by Arlene James
He drove up in front of the Heffington mansion, lighting up the motion detectors that rimmed the drive. He slammed the door when he got out of the car. He wanted Miller to have plenty of notice that he was coming. To that end, he not only leaned on the doorbell but beat on the door with his fist until someone switched on the chandelier in the foyer.
“Who is it?”
Good, Bryce himself had come to check out the new arrival. Ed laid his fist against the door again and shouted, “Ed White!" Then he backed up to make himself visible through the peephole, allowing every bit of his agitation to show. He counted on Miller’s curiosity, and Miller didn’t disappoint him. The door cracked open several inches. Ed saw no sign of a chain. Dumb cluck probably thought he didn’t need one. Edward denied the impulse to shove his way inside and instead forced himself to speak. “I’ve got to talk to you. Open up.”
Miller eyed him suspiciously. “You drunk?”
“Not yet.”
The door opened a little wider. “This about Laurel?”
“Who else?”
Miller opened the door all the way and stood leaning against the frame, a grin on his face. “Got you tied in knots, does she? I warned you about her.”
Edward forced himself to remain calm. “Can we go inside?”
Miller shrugged and turned away. Edward followed him down the hall to a sort of den furnished with heavy leather pieces and a home theater setup, complete with big-screen TV. The “maid" was curled up in one corner of the sofa watching a video. Bryce flipped on the overhead light and used the remote to turn off the TV.
“Hey, I was watching that!”
“Now you’re not, so get out.”
She uncurled from her corner and stood, displaying long bare legs so thin, Ed wondered that they could support her. Wearing nothing but a T-shirt and panties, she flounced from the room, pouting. Both men ignored her. When she had gone, Bryce folded his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits and leaned against the arm of the sofa. He didn’t offer Edward a seat.
“What’s Laurel done now?”
Edward didn’t even attempt to answer that. He had questions of his own and only one way to get answers for them. “Are you the father of Laurel’s baby?”
Bryce Miller looked as if an invisible fist had bopped him on the nose.
“Laurel’s pregnant?”
“No!”
“But you just said—”
“Never mind. I—I’ve obviously come to the wrong place.” Bryce wasn’t a good enough actor to feign that much surprise. He’d made a mistake coming here, but he couldn’t, for the moment, figure out how. He turned and headed for the door, hoping for a quick escape, but his luck, such as it was, was holding. Miller beat him there and flung himself into the void.
“You’re telling me that Laurel’s already got a baby? When? How old is it? What’s its name?”
Edward shook his head, more miserably confused than ever before in his life. “Get out of my way!”
“Hell, no! If Laurel’s got a kid, I ought to know about it. I was married to her, for pity’s sake!”
He had a point, but Edward knew he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to consider all the ramifications. He tried to fob off Miller with a single answer. “His name’s Barry.”
“Barry!” Miller’s eyes widened. “Barry was my uncle’s name.”
Ed tried to shoulder his way past Bryce. “I have to go.”
Bryce seized him by the shirtfront. “What color is his hair?”
Ed took a look at the other man’s golden-brown mop and answered him, more concerned about holding on to his temper and getting out of there than giving away possible secrets. “Red. Now let go of me!”
Bryce Miller looked at him as if only then realizing what he was doing. He backed up a step and loosened his grip on Ed’s shirt. “How old did you say the kid was?”
Ed slid out into the hallway, muttering, “I didn’t”
“Year maybe? Somewhere around there?”
“Maybe.”
Ed hurried down the hall, through the door and out onto the drive. His last view of Bryce Miller showed him that the other guy was grinning like he’d won the lottery, and Ed had the sinking feeling that he’d given the louse the winning number. Once in the car, Ed sat with his head in his hands, trying to think. Had he been wrong? Was the child really Laurel’s, or had he misunderstood? One thing was certain—Bryce Miller hadn’t known about the boy. Then what the hell was going on? Could Laurel have managed to keep a pregnancy secret from her estranged husband? Maybe. But what about her divorce lawyer?
He turned that idea over in his mind. Hardacre had to know. He had to. Bryce had guessed correctly when he’d asked if the kid was a year old or so. That meant that Laurel had to have been pregnant during the divorce proceedings. Who else but Hardacre would have seen her during that period on a regular basis?
