It was hard for him to imagine that she hadn’t accepted an invitation to date someone in the last five years. She was too lovely to be ignored by the men in this or any other town for very long. Surely she’d had a relationship since Rick.
Then again, he hadn’t exactly been burning up the sheets since his divorce either. He hadn’t been that anxious to jump back into the dating pool after his illusions had been shattered. Finally finding Carly, or rather, Caroline, might have revived emotions that had been in a semi-coma for years, but he wasn’t about to go there, even though he knew he’d be thinking of her long after he turned out the lights tonight.
Jake took her hand, pressed it with a slight shake. “I’m glad to have met you, Carly,” he said carefully.
“Have a nice stay.”
He thought of his room in the B and B with its over-abundance of roses and nearly groaned.
“Thanks. I’ll try.”
Warring emotions tugged Jake in every direction as he left the gallery. All he had to do was pick up the phone. One call. One phone call, and his life could change overnight. Kat had been right. This was the stuff of People magazine articles. This might even be L.A. Times front-page news. He’d done what one of the most prestigious private investigative firms in L.A. had failed to do. He had followed a hunch, played a long shot and found Caroline Graham. He was 99.9 percent sure of it.
Now, having met Caroline Graham, a.k.a. Carly Nolan, face to face, he had more questions than answers. For years he had wanted not only to track her down, but to find out why she had disappeared in the first place.
Mr. and Mrs. Charles Saunders, a wealthy Long Beach couple, heartbroken grandparents, had been the darlings of the local media in the first few weeks after their only son’s death as they appealed to the public to help them find their missing grandchild and his mother. Not only that, but the Saunders just happened to be the parents of an old friend of Jake’s.
They had wanted the best for their late son’s love child, wanted to give him all the advantages of their wealth and power, to make all the dreams they once dreamed for their own son come true. But Caroline had taken the boy and disappeared.
Why not let them support her and the boy? It was a question no one had been able to answer because no one had ever found Caroline.
He’d been at it since she first disappeared, and not only because back then he had worked for Alexander and Perry, one of the biggest private investigative firms in Southern California, the firm Charles Saunders hired to find Caroline Graham.
He’d asked to be on the case because he’d known Rick since the summer they were both fifteen, the summer they’d met on the beach in Cabo after the billfishing tourney.
It was 1988. Jake had been with his grandfather, Jackson Montgomery; Rick had come along with his dad, Charles. It was the first year ever Jake had been willing to spend the whole summer with his granddad, and he’d convinced himself that even if he and his grandfather sparred the whole time, the trip down the coast to Mexico would be well worth it.
By the time they’d reached Cabo, he was sure he’d made a big mistake. Not only had his grandfather been at his most pompous and belligerent, but all the other young men had grown up in or on the water in exclusive beach communities. Not so, Jake, and from the beginning they’d made him feel like an outsider—until one afternoon when Charles Saunders had come aboard Jackson Montgomery’s sixty-foot Hatteras Sportfisher, bringing his son with him.
At first Jake suspected it had been a mercy visit, that maybe his grandfather had asked Charles and Rick over expressly to get the boys together. After Jake got older, he realized his grandfather would never have thought to do anything of the kind and that the visit had been serendipitous.
While the older men talked, drank tequila, told fishing stories, Jake and Rick had eyed each other with carefully postured teenage disinterest, until out of boredom and a need to escape, Rick asked Jake if he wanted to walk into town with him.
Rick had led him straight to a bar on a back street so full of rowdy college students there was barely room to move between the tables. The music was loud, the crowd raucous, and no one appeared to notice that the boys, both lean and tall and obviously turistas, were under the drinking age of eighteen.
They bonded on the beach that night as they barfed their guts out not far from a bonfire surrounded by other young people drinking cold long-neck bottles of Mexican cervezas and bellowing Jimmy Buffett lyrics at the moon.
That was a lifetime ago. He was good at what he did now. Damn good. That’s why it frustrated him to no end not to have been able to find Caroline and Rick’s son. Even after he’d left Armstrong and Perry to start his own P.I. firm in Long Beach, he’d continued to devote time to searching for some clue that would lead him to her.
On a professional level, he was curious to know how and why she had been able to hide her identity for so long. On a personal level, duty drove him to find her for Rick, to make certain Rick’s son was being well cared for and above all, to get the truth out of her, to find out why she’d run.
The night mist enfolded Jake as he zipped up his leather jacket and started down the street. He wasn’t ready to face the rose-infested room yet, so he let the sound of the ocean draw him toward Plaza Park.
He jaywalked across the street, and looking back, saw her through the wide glass window in the gallery. She was behind the counter near the entrance, her chin propped in one hand as she stared out into the night. He could still recall the fresh, floral scent of her hair, the sound of her voice and wished he could get her out of his head.
Jake crossed the park, walked to the edge of the grassy bluff and looked down at the ocean. The city fathers had thought to add spotlights that illuminated the wooden stairs down the face of the cliff and the rolling surf along the shoreline.
