by V. B. Tenery
Angie closed the door and pulled me into a faux hug. At our contact, flashes of a disillusioned life slammed into my psyche, revealing two fatal flaws―arrogance and alcoholism.
I didn’t stand a chance with this woman.
She crossed to the bar and took three crystal flutes from the shelf, filled them with champagne, gave one to McKenna, then offered one to me. I declined. With a shrug, she took a long drink and released a breath of satisfaction.
She sat on the arm of a sofa across from us. “Tell me about your family, Noah. Do they live here?”
I took a deep breath. She was checking my pedigree. “I don’t have any living relatives. Both of my parents died when I was young, and my grandmother passed away a few years ago.”
Angie’s hand trembled as she took another long sip of the sparkling liquid. She emptied the flute and leaned against the sofa’s back.
“Have you and McKenna known each other for a long time?”
I gazed over at McKenna. Her mother must have already asked her these questions. McKenna gave me a quick glance and shrugged.
“Uh, yes, ma’am. We met at university in a study group. We crammed for exams and helped each other with individual weaknesses.”
“I’m aware of what a study group does.”
There didn’t seem to be an answer to that, so I kept quiet.
“Are you clever, Noah?”
“In what respect?”
Angie waved an impatient hand. “In business, of course. I know about your police accommodations and war medals, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re intelligent.” She was doing an excellent job of putting me in my place.
I answered truthfully. “No more, no less than most people, I should think.”
“How disappointing. I’ve always wanted the best for McKenna.”
“As do I, ma’am.”
“Mother...”McKenna jumped in.
“Wasn’t your family involved in a domestic tragedy some years back? I vaguely remember reading something about it in the newspaper.” Angie’s last question was a doozy.
My jaw clenched. She hadn’t read it. She had me investigated.
“I guess you could say that.” I didn’t intend to satisfy her morbid curiosity.
“Your mother and brother were killed, is that right?”
McKenna gasped and jumped to her feet. “Mother, how could...?”
A gut wrenching pain seized my chest, but I wouldn’t let Angie see the hurt. I held up my hand and signaled it was OK.
As we fled the inquisition chamber, I had the distinct feeling I’d flunked the interview. But so had she.
On the drive home, McKenna squeezed my arm. “Sorry about my mother. She means well, but she’s overly protective.” She rested her head against my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you. Father and his friends were very impressed. Those people can send you more business than you can handle. You’ll have to hire a staff to take care of all the extra work. Isn’t that exciting?”
I didn’t know exactly how to approach the subject. This called for tact I wasn’t sure I could muster. “McKenna, do you know that many of your father’s guests tonight are crooks? Steve Clark is an east coast mob boss.”
“Steve? I’ve known him for ages. He’s totally harmless. Besides, if you want to talk about crooks, most of the CEO’s in America are cooking the books these days.” She spoke as if a correlation existed between gangsters and corporate crime. CEO’s might murder your retirement fund, but they didn’t take your life. At least, not literally.
I shook my head. “Some CEO’s are crooked, but not most. Some good men are painted with the same broad brush as fraudulent bankers and insurance executives. You have to admit most CEO’s don’t kill people.”
She looked at me and wrinkles formed on her brow. “You’re going to have to be realistic. My father handed you a fortune in future business tonight. The least you could do is consider it. You can’t afford scruples in the corporate world.”
I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “How can you say that? You’re an assistant D.A.”
“Like it or not, it’s the truth.”
“So in my business life, I’m supposed to park my ethics at the door?”
“That’s not what I said, and you know it.” She moved away from me and remained silent for the remainder of the ride home. When we reached her apartment, she jumped out and slammed the car door.
So much for my use of tact.
I watched McKenna enter her apartment building, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe for the tightness that filled my chest. I’d let myself believe we could share a life together—denying the burden my gifts placed on a relationship.
Had God determined I had to live a solitary life? Resting my head on the steering wheel, I prayed for strength.
That evening signaled the end of our almost engagement. One year later, McKenna married Alexander Clark, Steve Clark’s son.
Shaking off the past, I pulled into the parking lot at the lagoon. McKenna stood outside her car. She wore a hooded red coat and black boots, a lovely vivid contrast to the park’s white setting. I walked over to her and she swung into step beside me.
“Want to talk in the car or outside?”
“Outside,” she said.
We strolled to a nearby bench and sat down.
“I came to warn you.” McKenna didn’t look at me when she spoke, her gaze fixed on the frozen pond. “The district attorney told me to set warrants in motion for you and Rachel London for the kidnapping of Cody London.”
I shook my head, numb with disbelief. Harry London didn’t just want to continue the abuse of his family. He wanted to destroy me in the process. The state would pull my P.I. license. I took a moment to bring my indignation under control. “When?”
“Right after your meeting in Judge Burn’s court this morning. I called you as soon as the D.A. told me about the warrant.” She turned toward me. “I’ll delay the process so it takes a few hours for the police to get the papers, but they’ll be looking for you soon.”
