by Naima Simone
Maybe it was true a person couldn’t help who they loved, but it was madness to butt her head against a wall for fifteen long years, never seeing a single crack in the defenses, and yet still continue hoping for entrance. Someday.
Maybe it was time for the madness to end.
Chapter Seven
So, her Deep Throat client was right.
A couple of hours later, Leah reclined in her office chair. She stared at the computer monitor and sighed, feeling resigned by what she’d discovered. Or rather, by what she hadn’t discovered.
Over the past twenty years, the social security number assigned to Richard Gregory Pierce had not been used to purchase property. No new credit queries had been processed on the number. No charges had been made to the credit cards he’d possessed at the time of his disappearance. W-2s or 1099s hadn’t been issued, nor had tax returns been filed with the IRS for Richard G. Pierce for two decades.
According to this information, not only had he vanished from Boston, but off the face of the earth.
She closed her eyes. Richard was most likely dead, just as her secret client had claimed.
The evidence had been there all along. She hadn’t wanted to accept it. Richard had had everything going for him—wealth, social and business connections, his health, a great, loving family, and a committed relationship. There hadn’t been a reason for him to walk away. Death appeared to be the only sensible conclusion to the mystery of his disappearance.
Sorrow welled up in Leah’s chest and pounded her sternum as if it were a punching bag. She squeezed her eyes tighter. Ridiculous. In spite of Gabriel’s childhood assurances that Richard had surely left Boston, she’d suspected the truth for years. But there’d always been a tiny part of her clinging to the naive hope he would turn up one day.
“Damn,” she muttered and wiped away renegade tears. She was becoming a regular water-head today. First she’d cried on the drive into the office, and now, here at her desk. “Just…damn.”
Richard hadn’t been in her life for years, but to this day she missed him. She missed his laughter, the way he’d tickled her until she’d wheezed and begged him to stop. She missed his patience when her father had none to spare on a grieving child. Richard had attended her spring choir recitals, had celebrated her first-place win at the second-grade spelling bee. In many ways, he’d been her surrogate father.
And he was dead.
Restraining a sob, she grabbed the edge of the desk and rolled herself forward. Now was not the time to submit to grief. The opportunity to mourn him would come later—after she found out who killed him and why. For every instinct screamed he’d been murdered, and her intuition had never been wrong. The one time she’d ignored her intuition, she’d wound up with a bullet in her hip, months of rehab, and an end to her career as a police officer and her dreams.
Twenty months ago, she’d answered a routine burglary-in-process call. The first cops to arrive at the Jamaica Plain storefront had taken the store entrance, and she’d covered the side door in the bordering alley. After fifteen minutes, she’d received the all clear over her shoulder two-way radio and responding, she holstered her weapon and headed toward the mouth of the alley.
Something—instinct, women’s intuition, sixth sense—whispered that the scene was “off.” Maybe the intruder had escaped before the initial cops reached the convenience store. The call had come over in over her radio at 9:32 p.m., and the officers had arrived two minutes later, having been in the area. Her fingers had curled near the butt of her service weapon as the tingle in her stomach increased. She turned, stared deeper into the shadowed depths of the alley, but after a few moments, continued walking toward the street.
That’s when the fire escape ladder had creaked. She whipped around and fire flashed across her left hip, and the world had tipped into blackness.
Later, after the surgery that had pieced together the jigsaw puzzle her bone had been, she’d found out the two teens who’d broken into the store had run up a back staircase, hidden in an empty apartment, then tried to climb down the fire escape. They hadn’t expected to see her standing almost beneath them.
Months later, the two boys landed in jail for breaking and entering and attempted murder. And she’d been forced into an early retirement after she couldn’t pass the annual physical fitness test with her compromised hip. She’d refused to ride a desk—she hadn’t spent all those years training just to end up as a desk jockey pushing papers—so she’d resigned and went about discovering a new purpose, since hers had been stolen in a dark alley by a scared kid with an itchy trigger finger.
