Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel

by Hannon, Irene

  “I appreciate that.”

  Pointing once more at the food, Erin headed back toward the front desk.

  Laura fished out another pineapple chunk, letting the sweet flavor linger on her tongue as she replayed Erin’s comments. It was possible her friend was right. Darcy might be safe and hanging out somewhere in town while she revised the plans that had been altered by the blizzard.

  But the unexpected tartness of the blueberry she chose next chased away the fleeting sweetness.

  Dev had offered her no such reassurances. Just two days ago he’d acknowledged that the next twenty-four hours were critical. Forty-eight hours had now passed with no sign of Darcy.

  Yet he’d also said he wouldn’t abandon ship, that he’d keep searching. And Laura intended to hold him to that promise.

  Because despite Erin’s attempt to reassure her, she had a sinking feeling Darcy was in big trouble.

  “Mr. Hamilton? May I speak with you for a moment?”

  At Faith’s question, Mark looked up in irritation from the castle he was building out of blocks with a group of four-year-olds. She knew the one hour a day he spent interacting with the children was sacrosanct. Interruptions were supposed to be confined to emergencies.

  This better qualify.

  Patting one of the youngsters on the head, he stood. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll add the towers on the corners, okay?”

  A chorus of okays followed him to the door, where Faith waited for him.

  “What’s up?”

  She tucked one of those annoying flyaway curls behind her ear. “There’s a man in the lobby who says he needs to speak with you about an urgent personal matter. His name is James Devlin, and he looks kind of . . . official. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

  Mark frowned. “What do you mean, official?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Kind of like he’s used to being in charge.”

  An image of the guy he’d viewed through the peephole on his front door appeared in Mark’s mind. He’d been dressed in casual attire, but he’d seemed like the confident, in-charge type.

  Could it be the same guy?

  “Did you ask for a card?”

  “Yes.” Faith scrubbed her palms down her slacks. “He said he’d be happy to give you one when you talked with him.”

  Why wouldn’t the guy give his card to Faith to pass on?

  And could this have anything to do with the message he’d erased on his voice mail? The one with blocked caller ID he hadn’t bothered to play back?

  Faith shifted from one foot to the other as the silence between them lengthened. “So, um, do you want to talk with him?”

  Did he? Mark’s hands started to itch. He needed to wash them. Now. His breath stalled in his lungs, and he charged toward the hall.

  “Give me five minutes, then send him back to my office.” He was almost jogging as he called the instruction over his shoulder.

  He didn’t wait for Faith to respond. Instead, he turned the corner and pushed through the door into the men’s room. Lucky thing he was one of the few males who worked on the premises. The bathroom was rarely occupied when he needed it.

  After twisting on the faucet, he lathered up his hands, working the soap between his fingers, around his cuticles, scrubbing the palms and backs.

  Better.

  His lungs resumed their regular rhythm, and he forced himself to take steady breaths as he thought through the situation.

  What were the odds this guy was the one he’d seen on his doorstep? And even if he was, there was no way he could have any connection to Darcy. Hadn’t the girl told him she wouldn’t be missed? That she and her half sister . . . Laura, that was her name . . . were almost strangers, that they’d clashed constantly, and that her librarian sibling would be happy to get rid of her?

  So who was his official-looking visitor? Not a cop. He wasn’t in trouble with the law. Not a bill collector. He wasn’t behind on any of his payments for the house or utilities or car. Not a lawyer. He hadn’t been involved in a car accident or had any legal-related issues at the daycare center.

  Mark rinsed his hands and yanked off a length of paper towel from the automatic dispenser. Maybe the guy was an insurance salesman or some forgotten acquaintance from his past who’d tracked him down. If so, he could blow him off. Why not have one of the aides tell Faith to inform the man he’d been called into a meeting and wasn’t available?

  On the other hand, if his visitor was here in some sort of official capacity, he didn’t want to make waves by refusing to talk with him. Given his present circumstances, it was important to stay as far under the radar as possible.

  He wadded up the paper towel, hurled it in the trash, and inspected his hands. They still itched, and he was tempted to wash them again. But the hot water had already turned the skin redder than usual; another round would make them even more conspicuous.

  Better to head back to his office and find out what James Devlin wanted. Maybe dealing with him would be a simple matter.

  But as he pushed through the door with his shoulder and walked down the hall, a sudden, familiar feeling of unease swept over him. The same one he’d always felt as he’d walked toward the door of the apartment he’d called home, wondering what kind of mood Lil would be in. Would she greet him with a kiss—or lash out at him with a string of obscenities for imagined transgressions?

  Mark’s stomach knotted, and his heart began to pound. He hated this feeling. Hated the sense of looming threat, of impending doom.

  Why had this stranger resurrected it?

  He scratched the back of one hand, then the other, as he rounded the corner in the hall and entered his office. He had to remain calm. After all, no one knew what he’d done. No one. How could they? He’d been careful. This guy, whoever he turned out to be, was probably here on mundane business of some kind. Fifteen minutes from now, he’d be chiding himself for overreacting.