He knew one place where he might find Hardacre this time of night. He used to hang out at a bar down on Greenville Avenue. It was a long time since Ed had been in there himself. It was one of those places that seemed to have slid downhill, its clientele changing over time, but it was still worth checking out. Even if Danny Hardacre wasn’t there, Ed himself could use a drink. And if Hardacre was there, well, this time he wouldn’t go in shooting his mouth off. This time he’d use his supposed skills to get the answers he needed. He was a lawyer, after all, and he used to be a good one.
He drove to the bar on lower Greenville Avenue. The facade was shabby and run-down. The sidewalk in front was littered with broken bottles and other even less savory trash. He nodded to the ponytailed bouncer keeping a watch on the front door and pushed’ through a black curtain into the bar. It was an arrangement meant to facilitate collection of a cover charge; it also gave the bouncer a chance to warn management if the cops came in to check out the validity of their liquor license or the IDs of their clientele.
A look around the room showed him Danny Hardacre sitting at a table with a woman and two other men. The woman looked like she could eat nails for breakfast and come back for more. The two men flanking her could have knocked her away from the table with the same concentration and caring they’d put into swatting a fly. Rough company. The rest of the patrons were of the same ilk. He swallowed down his concerns and moved to the bar, where he ordered a beer before sauntering over to the table, a smile pasted on his face.
“Hey, Danny. Long time no see.”
Danny looked up at him. The way his eyes rolled around in his head, Edward assumed that he was more than halfway to being unconscious. Clearly, he wasn’t sober enough to recognize a colleague. Edward looked at the woman at the table and stuck out his hand. Her long, straight hair was so black, it looked like she’d dyed it with ink. If so, she’d used the same substance to shadow and outline her eyes. The dark makeup, along with burgundy lipstick and the gold ring in her left nostril made her look hard and cold, an impression that her low-cut, black leather vest and frayed jeans did nothing to dispel, despite the amount of skin they displayed. Ed noted that the upper swell of her left breast had been tatooed with the image of a broken heart, denoting either an unsuspected emotional vulnerability or a beloved pasttime. His money was on a very literal interpretation of the latter. Nevertheless, the corners of her garish mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. He identified himself. “Edward White.”
Her hand rose and curled around his. Twoinch nails painted shiny black lifted the hair on the back of his neck. She identified herself, improbably, as the Virgin Mary, then got up and left the table without another word. The two men did the same, one of them baring his teeth at Edward as he walked away. They took up places at the bar and cast him sullen glances. It occurred to Ed that, if he should leave Danny Hardacre here in the company of that bizarre trio, he might well see Danny’s name listed in tomorrow’s crime report. On the other hand, Hardacre was obviously well-known in these parts. He had to know what kind of company he was keeping. Either way, it wasn’t Ed’s problem.
Ed sat down and sipped his drink. Danny Hardacre’s head came up. Heavily graying, lank brown hair fell into one bloodshot eye. Danny pushed it away with the back of his hand and smiled.
“I know you. You’re, uh, Eddie White.”
Edward ground his teeth together. No one but his mother and little Darla could get away with calling him Eddie. He forced a jovial smile. “How you doing, Danny?”
Danny waved a wobbly hand. “Sho-sho. How’re you?”
“Fine. Just fine. I, um, met a friend of yours the other day.”
“Frien’?” Danny wrinkled an already furrowed and rather pasty brow as if the idea of his having a friend was foreign. “Wha’ frien’?”
Ed sipped his drink and said casually, “Laurel Miller.”
Danny’s spine snapped straight. He looked Edward right in the eye. “You know Laurel?”
“I know her.”
“How come?”
“I’m considering her case.”
“Agains’ Kennison?”
“Yeah, her case against Kennison.”
Danny sighed. “Save yourse’f the time and hassle. You can’t win agains’ Kennison.”
“No? Why’s that?”
Danny leaned over the table and gagged Edward with his ninety-proof breath. “He’ll get somethin’ on you—an’thin’. He’ll make it up, an’ he’ll hold it o’er your head like the swor’ o’ Demelin, er, the swor’ o’ Dameldin, the swor’…” He waved a hand dismissively and said, “An ax.”