“McKenna—” I didn’t know how to say thanks. She’d risked her job to warn me. That meant that in some way she still cared about me. Love? Probably not. Just doing a favor for an old friend she trusted. Knowing I was incapable of kidnapping a child without a good reason.
Soft fingers pressed against my lip. She touched my hand with a quick soft stroke and stood to leave. “You needn’t say anything” She took a few paces toward her car and came back. “Judge London is a friend of my father’s. Do you know what I’m saying?”
I nodded. “I know.”
“Then I don’t need to tell you to be careful.”
7
Hebron, Wyoming
Police would soon stake out my office and condominium. I needed a place to hide, to think, to plan for whatever else Harry London might throw my way. I stopped at my bank and pulled most of my cash from checking and saving. As I left the bank parking lot, I called Jake and gave him the update.
He shouted a few choice expletives in my ear. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The line went quiet for a moment. “OK, go to my cabin at the lake. Stay there until I can get a handle on what’s happening.” He swore again and added, “Let me call the D.A. and see what evidence he has. If it’s something we can beat, I’ll come to the lake and go with you so you can turn yourself in.”
My blood pressure spiked. “Can’t do that, Jake. I know where Rachel and Cody are hiding. They’d make me tell, or hold me in jail until Iran embraces Christianity. Turning myself in is not an option. At least not now. You know how things work downtown. Some of those guys would like nothing better than to get me alone in a cell.” My special talents could get me out easy enough, but that would add jailbreak to my lengthening rap sheet.
Not good.
Jake exhaled a breath into the phone. “I hear you, kid. Hang out at my cabin until we unravel this mess.” He heaved another sigh. “Having you around certainly keeps my life from getting dull.”
Jake Stein’s Cabin
Jake’s place sat like a travel brochure on the placid shores of Pine Lake. I found the spare key just where he said it would be. No musty cottage here. It would have done an architectural magazine proud. The entryway opened into the great room with a massive corner fireplace. Lush green plants sat in stone urns in a room filled with rich leather furniture that beckoned, soft and inviting. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with colorful book jackets and art objects.
A large cat, half the size of a mountain lion, lay on the hearth. He eyed me warily with a half-lidded gaze, and then returned to washing his face with one huge paw. Jake warned me about his feline friend. The cat had the run of the place. A caretaker came in to feed him, and a pet door took care of his other needs.
I’m a dog man myself.
A wide staircase led to the second floor where I located the guest suite, equally festooned with comfortable masculine furnishings. My scanty, recently purchased wardrobe looked lonely in the cavernous closet. I hadn’t had time to pack.
Before leaving town, I made two stops. To the bank to withdraw all my cash and my office to pick up a few items, including the Armstrong file. I tossed the folder on the bed. The reports from Amos and Lincoln left some unanswered questions. I needed more information on Abigail’s ex-husband.
I removed my coat and placed my gun with a laser sight attachment on the bed beside the file. Even a trainee could hit the target, and I wasn’t a novice.
I drew back the floor-to-ceiling drapes to an amazing view. Clear blue water melded into an azure sky, framed by tall, snow-covered cedars. The life of the rich and famous could grow on me.
A dust of white flakes settled on the wraparound deck and boathouse with a cabin cruiser tucked neatly inside. A getaway option if the police discovered my hideout.
Abigail’s ex-husband had served time in San Quintin, so a call there would be less expensive, but experience had taught me people give the barest of details on the phone. They tended to be more forthcoming in person. California could hold the secret to Abigail Armstrong’s abduction or murder. Risky, yeah. But I couldn’t solve the case sitting on my duff at Jake’s place.
A knock sounded downstairs, and my heart tried to leap from my chest. The authorities couldn’t have found me that fast. Right? I stuffed the Glock back into the shoulder holster, picked up things I knew I’d need if I had to make a dash for it, and tiptoed to the window overlooking the entrance. A peek through the curtains revealed a gray-haired man dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit and heavy jacket.
The caretaker.
My heart resumed its normal activity.
Bounding down the stairs, I opened the door. The old man smiled and held out his hand. “Mr. Stein told me to expect a visitor. I’m Heath. I take care of the place.”
I clasped his hand. “Noah Adams. What do I call the cat?”
He chuckled. “Ornery critter won’t come no matter what you call him, but his name is Junior.”
“Junior, huh? Guess he had to be called something.”
“Yeah, he’s a big’un all right. Eats like a horse, but Mr. Stein’s right fond of him. I’ll leave you be. Jest wanted to check in to see if you needed anything.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
With a slight wave of his hand, Heath left to do whatever he did.
I found the kitchen and made some of Jake’s French roast. The refrigerator only contained cat food, which wasn’t like Jake. Guess he didn’t get down here too often. I’d have to do something about that. Heath could point me to the closest grocery store and restaurants. Both of which were in short supply in rural Wyoming.
Coffee in hand, I went into the cavernous den and tried to ignore the hunger pains.
I sipped the hot brew and ran through my options. Rachel and Cody were safe, at least for the moment. With the chaotic situation between the Hebron police and me, this seemed the perfect time to do a thorough search into Abigail Armstrong’s past.