Through the light, misty fog he could make out the foaming white shore break. The crashing sound of the surf as it pounded against the rocks was enticing. Its frothy white foam appeared harmless from a distance, reminding him that some things weren’t always as innocent as they appeared.
6
Long Beach,
California
ANNA SAUNDERS WAS GROWING USED TO SPENDING NIGHTS alone with her memories. Surrounded by photos of happier days and times, she made herself a second gin and tonic, squeezed in a splash of lime and wandered away from the wet bar in her penthouse condominium.
The Portofino Building stood at the corner of Second Street and Sorrento on the edge of the waterfront community of Naples. From a bank of windows and balconies she had a panoramic view of Alamitos Bay and Bayshore Avenue, the gateway to trendy Second Street with its specialty shops, restaurants, and beach traffic.
Strolling along Second Street to shop wasn’t a pastime Anna ever did partake in. When she went shopping, she shopped, Fashion Island, South Coast Plaza, Pasadena, Rodeo Drive.
She stepped onto her balcony overlooking the city. From the top of the Portofino Building she could see the lights of downtown Long Beach, various high-rises—hotels, office buildings, and condos—tucked into a coastline enhanced by landfill.
Across from the marina, the Queen Mary sat with her well-lit bright red smokestacks thrust against the night sky. For nearly forty years the once-proud vessel had been docked beside acres of empty parking lots, a tourist attraction without thrill rides or mouse-eared hats that only drew visitors who had run out of more exciting things to see and do in Southern California.
Around and beyond the Queen stretched the Ports of Long Beach and Los Angeles, home to Saunders Shipping since the early nineteen hundreds.
Anna sipped her cocktail at the balcony railing and watched the sunset over the beautiful city she had called home for more than fifty years. Most of her friends had moved away years ago, part of a migration dubbed “white flight” into Orange County. They had mistakenly believed themselves immune to the growing ethnic diversity as natural to Southern California as the morning haze, Santa Ana winds, and earthquakes.
Long ago she had tired of them asking why she stayed in Long Beach when she could live anywhere in the world. Her reply was always the same, an echo of her husband, Charles’, opinion.
“This place is home. The Saunders have always lived where they could see the port.”
Together, heartbroken and in shock, she and Charles had spread their son Rick’s ashes in the waters off the port. Four years later, alone, still grieving, she had done the same for Charles. There was no way she would leave them both now.
When the red-orange, smog-tinted sky finally faded to deepening lilac, she turned her back on the view and wandered inside. Without the television or the stereo playing, the penthouse echoed with silence.
Until Rick died she had always imagined spending her latter years surrounded by her grandchildren who, if not actually fond of her, would at least pretend to be in order to collect on their inheritance.
Now she had no grandchild to pamper and spoil because Caroline Graham had stolen the privilege and broken not only her heart but Charles’s as well.
She walked to a low credenza, picked up a silver-framed snapshot of Rick proudly holding his infant son, Christopher, the only photo she had of her grandson. After all these years it was almost impossible to believe she’d lost them both.
Rick had possessed such charisma, such vitality that it was still hard to imagine him gone. Always lighthearted, he’d also inherited a stubborn streak tough as Charles’, though he was very much like her own grandfather in looks and temperament. The only difference was that Michael Riley had been an Irish bootlegger who had never made an honest dollar in his life.
She and Charles had spoiled Rick rotten, given him too much money and the freedom to do whatever he wanted. As a result, they thought he would never settle down.
Then out of the blue, one day when he was twenty-eight and had just returned from Japan where he had been overseeing a branch of Saunders Shipping, he shocked them with the announcement that he was going to marry.
Then he proceeded to explain that he’d had an affair with some waitress in the desert, a young woman who had given birth to his child. He had been determined to marry her.
Looking back now, she wished Charles hadn’t been so furious with him, wished that she had listened more and objected less, but she couldn’t bear the thought of him throwing his life away over some wretched creature who had obviously set out to trap him.
He showed them some snapshots he’d taken of the girl and the baby, insisted she and Charles look at the photos. She’d only taken a fleeting glance at the child’s mother. One quick look told her that the girl was nothing more than a cheap slut with short, yellow, spiked hair, made up like a hooker.
Charles had immediately blown his top. Before Rick had stormed out, he demanded they “get with the program” because he was bound and determined to marry the girl no matter what his father said.
Anna rubbed her thumb over the glass in the picture frame. She’d never laid eyes on the baby. All she had was this one fading photo of Rick and the boy that he had tossed on the table the morning he’d left home to drive out to Borrego Springs to pick up Caroline Graham and her baby and bring them home.
After Rick died, Charles offered to pay the girl almost any sum she could name for Christopher, but Caroline disappeared.
Charles became obsessed with getting Christopher back. His determination to find the boy drove him right up to the end of his life, kept him alive months longer than the doctors had predicted when he was first diagnosed with cancer. His anger and frustration ate at him as voraciously as his disease, and even as he lay dying, he made her promise that she would never give up, that she’d find Christopher and bring him home.
When she thought of what might be happening to that poor little boy, her blood ran cold. It was far too easy to imagine Caroline Graham moving from one seedy motel to the next, living hand to mouth. Anna would never understand why a young woman with nothing to lose and everything to gain had turned down their more-than-generous offer in the first place.