Ignoring “the voice” most cops possessed had stolen her dreams and altered her life beyond recognition.
She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Richard had been murdered. There was no doubt in her mind about that.
A knock came at her closed office door. Sniffing, she wiped a finger under her eyes and batted away the sting of tears.
“Come in,” she called out, and the door opened, revealing her boss. “Hey, Nathan.”
“Morning, Leah.” He stepped inside. “Close the door?”
“No.” She shook her head. “What’s up?”
“Nothing important,” he said. He wore what she fondly labeled his slumming-it wear—well-fitting sports coat, open-collared shirt, no tie, and tailored slacks.
She smiled, assuming he didn’t have any appointments scheduled or have outside meetings planned; only on those light days did Nathan exchange his Armani for Ralph Lauren.
“I came by to check on you,” he said. “See how the investigation into Richard’s disappearance is shaping up.”
She rounded the desk, organizing her thoughts. She could use a sounding board, and the older PI was an ideal candidate—professional, objective, and blessed with an analytical mind capable of processing information like a computer. If she’d missed anything, or had erroneously come to the wrong conclusion, he would point out the inconsistencies.
“Actually,” she began, propping her good hip against the corner of the desk, “I’m glad you stopped by. I’d like to go over some things I’ve discovered, if you’re willing.”
“Of course.” He settled into a chair. “Shoot.”
She listed the reasons she believed Richard might not have just vanished, but died twenty years ago. She voiced her suspicions about the facts of Richard’s life in October 1992 that indicated he would not simply have walked away or committed suicide. When she finished, Nathan stared straight ahead, elbows bolstered on the chair arms, fingers clasped.
She waited.
“So you believe Richard is dead?” Nathan asked.
She slowly nodded. “Aside from what I’ve researched and discovered, I think I’ve probably always…known.” She sighed, swept a hand through her hair. “As a girl, I wanted so desperately for him to be alive, I ignored the little voice at the back of my head whispering the truth and accepted that he’d just left. So I never thought of looking for him or investigating his disappearance.”
“That makes sense,” David said. “You were a child. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “It’s just.” She paused. Fiddled with a pen on her desk before meeting his too-perceptive gaze. “Two times I’ve ignored my instincts—first with Richard, and then in that alley. I’m not going to disregard them again.”
“I have to agree with you,” he murmured. “It does seem as if he’s dead. From what I remember, Richard was popular, successful, and extremely well liked. From a fifteen-year-old’s perspective, he had a great life. I can’t see him giving up a home in Weston and a position in one of the most prestigious wealth-management firms in the state to live off the grid.”
“Exactly.”
Nathan sighed and rubbed a hand across his smooth jaw. She should ask him what razors he used to keep his jaw so clean-shaven. Gabriel seemed to have a permanent five o’clock shadow. Not that she minded…
She groaned silently. Ge
t it together. Keep your mind on the case and off him.
“Are you going to tell Catherine what you’ve found out?”
Richard’s mother, Catherine Pierce, was a matron in Boston society. Though it had been twenty years ago, Leah remembered the woman’s affection for her son the few times he’d brought her along when visiting the Bannon home. She also remembered Catherine’s devastation when he’d disappeared. Leah didn’t relish the idea of being a source of fresh pain—especially if the years of time had helped assuage her anguish. It would be like tearing the scab off a wound and pouring peroxide in it.
“Not yet,” she said. “While we both believe Richard is most likely dead, I don’t have concrete proof. Before I go and tell a mother the son she adored is definitely gone, I’d like irrefutable evidence. Hopefully, at the end of this I’ll have the proof. But not yet.”
Nathan nodded in consent. “I understand your point.”
“Still,” she continued, rounding the desk and lifting her shoulder holster from the back of her chair. She slipped the worn leather strap on, and the weight of the SIG was a small, familiar comfort. “I’d planned to go and see Catherine regarding the last few days before Richard vanished. See what she remembers.”
