by Mary Maxwell
After she went back through the chain of events again, I asked what her brother was planning to do.
“I’m not sure,” Viveca answered. “I was driving when I got the news. I pulled off the road because my hands were shaking so badly I didn’t think I could keep from wrecking the car. And once I regained my composure, I came here. I thought maybe you could help me figure out what to do next.”
“Who told you about this?”
“My brother. But when I called back to ask him a few more questions, it went right to voicemail.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Same thing when I tried his girlfriend’s phone.”
“Has he already been in touch with the police?”
I waited for her to answer. But when her eyes slid down again to stare at her hands, intertwined and motionless in her lap, I asked her to tell me what she was thinking.
“Oh, uh…” She suddenly sat up again and squared her shoulders. “Sorry, Kate. I’m pretty much a wreck at this point.”
I reached over and patted her knee. “It’s okay. Take a breath.”
The office was silent. I could hear Julia singing an old Simon and Garfunkel tune in the kitchen. I listened to the melody, thinking about how much my mother loved the song. Sail on silver girl, sail on by. Viveca sniffled softly before reaching out, lifting the cappuccino and holding it just below her chin. Your time has come to shine. She let the plumes of steam rise up and dampen her face, smiling briefly before enjoying a leisurely sip. All your dreams are on their way. When she put the cup back on my desk, she seemed calmer and more composed.
“Thank you for being so amazing, Kate,” she said eventually.
I smiled and asked her to continue telling me about her brother. “I want to know whatever you’ve learned,” I said. “And there’s no rush. Take as much time as you need.”
“I don’t know what else to say.” She raised her chin. “I don’t know what he’s doing or where he might be.”
“And his phone?” I asked.
“I called a million times,” she said. “He doesn’t answer.” She heaved another breathy sigh and fell back in the chair. “I’m freaking out, Kate. My brother’s all I have left. Our parents are both gone. My marriage is over. The guy I was dating got back together with his ex.” She trembled against a sudden shiver and buried her face in the crook of her arm. “Everything’s falling apart right around me. Nothing is going the way I thought it would.”
“Okay, Viv?”
She muttered something that was lost against her sleeve.
“Sweetie?” I gently tapped her knee. “Can you do me a favor and sit up?”
It took a moment, but she eventually unfolded her body, pressed against the chair and stared at me with unblinking eyes.
“The most important thing you can do for Tim right now is keep it together,” I said. “There will be plenty of time later for tears. And I hope they’re shed for joy and nothing more.”
She swallowed and rubbed her eyes. “I’m so tired, Kate. And I can’t believe he just…I don’t know…it’s like he just…vanished.”
As I watched her face, I wondered how I’d respond if my brother or sister was in a similar situation. In all my years as a PI, I was always amazed at the strength, courage and tenacity that some people revealed during difficult and trying times. In Viveca’s case, despite the smattering of tears and despondent remarks, she remained a resilient, plucky woman.
After we sat quietly for a few seconds, I cleared my throat to get her attention. “Hey, Viv?” I waited until she’d fixed her eyes on mine. “Maybe your brother didn’t vanish. Is it possible that he and Delilah went somewhere to hide? I mean, can you blame them after what’s happened?”
“But where?” she asked. “He’s got that place in Denver, but it’s a tiny two-bedroom apartment.” She held her hands a few inches apart to stress the minuscule size of her brother’s home. “And they can’t hide at Delilah’s since she lives in the same building.” She waited for a nod of confirmation from me before going on. “And the only other place he stays is here in Crescent Creek.”
“Maybe they’re with friends,” I suggested.
She considered the idea and called off a short list of men and women who might invite her brother to sleep on the sofa or use a spare room.
“Do you have numbers for any of them?” I asked.
Viveca shook her head. “No, but maybe if I went to his place…” She looked up, her eyes registering a glimmer of hope. “I know his password,” she said. “If his computer is there, maybe I can find something useful, like phone numbers or addresses.” Her mouth shifted into a hazy grin. “Do you still have time to go into Denver today, Kate? I don’t know if I can make the drive down and back by myself, so can you go with me?”
CHAPTER 8
It took less than fifteen minutes to explain my sudden departure to Julia, change my clothes and return calls from two special order customers who would only talk to me.
“But weren’t you planning to go later in the afternoon?” Harper asked as I headed for the front door. “Izzy Yoder is coming in sometime soon to talk with you about her mother’s birthday cake.”
I stopped in the middle of the dining room. “We don’t have an appointment,” I said. “Did she just call?”
Harper nodded. “From the road. She’s running errands and asked if you were here.”
“Well, please apologize and tell her that something unexpected came up,” I said. “And maybe ask if I can call her tonight after eight. We should be back by then.”
Harper smiled. “I’ll try, but you know how Izzy can be.”
“Yes, I do!” I turned and resumed my trek toward the door. “She can be an absolute angel.” I grabbed the handle and gave it a tug. “Or she can be a wildcat out for blood.”
Harper responded with a nervous giggle. “Well, I hope she’s wearing her halo and wings today or I’ll be turning in a request for hazard pay and workmen’s comp.”