  Feeling better, Mark circled his desk and settled in his chair. This was his world. His turf. He was in charge and in control.

  There was no reason to be concerned.

  Dev folded his hands over his stomach, maintaining a relaxed posture as the woman behind the reception desk in the Davis Daycare lobby pretended to be busy while she cast surreptitious glances his direction. Faith Bradley, according to the name tag pinned to her shirt—the same woman who’d been watching Hamilton’s house last night from behind the wheel of her car, according to the license check he’d run.

  Interesting.

  She flicked a glance at her watch, then motioned to the door behind her that led to the offices. “Mr. Hamilton will see you now. He’s in the second room on the left.”

  Dev rose and followed her, waiting as she entered a security code and moved aside.

  “Thanks.” He smiled, but she simply edged away and returned to the desk.

  Not the friendliest place he’d ever visited.

  Once in the hall, he could hear the high-pitched voices of children from behind the doors lining the corridor. He stopped in front of the office with Hamilton’s nameplate beside it and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  At the invitation, he pushed through and stepped inside. As Hamilton rose from behind the desk, Dev did a rapid assessment. Midthirtyish, five-nine or ten, neatly trimmed brown hair, crisp button-down shirt and dress slacks. Very preppy. But the bandage on his cheek raised questions, as did the chapped, red hand the man extended as he closed the distance between them.

  “Mark Hamilton. How can I help you?”

  Dev took his hand. It might be abnormally ruddy, but his grip was firm. A little too firm.

  Nerves could do that to a person.

  But why was he nervous?

  “James Devlin.” He released the man’s hand and withdrew a card from his pocket, which he handed over. “I’m hoping you can answer a few questions for me.”

  Twin crevices appeared on the man’s forehead as he read the card, and a faint crimson s
tain crept across his cheeks. “Are you a private eye?”

  “That’s the popular terminology.”

  The man’s lips tilted into the facsimile of a smile, but there was no humor in his eyes. “My only experience with private investigators up to this point is Paul Drake on TV.”

  It took Dev a moment to dredge up the name from the recesses of his memory. “You mean the PI from those old Perry Mason shows?”

  “Yeah. Did you ever see any?”

  “My dad used to watch the reruns when I was a kid. I caught a few.”

  “It was a great show. As I recall, Perry got the glory, but Paul did the work.” Again, the man tried for a smile but barely managed a stretch of the lips.

  “It happens that way sometimes.” Nervous energy was pinging around the room, and Dev’s antennas went up another notch. Hamilton was trying to be genial, but he wasn’t happy about a visit from a PI. Because he didn’t want to waste his time—or because he had something to hide?

  A little behavior test was in order before he got to the important questions.

  “Do you remember the name of the secretary in that show?” He kept his tone casual and conversational.

  Hamilton looked up and slightly to the right. “Della Street.”

  “I’m impressed. Wasn’t there a hard-nosed district attorney in the cast too?”

  “Yeah.” Once more, Hamilton shifted his focus a bit to the right, then shook his head. “I’m blanking out on that one. Please, have a seat. I’m sure you didn’t come to play Trivial Pursuit about old TV shows.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk and lowered himself into his own seat. “How can I help you?”

  Dev assessed the office as he settled into the chair. The room was pristine, unlike his own working space. Other than a few items in the in-box and a neat stack of files on one corner of the desk, all the surfaces were empty. Nor did the office contain any family pictures. There was nothing to latch on to as a conversation starter except for a framed photo of a tropical beach on the wall.

  He’d have to work with that.

  “Nice picture on a day like this.” He gestured toward it. “A favorite vacation spot?”

  Hamilton gave it a quick, dismissive glance. “No. It was on the wall when I moved in last year and I never took it down.”

  “Makes me think about vacation, though.” Dev kept his inflection friendly and chatty. “If I could be anywhere right now, I’d pick a place like that. Hawaii would be nice. What about you?”

  The man squinted at him, as if trying to figure out what vacations had to do with this visit, then lifted his gaze and flitted his eyes a hair to the left.

  Mission accomplished.

  Body language wasn’t foolproof, but nine times out of ten it was accurate. When Hamilton was remembering facts, he looked up and right. When he was creating an answer, he looked up and left.

  “Florida might be nice. I’ve always wanted to visit there in the winter.” He shrugged. “Maybe someday. So what can I do for you today?”

  Dev pulled the two shots of Darcy from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’m investigating the disappearance of a sixteen-year-old girl who ran away a week ago. We believe she spent a couple of nights at the temporary homeless shelter where you volunteer. One of the other volunteers thinks he saw you speaking with her. I was hoping she might have made some remark to you that would give us a clue about her plans and help us track her down.”

  The man’s color surged slightly. “I talk to a lot of people there.”

  Dev laid the two shots on the desk, facing Hamilton. “It never hurts to ask, though. You might recognize her.”

  The man’s demeanor didn’t change as he studied the photos, but a muscle clenched in his jaw and his nostrils flared.

  He knew something.

  Yet when he looked up, he shook his head. “Sorry. She doesn’t ring any bells.”