“If she remembers,” he amended.
Leah snorted and shrugged into her jacket. “Oh, no. Catherine Pierce may be in her early eighties, but I doubt there is a single detail about her son she’s forgotten.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.” He rose from the chair.
“Yeah,” she muttered, imagining the different ways this interview could turn out. “Me, too.”
“Are you headed to Weston now?”
Leah nodded. “Might as well. Hopefully today’s interview will go much better than yesterday’s.”
“Yesterday?” Nathan frowned.
“Yes. I went to speak with Evelyn Sheldon, the woman Richard was seeing at the time he disappeared and ended up finding a dead man at her house.”
Nathan started, shock slackening his handsome features. “A dead man?”
“You didn’t hear wrong.” She relayed the events leading up to her finding Darion Sheldon stabbed to death on the kitchen floor of his and his wife’s home. Unlike her friends, Nathan displayed no concern or displeasure about her entering the house or sweeping it. At least one person had confidence in her training and ability. That’s unfair, her conscience scolded softly. Nathan didn’t consider her a little sister as Malachim, Raphael, Chay, and Gabriel did. But logic didn’t prevent the ding her pride suffered.
Nathan whistled softly. “That poor woman. I suppose it’s more merciful you found him rather than Mrs. Sheldon.”
The same thought had crossed Leah’s mind. Especially when Evelyn had eventually arrived, almost catatonic. Chay’s face as he held his nearly unresponsive mother would forever be emblazoned in Leah’s memory.
“Do the police have a theory about what happened?”
She shook her head. “Not as of yesterday evening. It’s still very early in the investigation, but they believe the victim may have known his attacker, or at least felt comfortable enough to allow him into the house. Neither the detectives nor I noticed signs of forced entry on the front or back doors.” She crossed the few steps toward her open office door. “As awful as the crime was, it could have been worse. From what I understand from Evelyn’s son, Chay, his mother was supposed to have been there Saturday when her husband was killed. She could have been there dead alongside him. Thank God she was out with a friend instead.”
Nathan fell into step beside her, cupped her elbow. “Yes, that is fortunate.”
“Chay would have been destroyed if—” She drew to a sharp halt as she spotted a man standing in the office doorway. “Gabe,” she whispered, cursing the traitorous shiver in her voice. Her belly quivered in pleasure even as she hated herself for the reaction to his presence. Hell, would there ever come a time when her heart didn’t pummel her chest at just a glimpse of his austere, beautiful face?
Eyes the color of a cloudless June sky bore into hers for a long second before shifting to Nathan. If she hadn’t been examining every feature with a focus bordering on obsessive, she would have missed the minute tightening of his bottom lip and the slight narrowing of his eyes.
She frowned. What had irritated him? Who was she kidding? When was Gabriel not irritated? The emotion could be included in his stats: thirty-five years old, six foot three inches, one hundred eighty-five pounds, brown hair, and temperament of a PMSing woman smack in the middle of a Häagen-Dazs shortage.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” His gaze dipped, and she was reminded of Nathan’s polite clasp of her elbow. When Gabe’s gaze returned to hers, she knew the added layer of ice hardening his eyes wasn’t a figment of her overworked imagination.
“No,” she said. And silently called herself all kinds of stupid as she edged to the right, the movement dislodging Nathan’s hand. “Gabe, please meet Nathan Whelan, owner of Whelan Investigations. Nathan, this is my friend, Gabriel Devlin.”
Nathan approached Gabriel, his hand extended. After a small hesitation, Gabriel accepted the greeting, giving Nathan’s arm a quick pump.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Nathan said smoothly. “I have to admit, I’m a huge fan. I own every book in the Michael Rice series.”
Surprise flickered in Gabriel’s eyes. Join the club. She hadn’t been aware Nathan liked the phenomenally popular book series centered on an embittered detective. The legal thrillers had skyrocketed Gabriel’s career into the New York Times bestselling stratosphere.