Which would account for that absurd property settlement and inheritance oversight, Ed remarked silently. At the moment, however, the case was secondary in Edward’s mind. He turned the conversation back to Laurel. “I’ve heard that you and the ex-Mrs. Miller were engaged to be married.”
Danny snorted. “You hear’ that?”
“Well, something like that.”
Danny shook his head, nearly lost it and parked it on his fist, cheekbone to knuckles. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Does it matter? I mean, you didn’t marry her, obviously.”
Danny snorted again, then hiccupped. His head fell off his fist, and he slid down to support it on the back of his chair. “In your dream. No, I mean, in my dream, or…” He sighed.
Edward fortified himself with a draught of beer and asked the definitive question. “What happened? Did you break it off because of the kid?”
Danny lifted his head and stared at Edward, eyes narrowed in an apparent attempt to bring him into sharp focus. “What kid?”
“Laurel’s little boy.”
Danny stared, mouth open, for some time. Then suddenly he began to snigger. “She ain’t got no kid!” He pushed up straight in his-chair and laughed at Edward. “Kennison tell you that?”
Edward looked down. “No. I’ve seen him, Laurel’s little boy.’ His name’s Barry, and he’s about a year old.”
Danny put a hand to his head. It was painful watching him trying to do the math, but he finally figured it to his own satisfaction. “No,” he announced, straightening again and pulling in a deep, fortifying breath. “No way.”
Ed’s heart leapt into his throat. “Are you sure?”
Danny swallowed a belch. “On’y kid Laurel ever had aroun’ her was that skinny Ii’l redhead sis’er of Miller’s, an’ she was eighteen, nineteen…ol’ enough to have a kid herse’f.”
“Redhead?” Edward latched on to that one word. “Did you say she was redheaded?”
Danny shrugged. “Yeah, but she wa’n’t nothin’ nex’ to Laurel, you know? Laurel…now there’s a woman t’ make your head spin. Oh-oh.” He dropped his head into his hands, as if afraid it would spin right off his skinny neck. Ed knew exactly how he felt. His own head was spinning.
Was it possible that Barry was Bryce’s sister’s kid? He remembered Laurel mentioning Bryce’s younger sister as a factor in delaying her divorce. She had said, in fact, that once her sisterin-law had left, there had been no reason to sustain the marriage. What was her name? Ed was sure Laurel had mentioned it. Dionne? Yvonne? Avon! And Barry was named after Bryce and Avon’s uncle! Avon had to be the mother. She could have returned to Laurel later, after the divorce had been filed. Where else could she have gone if she’d been pregnant? After the baby was born, she might well have entrusted her child to Laurel. Yes, of course. That’s exactly what she’d have done. But why keep knowledge of the child from Bryce? Why—
Suddenly his blood ran cold. He shot up from his chair. “I have to go!”
Danny’s chair hit the bare cement floor as he got to his feet. “Yeah, gotta go. Gotta go.” He wobbled, straightened, then staggered into a neighboring table, chairs screeching and tumbling over. Ed grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.
“Whoa! You’d better sober up some first.”
“Yeah, sober up.” Danny yawned, swaying. “You take me home, I’ll swober up, I s’ear.” He attempted to cross his heart and poked himself in the eye. “Ow!”
Edward shook him. “Danny, I can’t take you home.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I got some frien’s.” He lifted a hand and yelled across the room. “Hey, Mary!”
Ed glanced at the unsavory trio at the bar. Some friends. They’d slit Danny’s throat for a nickel. The two men were sitting there laughing at him now even as “Mary” wove her way toward them. Ed made a quick decision. Okay, he’d stupidly given Bryce another weapon against Laurel. No doubt Kennison was preparing custody papers now, and he had to tell Laurel what he’d done, but the threat wasn’t immediate. He’d have time to get Hardacre home first He tugged Danny’s arm.
“Come on, pal. Say good night to the black leather virgin, and let’s get out of here.”
