening devises. I'm going to plant a bug on Griffin and wear a transmitter. You'll be able to hear everything we're saying, and we can find out where he's headed after our meeting. If we gather enough evidence, we can take it
straight to the police."
He made it sound so simple. But I had faith that my man knew what he was doing. "And if he's innocent?"
Jones shook his head. "Then we've come a long way for nothing. One problem at a time, love."
Jones picked the coffee shop by my apartment as the designated meeting place. We parked in the Laundromat parking lot across the street so I'd have a clear view of the door to the coffee shop from the car. The call went exactly the way Jones had predicted it would—the meeting set up for 10:00 AM.
"I wish I had time for a coffee. You don't know how long it's been since I had a double half-caff with a shot of espresso and foam." My hometown had its charms, but a decent coffee place wasn't one of them.
Jones gave me a quick kiss. "Business before pleasure. I'll bring you something if you stay in the car."
"You'd stoop to bribery?"
Jones raised one eyebrow. "I would have handcuffed you in my darkroom if I wasn't worried another teen arsonist would strike while I was away."
"It's a good thing you didn't go that route," I told him. "My wrath would know no bounds. Good luck."
I watched as Jones crossed the street and entered the coffee place. He took a table near the plate-glass window overlooking the street and spoke softly into the microphone. "Can you hear me?"
We'd tested his transmitter with him outside the car, but the program he had running on his laptop made it sound as if he sat in the car next to me. Though I doubted he could see me, I gave him a thumbs-up through the windshield. Then there was nothing to do but wait.
Ten minutes later, I was beginning to believe Griffin was going to stand us up, when he rounded the corner. I recognized him immediately, a tall man with dark hair streaked with silver. It fell in such a way I knew he had visited a decent stylist or barber not too long ago. He was tall with wide shoulders encased in an expensive coat over a steel-gray suit. Most men who dressed like that would have been on their way to the office. Maybe Griffin had been before Jones's phone call.
I held my breath, hoping Jones wasn't putting himself in danger.
The man entered the coffee shop and looked around. Jones rose, and through the transmitter I heard him say, "Mr. Griffin?"
Griffin offered the hand but didn't smile. "Mr. Jones, I presume?"
He had a smooth, cultured voice, carefully accentless but deep and just a little bit gruff. Though it was an idiotic notion, I couldn't keep from thinking that the man didn't sound like a killer.
"I'm sorry, but I don't know if I can help you. I've never met your partner in person."
"Anything you can tell me would be helpful." Jones pressed. "I need a place to start, so maybe I can follow her trail. Tell me, what was my partner doing for you?"
Griffin stared at Jones for a moment. "I assume this will stay between the two of us."
"Of course." Jones didn't so much as twitch. "Just us."
In spite of my apprehension, I smiled to myself. Just them and the woman recording the entire conversation from the van.
Griffin took a deep breath. His words knocked my world off its axis and sent me careening into the void. "I hired her to send me information about my daughter."
Whatever-You've-Got Breakfast Casserole
You'll need:
1 pound mild Italian sausage
1/2 small sweet onion, chopped
3 mini sweet bell peppers of varying color, seeded and chopped
10 oz fresh spinach, rinsed and chopped
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 teaspoon dried basil
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 eggs
2 cups milk
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella
1/2 cup shredded aged cheddar
In a large skillet, cook sausage and onion over medium heat until meat is no longer pink; drain. Transfer to a greased 3-quart baking dish. Sprinkle with half of the peppers; top with spinach.
In a large bowl, combine the flour, Parmesan cheese, basil, and salt. Whisk eggs and milk; stir into flour mixture until blended. Pour over veggies.
Bake, uncovered at 425 for 15 to 20 minutes or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Top with cheese
**Andy's note: Perfect for a brunch or brinner (breakfast for dinner). And turn up the heat with a bottle of Tabasco on the table. Great pairing with a pitcher of Bloody Marys.
CHAPTER TWENTY
His daughter. Jacob Griffin had hired Rochelle to find his daughter. Me. I was his daughter.
If the men kept talking, I couldn't hear them over the roaring in my ears. I was his daughter? How was that possible?
Well, of course I knew how that was possible. He and my mom, well, they…yeah. Thirty-three years ago they'd been a couple. Or maybe not a couple. Maybe it was a drunken hookup. Mommy dearest had never said. She'd run home to Beaverton and never mentioned him, at least not to me.