But first, I needed to call Rachel. I punched in the Hand-Me-Down number on my new cell phone, and gave Rachel the combination to her husband’s safe.
“How did you get it so soon?”
“I’ve got people.”
She laughed. “Sure you do.”
“Don’t go back to the house without me. I’m going on a short trip, and we’ll go when I get back.”
“Why? I can go while Harry’s at work.”
“It wouldn’t be safe, Rachel. Just wait for me.”
I considered keeping the bad news from her, but she needed to know. “Harry filed kidnapping charges against you and named me as an accomplice. There’s a warrant out for both of us.”
The line became silent. “H-he can’t do that––can he?” She didn’t wait for my answer―just burst into tears.
Seconds later Bill picked up the receiver. “What’s happened?”
I explained the problem. “According to my attorney, what London did is legal. The only way to fight this is to take him to court. To do that we need proof he abused Rachel and Cody. Have Rachel contact the doctors Cody visited in the past for abuse-related injuries. Get copies mailed to a post office box. Then get the records to Jake Stein.” I gave him Jake’s number. “I’m flying to San Francisco tomorrow on another case, but I’ll stay in touch.”
I paused for a moment. “You know this could become a legal issue for you and your mother.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I know, but neither Mom nor I would put that family out now.”
Bill jotted down my cell number and then disconnected.
After hanging up, I called Ted and asked him to look after the pups for a couple of weeks. No problem there.
I set the automatic coffeepot and eyed the cat food. Nope, not that hungry yet. Food could wait. I climbed the stairs wanting a warm bed and a good night’s rest. Junior lumbered along the hallway behind me and skittered into the bedroom before I could close the door. For a fat cat, he could move.
Fine.
I ignored him, crawled into bed, and turned out the lights. Just as sleep began to weigh my eyelids, something big, warm, and hairy snuggled in close to my back.
Junior.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” I snapped the lights on, picked up his overfed body, set him outside the door, and closed it with a bang.
I don’t speak cat lingo, but I’m pretty sure that fur ball called me a dirty name.
In the early morning hours, I tumbled out of bed and showered. After dressing, I headed downstairs, my stomach as empty as Uncle Sam’s pockets. Police would be looking for my car, so I grabbed a cup of coffee to go in a travel mug and borrowed the Jeep Jake kept at the cabin. I backed his vehicle out from the garage and moved my SUV into its spot.
From the trunk of my car, I retrieved a fake ID and business cards under the name, Sam Spade. I’d chosen the alias one day when business was slow and I’d spent the best part of the morning trying to kill flies with a dart. Google listed a hundred folks in the USA with that moniker, some of which were women, a shortened version of Samantha.
With ID in hand, I punched a button on the garage remote, and the door slid down the rail, concealing my car.
Police would be watching the regional airport in Hebron, so I made the four-hour drive to Salt Lake City’s International Airport.
My stomach growled all the way into Utah, where I finally grabbed breakfast in the airport food court. The flight to San Francisco turned ugly soon after the plane rose into the air. A young mother and infant took the seat across the aisle from me. The minute we left the ground, the baby started to cry. Passengers around me began to throw dirty looks at the mother. Finally, she sucked up her courage and glared back. It wasn’t her fault. Babies and air travel aren’t compatible. But I could empathize with my fellow travelers.
Matters more important than the baby concerned me. My stress levels reached maximum capacity over the current predicament. I’m not one
to feel any situation is hopeless, always aware God bestowed my unusual powers for a purpose. I also believed He led me to people who needed my help. Quite often, however, I felt He overestimated my abilities.
This was one of those times.
Since I’d entered the picture, Rachel’s problems had worsened, and the trail to Abigail’s killer still lay cold as the dark side of the moon.
Lord, a little divine guidance here would be appreciated.
My flight neared its destination, and a view of the Golden Gate Bridge came through the window. The sight almost made the bad flight worthwhile.
Almost.
I hurried away from the still-crying infant and bypassed the luggage carousel. A rental awaited me at the agency counter.
Maneuvering my way through morning traffic to the outskirts of the city took two hours. Once on the interstate, the trip to the prison took less than an hour.
San Quentin Prison, San Quentin, California
San Quentin, built in 1852, still held the title of California’s oldest and largest prison. The grounds covered more than four hundred acres. A guard at the entrance pointed me to the reception area, where I gave my name and explained I would like to see the warden.
Inside the prison, another guard glanced at a computer screen. “Is the warden expecting you, Mr. Spade?”
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry, but he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. Would you like to talk to his secretary? She handles all his engagements.”
“I’m a private investigator and I need some information on a former inmate. Is there anyone else I can speak to?”
His brow furrowed for a moment. “Let me check something.” He held up a finger. “Just a minute.” He rolled his chair around, back turned to me, and pings sounded as he punched in an extension number.
Seconds later, he hung up. “The assistant warden will see you.”
After a short while, a fierce-looking biker type with a huge “Mom” tattoo on his forearm led me down a long hallway and knocked on a door marked, “John Tyler, Assistant Warden.”