For a long time, Charles had hoped Caroline would get hungry and desperate and contact them. Anna suspected the girl had probably snared another wealthy man and was no doubt married and living under another name. That might explain her complete disappearance.
Not even Alexander and Perry, the well-touted and highly regarded investigative firm that Charles had hired, had ever found a solid lead.
Anna looked down at the crystal tumbler in her hand. Slivers of ice cubes floated in half an inch of gin and tonic. She shook the glass, swallowed the last of the cocktail as she headed down the long hall to a master suite bigger than most apartments.
It was nothing compared to the rooms she and Charles shared in their estate overlooking the bluff on Ocean Boulevard. They had set up a nursery there in expectation of finding Christopher. Blue and white, complete with a crib and a rocker, the decorating had been done by one of Long Beach’s top designers.
She had scaled down after Charles died, moved into the penthouse and settled into a steady routine of luncheons and meetings and long lonely nights—a routine that required far more cocktails than her doctor thought she needed.
Even now she continued to do what Charles would have wanted. She had set up a room for the boy here, in the penthouse. It wasn’t a nursery, for he wasn’t a baby anymore. Red, white, and blue highlighted the nautical theme. Some of Rick’s sailing trophies and photos adorned the walls and bookshelves.
There were books waiting for Christopher to read, games for him to play, but there were no toys yet. She knew that just like her son, the boy would have his own wishes. They’d shop for toys together.
She shook her head, sighed. After Charles’ death, a terrible second blow, the fight had gone out of her. Assuming they would contact her if and when they had any new leads on Caroline and the boy, it had been months since she had spoken to anyone from Alexander and Perry.
Before Charles’ death she had never even written a check to pay a bill, but after the deepest bouts of shock and grief left her, she had sat down with the lawyers and personal accountants Charles had trusted for years and learned all she had to know about how to manage for herself.
She was feeling stronger now, no longer so listless and apathetic. In fact, it frustrated her to think that Charles had been denied the one thing he wanted most—to see Rick’s son safe.
If Caroline Graham thought she had gotten away, she was wrong. Anna had made a pledge to Charles, and she refused to give up before she found Christopher.
Setting the sweating tumbler on the marble-topped vanity in the master bath, she began to divest herself of diamond earrings, bracelet, the necklace Charles had given her on their final wedding anniversary.
She undressed, hung up her knit sheath and eased a robe over her silk slip. The cocktail had made her slightly woozy, allowing her to take a fuzzy step back from reality. She brushed her teeth and as she carefully removed her makeup, studied the lines around her mouth and eyes.
When had her skin started to dry up and turn brittle as parchment?
Slipping out of her robe and into a long nightgown, she avoided her reflection. She smoothed the lace over the bodice of her nightgown and suddenly recalled something she’d heard at the symphony fund-raiser this afternoon.
Jackson Montgomery was ailing.
He and Charles had been members of the same yacht club, both avid fishermen who cruised to tourneys off of Cabo every summer for years. Montgomery’s grandson, Jake, had been a friend of Rick’s and had attended Rick’s memorial with his grandfather.
Rick and Jake had spent a few weeks together every summer when Jake was living at the beach with his grandfather, but the boys might just as well have lived on different planets during the school year, for Jake lived across town with his mother and stepfather and attended another high school.
After graduation Rick had gone off to USC. She had no idea where or even if Jake Montgomery had gone on to get a degree, or if one n
eeded a degree of any kind to be a private investigator.
One of the reasons Charles had chosen Alexander and Perry was that Jake had worked for them, but Jake had eventually left the agency to start his own private investigative firm. Though Charles had opted to stay with Alexander and Perry because of their resources and reputation, she always felt that Jake might have worked the case much harder because he had known Rick.
Until she heard Jackson’s name today, she hadn’t thought of nor had she heard from Jake Montgomery in years, but tomorrow she intended to call the elder Montgomery to inquire about his health and ask if his grandson was still doing investigative work. She’d been paying Alexander and Perry’s retainer fees of late and decided they were earning a hell of a lot of money for so few results.
She picked up a plastic prescription container of sleeping pills and fumbled with the tamper-proof lid, tipping the vial until the tablets lay nestled in her palm. The ticking of the crystal clock sitting on the marble counter was amplified by shadows. Anna stared at the medication thinking how nice it would be to go to sleep and never again have to awaken to the knowledge that she had outlived her only child.
She tried to bring the words on the container into focus and remembered that she intended to call Jackson Montgomery in the morning. She had a plan. She had a reason to wake up.
She rolled the pills back into the bottle and set the container down on the counter.
Her bed felt wonderful, if not vast and empty. Lying there in the darkness she prayed, “God, bless Charles and Rick.”
She tried to picture Christopher’s sweet face as it might look now, but instead she saw Rick as a child. She longed to kiss her grandson, to tuck him in, to hold him tight.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “bless and keep Christopher safe. Help me bring him home.”
She didn’t think it was too much to ask after everything she’d been through.
7
Lover's Lane Page 5