“Mary” spat a stream of foul words at Ed as he dragged Danny from the bar, but the bouncer stopped her from following them. Ed was sure that he heard the click of a clip sliding home as he shoved Danny out onto the sidewalk, but he wasn’t about to stop to see which party had pulled the gun. He didn’t look back until the car had safely merged into the flow of traffic moving sluggishly along the street. Only then did he breathe easy, and somehow even that did not loosen the knot in his stomach. Nothing would until he saw Laurel again, told her what he’d done now and pledged her not only his help but also his heart. What she did after that would determine whether he spent the rest of his life regretting what he’d done or making it up to her. He knew he didn’t deserve a chance at the latter, but he was selfish enough to hope for it. Love, he was discovering, could be a little selfish.
Chapter Eleven
Danny Hardacre lived in an old frame house in Oak Cliff, apparently alone. Ed had to raid his pockets for the keys, unlock the door and carry a loudly snoring Danny inside. Ed dumped Danny on a ragged couch in the small, cluttered living room, which reeked of cigarettes. He tossed his business card on the coffee table and locked the door as he left.
He drove straight to Laurel’s apartment building, climbed the stairs in a hurry and rushed to her door. But there, once again, he paused. If she was sleeping, should he wake her and the baby for so selfish a cause as unburdening himself? Was a warning in the middle of the night really necessary? He moved to the window, leaned a shoulder against the frame and carefully craned his neck to take a look inside.
She had been up again since he’d been here earlier, for the light over the tiny kitchen sink had been switched on and left to burn. He remembered from the Sugarmans’ experience that cutting teeth could be a torturous experience for baby and parent alike. Laurel and Barry both probably needed every moment of sleep they could get right now. He rubbed a hand over his mustache and forced his mind into logical thought.
All right, if Bryce was Barry’s uncle, he could raise a real stink about Laurel having custody, as she was no real relation. On the other hand, this Avon character must have meant Laurel to have care of the child or she would have at least informed her brother of the baby’s existence, so Laurel had that in her favor. Financially, Bryce could claim su
periority, but Ed could argue that as trustee of the Heffington legacy, Miller was obligated to provide for Laurel—if not relinquish control of the actual trust—and thereby, Barry as well, so long as the child remained in Laurel’s custody. That ought to nullify the question of finances. Meanwhile, Edward would see that she was set up in better residential circumstances. The real problem would be Laurel’s background. He’d have to defuse that, but he’d known it for some time now, and he knew just where to start. He’d call his investigator again first thing in the morning.
Bryce would still have a powerful weapon in Barry. By simply threatening to remove Barry from her care, he could force Laurel to give up her fight to gain control of her inheritance. It was up to Ed to convince Laurel that they could win. He didn’t see how waking her and Barry in the middle of the night with bad news would accomplish that goal. As badly as he wanted to see her, speak to her, touch her, it could and should wait. And so could his confession, thankfully, for he was beginning to dread what he had to say. Maybe it would come easier if he could tell her that he was already at work resolving the crisis. He’d call the investigator tonight, no matter the hour, and start drawing up the papers for a permanent custody order. He’d do anything necessary to keep her from being hurt again, whether she was willing to forgive him or not. He owed her that much. The truth was, though, he couldn’t any longer do anything else, thanks to his own impulsiveness. Never mind that he’d never been impulsive before Laurel!
He stood there awhile longer, listening to Laurel’s slow, even breaths as she slept on the sofa bed beneath the window. He couldn’t see her, and that was just as well, for if he could stand here and do this, so could another man, and he could hardly bear the thought of someone else standing this close, listening as she slept, let alone watching her. Tomorrow he’d warn her to get curtains up and keep them closed. Better yet, tomorrow they’d start looking for a safer, quieter place for her and the baby. He couldn’t think of any better place than his own, but he couldn’t count on that suggestion being accepted. Hell, he’d be lucky if she even talked to him after this. That in mind, he tore a page from his pocket notebook and wrote a note requesting that she call him at first opportunity either at home or the office. He stressed that it was very important, and pondered a long while over the closing. He wanted to write that he missed her. For one insane moment, he even considered writing that he loved her, but in the end he merely signed it, wedged it into the crack between the door and the frame and took himself off again, quietly this time, to plan and plot—and hope.