I gave one final goodbye wave, closed the door and hurried down the front stairs. Viveca’s midnight blue BMW flew around the corner and up the driveway as I hit the bottom step.
“I figured it might be faster if I drove,” she shouted above an old Alan Jackson song blaring from the speakers. “You okay with country music?”
I popped open the passenger door, slid in beside Viv and buckled my seatbelt. “I’m okay with anything that’ll get us to Denver and back home again in one piece.”
As we drove through Crescent Creek, I sent a quick text to Trent. He’d mentioned a detective friend at the Denver Police Department, and I thought it might be a good idea to get the guy’s contact info before Viveca and I reached the city.
Why do you need Adam’s number? Trent responded in typical overprotective mode. Something wrong?
I was sending a quick reply—Everything okay with—when my phone rang and Trent’s name appeared on the screen.
“Viv, I’ve got to take this,” I said.
She smiled and lowered the volume on Alan Jackson singing “I’ll Love You All Over Again.”
“Hey, Trent?” I said as soon as the call connected. “Can you just shoot me Adam’s number? I’ll explain everything when you get back from Grand Junction.”
He groaned. “Uh-oh. That’s a sure sign that you’re in some sort of trouble.”
“No, it’s not. But it is a sure sign that I can’t really talk right now.”
“What’s the matter, Miss Reed?” he said in his Bart Simpson voice. “Cat got your tongue?”
I told him that I wasn’t joking. I asked him again to send Adam Caldwell’s telephone number. Then I announced that I was hanging up.
“Kate, don’t do that!”
“Jeez Louise,” I said. “What is it?”
“I’m not coming back until tomorrow,” he answered. “The stenographer had some kind of seizure this morning before we could finish up. I have to stay over one more night.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “We can do dinner
another time.”
“Thanks. I knew you’d understand.”
“I hope the stenographer’s okay.”
“She is,” Trent said through a light burst of static. “I guess her doctor gave her a new prescription and it—”
The line went dead before he finished describing the woman’s condition. I tapped my phone, sent a quick text and reminded him to forward the phone number for his friend with the Denver PD. A couple of seconds later, he replied to my note: Sorry. Call dropped. Adam Caldwell is at 303-555-9807.
“Was that your ex?” Viveca asked after I put away my phone.
“It was.”
“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “I thought so.”
I turned to catch a better look at her expression, but she was concentrating on the semi that was slowing to a stop in the road ahead.
“Why’d you think so?”
She smiled, giving me a quick glance as the truck carefully swung a little to the right and turned the corner. “I could just tell.” She flashed a quick grin. “By the way you said his name.”
I smirked. “Trent. Samuel. Walsh,” I said, carefully articulating every syllable. “Deputy Chief Trent Walsh.” I paused, but she was snickering softly. “Okay, so there are two different versions, but they don’t sound like huge clues to anything at all. What’s so special about the way I said his name?”
She didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then she reached over and patted my leg. “It’s okay, Kate. I’m still carrying a flame for my high school sweetheart, too.”
“Oh, I see what you’re getting at,” I said. “I’d like you to know that is so not what I’m doing, okay?”
She giggled again. “Oh, absolutely. But remember this, my friend: Denial is a powerful force of nature.”
I moaned, dropped back against the headrest and closed my eyes. “Oh, c’mon! First my sister and now you? You’re both acting like matchmakers, trying to push me into starting over where Trent and I stopped—he and Dina smooching in the corner at a high school dance and me kicked to the curb with a broken heart.”
Her giggle had stopped. Now she was nodding her head in a sideways motion and whispering something under her breath.
“And would you please speak up?” I demanded. “I can’t tell what you’re saying!”
She stopped bobbing her head. “Love is love, Kate. That’s what I’m saying. And I’ll bet that’s what Olivia meant. Love is love. Once you found Trent, he won your heart.” I opened my mouth to deny the claim, but she held up a finger. “And you won his. The two of you are perfect together. I don’t understand why you can’t see what everyone else is talking about.”
I waited to make sure she was finished. Then I took a slow breath and turned slightly in my seat. “I don’t see what everyone else is talking about,” I said, “because there’s nothing to look at.”
CHAPTER 9
The apartment building was on Franklin Street between Colfax Avenue and Cheesman Park. I knew the neighborhood; my parents would tell you that I knew it too well. When I was in high school, my friends and I would drive to the city to catch our favorite bands at the Bluebird Theater, waste countless hours in the park or wander down Colfax searching for things we didn’t need and couldn’t afford.
As Viveca steered her car to a spot at the curb, I surveyed the three-story tan brick art deco building. A short, curvy woman wearing a faux fur jacket came out of the front door and walked slowly toward the street. She had a phone clamped between her chin and shoulder, wraparound sunglasses over her eyes and an unlit cigarette wedged in the corner of her mouth. A plastic KFC bag dangled from one hand and a six-pack of Diet Coke from the other.
“Don’t look now,” I said. “My inner child is coming this way.”
Viveca swiveled in her seat, glanced at the woman and then smirked. “If that’s your inner child,” she said, “you’re doing a very good job of faking it in the real world.”