“Thank you.” Gabriel inclined his head. “I appreciate that.”
“I, uh,” Nathan paused, and for the first time since knowing him, Leah witnessed discomfort creep across his face, “I was sorry to hear about your family. I lost my mother around the same time—it’s a painful experience no matter how much time has passed.”
The lines bracketing Gabriel’s mouth deepened as he nodded once again. “Thank you,” he repeated, voice gruff.
Nathan returned the gesture before glancing at Leah. “I’ll talk to you later. Be careful.”
Gabriel stepped into the hall, allowing Nathan to pass before resuming his position in Leah’s office doorway. Silence settled between them, the thick quiet so tense it hummed.
“You’re on your way out?” Gabriel asked, skimming over her jacket, wide-legged slacks, and boots. Though covered under layers of clothing, her skin tingled as if she’d been plugged into a high-voltage socket.
“Yes.”
She struggled to school her expression to reveal none of the chaos churning inside her breast. He always caused a maelstrom of emotion—love, worry, fear, anger, protectiveness—with just a glance. If she had an ounce of common sense or self-preservation, she would avoid Gabriel as if frogs, boils, and locusts followed in his path.
Damn. She sighed, and looked away, crying “uncle” in their visual showdown.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked and immediately could’ve planted her size eights in her own behind. His lean cheeks, stark cheekbones, and shadowed eyes telegraphed weariness, but Gabriel wouldn’t appreciate her concern.
“Fine.” A muscle ticked along his clenched jaw.
Of course. You’re always fine. Now it was her turn to grit her teeth.
“Right. Stupid of me to ask.” She didn’t bother to conceal the sarcasm in her voice and instead coupled it with a tight, you’re-so-full-of-shit smile. “So what’s up? Like I said, I’m headed out.”
“I’ll walk with you.” He shifted to the side, granting her space to step out into the hall.
She shrugged, but inside she shivered. Most days she could play the role of “best friend” convincingly. Today, after a night of holding his trembling body as he sobbed in her arms, the friendly facade had worn thin. She wanted to grab him, shake him, demand to know what was brewing inside his head—demand he let her in. Instead, she shimmied past him into the hall.
He kept
stride with her as they passed through the lobby and exited the brownstone. With a wry smile, she noted the careful distance he maintained between them as they walked side by side down the cobbled sidewalk.
“Where are you headed?” He paused to let her enter the bottom level of the parking deck staircase first.
She tossed him a glance over her shoulder before pressing the call button for the elevator. “You came all the way over here to find out my plans?” she asked, adding enough sugar to her tone to bring on a cavity. “That’s so sweet. But really, Gabriel, you didn’t have to waste your gas when a phone call would’ve done just fine.”
He didn’t rise to her bait, and a flash of remorse at her childish behavior shot through her. Damn if she’d apologize, though. There went that juvenile streak again.
“I’ve been reconsidering what you asked me Friday night.” He shifted closer. “About offering feedback and assistance with Richard’s case.”
She blinked. From the moment she’d mentioned Richard’s name several days earlier, he’d been dismissive, annoyed, and sometimes belligerent. She searched his eyes for a hint of the thoughts behind his solemn gaze. Like trying to crack a safe with hope and a prayer.
“What brings about this unexpected helpful side?”
If her skepticism irked him, he didn’t reveal his irritation. He lifted a shoulder, then switched his attention to the dirty-gray steel doors sliding open with a slight groan. In tandem, they stepped into the elevator. He didn’t respond until after the doors sealed shut.
“It occurred to me I could use this as hands-on research. When will I ever have the opportunity to ride along on a missing-person investigation?” A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth, drawing her focus like a target sighted in a sniper’s rifle scope. Then, just as suddenly, it vanished. “And because you’ve never asked me for anything,” he murmured.