  That was a lie.

  “I was hoping for better news.” Dev rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and linked his fingers, maintaining a casual posture. “As I said, one of the other volunteers was certain he saw you talking with this girl on Monday morning. Are you sure you don’t recognize her?”

  “I’m sure.” The daycare manager didn’t even bother to scan the photos again.

  “I wonder who your fellow volunteer saw you talking with?” He picked up the photos but kept his focus on Hamilton.

  The other man looked up and to the left.

  Another fabrication was coming.

  “You know, there was a young woman at the shelter over the weekend who had a faint resemblance to the runaway you’re looking for. From a distance I can see how someone might confuse them.”

  All lies.

  Why?

  What was the man hiding?

  Those were questions that would have to be answered through more discreet tactics, however. And he intended to implement them immediately.

  Tucking the photos back into his jacket, Dev rose. “I appreciate your time.”

  Hamilton stood too. “No problem. Best of luck with your search.”

  “Thanks.” Dev walked toward the door. When he turned at the threshold, he caught Hamilton scratching his fingers. The man stopped instantly and shoved both hands into his pockets. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Sure.”

  The word was cooperative; the man’s demeanor wasn’t.

  Dev retraced his steps down the hall, nodded to a somber-faced Faith Bradley at the front desk, and pushed through the outside door. The cold air that hit him in the face was balmy compared to the chilly reception he’d just received.

  Why was the receptionist so nervous? Why had she been watching the daycare manager’s house last night? And what did Hamilton know about Darcy?

  Pressing the autolock button on his key chain, he crossed the plowed parking lot, salt crunching under his shoes. He had no answers to those questions.

  But before this day ended, he intended to be a lot closer to finding them.

  17

  At the sound of a key being inserted in the door, Darcy jerked her head to the right and froze, her hand halfway into the refrigerator.

  Why was Mark home in the middle of the day?

  Her pulse spiked, and she closed the refrigerator without retrieving her lunch.

  This wasn’t good.

  The knob turned. An instant later, the door crashed against the wall, leaving Mark framed on the threshold, his face mottled with angry spots of color.

  Fear clawing at her throat, she backed away and groped for the wing chair, seeking refuge behind it.

  Mark slammed the door shut behind him, and she flinched as the noise reverberated through the room. After shoving the key into his pocket, he advanced toward the chair, his eyes scorching her with the heat of his anger.

  He stopped mere inches away, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You said no one would miss you.” The accusation came out in a hiss.

  She stared at him, trying to regroup. This wasn’t about some transgression she’d made? Some inadvertent breaking of rules?

  When she didn’t respond, he got in her face and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm in a crushing grip. She gasped and tried to shrink back, but his fingers tightened, cutting off the circulation and holding her in place.

  “You said no one would miss you.”

  As he repeated the words through clenched teeth, her brain clicked into gear. Had Laura been searching for her? But if so, how could she possibly have known where to look?

  Mark shook her. Hard. “Why did you lie?”

  “I d-didn’t. No one cares about m-me.”

  The punch in the stomach came so fast and so hard she didn’t have a chance to prepare for it. If he hadn’t had her arm in such a tight grip, she’d have doubled over and fallen to her knees. As it was, she groaned and sagged against him as a sharp wave of pain radiated outward from her core.

  “You’re lying.”
He bared his teeth, reminding her of a video she’d once seen on the nature channel of a snarling wolf about to pounce on its trapped prey. “You’ve been lying all along.”

  The scent of the lotion he used on his hands infiltrated her nostrils, and nausea rolled through her.

  Don’t puke! Don’t puke!

  “No.” She gasped the word past the pain in her midsection. “I’m not lying.”

  He shook her again. Her teeth rattled, and her eyes began to water. “I don’t believe you!”

  This time he yelled, directly in her ear. She flinched and once more tried to shrink back.

  He didn’t let her.

  Instead, he yanked her toward the wing chair and shoved her into the seat. Planting his hands on the arms, he leaned into her face, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath.

  “Who else cares about you other than your half sister?”

  She pressed her head against the cushioned back, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. “No one.” Her reply came out in a quavering whisper.

  For a long moment he watched her, his eyes boring into hers. She tried not to cringe as she looked back at him, willing him to believe her.

  Her life could depend on it.

  After a century of agonizing seconds dragged by, he straightened up, flexing his fingers as he scrutinized her.

  Her gaze dropped to his hands, straight in front of her at eye level. She already knew they were strong. Were they also lethal? Had he used those fingers to crush the breath out of the girls resting in their cold tombs on the other side of the wall?

  Her heart stumbled.

  Please, don’t let him reach for my throat!

  Her lungs stalled, the ominous quiet broken only by a sudden mechanical hum as the motor on the dorm-sized refrigerator kicked on.

  Finally he reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and flipped it into her lap.

  She picked up the rectangular piece of heavy stock. Her hand was shaking so badly it was hard to read the lettering, but she could make out Phoenix Inc. The man’s name was unfamiliar, but her eyes widened as she read the words underneath.