She silenced the engine, plucked the keys from the ignition and grabbed her purse. I was already on the sidewalk by the time she climbed out and locked the doors. We both watched the woman in the fur jacket teeter on bright red stilettos toward a battered brown Ford Taurus.
“I hope your inner child doesn’t trip and break anything,” Viveca said with a muted giggle.
I joined in the laughter as we stood on the sidewalk and inspected the front of Tim’s building.
“How long has your brother lived here?” I asked.
“A couple of months. He was sharing a house with another guy. But his roommate left town, so Tim and Bad Dog came here. It’s a sublease arrangement with a creepy guy named Toby. Delilah was already living there in another unit that Toby had.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s a lot of moving parts. I didn’t think to ask earlier, but do you have a key to Tim’s place?” She held up an assortment of silver, brass and gold keys looped together with red string. “I made him give me a copy. For exactly this type of situation.”
We walked up a short flight of concrete steps and along a gently curving sidewalk. A man dressed in white bib overalls, a long-sleeved black T-shirt and paint-spattered steel-toed boots was on a ladder painting the window trim on the second floor. He glanced down as we approached, giving us a silent nod before turning his attention back to the brush in his hand.
“I’m kind of freaking out right now,” Viveca said. “What if we find something bad?” I reached down and squeezed her hand. “No matter what,” I said, releasing her fingers. “We’ll get through it together.”
The entrance was tucked beneath a small overhang that protruded from the building.
“Tim’s place is on the top floor,” Viveca said, unlocking the front door. “Up the steps and in the back.”
I followed her inside. As we headed for the staircase, a guy came around the corner.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he said. “You new in the building?”
He was tall and slender, with a dark Fu Manchu mustache and bald head. His mouth was small, his lips slight and there was a mole on his left cheek the color of molasses. Two gold hoops clung to his left earlobe and mirrored aviator sunglasses perched on his hairless dome like safety reflectors on a double-wide.
“We’re just visiting,” I said, continuing toward the steps. “We know someone who lives here.”
The man came closer. I detected the unmistakable aroma of earthy, pungent patchouli mixed with stale whiskey. He was dressed in faded jeans, a John Deere T-shirt and motorcycle boots that were badly scuffed and nicked.
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Who’s that?”
“My brother,” Viveca answered. “He gave me a key so I could come and check on things when he’s away.”
With a subtle nod, the guy stepped to one side so we could continue toward the staircase. As he shifted into a shaft of sunlight, I got a clear look at his eyes: bloodshot, suspicious and hooded.
“Have a nice day,” he said in a tone that was far from friendly.
I smiled, but didn’t say anything as we began climbing the stairs to the third floor. I could feel a whirl of anticipation in my stomach; the jittery omen that we were approaching something potentially troublesome.
At the top of the steps, Viveca turned left and walked quickly to the last door on the right. “Okay, this doesn’t make me feel any better,” she said, pointing at her brother’s apartment. “The door’s not even closed all the way.”
I moved up beside her, quickly appraised the situation and reached into my bag. When she saw the barrel of my Glock 36, her face went slack and her eyes climbed quickly to meet mine.
“Just in case,” I said.
She covered her mouth. “You brought a gun?”
I nodded. “Force of habit from my days in Chicago,” I said quietly. “Any good PI is going to take precautions. Since what we’re doing here is kind of like—”
A sudden noise came from inside the apartment. It sounded like a heavy object slamming against a solid surface. I instinctively raised my arm and ge
ntly nudged Viveca to the side.
“Stay behind me,” I said in a hushed voice. “And don’t say a word once we get in there.”
She nodded, gulped in a breath and wrapped both hands around the strap of her purse.
“Should we call the police first?” she whispered.
I shook my head, put a finger to my lips and gently pushed against the bottom of the door with my right foot. It opened slowly, emitting a muted creak and surrounding us with the stench of sour cigarette smoke.
“Follow me,” I said, inching through the open doorway. “And stay close.”
As we moved into the apartment, I swept the room with a quick series of side-to-side glances. Tim wasn’t much of a housekeeper; the motley collection of threadbare furniture was decorated with crushed beer cans, empty pizza boxes and overflowing ashtrays. A Janis Joplin poster, askew on the wall above the sofa, added a forlorn vibe to the room. I glanced over my shoulder at Viveca. One hand was still on her purse, but the other was now firmly planted across her nose and mouth.
“Okay,” I whispered, peering through a doorway into the vacant kitchen. “We’ll cross the room and go down the hall.”
I kept the Glock aimed at the floor; my trigger finger resting loosely on the safety. My entire body was simultaneously tight as a coiled cobra and calm as a sleeping child. It was something that Rodney had helped me learn when we worked together in Chicago. These days, I generally employed the technique at Sky High when the prep list seemed overwhelming or a cranky customer was complaining that their slice of pie wasn’t identical to the one that they’d enjoyed during their last visit.
As I carefully slid my right foot from the faded green shag carpet in the living room onto the hardwood floor in the hallway, another clattering sound erupted from behind the closed door at the end of the corridor. Two additional doors stood open between us and the commotion; one on each side of the narrow passageway. I heard Viveca whisper softly behind me, but I didn’t look back as I crept silently along the floor.