Nana had always told me to be grateful I had Pops because he was the best man out there. Pops, who coincidentally had suffered an excruciating arthritis flare-up the second I asked him if he knew Jacob Griffin. Maybe it was just happenstance, but I didn't think so. Pops had known Griffin, at least by name. Knew the man was my father.
And there he sat, across the street in plain view, with my boyfriend. I looked at him again, really looked. Jacob Griffin was my father.
I'd opened the door to the coffee shop before I was even aware of moving. And I looked down at the men, both wide eyed at my sudden appearance. Jones made a strangled sound, but I barely noticed. All my attention remained fixed on the other man.
"You're my…" My throat closed up around the word, choking me to keep it from escaping. "You and my mom…"
"Yes, I knew your mother." Griffin rose slowly, moving as if I were a deer he didn't want to startle. "Andrea Sophia Rossetti Buckland."
I nodded, swallowed as best I could, and managed to croak, "That's me."
No wonder we'd both thought Griffin looked familiar. He looked like me. The nose, the small upturned nose. His was broader, but it fit his face. The chin too, with just the tiniest point, and around the eyes, too. The resemblance was right there for anyone with working vision to notice. Like me, pictures didn't capture his charisma, the assessing flicker of his gaze as he studied me head to toe. Was that why I hadn't recognized him sooner?
"I've seen you before," I breathed. "Here, I mean."
He nodded. "I've been following your career. A mutual friend told me you were a chef in Atlanta. I've been following your career over the past several years. I saw you on Flavor TV."
"You did?" I whispered, amazed that he'd been paying attention, essentially following my career. Then made a face and said in a much different tone, "You weren't in the audience, were you?"
He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "I had business in Luxembourg during your premiere, or I would have been there."
"I'm glad you weren't," I murmured with heartfelt sincerity, then winced when I heard the way the words sounded. "I mean, that is…" Why was I stammering like a half-wit?
Jacob Griffin grinned at me—it was a crooked gesture though, utterly genuine. "I know what you meant."
His teeth were perfect, white and even. The grin changed him from the business professional to a real man, and a good-looking one at that. His expensive clothes fit him just so, complementing his coloring. I suddenly felt very self-conscious, wishing I wasn't sporting a wrinkled sweatshirt and jeans with a small hole in the knee.
"Would you sit down?" he asked, gesturing toward the table.
"Andrea." Jones was tugging on my arm, trying to drag me from the table. "I need to speak with you right now."
I'd almost forgotten he was there. "Can't it wait?" I asked, my gaze straying back to Jacob Griffin. To my father.
"No," Jones insisted. "It'll only take a moment."
I was about to dig my heels in when Griffin murmured, "I'll just go get us all some coffee." He turned away, and I was finally a
ble to focus on Jones.
"He's my…." Again, my voice died on the word.
"You need to be careful," Jones whispered, shooting a look to the counter where Jacob Griffin stood. "We don't know this man or even if what he claims is true."
I made a face at him. "Jones, he looks like me. More than Pops or Aunt Cecily or even my mom did. You saw all the pictures."
"I'm not denying that. If anyone can understand what it's like to want to know your father after a lifetime of imagining, it's me. But don't forget—he's never approached you directly. There has to be a reason for that. Even under the best of circumstances, I would advise you to maintain a bit of distance, but we came here looking for a murderer. This doesn't change anything."
"You don't understand," I began but then cut off when Griffin approached with three cardboard cups.
"I assume the two of you know one another." He looked from me to Jones.
"I'm surprised you don't already know about our relationship." Jones made no motion to reach for the coffee cup. "Since you hired someone to spy on Andrea."
I huffed out a breath but didn't try to apologize. Now that the initial shock was wearing off, my brain had begun to chug along again. Though I knew Jones was only trying to protect me, he was allowing his poor relationship with his own father to sour the meeting.
That didn't mean he was wrong to be cautious.
Griffin looked from me to Jones and back, his face open and relating confusion. "No, it never came up. You said you were a private investigator. That you worked with Rochelle?"
"I did." Jones nodded. "I was also married to her."
"Before he met me," I rushed to add. God, why did I feel the need to justify my relationship to this man? It was the oddest sensation, like when I didn't want Aunt Cecily to know I'd screwed up a batch of homemade pasta, or to admit to Pops that I dented the car. Their good opinion mattered to me.
Under the table, Jones's hand brush against mine. I gripped it hard, taking the reassurance he offered while trying to give some of my own.
Jennifer L. Hart - Southern Pasta Shop 02 - Murder À La Flambé Page 18
